“Let go all!” the helmsman called and Brice repeated the order. The ship flew around, like a startled stag and then came,
“Let go the anchor! Lower away on that boat tackle! Come, Cousin John, we are opposite Dunlap’s docks. This is Boston harbor, thank God!” So called Jack Dunlap, springing toward the descending small boat that had hung at the davits, and dragging the no-way backward old gentleman, John Dunlap, along with him.
The only moment lost in Port au Prince before the “Adams” sailed was to arouse the operator and send a message to Chapman saying that John Dunlap had left in the “Adams” and was on his way to Boston and his brother’s bedside.
When the red ball barred with black streaming from the masthead announced that a Dunlap ship was entering the port, the information was sent at once to the city, and an anxious, thin and sorrowing man gave an order to the driver of the fastest team in the Dunlap stables, to hasten to Dunlap’s wharf and sprang into the carriage.
The impatient, scrawny figure of David Chapman caught the eyes of the two passengers in the yawl, as with lusty strokes the sailors at the oars urged the small boat toward the steps of the dock. Chapman in his excitement fairly raced up and down the dock waving his hands toward the approaching boat.
“He still lives!” he shouted when they could hear him, instinctively knowing that, that question was first in the minds of those nearing the wharf.
“And Lucy?” said Jack huskily, as he stepped on the dock and grasped Chapman’s extended hand. Old John Dunlap had said never a word nor looked right nor left, but springing up the steps with extraordinary agility in one of his age, had run directly to the waiting carriage.
“Alive but better dead,” was all that the superintendent could find breath to say as he ran beside Jack toward the carriage and leaped in.
“Stop for nothing; put the horses to a gallop,” commanded Mr. Dunlap, leaning out of the carriage window and addressing the coachman as he wheeled his horses around and turned upon the street.