“There’s more smoke on the port bow,” Captain Bailey announced nervously. He did not seem to be happy in the position of his vessel. “The two vessels seem to be drawing in toward each other, too,” he added, taking bearings over the deck compass. “It doesn’t look good to me.”
“THERE ARE AT LEAST
TWENTY-FIVE SHIPS”
Phil’s pulse beat faster. He saw that the two vessels, undoubtedly scouts sent ahead of the main fleet, were not over eight miles apart. To go in between them meant that they would pass with the yacht within range of their largest guns. A lucky shot through the engines or boilers of the “Sylvia” would spoil everything.
“I think it wiser to keep away, sir,” O’Neil said respectfully but earnestly. The sailor was standing at the lad’s elbow, his strong face showing marked anxiety. It was plain to see that the boatswain’s mate believed that Phil was being too rash.
Phil once more carefully scanned the horizon ahead to make sure that there were no other than the two sail already sighted which he had made up his mind were scouts ahead of the main fleet.
“Bring the western vessel on the port bow, captain,” he ordered quietly. “You’re right, O’Neil, it’s a dangerous game to be too rash. If those are real scouts, they’re good for twenty-five knots, and can catch us easily. They have probably already seen our smoke.”
“Why not turn to the eastward and run for it?” Sydney suggested anxiously.
Phil did not answer; he was examining the chart, laying the parallel rulers between the “Sylvia’s” plotted position and Hongkong. He carried it to the compass card printed on the chart and read the course—S. W. from their present position to Hongkong.
“Let her go S. W. magnetic, captain,” he ordered calmly. “That will bring us up to the north cape of Formosa, and then we’ll run down close to the China coast and get smoother water.”