Although she
be going at eight knots, THAT should check her.
But it does not.
"Mizzen topsail braces, then!" Quick as thought the lee braces are
slacked off, and those on the weather side made taut. Still she
is not checked. Strange, too, for the breeze is stiff. Anderson
feels she is in the stream of a strong current.
There had been no need to say what was the cause of danger. The
heavy boom of breakers rose above the tread of feet, the clashing
of spars, and the chorus of curses.
Meanwhile Mr. Grant has finished his calculations below. He has
found for a result that the ship is among the Maldive reefs. He is
certain there must be some error in his work, and he sets himself
to revise his figures. But the breeze sweeps into the cabin with
a faint command from the upper air--"Back the main-yard!"--and he
shrewdly guesses that his calculations are correct.
The captain is everywhere at once, urging and aiding. He sees the
whole canvas aback, and yet the Chrysolite drifts on. He cannot
'bout his ship nor back her.
The reef is quite within appreciable distance now. The hands can
do nothing more, so they gaze at the dancing line of phosphorescent
atoms, and curse tremendously--though these may be their last
moments.
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