Aynsley was gazing fixedly ahead, his face set but cool, though the foam that surged among the boulders seemed rushing toward them. Clay was not much of a seaman but he could see that they were gaining little; but he had confidence in his son. The leadsman had found bottom at three fathoms and still Aynsley did not bring her round. There was a slack along that shore, and he meant to make the most of it, though it looked as if she must strike in the next few moments.
She swayed upright suddenly, swung, and drove away on the other tack toward a confused white seething, where stream and shore-running sea met upon the shoal. They were close upon it when she came round again; and five minutes later she was racing back, with the ominous white patch on her lee bow, but not far enough for her to clear it. On the opposite side a tongue of beach ran out, narrowing the entrance. It looked impossible for them to get in, and during the few moments while she sped toward the rocks Clay was conscious of a new respect for his son.
Aynsley had shown himself no fool in business, he was a social favorite, and now he was altogether admirable as he stood, composed but strung up, at the yacht’s helm. His finely proportioned figure was tense, his wet face was resolute, and there was a keen sparkle in his eyes. The boy was showing fine nerve and judgment. Clay was proud of him. This strengthened his determination to safeguard his son’s career. Aynsley must bear an honored name; it was unthinkable that reproach should follow him on account of his father’s misdoings.
Aynsley shouted to the skipper, who was anxiously watching the shore.
“There’s not much room! I’ll let her shoot well ahead before I fill on her. See the boys are handy with the fore-sheets!”
As he pulled the helm down, Hartley gave an order, and the schooner, coming round, drove forward, head to wind, with canvas banging. It was a bold but delicate maneuver, for Aynsley had to trust that her momentum would carry her through the dangerous passage against the tide. If it failed to do so, and she lost her speed before he could cant her on to a new tack, there was no way of saving her from the rocks. The skipper stood with set lips amidship just clear of the jerking foresail-boom; the crew forward, the slack of the fore-sheets in their hands; and Clay, leaning on the rail aft, watched his son. Aynsley’s pose was alert but easy; he looked keen but confident with his hands clenched upon the wheel.
“Lee sheets!” he cried, pulling the wheel over sharply.
Her head swung slowly round, and the shaking canvas filled; she gathered way, and when her deck slanted the boulders were sliding past abeam. Coming round again, she left them astern, and drove forward swiftly into clear and sheltered water. Ten minutes afterward they ran the headsails down, and Aynsley ran her gently on to the beach. There she would have to stop until Engineer Saltom finished his repairs.
CHAPTER XXVII—ON THE BEACH
Late on a gloomy evening Jimmy and his friends sat down for a few minutes’ rest on the beach of a lonely island on the northern coast. With the help of Jaques they had fitted out the sloop, and had sailed much earlier in the year than was prudent, fearing that Clay might arrive ahead of them. The voyage proved trying, for they spent days hove to while the sloop was blown to leeward by bitter gales, and they were now and then forced to run off their course for shelter. Still, they stubbornly fought their way north. The strong breeze that Clay’s schooner-yacht had met badly buffeted the smaller boat. In driving her to windward through a steep head-sea the heavy strain upon the shrouds started a leak under her channel plates, and after a long spell of steady pumping the men reluctantly decided to seek a sheltered harbor, where the damage could be repaired.