They steamed along cautiously until nightfall. Though the night was dark it was dangerously clear. No lights, not even a cigar. The hatchways of the engine-room were covered with tarpaulins, and the poor stokers had to breathe as best they could.
All hands were on deck, crouching down behind the bulwarks. On the bridge were Taylor, the captain, Mr. Steele, and the pilot, all straining their eyes into the “vasty deep.”
Presently the pilot muttered: “Better cast the lead, captain.”
Steele murmured down the tube that led to the engine-room, and the vessel slowed down and then stopped. A weird figure crept into the fore-chains and dropped the leaded line, while the crew listened to see if the engines would seize the opportunity to blow off steam and so advertise their presence for miles around. In two minutes came the seaman, saying: “Sixteen fathoms, sir. Sandy bottom, with black specks.”
“We are not so far in as I thought,” said the pilot. “Port two points and go a little faster.”
He knew by the speckled bottom where they were. They had to be north of that before it was safe to head for the shore.
In an hour or less the pilot asked for another sounding. No more specks this time. “Starboard and go ahead easy” was the order now.
The paddle-floats were flapping the water softly, but to the crew the noise they made was terrifying. They could be heard a long way.
Suddenly the pilot said: “There’s one of them, Mr. Taylor, on the starboard bow.”
Presently straining eyes could see a long, low, black object lying quite still. Would she see the Banshee?