The night wore slowly along and morning dawned clear, finding all three of the Americans up and on the bridge of the rapidly moving vessel.
No sails were in sight. A wide expanse of water was before them, while on the port hand the low swamp land of Banate was in plain sight.
Phil steered his ship in toward the bamboo town nestling in the hollow of two small hills in the midst of the swampy mouth of the Mani River. As they approached, the Americans could discover naught but the usual listless life of a Filipino village.
“I’ll patrol here,” Phil said, as he steered further offshore.
All day long the gunboat steamed backward and forward over fifteen miles of coast line. An occasional sail was sighted and overhauled, only to find in it a handful of frightened fishermen.
As night approached the gunboat was brought to a stop in the centre of the line of patrol in order that it might be at an equal distance from all possible points of departure, in case Espinosa had eluded his pursuers.
“If he has a proa in waiting, hidden in the swamps of one of these estuaries, he will choose night for his escape,” Phil declared as he studied his inaccurate chart, “and at night he can easily elude us, for it is too dark to see a half mile. Our only hope is that there will be no wind, and if the air is sufficiently calm we can hear the dip of oars for miles.”
Phil stationed his sailors as lookouts everywhere, with orders to listen alertly and make known to him if they heard the slightest sound.
The night drew on. The others had gone below for their broken night’s sleep, and Sydney was alone on the bridge. A half dozen lookouts were alert, peering into the night, their energies bent on catching the faintest sound from the distant shore.
Suddenly Sydney’s ears caught a dull sound which seemed to come from the direction of the land. He listened intently, his breath held tight. The dawn wind brought to his nostrils the sweet damp smell of earth mingled with the pungent odor of smoke from the early morning fires of the villagers.