The English lieutenant, released from his bonds, sat at first in sulky silence and would not even touch a bit of the savory rasher that Socrates placed before him. When he went on deck later at Captain Conyngham’s invitation he looked off to the eastward. The Minerva, almost hull down, was holding a course toward the French coast. At the masthead of the Charming Peggy fluttered the English flag, and in the distance to the westward, plain above the horizon, rose the English shores.
“We’ll go in a little closer, Mr. Holden,” said Captain Conyngham, “and then we’ll part company, sir.”
He turned to the first mate.
“Mr. Jarvis,” he went on, “prepare to lower the cutter; put in a breaker of water, two bags of biscuit, and a bottle of port.”
After half an hour’s more sailing the brig was hove to and the crew, with Higgins and McCarthy now freed from their irons, pushed out from the brig’s side. In the stern sheets sat the lieutenant disconsolately.
He turned to watch the brig as she came about and headed off shore. At that moment down came the English flag and the Spanish took its place. And it was just at this minute that Captain Conyngham, looking aloft, spoke to his first mate.
“We’ll have a flag of our own soon,” he said, “and avast with this masquerading, say I.”
The crew, as if they had heard his words, suddenly burst into a spontaneous cheer. Their voices, carried by the wind, reached the Englishmen slowly pulling in for the distant headlands.