“Steer toward them!” she kept shouting in my ear.  “Steer toward them!  Ram them!  Sink them!”

Coutlass, on my other hand, made feverish haste with his love-affair, fearful lest discovery by the Germans should postpone forever the assuaging of his hungry heart’s desire.

“Steer toward shore!” he urged me.  “Who cares if we run on rocks?  Can’t we swim?  Gassharamminy!  Take to the land and give them a run for it!”

He seized the tiller to reinforce the argument, and wrenched at it until I hit him, and Fred threatened him with the only rifle.

“Get up forward!” Fred ordered; but Georges Coutlass would not go.

“Gassharamminy!” he snarled.  “You want my girl!  I will fight the whole damned crew before I let her out of the hollow of my arm.

“All right, touch that tiller again and I’ll kill you!” Fred warned him.

“Touch my girl, and you kill me or get out and swim!” Coutlass retorted.

Will was up forward with Brown, looking out for breakers through the spray that swept over us continually.  I watched the glow that rode above the launch’s funnel, marveling, when I found time for it, at the mystery of why the cotton sail should hold.  The firm, somewhere in Connecticut, who made that export calico, should be praised by name, only that the dye they used was much less perfect than the stuff and workmanship; their trademark was all washed out.

Suddenly Will dodged under the bellying sail, throwing up both hands, and he and Brown screamed at me:  “To your left!  Go to your left!  Rocks to the right!”

The Germans had passed us, but not by much, for the short steep seas were tossing their propeller out of the water half the time.  Because of the course I had taken the wind was setting slightly from us toward them, and I could have sworn they heard Will’s voice.  Yet there was nothing for it but to put the helm over, and as I laid her nearly broadside to the wind a great wave swept us.  At that the Greek, the Goanese, and all the natives in the hold set up a yell together that ought to have announced our presence to the Seven Sleepers.

I held the helm up, and let her reel and wallow in the trough.  Now I could see the fangs of rock myself and the white waves raging around them.  See?  I could have spat on them!  There was a current there that set strongly toward the rocks, for a backwash of some sort helped the helm and we won clear, about a third full of water, with the crew too panicky to bail.

“Hold her so!” yelled Fred in my ear.  “Don’t ease up yet!  If we get too close and they see us, I’ve the rifle!  They haven’t seen us yet!”

“Rocks ahead again!” yelled Will.  “To the left again!”

We were in the gaping jaws of a sort of pocket, and it was too late to steer clear.

“Throw the anchor over!” I roared, “and let go everything.