“I heard a creaking of blocks from the hulks,” returned the mate. “They are lowering the boat, skipper, I think.”
“Then we’d best be afloat!” exclaimed Captain Deering. “Tumble in, my hearties, and push off.”
The sailors of the Defence and the swamp-riders were soon evenly distributed between the gig and the pinnace; the former was under the command of Captain Deering in person, and in the bows sat Tom and Cole; Nat and David Collins were in the mate’s boat; all were silent as the boats shoved off from the beach; the lapping of the water against their sides and the long, soft strokes of the oars were the only sounds that could be heard.
“They’ve launched a boat,” said the mate in a low tone. The gig and pinnace still pulled side by side, a double length of oar between them. “Yes, and there goes another one, and another.”
“Stiff work,” growled the captain, as he strove to follow the mate’s pointing finger. “I can just about make them out, Mr. Jackson, and they seem to be full of men.”
“Let’s hope they’re mostly prisoners,” said the mate.
“Have your cutlasses ready, men,” said Captain Deering, softly. “We can’t use the pistol until we’re sure of where we are firing.”
The three boats had pushed off from the hulk by this time; one was a galley, pulled by at least a dozen men and carrying as many marines in her bow, another was a small jolly-boat, and the last a ship’s gig in the stern of which were to be seen several officers.
“Don’t bother the galley,” said Uncle Dick. “It holds only a guard. The prisoners are in the gig or the small boat.”
“There seem to be only three of them,” said Tom, straining his eyes through the darkness. “But I can’t make out my father among them.”