"'Tis the Shingles, young sir," he explained. "A vast bank just below the surface. If yon vessel holds on her course she'll run herself aground."
The frigate did not attempt to sheer off, and, as the master had predicted, she struck hard, her fore-topmast going by the board.
"That's settled her for the nonce," remarked the master. "But now for the guns of Hurst Castle."
Once more we were to be shown the art of "bluffing." Trusting to his proverbial luck, the master steered direct for the fortress, instead of heading away for the more distant shore of the Isle of Wight.
Hurst is not a large castle; it is merely a stone fort, heavily mounted with guns, and occupies the extremity of a low spit of shingle. Between it and the island the tide was surging in a manner the like of which I had never seen before, Tumbling and rolling in a confused mass of broken water, the sea was running as fast as a horse can trot—at least, that is what it appeared to me—but close to the castle a strong eddy was making in an opposite direction to the main flood.
Into this eddy the Happy Adventure was steered. The frigate was now nearly lost in the rain cloud, though we could see that she was still fast aground. Against the counter-current the smack only just held her own, and, edging so close to the fortress that we could almost have jumped on to the beach, she came within easy hailing distance.
"What ship is that?" shouted an officer, whose appearance could not be taken for anything else than a rebel. He was supported by a file of musketeers, while we could see some gunners cluster round a piece of ordnance, that grinned at us through a wide embrasure.
"The Happy Adventure, of Poole. We are chased by the malignants. Can we take shelter in Keyhaven?"
"What is the name of the ship?"
"I know not; she is a frigate, and is aground on the Shingles."