He had left his ship without leave and Macallister had frankly run away. They had broken useful rules and would, no doubt, lose their posts, but this did not much bother Kit. He had undertaken a job that, so far as he could see, he could not carry out. In fact, the thing was ridiculous. The Moors were fierce and cunning desert thieves, and he was going to force them to agree with him. He knew no arguments they would admit, and his only protection was Don Erminio's old pinfire gun.
Kit felt his youth, but his inheritance counted for much. His code was the Puritans', and its rude simplicity had advantages. One must do this because it was proper; the other was not. There was no use in arguing when one knew what was right. Kit saw his duty and, if it cost him something, he must pay. All the same, he shrank. To do what he ought might cost much.
Cayman rode to a buoy and when the jib was sheeted they brought the mooring aft and let her swing. The patron went to the long tiller and wore her round, and the slack mainsail lurched across. Then all went to the peak halyard and Kit's spirits rose. The rattle of blocks was cheerful; he liked to see the straining figures rise and fall. The men's laboured breath and rhythmic movements gave him a bracing sense of effort.
Cayman stole between a big cargo boat and a passenger liner, and by contrast with their lofty hulls looked absurdly small. When she began to list the water was nearly level with her covering board. The list got sharper, she forged past the end of the mole and her bowsprit splashed in the high, green swell. The patron studied the mist that rolled about the mountains and turned to Kit.
"The wind blows up there and we will get it when we get the sun. Well, we must drive her off the coast before the Commandante knows why we have gone. I think we will not steer the usual course."
They ran up the staysail and set the mizzen. Cayman leaped forward and the spray blew from her plunging bows. Her white wake trailed across the tops of the seas astern, and the water that bubbled through the scuppers crept up her lee deck. For all that, the captain was not satisfied and he looked to windward, knitting his brows.
"One can see far with the telescope from the Isleta signal station," he remarked. "The mist is clearing. We will risk the topsail."
The big sail was hoisted and Cayman's list got very sharp. One could not see how far the water crept up her inclined deck, because a sparkling cascade splashed across her weather bow and swelled the flood. They had hauled her on the wind and her channels dragged in the foam. One heard the wire shrouds hum and the masts groan, and now and then a sea rolled aft and broke against the boat on deck. For all that, the captain held on, and when the sun rose Grand Canary had melted into the silver mist.