All our plans were perfected. It only remained to secure a navigator who could be implicitly trusted. Men of the South did not have much practical experience in seamanship. Several of our confidential friends scoured the town for a suitable person for this all-important post.
Finally a man was brought to me by the name of Wm. Law, guaranteed to be a competent navigator familiar with the Mexican coast and a Southern sympathizer. He was the possessor of a sinister, villainous mug, looked capable of any crime and all in all was the most repulsive reptile in appearance that I ever set eyes on. From the moment I saw him, I was filled with distrust. After a short general conversation I dismissed him and told his vouchers that I could put no faith in such an ill-omened looking character. But time was pressing. No one else showed up and after further guaranties, Greathouse, Rubery and myself saw Law again and frankly gave him a general outline of our plans. He accepted the responsibility with a well-feigned eagerness; his tough-looking face seemed lighted with a sort of demoniac exultation. There was still another who shared our confidence to some extent, Libby, the sailing master of the Chapman.
Everything was now ready to launch the enterprise. Our clearance papers were secured from the custom-house with a readiness that might have suggested a suspicion to more alert minds. The “Chapman” was duly certified to sail for Manzanillo with a cargo of machinery and mixed merchandise.
It was on the night of March 14. Greathouse and Law were to be on board at ten o’clock. Rubery and I stationed ourselves in a dark alley behind the old American Exchange Hotel. One by one, our fighting men assembled silently, by prearrangement. The night was dark, the sky overcast. We divided into three squads to avoid attention, slipped through the dimly lighted streets, past roaring saloons and sailor boarding houses and reached an unfrequented part of the waterfront unnoticed, where the privateer was moored.
Everything thus far had gone so smoothly that Rubery and I were exultant. The wind, too, was propitious. We figured to sail without delay, pass Fort Point in the dark and be beyond the horizon before the morning broke. We scrambled aboard the Chapman. Greathouse was pacing the deck in agitation. Law was not there.
I experienced a shock such as a man receives when a bucket of ice water is emptied on him in his sleep. The suggestion of treachery could not be avoided. We cast loose from the wharf and anchored in the stream. But we were helpless. We could not sail without our navigator. We had nothing to do but wait.
We scanned the bay for an approaching boat, but the dark waters answered not. At two o’clock we turned in for a much needed rest. We left a trusty man as a lookout with orders to waken us at five o’clock if nothing happened before. We still had a lingering hope that Law might appear in season to carry out our plans. And soon, as the hours glided by, the Chapman rocked us to sleep.