"Unless they rigged up sea-anchors and rode to them," added Webb. "These waves are not so steep as those we get in the North Sea, and luckily the wind is not blowing dead on shore. It's my belief that the Restormel, being farther to lee'ard, will stand a better chance than we shall of picking up the boats."
By this time the Portchester Castle had altered helm and was steering eastward, right into the eye of the wind. Broad on the starboard beam could be faintly discerned the low, sandy cliffs of the African shore, fringed by a wide belt of milk-white foam. North, west, and east the horizon was unbroken. Sea and sky met in an ill-defined blurr. Not another sail was in sight, nor had the Portchester Castle passed any wreckage, although her course had taken her over the spot where the ill-fated liner had been reported to have sunk.
Wireless messages constantly passed between the Portchester Castle and the Restormel, each vessel keeping her consort posted as to her position; but neither was able to announce the gratifying news that the object of their quest had been achieved. About eight bells (8 a.m.) the officer of the watch reported what appeared to be a boat, well on the starboard bow. A course was immediately shaped to approach the supposed craft, while the Portchester Castle's officers kept it well under observation with their glasses.
"I don't think it is a boat," suggested Haynes. "Looks to me like surf breaking over a rock."
He wiped the moisture from the lens of his telescope and looked again.
"It's only broken water," he said with conviction.
"I believe it is a boat—a white-painted one," said Webb.
"Sure?" enquired Haynes, unwilling to own that his surmise was at fault.
"Yes; she's lifting to the waves. I can see people in her."
"By Jove, yes," agreed Osborne. "And they are unpleasantly close to the broken water. They don't seem to be making headway."