“Come with me.”
He led me aft to his commander, and in a few words explained who I was and how I came there.
“He says he knows the upper bay,” the subordinate continued.
“I am Captain Jackson,” the skipper then said. “This is the cartel ship, and we have lost our anchors, leaving us at the mercy of the storm. There are a number of refugees on board, including several women and children. For their sake the vessel must be saved. If you can put us into the inner bay where we can ride out the storm, or beach the craft in safety, I will give you charge of her.”
I thought a moment. Then I answered:
“I believe I can bring you near enough to our frigate for them to throw us a hawser, sir, and you can then ride out the storm.”
“Do you suppose they will allow me to return when the gale is over, or will consider me a prize?” he inquired.
“I cannot say what our commander will do, sir,” I responded, “but if I were in command of our fleet the character of your ship would protect you.”
“I must take the risk,” he concluded, and turned the wheel over to me.
I ran in behind Cumming’s Point for smoother waters, and then took a straight course up the bay past Fort Johnson. I could now see the lights of the Boston, and headed directly for her.