I had been gazing intently at the boat all this time. My sight was naturally very keen, and I felt almost confident that the occupants of the boat were negroes. I hurriedly communicated my suspicions to my shipmates.
“I’m jiggered if I don’t think you’re right, sir,” said Ned, slapping his thigh vigorously, and peering intently at the unwieldy craft. “Now I wouldn’t mind wagering a plug o’ baccy that those are the niggers we saw working in the garden of their shanty, and that figure in the starn-sheets is the old ‘Mother Bunch’ that lost the run of her legs and went a cropper on her nose.”
“If it is, can we persuade ’em to take us off?” asked the gunner; “that’s the question. The boat would hold us all; but as the niggers are probably the slaves of the pirate chief, they might be afraid to take us on board.”
“And if they did take us on board,” said I, “it might only be to pull us round to the creek on the other side of the island, and give us up to their masters, the pirates.”
“Once on board we might overpower ’em,” said Ned, musingly. “I only wish—”
A musket shot!
We started in alarm. It appeared to come from somewhere amongst the sandhills on our extreme right. Anxiously we looked for the puff of smoke, but could detect nothing.
The echoes of the discharge had hardly died away amongst the hills, when our ears were saluted with a second and exactly similar report.
No bullets or shot fell near us.
I glanced at the boat to see if any firing was taking place on board. The oarsmen had ceased rowing, and appeared to be gazing shorewards; but no tell-tale smoke was wreathing itself above their heads.