The chart-room clock ding-dinged four bells—ten o’clock of the forenoon, landsman’s time.
Making mental estimate, Todd figured that the cutter would be off Popham Sands at about two o’clock in the afternoon, arriving in the last run of the ebb tide.
His nose wrinkled when foresight pictured for him the conditions off Popham Sands when the ebb would be kicking up trouble in earnest. The mouth of a great river was at Popham. When the barrier was lowered by a receding sea, the river, which had been forced back by tide at flood, would renew its assault on its ancient enemy, tilting at the ocean with brackish torrent. Towering surges were piling in toward the coast this day, following the previous thrust by the sou’easter. Where river and surges would be coming to grips that afternoon, during the rush of the ebb tide, there was bound to be welter aplenty.
Captain Bent squinted at the preoccupied countenance of his officer. “I see that you and I have the same thoughts, Mr. Todd. So there’s no profit in swapping ’em. We can only hope that the packet is still hooked when we get there.”
Standing in from the open sea four hours later, Captain Bent perceived that the schooner was still hooked.
With his glasses he had mounted to the top of the wheelhouse. He could see the schooner silhouetted against the white spume rolling up behind her from the breakers. The craft was a shuttlecock for the tide rips and surges. He understood why she had been able to hang on so long in the riot. He was obliged to have full knowledge of bottoms at all points of hazard along the coast. Rocks, deeply submerged, bastioned the sands at Popham where the beach ended undersea. The anchor flukes manifestly were gripped on rocks in a death clutch.
It was also evident to Captain Bent’s sea-trained observation of gear at bow that the schooner had drifted in from the open sea to this perilous position where she was fighting for her life. Through his glasses he was able to make out against the white suds churned by her forefoot the taut, straddled streaking of her chains. So, while she had drifted, her Old Man had maneuvered skillfully enough to effect a bridle-anchoring! This adjustment was enabling the craft to ride without broaching.
Running the glass lenses against his sleeve, the cutter commander muttered, “A clipper name hasn’t been wholly wasted on the man who knows enough to carry good chain and brace his bowers.”
Further inspection through the glass revealed that the schooner’s foremast had partially parted stays and that her top hamper had been slatted into a tangle. It would be impossible to make sail on her; she could not ratch off that lee even if she were dealing with a smoother sea.
It was up to the Arrowsic to get a line across the schooner, give her cable, tow her to safety. Captain Bent stowed his binoculars, descended to the bridge. His three lieutenants were there, ready for his orders.