The wind was fair, the sea was smooth. Of course in the darkness it was impossible to select the best boat, but they had happily hit upon one which at all events seemed a fine little craft, and they hoped she might prove the fastest. The seamen bent their backs to the oars with right good will; the water hissed and bubbled under the bows.
“The mounseers must be in a precious hurry to catch us, if they do catch us,” exclaimed Job Truefitt. “Give way, mates: if we can’t keep ahead of a crew of frog-eaters, we desarves to be caught and shut up in the darkest prison in the land, without e’er a quid o’ baccy to chaw, or a glass o’ grog to freshen our nip.”
The men, however, required no inducement to exert themselves to the utmost.
“Avast pulling!” exclaimed Mr Calder, after they had made good three miles or more from the harbour.
There was no sound of oars. The Frenchmen, it was supposed, had thought the pursuit useless, and had given it up. Still daylight must find them far away from the coast, and spell and spell throughout the night the undaunted seamen laboured at their oars.
Chapter Nineteen.
A Sail in sight—A Gale comes on—Reach the Frigate—Ronald rejoins the “Thisbe”—Made Lieutenant.
When morning dawned, and hunger reminded the escaped prisoners that it was time for breakfast, they looked about and discovered in the forepeak a supply of water and provisions, and what was of most consequence, a compass. She was evidently, then, the very craft the Gerardins had intended for their use.