These two discoveries filled him with uneasiness. He knelt down on the deck and turned the full glare of the bull's eye on the jagged rudder-head and the symmetrical mass of ironwork.
This closer examination somewhat allayed his fears. If, as he knelt, he could have seen what was slowly, surely, creeping upwards towards him in the darkness, he would have sprung to his feet in despair.
CHAPTER XV.
[AN INVISIBLE FOE.]
The wind increased. It now became obvious that the captain's predictions would be verified, and that it would blow a whole gale before morning. It was midnight, and gradually Captain Drew had been taking off canvas. The sea had begun to rise. The yacht was now close-reefed, but it had not been necessary to turn up the whole crew. The wind had come on so gradually that the watch had been able to make the necessary reductions. Captain Drew was a considerate man, and never gave any unnecessary hardship to his men.
In the dim light of a moonless June night the sea looked dreary and forlorn. Although the wind was high, and round the rigging and the spars it seemed secret and furtive, it appeared to cling closely to the water, to leave the hollows between the waves stealthily, and to leave them only when goaded forward by something behind. Then it leaped the crests of the waves swiftly, and flung itself in the hollows once more.
The water looked cold and pallid. From the heavy swash at the bows, to the almost human murmur of the back-water under the counter, there ran all along the side a gamut of depressing sounds, into which every now and then ran the swirl of spray, mounting from the bow and falling with a groan on the deck, to run aft in whispered hisses, until it found its way to scupper-holes, whence it fell with a weary drone into the sea to leeward.
Captain Drew was not, for a sailor, a very superstitious man. But in the atmosphere of this night there was something which daunted him. The mere fact that a flaw should have been found in a vital part of the yacht, and that this flaw had never been discovered until it was, under existing circumstances, past effectual cure, was depressing. But then again there was the sustaining fact that this yacht, which he had sailed for years, was now practically his own property. He was now, in effect, five to six thousand pounds a richer man than when that day had broken.
How was he to regard that rudder-head? As a friend or an enemy? If it had not been for the defect in the rudder, the Duke would, in all probability, not have thought of getting rid of the Seabird; and if he had not thought of getting rid of her, it would never have occurred to him to give her to his captain. If the rudder-head held until they got back to Silver Bay, it would undoubtedly be the best friend, after the Duke, he had ever had in all his life. But if the rudder-head gave, what then? No one could tell. They might be driven ashore and all lost, or they might be able to live through the gale, and be picked up by some steamer or sailing-vessel, which would stand by them until a tug or some other kind of succour could reach them. Of course, if the rudder gave, they could do something with a few spars towed behind them, but not much. It was better to keep on hoping the rudder-head would hold.
It was now more than four hours since the Duke and the Marquis had gone below, and these four hours had settled one thing. There was no longer any chance of their putting in anywhere. Silver Bay was now the nearest harbour. The watch had been changed, and a second new hand was now at the wheel.