Some were for turning back, but
Pengelly wouldn't hear of it. "We must make Cawsand Bay," says he,
"if it costs us our lives. Maybe we'll find half a dozen ships
anchored there and ready for sea."
So away for Cawsand they pulled, hour after hour, Hancock all the
while wanting to die, and wondering at the number of times an empty
man could answer up to the call of the sea.
The squalls had eased soon after daybreak, and the sky cleared and
let through the sunshine as they opened the bay and spied two
sloops-of-war and a frigate riding at anchor there. Pulling near
with the little strength left in them, they could see that the
frigate was weighing for sea. She had one anchor lifted and the
other chain shortened in: her top-sails and topgallant sails were
cast off, ready to cant her at the right moment for hauling in.
An officer stood ready by the crew manning the capstan, and right aft
two more officers were pacing back and forth with their hands clasped
under their coat-tails.
"Lord!" groaned Pengelly, "if my poor Ann's aboard of she, we'll
never catch her!" He sprang up in the stern sheets and hailed with
all his might.
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