Before dark they were as close in as they dared to go, much closer than one skipper out of ten would take his ship, even in calm weather. Then a boat was lowered and Gonzales was put into it with enough to eat to last him a month. Garnett and two sailors jumped in, and all was ready.
The skipper stood at the break of the poop, and beside him stood O’Toole.
“Ye better not cast th’ raskil adrift till ye get ashore,” said the mate, “for by th’ faith av th’ howly saints, ’twill be himself that will be for coming aboard an’ laving ye to hunt a route from th’ Cape.”
“Trust me to see the pirit landed safely,” replied Garnett. “I’ve handled men before.”
A female head appeared at the door of the forward cabin just beneath the skipper’s feet. He looked down at it unnoticed for a moment. Then he spoke in a low voice, moving away from O’Toole, so he could not hear,—
“Would you like to go with him?”
Moll started as if shot. Then she looked up at the captain with a face pale and drawn into a ghastly smile. She gave a hard laugh, and walked out on the main-deck and looked at the boat as the oars fell across. The condemned man looked up, and his eyes met hers, but she rested her arms on the bulwarks and gazed steadily at him over the top-gallant-rail until he went slowly out of sight.
Two hours later Garnett and the men returned with the empty boat.
The ship was headed away to the southwest, and the struggle to turn the corner began with one man less in the port-watch.
In the dog-watch Garnett met O’Toole on the main-deck.