She was far out at sea, however, and soon had to be hauled closer to the wind in order to gain the shore.
By midday they were about fifteen miles south of Brava, but the wind was falling, and the dhow now fast filling. They staggered past the ancient little town, but all hopes of reaching Magadoxa soon fled, and it became evident to every one that they must soon beach her or sink.
The coast here is most dangerous, owing to the number of sunken rocks, and to the long stretches of shallow water—water on which the breakers sometimes run mountains high, as the saying is, but where between the waves the bottom was everywhere close to the surface. Only the native surf-boats could get over shoals like these.
Looking for a place on a lee-shore on which to beach a vessel is sad work, and trying to the nerves; you may pass a fairly good spot, thinking to come to a better; you may go farther and fare worse.
Harry’s, however, was a decided character, and when he came, some ten miles to the north of Brava, to a spot where the breakers did not seem to run extremely high—
“Here it must be, Nicholls. Stand by to lower both our boats.”
“Starboard, as hard as she’ll go.”
Up went the tiller, round came her head, and a minute afterwards she struck with such fearful violence on a coral rock, that her masts, none of the strongest, went thundering over the side.
“We must try to save the slaves first, Nicholls.”
“That will we, sir. Never a white man should cease to work until these poor abject creatures are safely on shore.”