It was true that the hot tide had slackened. It had decreased from six to about three knots, or a rate equal to that of a brisk walk. Still hanging on to the rope, he felt himself being swept aft until his feet were almost showing above the surface.
He dare not let go until Vyse was almost at the water's edge, otherwise he would be swept far to lee'ard before his chum was ready to cast himself off. Keeping together for mutual encouragement was part of the prearranged plan.
Down came Vyse, hand over hand. The two chums were now up to their necks and still hanging on to the rope. Both realised that if they were swept past the lugger by some not unusual freak of the tidal current, they were as good as lost.
"Ready?" whispered Broadmayne. "Breast stroke; don't speak."
They released their hold and struck out. The towering hull of the Alerte seemed to be moving with great rapidity. Almost before they realised it, they were clear of the shadow of the poop and were swimming strongly in the moonlit sea.
Now they could clearly discern the lugger as she strained and tugged at her tautened cable. The water was frothing against her stem-band. But for the cable, it looked as if she were forging ahead under power. Every now and again she would sheer madly, so that at one time the swimmers were heading straight for her; at another—it looked as if they would be swept half a dozen yards away from her.
By good luck, Broadmayne grasped the cable. With a jerk that well-nigh wrenched him away, his body swung round in the fierce current. The next instant, Vyse secured a hold.
Then the lugger commenced to sheer again. The cable dipped, dragging both men below the surface. Not daring to let go, they hung on, holding their breath until the iron chain tautened again, lifting them both waist high out of the water.
"You go first," gurgled the Sub. It was a hazardous business, clambering up on the underside of a vibrating chain at an angle of about forty-five degrees. Although it was not far to go, the difficulty increased as Vyse approached the vessel's bows. There was a danger of being nipped between the cable and the small, iron-shod hawsepipe, with the additional possibility of his arm being jammed between the chain and the lugger's stem-head.
Keeping clear of these dangers, Vyse hung on, looking for a means of getting in over the bows. Suddenly he caught sight of a stout piece of line by which the chain bobstay had been triced up to prevent it being chafed by the cable. It might hold—it might not. At any rate, he decided, if it did carry away, he could make a grab at the bobstay.