Ritchie was right; and when I went on deck next morning before breakfast, I found that the musgo was thick and white around us, and though it was easy enough to see one’s finger at arm’s length, it is no exaggeration to say it was impossible to see the jib-boom end from the foremast.
We must have been somewhere off Point Gallant, in an ugly place, so it is no wonder the captain concluded to anchor if he could get near enough to find soundings.
The wind was rising now, and though but in puffs which just gave the Salamander a send now and then, we were forging ahead at perhaps two knots an hour.
It continued like this all day long, but the wind had increased by evening, and almost threatened a gale. We could not now be far off the English Reach, which, as a glance at a map will show you, is narrow, and therefore dangerous in the extreme. So long, therefore, as we had a surety of width of water, we determined to lay to with as little sail as possible on her.
Night seemed to come on a full hour sooner. It was a night I shall never forget. Anxiety was depicted on every face that there was a chance of getting a glimpse at. And though the captain tried to speak cheerfully in his wife’s presence, it was evident his thoughts were not with his words. Every extra puff of the still rising wind must have felt going through his heart like a knife. I know it did through mine. Even Peter was serious for once.
On going forward I saw Ritchie standing by the winch.
“What do you think of it now, Ritchie?” I asked.
“Think of it, lad?” he replied. “I think it’s likely to be a case with the old Salamander before four bells in the morning watch.”
“You’re a pessimist,” I said. This was a favourite expression of poor aunt’s.
“It’s the mist that’ll do it,” he said. “Look, see sir, if the wind gets no higher the musgo will continue. Then we may drift quietly on shore and strike. If it does blow a real gale, away goes the musgo and out comes the moon; that would be a poor enough outlook, but we’d see what we were doing.”