While drifting past the ship, so near that he could touch the hull with his hands, he was deciding what to do. Reaching the stern, with a stroke of the paddle the canoe whirled under it, then shot up the other side of the ship into the teeth of the tide, back once more to the stern, and while the puzzled sentinels on the deck were wondering what had become of the canoe he was disappearing in the fog, the success of his strategy giving zest to his enterprise. He had kept his bearings as best he could, but was not quite certain of his position, as he drifted once more.
“Boat ahoy! Who goes there?”
The challenge came, not from overhead, but from the fog before him. A backward stroke arrested his movement. Again the hail and no reply.
“Up with the anchor! Out with your oars!”
Evidently he had drifted upon one of the boats anchored in the ferry-way. Paddling away, he suddenly heard the swash of waves, and found himself approaching a wharf, but on which side the river he could not say.
“Boat ahoy! Halt, or I’ll fire,” the hail that came to him.
Peering into the mist, he saw the dim outline of a soldier raising his musket.
“Hold on. Don’t fire. Please point me in the direction of the Boyne,” said Robert.
The sentinel lowered his musket as if saying to himself, “This must be one of the officers of the frigate who has been on shore having a good time.”
“The Boyne is right out in that direction,” said the sentinel, pointing with his musket, “but my orders are not to let any one pass along the wharf after ten o’clock without they give the countersign.”