But the danger was by no means over even though it was not so formidable as before.
Kenneth was ignorant of the haven. As far as he could remember it was not shown on the Admiralty charts. In all probability—and the set of the tidal current pointed to this—it was merely a channel with a wider outlet on the seaward side of the Mutches. Unless the picket-boat could bring up—a difficult business since she had lost her anchor—or beach herself in a sheltered part of the haven, the odds were that she would be swept out to sea—unless she ended her career on the fringe of jagged rocks on the eastern side of the group of islands comprising the Mutches.
“See any light, Wilson?” inquired Kenneth anxiously, as he peered through the snow-laden darkness.
“No, sir. Maybe there are some cottages on the island, but people aren’t likely to be up at this time of morning—even though it’s Christmas Day. . . . I’ll nip for’ard now she’s riding easily an’ overrun the painters. Without a killick they ain’t much use for us to bring up, but one never knows.”
Raxworthy at the useless wheel watched the coxswain as he made his way to the fore-deck. Even at that distance the man’s form was barely distinguishable in the darkness.
Suddenly a tall shape loomed up across the path of the scudding picket-boat. For a moment Kenneth imagined that it was a rock rising sheer out of the water.
Then through the eddying sleet came a hail from the coxswain.
“Ship ahoy! Take our line, will you?”
Almost immediately the picket-boat drove across the bows of an anchored craft—a sailing vessel, judging by the bowsprit and foremast that were just discernible against the sky.
The impact, although it sounded severe, was fortunately a light one, the sailing craft’s tautened cable taking the force of the collision.