The intercourse between the new and the old world was not so frequent in those days as now. The voyages, too, were much longer than at present. So that, although a considerable time passed, bringing no tidings of the ill-fated vessel without causing any uneasiness.
But when week after week rolled by, and month followed month, and still nothing was heard from her, the friends of those on board began to be anxious about their fate.
At length a vessel which had sailed some days later than the missing ship, had reported that nothing had been heard from her.
The only hope now was that she might have been obliged by stress of weather to put in to some other port.
But after awhile this hope also was abandoned, and all were reluctantly compelled to come to the conclusion that she had foundered at sea, and that all on board had perished.
After lying a short time in port, Captain Flint set sail up the river under pretence of going on a trading expedition among the various Indian tribes.
But he ascended the river no further than the Highlands, and come to anchor along the mountain familiarly known as Butterhill, but which people of more romantic turn call Mount Tecomthe, in honor of the famous Indian chief of that name.
Having secured their vessel close to the shore, the buccaneers now landed, all save one, who was left in charge of the schooner.
Each carried with him a bundle or package containing a portion of the most valuable part of the plunder taken from the ship which they had so recently robbed.
Having ascended the side of the mountain for about two hundred yards, they came to what seemed to be a simple fissure in the rocks about wide enough to admit two men abreast.