“Give way,” ordered Captain Deering.
The men bent to their oars, and the gig bounded over the short waves, putting more and more water between them and the frigate at every stroke. Mr. Johnson had issued the same command and the bow of the pinnace was but a few yards from the gig’s stern. Tom’s burning eyes were fixed upon the frigate; somewhere in the dark loom of its hull was his father—the father whom he so longed to see and whom he had vowed to liberate. Each stroke of the oars that carried him from him cut him like a knife.
“One dash,” he implored his uncle. “One swift dash and we can save him.”
“The frigate has lowered her boats,” said the skipper of the Defence. “It would be certain death to attempt it.” Then to the sailors he cried encouragingly, “Pull hard, my lads, show the British what American muscle can do!”
The two boats shot away under the compelling force of the sturdy arms at the oars.
“It’s a good four knots to the schooner,” said the mate, from the pinnace. “And their men are fresh.”
This was true; for a long time the men bent to their oars, but the schooner was still too far off to be seen, while the steady stroke of the frigate’s boats could be heard astern in the darkness, each moment growing nearer. And the other war vessels in the bay had sounded the alarm by this time; signal rockets were flaring across the sky, and the light of lanterns was to be seen on every hand, while the throbbing of drums was faintly borne to their ears.
“Looks like desperate work,” said the captain. His tones were grave and his eyes were straining through the gloom. “Oh, if we only stood on the decks of the old schooner I would not care for them all.”
As though in answer to his words Tom suddenly sprang to his feet.
“Look!” shouted he. “Look there!”