At last all were on board, and the word was given to start. There was a loud plashing as the oars dropped into the water, and we saw one boat lead off, and then a second follow, then the third and the fourth in single file, and making haste to join the big vessel, upon which signal lights were burning.
“Why, they don’t know the way,” I exclaimed, as I saw them bear off at once to the eastward instead of following right out the meandering channel of the little river.
“Don’t know the way?” cried our foreman; “why, it’s plain enough. They’re at sea.”
“They’re over a lot of dangerous rocks,” I said excitedly; “and if there don’t happen to be water enough they’ll come upon the Goat and Kids, and perhaps be upset.”
“No fear,” said the foreman; “they’ll know better than that.”
They were now about four hundred yards from the shore, and fading away into the darkness, heading for the lights of the French ship, and far to the east now of the course of the river, where it ran down through the sand and shingle—a course the lugger always followed when going out or coming in. But all seemed to be well with the boats, the regular beat of whose oars we could hear though they were quite out of sight, when all at once there came out of the darkness a tremendous yell, and we all started to our feet in alarm.
We could see nothing, but as we listened to the cries for help, and the shouting and splashing of the water, it was evident that an accident had occurred, and it needed very little imagination to picture the men of an overset boat struggling in the water, and being helped into the others.
“There’s one of them capsized on the Goat Rock,” I said excitedly.
“Think so, my lad?” said our foreman hoarsely.
“I’m sure of it,” I cried. “Oh! If the day would break and we could only see.”