Perrin found himself with Stukeley, who was talking. “She must never know it,” he was saying, between gasps. “Oh, Lord, what a joke, eh?” Perrin heard him absently, for his ears were straining to hear what his friend said to Olivia. There she was, flushed with the race, swaying a little as the ship swayed. He heard the words, “We beat them,” and saw her go to the rail to watch the pursuing boats. Perrin took off his hat, advanced to her, and bade her welcome. He could have hurled her overboard willingly. His reason for advancing was to see what the pursuing boats were doing.
“It was such a race,” said Olivia. “But we beat them. They chased us all the way from Halwell. It was such fun.” She talked on excitedly; Perrin had never seen her so radiant. She was delighted to be on board, going to the New World, in a real ship. And then the suddenness of it, and the rush of the boat-race.
As for the boats, one of them, the cutter, was a hundred yards or more astern, pulling hard upon their quarter. The other was rowing up alongside the sixth-rate. Perrin saw a man in a red coat waving a paper from her sternsheets. The man-of-war’s deck was full of men, who had crowded to the side to watch. Cammock was hurrying his hands. His maintopsail and topgallantsail were mastheaded together, to songs which made Olivia hasten to the poop-rail to hearken. Loud was the jolly chorus. The ship felt the sail. Bubbles burst brightly over the trailing anchor-flakes. Old Harry beacon drove by, rolling in the wash they made. Cammock walked aft hurriedly to take a bearing. He noticed then for the first time that the cutter which had fired on them was the red cutter of the man-of-war. He could now see her broadside. Her men fired no more. They were stepping the mast, while two of them kept way upon her. “We’re in for it now,” he thought. He let his helmsman feel that it would not do to glance astern.
“You mind your eye,” he said fiercely. He took an anxious glance at the Wolf Rock, and at the toppling seas on the Blackstone. “I never saw a beastlier place,” he said. “Haul in there, leadsman,” he shouted. “Another cast, now.”
The ship seemed to pause a moment, like a bird suddenly stricken with the palsy. A kind of death seemed to lay hold of her, checking all on board. She dragged a moment, and then drove on, muddying the sea. She had touched Ripple Sands.
“My God, we’re done if you stick,” said Cammock. “And here’s Splat Point and the Bass.”
He bent over the binnacle; Stukeley came to him.
“Hello, captain,” he began. “My old sea-dog. Eh? Where can I get a spot of brandy? Eh?”
Cammock took his cross-bearing without answering. Then he looked steadily at the harbour-mouth, and at the curved white line of the bar. He bade his helmsman “come to” a point. He conned the ship, ordered a small pull of a sheet, and glanced astern at the man-of-war.
Stukeley repeated his question. “Where can I get a spot of brandy? Eh?”