Towards morning the wind came puffing off the land. It ought to have died away at sunrise, but did not. So the Sea Flower soon made good her offing, and before long the land lay like a long blue cloud far away on the weather-beam.
The ship was reprovisioned at Zanzibar, and one or two sick hands were allowed to land to be attended to at the French hospital.
In less than a fortnight she once more set sail, and in two months’ time, everything having gone well and cheerily, despite a storm or two, the Sea Flower was very far at sea indeed, steering south-west, and away towards the wild and stormy Cape Horn.
On going on deck one morning, Halcott found Tandy forward, glass in hand, steadying himself against the foremast, while he swept the sea ahead.
“Hallo! Tandy. Land, eh?”
“No, it isn’t land, Halcott. A precious small island it would be. But we’re a long way to the west’ard of the Tristan da Cunha, and won’t see land again till we hail the Falklands. Have a squint, sir.”
“What do you make of her, sir?” asked Tandy.
“Why, a ship; but she’s a hulk, Tandy, a mere hulk or derelict.”
“There might be some poor soul alive there notwithstanding.”