. . . I never, not
being a seaman, could have believed--till I saw and felt it--the
change that came over Plymouth Sound in the space of one half-hour.
The gig had been ordered again for nine-thirty, to pull to the
Barbican Steps and be ready at ten to bring the officers on board.
But before nine-thirty I began to have my serious doubts about
sending her. It was just as well I had.
"For by nine-forty-five it was blowing a real gale, and by ten
o'clock something like a hurricane. Just then, to top my terror,
Master Link Andrew came aft to me--the wind seemed to blow him
along--and 'I beg your pardon, Mr. Wilkins,' said he, 'but in my
opinion she's dragging.'
"Just think of it, sir! There was I, in sole charge of a hundred boys
or so, and knowing no more what to do than the ship's cat. . . . She
_was_ dragging, too; sagging foot by foot in towards the dark of
Jennycliff Bay.
"'If you'll take a word from me, sir,' said Link, 'we'd best up sail
and get out of this.'
"'What about the other anchor?' I suggested.
"' Try it if you like,' said he. 'In my belief it won't hold any
more than a tin mustard-pot.'
"Nor did it, when we let go.
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