Mart had no time to explain her fears. In an instant Lav was back, fairly throwing himself into the cabin.
“We’re drifting! They cut the anchor rope! We’re drifting out! Fast! Way out! To sea!”
That had been the “better scheme.” To cut the Arabella free from its mooring and let the wind and tide carry it out into the bay. At first Starrow had not favored the plan; he had declared that it was too much risk, that the wind was shifting and freshening fast and that the old tub might open a seam, but Joe Josephs had convinced him with: “the Arabella would be good for a week out in a nastier sea than this. It’s safer than riskin’ runnin’ afoul one of Phin Davies’ men ashore. Guthrie’s Sally’ll stand this squall and pick up the Arabella easy and we can reckon sure on the course the old tub’ll take, even ’lowin’ for the wind to shift.”
As she comprehended what had happened Pola screamed. Mart and Sidney dragged her with them up the ladder. Lav was at the side of the boat tearing off his blouse.
“Oh, Lav, what’ll we do! What are you going to do now?” cried Sidney.
“It’s so black,” wailed Pola. “I’m—sick!”
“I’m going to swim ashore. It’s the only way. I don’t know how long this old tub’ll stand a sea and the wind’s rising. We got to get help.”
“You shan’t swim alone, Lavender Green. We’ll all swim. That’s nothing of a swim—”
“You can’t! You forget—Pola.”
Sidney wheeled in consternation. “Pola’s complex!” The girl was crouched, now, on the deck, an abject, wailing figure.