Towards midnight—while I was on watch—I heard a noise on the water from the direction of shore. It sounded like rowing, and yet it was too indistinct a sound for me to make certain. I decided that Murad had given up his idea of spending the night ashore and was returning. However, I asked Mr. Bludsoe to listen.
"Oars!" he said, his ear cocked over the landward side.
He listened again. "There are three boats at least!" he whispered, "it looks like an attack. Pass the word for all hands!"
By this time both watches were on deck. Pistols and cutlasses were passed out. We lined up along the bulwarks, peering out.
The mate stood near me. I heard him thinking aloud. "So this is the way our precious skipper protects us from corsairs?" he muttered, "He goes ashore and an attack follows. Looks queer. Wonder what slaves are worth in Morocco? Maybe he's planning to sell a double cargo—goods and men!"
We could hear the sounds plainly now. The splash of the oars struck with a chill more than one of us, but we gripped our weapons and made up our minds to sell our lives dearly.
Mr. Bludsoe had been sweeping the sea with a night glass. "They are near us, men—four boats, swarming with cutthroats!"
He peered over the rail and shouted:
"On board the boats! This is an American schooner with whom you have no business. Come nearer at your peril!"
Still the boats came on. The steady beat of the oars tightened our nerves almost to the snapping point.