It was done. The reefs now lay astern of us, Key Grande bore well upon our starboard quarter, and El Roque was ahead of us, a trifle upon our weather bow.
“Keep her away a point, quarter-master, and give that island ahead a wide berth,” said the skipper.
“Ay, ay, sir,” answered Gimbals; and I thought his voice sounded strange and melancholy in the deepening gloom.
We were now standing to the northward, or about N. by W., under single-reefed topsails, and were going about nine knots, the spot we were in being sheltered by the islands and shoals to windward, and the water consequently smooth. In about half an hour’s time, however, the frigate passed out from under the lee of El Roque, and we were once more tearing and thrashing through the short head-sea. The sky to leeward, still aglow with the fading splendour which marked the path of the departed sun, strongly tinged the water in its wake with tints of the purest amber and ruby, against which the wave-crests leaped up black as ink, while the ocean everywhere else showed a dark indigo hue. Overhead, in the darkening ether, the stars were twinkling out one by one; while away to windward the sky, already nearly as dark as it would be that night, was thickly powdered with a million glittering points.
We continued upon the starboard tack until two bells in the first watch, when, the skipper being of opinion that we had made sufficient offing to go to windward of everything, we tacked ship and stood to the southward and eastward again. It was by this time quite dark, although starlight; and we knew that if the strangers inside had kept a watch upon us, they would have seen us still standing off the land as long as it was possible to see anything at all; and, this being the case, we hoped they would jump to the conclusion that they had seen the last of us, for that night at least, and think no more about us.
By six bells we were dead to windward of the eastern end of El Roque, and about ten miles from it, when we edged away a couple of points, and, getting a good pull upon the weather-braces, went rolling and plunging down past the weather side of Key Grande, giving the land a wide berth however, and stationing extra lookouts—the keenest-eyed men in the ship—to watch for any signs of broken water.
Two hours after bearing up, we were off the south-east angle of the island, when we wore ship, and, shortening sail to close-reefed topsails, jib, and spanker, dodged quietly in toward the land, under the lee of which we soon found ourselves. A couple of leadsmen were sent into the chains, and the lead kept constantly going, but we found there was plenty of water, so we stood on until we got into eight fathoms, when, being completely sheltered, we let go the anchor, and stowed our canvas.
It was by this time about two o’clock a.m. The boats had been prepared long before, and nothing now remained but to lower away, unhook, and be off.
As soon as the sails were furled, Captain Annesley went below to his cabin, and immediately sent for Mr Flinn, Mr Vining, Mr Martin, and me. We trundled down one after the other, and found our chief bending anxiously over a chart which was lying spread open upon the cabin-table.
“Pray be seated, gentlemen,” said he; “draw your chairs up to the table, and you will all be able to follow me upon the chart. Here is where we are,”—making a pencil dot on the chart to indicate the position of the frigate—“and here, as nearly as possible, is where the ship and brigantine are lying,”—a cross serving to indicate their position. “Now I feel myself to be in a position of some little difficulty. I have very little doubt in my own mind that these two ships belong to our enemies, but I am not sure of it; and to attack a vessel belonging to a friendly power would be a most deplorable accident. On the other hand, if we wait until daylight before doing anything, we run the risk of losing a good many of our men; for I should not feel justified in taking the frigate into the midst of so many unknown dangers, and an attack with the boats in broad daylight would give them ample time to make all their preparations for giving us a hot reception. I am inclined to think that the crews of those two craft will have no expectation of hearing from us to-night; and I have therefore determined to send in the boats to reconnoitre. You, Mr Flinn, will have charge of the expedition, and will take the launch. Mr Vining will take the first cutter, and Mr Martin the second, while Mr Chester, in the gig, must go ahead and endeavour to steal alongside the strange craft without giving the alarm, find out their nationality—while you lie off at a distance—and return to you with his report. If they are friends, there is no harm done; and if they are enemies, do as you think best.”