Benito's heart was in his throat for a few minutes; he would not pretend to deny that. But no wonder, for no boat ever had a narrower escape. He ran out several miles more and burned his white light, which said to the schooner:
"Land your men! I have the cruiser busy." And then he ran out five miles further to the northeast and burned another red light.
"That's an extra touch, that last red light," he said to himself. "They gave me a close rub, so I'll just mix them up a little worse."
Then he put the sharpie about, and headed her for Ginger Key. He had risked his little all—his life and his boat—in the cause of his country, and his night's work was done. With the wind on his starboard quarter he knew that no cruiser in Cuban waters could overtake him. Before he had gone far he saw lights on the cruiser again, and they showed her to be nearly where he had burned the white fire, fully ten miles from the schooner. And by that time the men were all on shore.
Next day Benito was on Ginger Key as usual; but it was not till nearly a month later that a passing schooner carried to the key a letter with an Havana postmark, addressed to Benito Bastian. The letter was only a few lines, without any signature; but it enclosed a Spanish draft for two hundred dollars.
"We landed safely, and are with friends," the letter said. "We have made up this little testimonial for a brave boy we know."