“When will he be back?”
“I haven’t the slightest idea.”
“How long before he is going to sail for Havana?”
“I don’t know that either. He’ll not start until this wind goes down and he gets some provisions—perhaps not even then. His business may keep him here a week.”
Tomlinson turned on his heel, and walking aft, joined his companions. “It must be done, mates,” said he in a whisper. “The lads are as dumb as tar-buckets, and all I could find out was that the yacht may stay here several days. During that time, the privateer may make up her crew and go to sea, and we shall be left out in the cold. We ought to be in Havana now.”
“But I am ’most afraid to trust you in command, Tom,” said one of the deserters. “The captain says it is a good hundred miles to Havana.”
“No matter if it is a thousand; I can find it. All we have to do is to sail along the coast. We’ll know the city when we see it, won’t we?”
“But we need some grub, and how are we going to get it?”
“As soon as it grows dark we’ll land and steal some—that’s the way we’ll get it. What do you say now? I am going to Havana in this yacht: who’s going with me?”
This question settled the matter at once. All the deserters were anxious to find the privateer, and since Tomlinson, who was the ruling spirit of the band, was determined to start in search of her, the others, rather than be left behind, decided to accompany him, and run all the risks of shipwreck.