“Well, sir,” said the boatswain, “I’m thinking that like enough she’s got upon a rock and stuck fast, while the sharp current has carried us along miles and miles, and quite out of sight.”
“But they may have got the screw all right, and gone straight out to sea.”
“Nay, sir. Not in the dark. We got them fans too fast; and besides, I don’t see no smoke on the sea-line. The steamer leaves a mark that you can see her by many miles away. No, sir, I think I’m right; it’s us as has drifted.”
“Which way?” said Poole. “North or south?”
“Can’t say yet, sir. May be either. South,” he added emphatically the next moment.
“How do you know?” cried Fitz.
The boatswain smiled.
“By the colour of the sea, sir,” replied the man, screwing up his eyes. “Look at the water. It isn’t bright and clear. It’s got the mark of the river in it. Not much, but just enough to show that the current hugs the shore, bringing the river water with it; and there it all is plain enough. Look at them little rocks just showing above the surface. You watch them a minute, and you’ll see we are floating by southward, and we may think ourselves precious lucky that we haven’t run upon any of them in the night and been capsized. You see, we have come by two headlands, and we have only got to row back to the north to come sooner or later in sight of landmarks that we know.”
“Then give way, my lads,” said Fitz; “a fair long steady stroke, for the skipper must be getting terribly uncomfortable about us, Poole, eh?”
“Yes. Pull your best, boys. What do you say, Fitz, to taking an oar each for a bit? I’m chilly, and a good way from being dry.”