“I see no sign of it. This water is smooth as any pond.”
“But you see for yourself, she’s gaining on the shore. Look, now, how we’re passing that patch o’ water-weed.”
“I think hell is under us. Have up the clerk and put him at prayers, and you fellows take in sail—each rag of it—that if we strike we may go easy. Call all hands. See that the boats are clear. She minds her helm no more than a straw. God help us!”
The galleon was at the edge of the shoal spot now, and all held their breath, expecting to hear the grinding of the keel on a bank; but, no, she floated in safety.
“Sound!” commanded the captain. “There may be anchorage.”
“Four fathom,” called the sailor at the lead after he had made his cast.
“Stand by to let go. We’ll tie up here till the tide turns or the spell’s worked out. Alive—alive, there! Get that anchor overboard.”
“It be wedged agin the bulwark, captain, and needs another pair o’ hands.”
“Forward all! Why, you lump, the flukes are clear. What ails you? Lift all. There!”
With an united heave the sailors raised the barbed iron and cast it over the side. The faces of all dripped and went white, and their knees bent then, for the anchor flew from their hands and struck the sea quite twenty feet away,—in deep water, for the shoal was passed,—and the chain paid out like rope as the iron sank, yet not straight down. It rattled off toward the shore.