“I’m a man.”
“I’ll stay with you.”
“No, you won’t. I can’t think of letting you do that. Watch your chance and get inside there. Slide the hatch-cover to, sharp, before any water gets in.”
Rather to his surprise, she yielded, and dexterously slipped into the cabin. Although her presence had been more comfort to him than he realized until she was gone, he bent his whole attention to keeping the Wisp from broaching to, which would have meant the end.
The worst of the rain-squall had passed, but the night was as black as a wolf’s mouth. The wind blowing half a gale, piled up the waves behind the Wisp to a height that might well have proved a menace to a craft three times her size. Thanks to her tight-closed hatches and her sea-worthiness, she shed water like a petrel, yet the towering swell of the Atlantic might crush her at any moment. If they fell an instant into the trough of the sea, they were lost.
Fessenden contemplated the possibility of constructing a sea-anchor. But whatever might have been possible for an experienced seaman, his nautical knowledge was too limited for him to undertake the work.
And even if he could make and successfully launch a sea-anchor, the most dangerous part of the task would follow—that long and terrible moment it would take for the sloop to swing round, head on to the sea. The waves might roll her over and over before he could even clasp Betty in his arms. The risk was too great. He breathed an inward prayer, and held the Wisp resolutely before the wind.
He had three dangers to face—the ever-present terror of being overtaken by the following sea, the likelihood of being dashed against a hidden coast in the black night, and the chance of being run down by some merchantman or man-o’-war, threshing through the dark.
Suddenly the cabin hatch snapped open and shut again.
“Betty!”