We did so, and now, as it was
getting dark, the captain came up to Mr Treenail.
"Why, Mr Treenail, I think we had better heave--to for the night, and in
this case I shall want you to go in the cutter to Port Royal to deliver the
despatches on board the flag--ship."
"I don't think the admiral will be at Port Royal, sir," responded the
lieutenant; "and, if I might suggest, these black chaps have offered to
take me ashore here on the Palisadoes, a narrow spit of land, not above one
hundred yards across, that divides the harbour from the ocean, and to haul
the canoe across, and take me to the agent's house in Kingston, who will
doubtless frank me up to the pen, where the admiral resides, and I shall
thus deliver the letters, and be back again by day--dawn."
"Not a bad plan," said old Deadeye; "put it in execution, and I will go
below and get the despatches immediately."
The canoe was once more hoisted out; the three black fellows, the pilot of
the ship continuing on board, jumped into her alongside.
"Had you not better take a couple of hands with you, Mr Treenail?" said the
skipper.
"Why, no, sir, I don't think I shall want them; but if you will spare me Mr
Cringle I will be obliged, in case I want any help."
We shoved off, and as the glowing sun dipped under Portland Point, as the
tongue of land that runs out about four miles to the southward, on the
western side of Port Royal harbour, is called, we arrived within a hundred
yards of the Palisadoes.
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