The pungy was pulled out into the current, the old sailors came over the rail, and we were fully committed to the venture.
I had supposed that some portion of the sails would be spread to give us steerage-way if nothing more; but in this I was mistaken. A square of white canvas could be more readily seen in the darkness than the entire hull of the pungy, which was painted black, therefore we would go through with only the empty spars to give an alarm, if so be the enemy caught a glimpse of us.
We had hardly more than started when the rain began to fall heavily, and Bill Jepson said with a chuckle of satisfaction:
"Everythin' is workin' our way. There ain't a barnacle aboard the ships that'll stand up an' take all this water when he can keep himself dry by seekin' the shelter of the rail."
"But suppose we run plump on to them?" I asked in a whisper.
"Then it'll be a case of doin' some tall an' lively hustlin', lad, an' no man can say what ought'er be done till we're in the scrape."
"Can you make out the shore on either side?" I asked.
"Yes, by stoopin' low so's to sight the sky over the tree-tops, you can contrive to get an idee of whether we're in the middle of the stream; but you can't do much more."
"I might stand on my head without being able to tell which was land and which water."
"I reckon that's true," Bill said with a laugh; "but when you've knocked around at sea as long as I have, you'll learn to see through ink, bottle an' all."