As the San Francisco approached the north water battery, the sound of a gun was heard, and the flag on the battery-staff was dipped twice, then a red streamer was run up the staff, and a boat put off from the mole.
“Hard aport, Mr. Navigator, and stop the ship,” cried the captain, who was standing on the bridge by the side of Mollie, who had been invited there as the commander of the vessel for a day.
Slowly the great ship ceased on her course, and awaited the little craft, which came rushing through the water, propelled by a lipthalene screw.
“The dispatch boat, sir,” said the officer of the deck, touching his cap.
“So I perceive,” returned the captain. “You will receive the dispatches and cast her off, as we must not delay.”
“Very well, sir;” and the officer again saluted, and passed to the companion-way.
A moment later the dispatches had been received, and handed to Captain Gordon. Breaking the port seal, he read the dispatch; then, hesitating a moment, he handed it to Mollie, and noted the sudden paleness of her face as she slowly reached forth her hand and took it.
With a feeling of impending evil, she read the paper:
“Washington, January 4, 15 D.