With her engine running at half speed the Olivette held on, staggering and lurching as the heavy wind struck her full on the broadside, until, with a grunt of satisfaction, Mr. Armitage sighted the Chapman, and, beyond, the lights of Southend.
He was approaching familiar waters now, although during the latter stages of the war the pile-beacon of the Chapman had not displayed its nocturnal warning. Beyond was the Nore, known to every officer and man who had served in the patrols operating from Sheerness and Harwich.
Grey dawn found the Olivette abreast of the far-flung Southend pier. It was now nearly low tide. The extensive flats of the Essex shore, jutting a good two miles from the low-lying Shoeburyness, were rapidly uncovering. The wind had backed four or six points and was now nor'-east.
"No use running for the Medway," declared the Scoutmaster. "Nothing like carrying on, so here goes."
Heedless of the fact that he had had an abnormally long trick at the helm, Mr. Armitage had decided upon the best plan. To hold on, keeping under the lee of the sands, meant the best chance of arriving at Brightlingsea before the wind veered. To hesitate and run for some unknown creek meant not only the risk of getting aground but possibly being weatherbound for days.
"It'll be a race with the wind," thought the Scoutmaster:
"'When the wind shifts against the sun,
Trust it not, for back it 'll run'.
"Now, then, it's an even chance: Brightlingsea or a lee shore off the Maplins. I wonder if I've done the right thing?"