As for the boats, one of them, the cutter, was a hundred yards or more astern, pulling hard upon their quarter. The other was rowing up alongside the sixth-rate. Perrin saw a man in a red coat waving a paper from her sternsheets. The man-of-war’s deck was full of men, who had crowded to the side to watch. Cammock was hurrying his hands. His maintopsail and topgallantsail were mastheaded together, to songs which made Olivia hasten to the poop-rail to hearken. Loud was the jolly chorus. The ship felt the sail. Bubbles burst brightly over the trailing anchor-flakes. Old Harry beacon drove by, rolling in the wash they made. Cammock walked aft hurriedly to take a bearing. He noticed then for the first time that the cutter which had fired on them was the red cutter of the man-of-war. He could now see her broadside. Her men fired no more. They were stepping the mast, while two of them kept way upon her. “We’re in for it now,” he thought. He let his helmsman feel that it would not do to glance astern. “You mind your eye,” he said fiercely. He took an anxious glance at the Wolf Rock, and at the toppling seas on the Blackstone. “I never saw a beastlier place,” he said. “Haul in there, leadsman,” he shouted. “Another cast, now.” The ship seemed to pause a moment, like a bird suddenly stricken with the palsy. A kind of death seemed to lay hold of her, checking all on board. She dragged a moment, and then drove on, muddying the sea. She had touched Ripple Sands. “My God, we’re done if you stick,” said Cammock. “And here’s Splat Point and the Bass.” He bent over the binnacle; Stukeley came to him. “Hello, captain,” he began. “My old sea-dog. Eh? Where can I get a spot of brandy? Eh?” Cammock took his cross-bearing without answering. Then he looked steadily at the harbour-mouth, and at the curved white line of the bar. He bade his helmsman “come to” a point. He conned the ship, ordered a small pull of a sheet, and glanced astern at the man-of-war. Stukeley repeated his question. “Where can I get a spot of brandy? Eh?” Cammock glanced at him for a second. “Lots of dirty pubs ashore there,” he said coldly. He turned to look again at the man-of-war. He was not too far from her to see that she was casting loose her forecastle gun. He looked bitterly at Stukeley. “I wonder what you’ve done, my duck,” he said under his breath. He walked up to the little group by the mizen shrouds; he wished not to annoy the lady. “Captain Margaret, sir,” he said. “May I just speak to you a moment?” His owner stepped aside with him.