“The Severn, supply.”
Thus boats and ships were passed, the night being too dark, and the brigantine going too quick to admit of a close scrutiny. The name of the expected store-ship being given, also completely disarmed suspicion. They were now rapidly nearing the flag-ship, of a hundred guns—the last and most fearful ordeal. A death-like stillness now pervaded the brigantine, broken only by the rushing of the vessel through the water, the straining of the cordage, and the moan of the wind through the rigging.
“Walter,” whispered Ned, “do you feel afraid?”
“No, Ned; do you?”
“I guess not; but I feel as I never did before. I wish we were doing something, and it was not so dreadfully still,” said the boy, putting his arm round his companion’s waist, as they sat side by side on the windlass, gazing through the darkness at the lights of the man-of-war. “Kiss me, Walter.”
He put his arms round his friend, and pressed his lips to his cheek. So dark was the night now grown, and so rapid the passage of the vessel, that the stern lights of the ship bore over the cat-head of the brigantine.
The young captain now took the helm, when a hail came from the ship that thrilled the blood of every man on board.
“What ship is that? Reply, or I’ll sink you.”
“The Severn, store vessel.”