The second
was little better. But each time, during the lull that followed they
would steady the craft, and with determined oars drive the boat
further, away from the writhing shores, and out into the calming
vastness. Another wave, and then another. . .and they floated upon the
bosom of the sea.
Several hundred yards offshore, and perhaps a mile further up the
coast, they came upon the fisherman's boat, securely anchored. Pulling
alongside it, the two men helped Mary up and over the side, the old
man instructing her to go below and change out of her wet clothes,
then heat some broth over the small, cast-iron stove.
"I'm afraid there's no such luxury for us," he said to Michael, as the
two boarded and tied the skiff behind. "The nearest English-held port
is some miles from here, and I'm not sure they'd try to come after us
at sea. But we can't take that for granted; and in any case, we've got
to be off before the fog gets too thick. I'll not have us tacking
blind, this close to an uneven shoreline.
"There's a blanket forward," he continued, catching his breath.
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