A few minutes later the Swift crept up, took in her boat, and got up steam.
“Make fast the tow-line to the barges, Mr Hume,” came an order from the Captain.
“It is done, sir.”
“Cut the moorings.”
The rope was cut, and the Swift steamed out, towing the barges, until she had rounded the south-western point below Funchal, when she dropped anchor, and all hands, including the two Portuguese sailors, were hard at it, transferring her coal to the torpedo-catcher. The coal was in sacks, the steam tackle was set in motion, and with a loud noise that sooner or later would reach the ears of the people ashore, the precious cargo was swung on board and shot down the shoots, covering every part of the deck and rigging with grit. The long, low steamer lay sandwiched between the barges, and while the steam tackle worked aft, forward the sacks were handled by the men, everyone, except Miss Anstrade and Mr Commins, lending a willing hand.
They had been hard at work for an hour, when a confused babble of shouting was heard from the port, and shortly after they saw a shaft of light shoot into the sky and glance across the harbour. It was the flash-light from the little fort, and no doubt revealed the absence of steamer and coal barges.
Presently they heard the beat of engines—a steamer’s light appeared round the point.
“Show a light, Mr Webster. We don’t want to be run down.”
A red light was hung out over the stem.
“Keep on with your work,” shouted the Captain, as the men paused to watch the progress of the steamer.