A cry, faint as the wail of a child, arose in the boat. It was heard and understood.
“Stay one moment; pass along Señor Arguellas. Now, then, off with you, and be smart!”
The next boat was quickly loaded; the colored lads and men, all but one, and the three Americans, went in her.
“You are a noble fellow,” said Mr. Desmond, pausing an instant, and catching at the captain's hand; “and I was but a fool to—”
“Pass on,” was the reply: “there is no time to bandy compliments.”
The order to shove off had passed the captain's lips when his glance chanced to light upon me, as I leaned, dumb with terror, just behind him against the vessel's bulwarks.
“Hold on a moment!” he cried. “Here is a youngster whose weight will not hurt you;” and he fairly lifted me over, and dropped me gently into the boat, whispering as he did so: “Remember me, Ned, to thy father and mother should I not see them again.”
There was now only the small boat, capable of safely containing but eight persons, and how, it was whispered among us—how, in addition to the two seamen already in her, can she take off Lieutenant Arguellas, M. Dupont, the remaining colored man, the four seamen, and Captain Starkey? They were, however, all speedily embarked except the captain.
“Can she bear another?” he asked, and although his voice was firm as ever, his countenance, I noticed, was ashy pale, yet full as ever of unswerving resolution.
“We must, and will, sir, since it's you; but we are dangerously overcrowded now, especially with yon ugly customers swimming round us.”