nine o'clock
On the bridge is the mate , pacing backward and forward , and watching the course he has given to the man at the wheel , who is close to him . The paddles are impetuously beating into the sea , and now and then breaking into thunder , as one or the other of the wheels runs wild , as the rolling lifts it clear of the water . A thick smoke rises from the funnel , which occasionally belches forth a shower of sparks . At nine o'clock the night is very dark . I try to make out some steamer 's lights in the distance , but in vain , for the Caspian has not many ships on it . I can hear only the cry of the sea birds , gulls and scoters , who are abandoning themselves to the caprices of the wind . During my promenade , one thought besets me : is the voyage to end without my getting anything out of it as copy for my journal ?