But Mr.Bixby's partner,the other pilot,presently grounded the boat,and we lost so much time in getting her off that it was plain that darkness would overtake us a good long way above the mouth.This was a great misfortune,especially to certain of our visiting pilots,whose boats would have to wait for their return,no matter how long that might be.
It sobered the pilot-house talk a good deal.Coming up-stream,pilots did not mind low water or any kind of darkness;nothing stopped them but fog.
But down-stream work was different;a boat was too nearly helpless,with a stiff current pushing behind her;so it was not customary to run down-stream at night in low water.
There seemed to be one small hope,however:if we could get through the intricate and dangerous Hat Island crossing before night,we could venture the rest,for we would have plainer sailing and better water.
But it would be insanity to attempt Hat Island at night.
So there was a deal of looking at watches all the rest of the day,and a constant ciphering upon the speed we were making;Hat Island was the eternal subject;sometimes hope was high and sometimes we were delayed in a bad crossing,and down it went again.
For hours all hands lay under the burden of this suppressed excitement;it was even communicated to me,and I got to feeling so solicitous about Hat Island,and under such an awful pressure of responsibility,that I wished I might have five minutes on shore to draw a good,full,relieving breath,and start over again.
We were standing no regular watches.Each of our pilots ran such portions of the river as he had run when coming up-stream,because of his greater familiarity with it;but both remained in the pilot house constantly.
An hour before sunset,Mr.Bixby took the wheel and Mr.W----stepped aside.For the next thirty minutes every man held his watch in his hand and was restless,silent,and uneasy.
At last somebody said,with a doomful sigh--
'Well,yonder's Hat Island--and we can't make it.'
All the watches closed with a snap,everybody sighed and muttered something about its being 'too bad,too bad--ah,if we could only have got here half an hour sooner!'and the place was thick with the atmosphere of disappointment.
Some started to go out,but loitered,hearing no bell-tap to land.
The sun dipped behind the horizon,the boat went on.
Inquiring looks passed from one guest to another;and one who had his hand on the door-knob and had turned it,waited,then presently took away his hand and let the knob turn back again.We bore steadily down the bend.
More looks were exchanged,and nods of surprised admiration--but no words.Insensibly the men drew together behind Mr.Bixby,as the sky darkened and one or two dim stars came out.
The dead silence and sense of waiting became oppressive.
Mr.Bixby pulled the cord,and two deep,mellow notes from the big bell floated off on the night.Then a pause,and one more note was struck.The watchman's voice followed,from the hurricane deck--'Labboard lead,there!Stabboard lead!'
The cries of the leadsmen began to rise out of the distance,and were gruffly repeated by the word-passers on the hurricane deck.
'M-a-r-k three!....M-a-r-k three!....Quarter-less three!....Half twain!....Quarter twain!....M-a-r-k twain!....Quarter-less--'
