The strong beam, wavering from side to side, plowed a furry path into the fog. It disclosed at first only the succession of angry incoming waves, each, as it passed, thudding us down on the bar of shell and mud and slime. But at last, off to starboard and well astern in our new position, riding at anchor, we raised a faint white line of broken water which seemed a constant feature; and now and then caught the low boom of the surf.
“She ain’t a half mile, over yonder,” I heard Willy, the deck-hand, say. “An’ we could almost walk it if it wasn’t for the sea.”
“Yes, sir,” said Williams, “we’d do fine in there now, with them boats. When we hit that white water——”
“Shut up!” ordered Peterson. “Safe as a church, here or there, you lubbers. Stand by your tackle, and keep your chin. Mr. Harry, tell the ladies just to wrap up a bit, because—well, maybe, because——”
“Call me when it is time, Peterson,” said I; and moved aft, holding Jean Lafitte by the arm.
“Gee!” said he, as he dropped, wet and out of breath, into the cabin; and “Gee!” remarked a very pale L’Olonnois in return, gamely as he could. And Mrs. Daniver’s moans went rhythmic with the pound of the keel on the shoal.
“What shall we do?” asked Helena at last calmly. “Auntie is very sick. I am beginning to fear for her, it is such a bad attack. This is as rough as I ever saw it on the Channel.”
“There is no danger,” said I, “but Peterson and I just thought that if she kept on pounding in this way, it might be better to go ashore.”
I spoke lightly, but well enough I knew the risk of trying to launch a boat in such a sea; and what the surf might be, none could say. Ah, how I wished that my empty assurance might be the truth. For I knew that, anyway we looked, only danger stared back at us now, on every hand.