"No, he’s watching at the ship, and will give us the signal when to come aboard," replied one of the sailors, who was in command. “Come aboard, if you are ready, sir.”
“We are,” said my father.
There was a short but affectionate good-by on both sides. Captain Guerez wrung my hand tightly, and I gave Alano a warm squeeze. Then Mr. Raymond, Burnham, father, and myself stepped into the rowboat, and the sailors pushed off with their long oars. In another instant the craft swung clear of the shore and was turned in the direction from whence we had come. I was going to cry out a last parting to my chum, when the sailor sitting nearest checked me.
“Be silent, my lad; if we’re discovered we’ll all be shot.”
“Yes,” put in my father, “don’t make a sound. Leave everything to these men. They have their instructions and know what they are doing.”
On and on over the Bay of Guantanamo glided the rowboat. The rain still came down, and if anything the night was blacker than ever. I wondered how the sailors could steer, until I saw one of them consulting a compass which lay in the bottom of the craft, looking it by the rays of a tiny dark-lantern.
I reckoned that the best part of half an hour had gone by, when the sailors rested on their oars, while one took up a night-glass. For five minutes he waited, then put the glass down.
“It’s all right,” he whispered. “Let fall. No noise now, on your life!”
Forward went our craft again, and now I noticed that each oar was bound with rubber at the spot where it touched the rowlock, to keep it from scraping. Thus we moved onward in absolute silence.
From out of the darkness we now saw a number of lights, coming from the town and the shipping. A few minutes later we ran up to the dark hull of a large vessel. A rope ladder was thrown down to us, and a sailor whispered to us to go up. We followed directions as rapidly as we could, and once on the deck we were hurried below, while the rowboat was swung up on the davits.