"I think you'll do," said the man. "You are not all talk and no action, like some of these fellows. If you can draw the cruiser off and keep her out of our way for two hours, you are worthy to call yourself a Cuban."
"Very good," Benito answered. "I will try."
They talked over the details of the plan, and agreed that they must wait for a pitch-dark night and a brisk wind. On the morning that Benito scraped his boat, there was every promise of such a night. There would be no moon, the sky was overcast, and a lively breeze came in from the southeast.
Seventy-five men and a great many cases of rifles were on board the schooner Dart, at five o'clock that afternoon, the hour agreed upon for sailing to make sure of reaching Sagua la Grande by midnight; and the sharpie Villa Clara seemed impatient for Benito to hoist her sails.
"We will give you a line and tow you over," said the leader.
"Oh, I guess you don't know the Villa Clara," Benito answered. "I think she will show the schooner the way."
"One thing I must ask you," were the leader's last words before he went on board the schooner—"do your father and mother know what danger you are going into to-night?"
"I have no father or mother," Benito replied, sadly; "so if I don't come back it will not make much difference."
None knew better than he the risk he was taking. The cruiser would blow him out of the water if she could; and if any of them were captured, they would either be shot or be sentenced by the Spaniards to long terms of imprisonment.
The night was all they could ask, and just what they had waited for. No moon, the sky full of black clouds to obscure the stars, and half a gale blowing from the southeast. Benito was willing to risk his life on the sharpie being a faster boat than the Spanish cruiser on such a night.