It was a curious experience, and Don’s heart beat as he thought of the possibility of escaping from the boat, and taking to the shore, wondering the while what would be the consequences. The man in the leading canoe was evidently well treated, and quite one in authority; and if they landed and joined these people, why should not he and Jem become so too?
These were a few of the passing thoughts suggested by the novelty and beauty of the place, which seemed ten times more attractive to those who had been for months cooped up on shipboard; but the toil in which he was engaged kept Don from taking more than a casual glance ashore.
Bosun Jones sat at the tiller side by side with the lieutenant, and scraps of their conversation reached Don’s ears.
“Well, sir,” said the former, “as you say, we’re out of the reach of the sloop’s guns; but if anything happens to us, we may be sure that the captain will take pretty good revenge.”
“And a deal of good that will do us, Jones,” said the lieutenant. “I believe that scoundrel is leading us into a trap.”
“If he is, sir, I hope for one chance at him,” said the boatswain; “I don’t think I should miss my man.”
The leading canoe went on for quite a quarter of a mile after they had passed out of sight of the ship, the cutter following and taking soundings all the way, till they seemed to be quite shut in by high land, and the water was as smooth as a lake.
There, about five hundred yards from the shore, the canoe stopped, and almost at the same moment the water shallowed, so that the man in the bows got soundings in ten fathoms; directly after, nine; then eight; and eight again, at which depth the water seemed to remain.
“Come, that’s honest leading!” said the lieutenant, brightening; “as snug a berth as a ship could be in. Why, Jones, what a position for a port!”
“This do, sir?” shouted the tattooed Englishman. “You’ll be quite in shelter here, and the water keeps the same right up to the shore.”