The ship was recovering from the inaction of changing
her course, in one of those critical tacks that she had made so often,
when the pilot, for the first time, addressed the commander of the
frigate, who still continued to superintend the all-important duty of
the leadsman.
"Now is the pinch," he said, "and if the ship behaves well, we are safe
--but if otherwise, all we have yet done will be useless."
The veteran seaman whom he addressed left the chains at this portentous
notice, and calling to his first lieutenant, required of the stranger an
explanation of his warning.
"See you yon light on the southern headland?" returned the pilot; "you
may know it from the star near it?--by its sinking, at times, in the
ocean. Now observe the hummock, a little north of it, looking like a
shadow in the horizon--'tis a hill far inland. If we keep that light
open from the hill, we shall do well--but if not, we surely go to
pieces."
"Let us tack again," exclaimed the lieutenant.
The pilot shook his head, as he replied:
"There is no more tacking or box-hauling to be done tonight. We have
barely room to pass out of the shoals on this course; and if we can
weather the 'Devil's Grip,' we clear their outermost point--but if not,
as I said before, there is but an alternative."
"If we had beaten out the way we entered," exclaimed Griffith, "we
should have done well."
"Say, also, if the tide would have let us do so," returned the pilot,
calmly.
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