"Stand by!" shouted Captain Cain, ringing for the propellers to be declutched.
Gradually the Alerte lost way. A hoarse order from the bridge was answered by the rattle of cable heaving through the hawsepipe. Snubbing gently at the tautened cable, the pirate submarine swung round head to tide within two hundred yards of the Falmouth lugger owned by the redoubtable Cap'n Silas Porthoustoc.
The Fairy had a riding-light on her forestay, but no hail came from her deck. The Alerte, having extinguished her navigation lamps, hoisted her anchor-light. To any observant Breton fisherman there was nothing to excite suspicion. Small craft bringing up to avoid a foul tide were fairly common objects in the vicinity of the Chenal du Four.
Since Broadmayne's and Vyse's "promotion" to the starboard watch, the chums had spent much of their time on deck. Their new messmates, now that they recognised them as such, were apt to be either patronising or rudely inquisitive. They looked upon the two chums' predicament—being forced to work without payment—as a huge joke, especially as Rollo and the Sub were obviously men of a different social standing. Hence it was not surprising that the late crew of the Ibex kept to themselves as much as possible.
The Sub knew roughly the position of the Alerte. Although he had never before been through the Four Passage, he realised from his previous knowledge of Ushant Light that the anchorage was between some of the islands off the westernmost part of the Brittany coast.
"Wonder what that vessel is?" he remarked, pointing to the Fairy's riding-light. "If she's a Breton fishing craft, we might swim off to her."
"Not in this tideway," objected Vyse, for the water was hissing and seething past the side of the Alerte. "We might when the tide eases off. It's bound to just before high water. 'Sides, the moon will be up soon."
They waited and watched, conversing in low tones. The Alerte's deck was practically deserted. There was a look-out man on the fo'c'sle. Occasionally some of the hands would emerge from the close atmosphere of the crew's quarters for a breath of fresh air. But no one seemed to take the slightest notice of the two chums.
Presently the moon rose behind the gaunt Brittany hills—a huge red disc, that soon appeared to diminish in size and assume a vivid yellowish hue. It was now one bell and the first watch.
"That's not a Frenchman," declared the Sub, as the slanting moonbeams fell athwart the bluff outlines of the Penzance boat. "She's a West-country lugger, I'll swear. Wonder what she's doing here?