“Good!” exclaims Crozier, rushing back to the quarterdeck, and bending over the chart. “With this, and the double-headed hill, we may get upon the track of the despoilers. Just when we were despairing! Will, old boy; there’s something in this. I have a presentiment that things are taking a turn, and the Fates will yet be or us.”
“God grant they may!”
“Ah?” sighs Crozier: “if we had but ten men aboard this barque—or even six—I’d never think of going on to Panama, but steer straight for the island of Coiba.”
“Why the island of Coiba?” wonderingly asks Cadwallader.
“Because it must have been in sight when this entry was made—either it or Hicaron, which lies on its sou’west side. Look at this chart; there they are!”
The midshipman bends over the map, and scans it.
“You’re right, Ned. They must have seen one or other of those islands, when the Chilian skipper made his last observation.”
“Just so. And with a light breeze she couldn’t have made much way after. Both the cook and Don Gregorio say it was that. Oh! for ten good hands. A thousand pounds apiece for ten stout, trusty fellows! What a pity in that squall the cutter’s crew weren’t left along with us.”
“Never fear, Ned. We’ll get them again, or as good. Old Bracebridge won’t fail us, I’m sure. He’s a dear old soul, and when he hears the tale we’ve to tell, it’ll be all right. If he can’t himself come with the frigate, he’ll allow us men to man this barque; enough to make short work with her late crew, if we can once stand face to face with them. I only wish we were in Panama.”
“I’d rather we were off Coiba; or on shore wherever the ruffians have landed.”