Well, we all stood there watching, seeing farther and farther along the shore every minute—not a sign of the ships—till we could actually see the high land at the entrance, near El Castellar, with a great cloud of smoke beyond it, out to sea.
'They've chucked it,' the Captain chuckled, and we all burst out cheering. You should have seen us all there—fat Dr. Watson in his pyjamas, the Forlorn Hope and the Shadow in theirs—the Shadow shivering and his teeth chattering,—Mr. Perkins as red as a lobster, and even the Padré had come up in a nightgown, and had been in such a hurry that he'd forgotten his wig, and stood there as bald as a coot, all except a little tuft of hair that stood up by itself, and made him look like that advertisement of a hair-restorer. Nearly every one was up on the bridge. Then the church bells in San Fernando began ringing like mad, and we could hear the people, ashore, cheering.
Wasn't it grand? though nobody could imagine why the fleet had gone away.
'I expect the Provisional Government are unpacking their bags,' the Captain said to Dr. Watson, as they went below. 'They'll be asking for Recognition again. They ought to get it this time.'
We rushed off and told Billums what we had heard, because we knew that if the Government at home did recognise the Insurgent Government, Cousin Gerald wouldn't be punished for chipping in.
We did so hope they would.
CHAPTER XIII
Bad News for Gerald Wilson
Written by Sub-Lieutenant William Wilson
Later on in the morning, after all those things had happened about which that young ass of a cousin of mine has just told you, and after the Santa Cruz Navy and the transports had disappeared, a boat came pulling off to the ship with a note from old Gerald.