“Besides what, sir?”
“I should have an opportunity, perhaps, of seeing my cousin Cecilia and my cousin Katherine.”
The countenance of Barnstable grew animated as he listened, and he answered with something of his usual cheerful manner:
“Ay, that, indeed, would be a work worth carrying! And the rescuing of our shipmates, and the marines, would read like a thing of military discretion—ha! boy! all the rest would be incidental, younker; like the capture of the fleet, after you have whipped the convoy.”
“I do suppose, sir, that if the abbey be taken, Colonel Howard will own himself a prisoner of war.”
“And Colonel Howard's wards! now there is good sense in this scheme of thine, Master Merry, and I will give it proper reflection. But here are our poor fellows; speak cheeringly to them, sir, that we may hold them in temper for our enterprise.”
Barnstable and the midshipman joined their shipwrecked companions, with that air of authority which is seldom wanting between the superior and the inferior, in nautical intercourse, but at the same time with a kindness of speech and looks, that might have been a little increased by their critical situation. After partaking of the food which had been selected from among the fragments that still lay scattered, for more than a mile, along the beach, the lieutenant directed the seamen to arm themselves with such weapons as offered, and also to make sufficient provision, from the schooner's stores, to last them for four-and-twenty hours longer. These orders were soon executed; and the whole party, led by Barnstable and Merry, proceeded along the foot of the cliffs, in quest of the opening in the rocks, through which the little rivulet found a passage to the ocean. The weather contributed, as much as the seclusion of the spot to prevent any discovery of the small party, which pursued its object with a disregard of caution that might, under other circumstances, have proved fatal to its safety. Barnstable paused in his march when they had all entered the deep ravine, and ascended nearly to the brow of the precipice, that formed one of its sides, to take a last and more scrutinizing survey of the sea. His countenance exhibited the abandonment of all hope, as his eye moved slowly from the northern to the southern boundary of the horizon, and he prepared to pursue his march, by moving, reluctantly, up the stream, when the boy, who still clung to his side, exclaimed joyously:
“Sail ho!—It must be the frigate in the offing!”
“A sail!” repeated his commander; “where away do you see a sail in this tempest? Can there be another as hardy and unfortunate as ourselves!”
“Look to the starboard hand of the point of rock to windward!” cried the boy; “now you lose it—ah! now the sun falls upon it! 'tis a sail, sir, as sure as canvas can be spread in such a gale!”