“I dunno, unless they went right in, got to know that we had just left, and came after us full chase.”
It was the idea of the moment, and to use the familiar saying, Poole had hit the right nail on the head. It was morning, and Nature’s signals were in the east, announcing that the sun was coming up full speed, while the former tactics of tacking against the freshening wind had to be set aside at once, for it was evidently only a question of an hour before the gunboat would be within easy range, and what she might do in the interim was simply doubtful. But the skipper and his mate were hard at work; the course had been altered for another run southward, close along the coast; studding-sail booms were being run out from the yards ready for the white sails to be hoisted; and a trial of speed was being prepared between canvas and steam, proof of which was given from the gunboat by the dense clouds of black smoke rolling out of the funnel and showing how hard the stokers were at work.
It was a busy time then; sail after sail filled out till the schooner showed as a cloud of canvas gilded by the rising sun, while she literally skimmed through the water dangerously near to a rocky coast.
But as the sun rose higher that danger passed away, for as if by magic the wind dropped, leaving the sails flapping, the graceful vessel no longer dipping her cut-water low-down into the surface and covering the deck with spray.
Poole looked at his father and drew his breath hard, for he saw too plainly the peril in which they stood. They were still gliding gently through the water, but more slowly each minute, and riding now upon an even keel, while the gunboat astern was tearing along, literally ploughing her way, and sending a diverging foam-covered wave to starboard and port.
“Pretty well all over, Burgess,” he said, in a low hoarse voice, and Fitz stole out his hand to grip Poole’s wrist and give a warm sympathetic pressure; and he did not draw it back, but stood holding on, listening the while to the mate’s slow, thoughtful reply.
“I don’t know yet,” said the latter, half closing his eyes and looking towards the west. “The winds play rum games here sometimes, and you hardly know where you are. They may go through one of their manoeuvres now. This is just about the time, and I shouldn’t wonder if we had a sharp breeze from the west again, same as we did yesterday and the day before.”
“No such luck,” said the skipper bitterly. “It won’t be the wind off shore; it will be the Teal on. You’ll have to make for the first opening you see as soon as there’s wind enough, and run her right in. Don’t hesitate a moment, Burgess; run her right ashore, and then we must do the best we can with the boats, or swim for it.”
“Run her right ashore!” said the mate grimly.
“Yes—so that she’s a hopeless wreck, impossible to get off.”