“ Spray ahoy!” they all hailed now. “What’s the weather goin’ t’ be? Is it a-goin’ to blow? And don’t you think we’d better go back t’ r‑r‑refit?”
I thought, “If ever you get back, don’t refit,” but I said: “Give me the end of a rope, and I’ll tow you into yon port farther along; and on your lives,” I urged, “do not go back round Cape Hawk, for it’s winter to the south of it.”
They purposed making for Newcastle under jury-sails; for their mainsail had been blown to ribbons, even the jigger had been blown away, and her rigging flew at loose ends. The Akbar , in a word, was a wreck.
“Up anchor,” I shouted, “up anchor, and let me tow you into Port Macquarie, twelve miles north of this.”
“No,” cried the owner; “we’ll go back to Newcastle. We missed Newcastle on the way coming; we didn’t see the light, and it was not thick, either.” This he shouted very loud, ostensibly for my hearing, but closer even than necessary, I thought, to the ear of the navigating officer. Again I tried to persuade them to be towed into the port of refuge so near at hand. It would have cost them only the trouble of weighing their anchor and passing me a rope; of this I assured them, but they declined even this, in sheer ignorance of a rational course.
“What is your depth of water?” I asked.
“Don’t know; we lost our lead. All the chain is out. We sounded with the anchor.”
“Send your dinghy over, and I’ll give you a lead.”
“We’ve lost our dinghy, too,” they cried.