The best chance was for Captain Risk to run the gauntlet in the dark, so that the tenth day after Barclugh had left Philadelphia, he quietly weighed anchor and slipped past the forts and stood off into the roadstead, waiting for a chance to slip out.
The night came on dark and boisterous, so that word was passed to get under weigh, as the weather looked nasty from the sou’-sou’east, and as the enemy would have to stand off the coast for sea-room, Captain Risk took advantage of the opportunity to make blue water.
Setting his foresail, main and fore-topsail, and reefing down for a scud up the coast, Captain Risk jammed into the wind from the cover of the river and made for the offing.
All lights were out and the binnacle was hooded. A double watch was called on deck and the Holker tacked into the teeth of the gale until the capes were fully two hours astern. The wind was moderating when orders came to make her course nor’east by north. The yards were braced in, and as the wind now came from abaft the beam, she was bounding before the gale and scudding from wave to wave.
The moon was two hours high, and was peering through rifts in the clouds. The sea was settling to a long swell. Every one on deck began to feel that no danger was near, when the lookout sang sharply:
“Sail, ho.”
“Where away?” asked Captain Risk, as he stood on the port quarter, glass in one hand, and the other on the main shrouds.
“Three miles on the lee bow. He is bearing down on the port tack, sir,” returned the man aloft.
“That’s well. All hands!” commanded Captain Risk, as he turned to his lieutenant, Mr. Ripley, saying with assurance: