But though there might be truth in this for aught I knew, it was a thing easier to say than to mean, as I felt when I cast my eyes upon the dark-green, frothing waters, still shrouded to within a mile or so past the ship by the damp and dirty grey of the now fast expiring gale that had plunged us into this miserable situation. There was nothing to be seen but the Carthusian rolling solemnly and grandly to windward, and the glancing of white heads of foam arching out of the thickness and running sullenly, but with weight too, along the course of the wind.
"Will not that ship put into an English port before she leaves for good?" asked Grace.
"She has left for good, miss," answered Caudel. "There's no English port for her unless she ups hellum and tries back'ards again."
"Where are we, then?" cried Grace, with a wild stare over the lee rail.
"In what they call the Chops, miss," replied Caudel.
"In the mouth of the English Channel," I explained.
"I calculate, Mr. Barclay," said Caudel, "that our drift's been all three mile an hour since, it first came on to blow. The wind's hung about nothe, nothe-east, and I don't think it's shifted a point since it first busted down upon us."
"You seriously believe, Caudel, that you can make the land, seeing where we are, in this leaky, mast-wrecked craft?"
"Ay, sir, as easy as lighting a pipe."
"For heaven's sake, consider before it is too late! There's no obligation to stick to the vessel. Give us time to get out of her and you have my consent to let her go," and I pointed downwards.