Pirates of the Caribbean: The Price of Freedom

wondered whether this would be the last time he’d steer his ship. The
waiting was getting to him. He knew that once the action started, he’d
steady down and focus; until then, his palms were slippery with sweat.
But it wouldn’t do to wipe them in front of Matthews.
Another shot plunked into the water not ten feet from the Wicked
Wench’s port side, amidships. Jack’s jaw tightened, but he remained
focused, waiting for Chamba to appear.
Finally, he spotted the lad bounding across the weather deck,
waving and pointing off to starboard. Jack waited a minute or two until
he glimpsed the whiteness of the sandbank himself, then he turned the
wheel very slightly, delicately.
Chamba came bounding up the ladder to the quarterdeck to
resume his duties. Jack turned the wheel just a bit more. He couldn’t
turn them much to the east, or they’d lose their forward momentum as
the sails began to luff.
The Wicked Wench’s bow drifted right a little, then a little more.
After another minute or two, Jack stole a glance to starboard, and
saw they were almost past the sandbar, and heading straight. They
were in the trough. The water on either side of the ship remained deep
blue, but when he squinted, he could see the color of the sea change,
grow lighter in the distance. Because of the clouds, and the length of
the sun’s rays in the west, it was difficult to make out the depth of the
water, due to the reflection. It would probably take Borya a while before
he realized that there were now shoals hemming him in on both sides
of the trough.
Koldunya followed them into the trough. She was now about
three-quarters of a mile away, behind them, still on their port side. The
sloop’s next shot came from her bow chaser, aimed at the Wench’s
stern. It missed, plunking into the water, but the next one hit them. Jack
didn’t think it had struck below the waterline, but it was hard to tell.
Jack gave the wheel back to Matthews, and went forward,
watching the water as it slid past the bow. He was sweating, but not
due to the heat. He could see Gorda Cay without his spyglass, coming
up to port. It wasn’t a very big island—not even half a mile long.
They hadn’t been in the deepwater trough long—perhaps five
minutes. In fifteen more minutes, give or take, the Wench would reach