The entrance was an easy one. Even at low springs there were eighteen feet of water on the bar, with an additional height of twelve feet at high water.
Once inside, the Alerte signalled to the Bronx City to heave to. Captain Cain boarded the American and took charge of the bridge.
"I am going to run your ship aground, Cap'n," he announced to the Yankee skipper. "You'll come to no harm. The mud's soft. You'll come off before next springs—say in a week's time. By then, we shall be miles away."
Captain Hiram Adams made no audible comment. He merely put his tongue in his cheek.
Two miles up the river and hidden from the sea by a spur of high ground thickly covered with coco-palms, Captain Cain ordered the quartermaster of the Bronx City to put her helm hard-a-port.
At a speed of about five knots, the ship ran aground on the starboard side of the river, ploughing through the soft mud for quite her own length before coming to a dead stop. There she lay, on an even keel, with her bows within a hundred yards of the bluff of hard ground.
"You're lying nicely, Cap'n," observed Cain, as he prepared to withdraw the prize-crew. "I've taken the liberty to remove certain essentials of your wireless; but I'll do my level best to send the stuff along to your nearest agents."
Returning on board the Alerte, Cain's first act was to send for her wireless operator.
"Any signals from the Candide?" he inquired.
"None, sir," was the reply. "I've had the 'phones on almost continuous-like since midnight."