“Yes, and I want you to keep so, my lad. That’s a very good old proverb that says, ‘Prevention is better than cure.’”
A very short time afterwards the schooner’s gig, with her little well-armed crew, was allowed to glide down with the stream, with the mate, boat-hook in hand, standing in the bows, Poole astern with the rudder-lines, and Fitz a spectator, thoroughly enjoying the beauty of the vast cliffs that arose on either side as they descended towards the river’s mouth.
It was all zigzag and winding, the stream carrying them along slowly, for a sharp sea-breeze was dead against them, explaining how it was that the schooner had sailed up so easily as she had.
Fitz had ample proof, without Poole’s drawing his attention to the fact, that there was no possibility of the gunboat making practice with her heavy piece, for everywhere the schooner was sheltered, the course of the river being all zigzag and wind, till all at once, as the men were dipping their oars gently, the gig passed round a bend, and there was the enemy about three miles off shore, lying-to, with her great black plume of smoke floating towards them, spreading out like a haze and making her look strange and indistinct.
“Did you bring a glass, Poole, my lad?” growled the mate.
“No; I never thought of that.”
“Humph! Never mind. I think I can manage. Both of you lads give a sharp look-out and tell me what you can see.”
“Why, there’s something between us and her hull,” said Poole, “but I can’t quite make out what it is. Surely she isn’t on a rock?”
“No,” cried Fitz; “I can see. She has lowered a boat.”
“Two,” said the mate, in his deep hoarse voice. “I can make ’em out now. I thought that was it at first. Pull away, my lads, for all you’re worth. Pull your port line, my lad, and let’s run back. Hug the shore as much as you can, so as to keep out of the stream. Hah! If we had thought to bring a mast and sail and one of the other boats we could have been back in no time with this wind astern.”