"The tide will take care of the dead men," I panted, stroking for all I was worth to keep pace with the Dutchman.
A whistle shrilled again aboard the James.
"Ja," said Peter. "Der anchor goes oop, Bob. We hurry!"
He was a dozen strokes ahead of me at the end. I found him hanging on to the heel of the rudder and calmly treading water. For'ard the capstan was clanking to a steady yo-ho-hoing and trampling of feet. Yards were banging, sails were slatting, men were shouting and calling.
"Anchor up-and-down, sir!" called Saunders.
My great-uncle's voice answered him.
"Very good! We will weigh. Oh, Master Martin, are you sure there is no boat from the Walrus? I could have sworn I heard the splash of the falls."
"Aye, aye, sir," replied Martin. "I'll be —— —— —— —— for a —— —— —— if there is so much as a man awake aboard the —— —— craft."
I looked up at the stern windows, so high above us. From our precarious perch on the rudder the James towered like Spyglass Mountain, touchable but unattainable. Almost I could have cried out to my great-uncle and hailed him to have us hauled aboard. But common sense warned me he would certainly seize upon the opportunity to send us back to the Walrus as clinching evidence of his good faith. And I had no desire to face Flint with those two dead men to account for.
"What's to do?" I whispered to Peter, whose eyes were roving over the lofty stern. "We can not bide here. Once she has way on her, we'll be tossed off."