Everyone on board the boat, although fully aware of the immediate danger, maintained silence. The grinding of the boat's planking upon the sharp rocks, the howling of the wind, and the swish of the breaking waves were the only audible sounds.
It seemed to Mostyn that, in his self-assumed position of skipper of the boat, he must do or say something. He did neither. He could form no sentence of encouragement; he was unable to take any action to further safeguard the lives and interests of his companions. He felt cool and collected, yet he had a suspicion that he "had the wind up". Try as he would his benumbed brain would not answer to his efforts.
It was Preston who broke the spell. Lying half-submerged in water, the Acting Chief was taking things calmly in spite of his physical disability.
"Sparks, old man," he exclaimed, "you look like losing your ticket. I do believe you've run us aground."
The silence was broken. Peter laughed at his companion's quip.
"We were making for land," he replied, "and now we've jolly well found it. Get out the rockets, Mahmed."
Mahmed had delivered Mostyn's order to the lascars. Already the sail had been hastily lowered. Its folds served as a screen to break the force of the wind, nevertheless, it was a difficult matter to keep a match alight sufficiently long to ignite the touch-paper of the rocket.
"Cheap and false economy, these things," thought Peter, as he wasted three matches in a vain attempt to kindle the touch-paper. "Why didn't the owners supply Verey pistols to all the boats?"
At length the fuse began to sizzle. An anxious fifteen seconds ensued. More than once the minute sparks looked as though they had given out, only to reappear with a healthier glow.
Then with a swish the rocket soared skywards, although with an erratic movement as it was caught and tossed about by the wind.