“Right again. ’Twas a pretty scheme: for—d’ye see?—if all went well with the Earl of Stamford, the King’s law would be wiped out in Cornwall, and Master Tingcomb (with his claims and meritorious services) might snap his thumb thereat. So, in that case, Mistress Delia was to be brought ashore here and taken to him, to serve as he fancied. But if the day should go against us—as it has—she was to sail to the Virginias with the sloop, and there be sold as a slave. Or worse might happen; but I swear that is the worst was ever told me.”
“God knows ’tis vile enough,” said I, scarce able to refrain from blowing his brains out. “So you were to follow the Earl’s army, and work the signals. Which are they?” For a quick resolve had come into my head, and I was casting about to put it into execution.
“A green light if we won: if not, a red light, to warn the sloop away.”
I picked up the packet that had dropp’d from his hand when first I sprang upon him. It was burst abroad, and a brown powder trickling from it about the ledge.
“This was the red light—to be sprinkled on the burning charcoal, I suppose?”
The fellow nodded. At the same moment, Billy (who as yet had not spoke a word, and of course, understood nothing) thrust into my hand another packet that he had found stuck in a corner against the rock.
“Now tell me—in case the rebels won, where was the landing to be made?”
“In the cove below here—where the road leads down.”
“Aye, the road where the wagon stood.”
Captain Luke Settle blink’d his eyes at this: but nodded after a moment.