Sail was now made; but the ship was evidently drifting to the westward, by which she approached nearer and nearer the shore. Every stitch of canvas that could be set was hoisted. The wind shifted to the very worst quarter from which it could blow. The ship stood on, however, close-hauled, first on the starboard tack, and then, the wind shifting half a point or so, for the purpose of taking advantage of it, she was put about. Every sheet and brace was flattened aft; still, judging by the roar of the breakers, she was no further off the threatening coast than at first.
Many an eye was turned to leeward in an endeavour to discover the line of the coast, which, through the gloom, could dimly be distinguished below the bright sky.
“We still hold our own,” said Jack to Archie Gordon, who was walking the deck. “If we can continue to do that until the sea goes down, we may still do well; and we must hope, if we should let drop an anchor, that it will prove sounder than the last. Probably the engineers will by that time have accomplished their task, and we shall be able to get steam on the ship. She doesn’t sail close-hauled as well as I expected, and we never before have had an opportunity of testing her as we are now doing.”
“I suspect that it is the current carrying her to leeward,” observed Archie. “Possibly the wind may increase before daylight, and we shall then be better able to claw off the land.”
All night long the captain, endeavouring to take advantage of every change of wind, frequently put the ship about, anxiously wishing for daylight, to be able to judge better than he could during the darkness of her distance from the land. The lead kept going showed no increase of depth, which ranged from thirty-five to forty fathoms. As morning approached, the water shallowed, showing that she was nearer than she had been when night closed in.
“By the deep, twenty,” sang out the man in the chains. A short time afterwards, “fifteen fathom,” then “twelve.” Just at daylight she was in ten fathoms of water. As the sun rose, the marks denoting the entrance to Waterloo Bay were seen under the lee. The bay afforded no shelter with the wind blowing, as it then did, directly into it. Jack hoisted the signals, “Can the troops land?” The answer run up on shore was, “Not until the weather moderates.”
In a short time a pilot came off in a surf-boat, and the ship was brought up in nine fathoms, about a mile and a half from the shore. A spring was also got on the cable, in case of requiring to slip, and a bow-rope for a slip-rope, while the spare anchor was shifted to the cathead, in lieu of the one carried away, that everything might be ready in case of necessity.
The pilot, on discovering that the machinery had given way, looked grave. He had been accustomed to sailing vessels all his life, and had no love for steamers.
“I hope your engineers will look sharp and get their work done,” he observed to the master. “This is a queer place when the wind is as it is, though well enough when it’s off shore.”
After breakfast, the major and his family came on deck. Angelica, looking about her, inquired why they could not land.