I rushed into the pilot-house and rang the gong. The engineer immediately stopped the engine, and the roar of escaping steam followed. I was afraid we might run down some of the small craft that go in and out of St. Augustine.
"Sail, ho!" shouted Ben Bowman, on the top-gallant forecastle. "I see her; she is a pilot-boat."
A moment later I saw a sail-boat, in which were three men. There was a number on her sail, which indicated that she was a pilot-boat. She had evidently heard our whistle, and had came out in the rough sea to take us into St. Augustine, if we were bound into that port. I directed the wheel man to port the helm, so as to throw the Sylvania up into the wind under the stern of the pilot-boat.
"How came you up there, captain?" demanded one of the men in the boat, and all of them looked amazed.
"We are bound to the southward, coming down from St. Johns bar," I replied. "How does St. Augustine bear from here?"
"Due east," answered the spokesman of the trio.
"Look out for your reckoning, Washburn," I added, turning to the mate.
"Twenty minutes of twelve," added Washburn, consulting the chronometer. "This is exactly where we ought to be at this time," and he made the entry on the log-slate.
"Haven't you been over this course before to-day?" asked the spokesman of the pilot.
"Not to-day," I answered, perceiving what it was that bewildered the pilots. They had evidently seen the Islander, and supposed the Sylvania was the same steamer.