Signals were set for the fleet to heave to, and when this had been done, the first officer was sent to each vessel with instructions as to where they should anchor.
The night had fully come before these orders could be obeyed, and then, from the location of the riding-lights, we could see that each craft had been stationed where she might best guard the outlet from the islands.
Unless the Britisher had put to sea during the first outburst of the tempest, she was held prisoner, and we might make her our prize when the day dawned.
Master Champlin had already sent word that his schooner was resting easily on the sands, and could readily be hauled off when the wind abated, therefore we no longer had any anxiety concerning the Scorpion.
As may be supposed, every vessel in the squadron was snugged down in proper shape to ride out the gale, which promised to be as short-lived as it was fierce, and but for the fact that we had lost our prize there would have been nothing to disturb us.
The stars were shining brightly at midnight; the wind was no heavier than a gentle breeze, and every man in the fleet remained on the lookout for the Britisher.
Before morning the Scorpion was floated, and her captain reported that she had sustained no injury.
When the day broke every craft was under sail, and within an hour we discovered that the enemy had given us the slip.
He must have gone out from behind the island in the teeth of the wind, while we were occupied with the Scorpion, and the first opportunity was lost.
“It’s a bad sign,” old Silas said, with an ominous shake of the head, when we had discovered that the Britisher was not within our grasp. “It’s a bad sign, an’ I’d be willin’ to give up all the wages comin’ to me on this cruise if it hadn’t happened.”