The
craft had not been hoisted on the davits.
"Luck's with us at last!" cried Tom, Seeing it also.
"Shall I help you, dad?"
"No; I think I'm all right. Go ahead."
There came such a gust of wind that the San Paulo was
heeled over, and the wreck of the mast, rolling about,
crashed into the side of a deck house, splintering it. A
crowd of sailors, led by Admiral Fanchetti, who were again
rushing on the escaping prisoners, had to leap back out of
the way of the rolling mast.
"Catch them! Don't let them get away!" begged the
commander, but the sailors evidently had no desire to close
in with the Americans.
Through the rush of wind and rain Tom and his friends
staggered down the ladder. It was hard work to maintain
one's footing, but they managed it. On account of the high
side of the ship the water was comparatively calm under her
lee, and, though the small boat was bobbing about, they got
aboard. The oars were in place, and in another moment they
had shoved off from the landing stage which formed the foot
of the accommodation ladder.
"Now for the Advance!" murmured Captain Weston.
"Come back! Come back, dogs of Americans!" cried a voice
at the rail over their heads, and looking up, Tom saw
Lieutenant Drascalo. He had snatched a carbine from a
marine, and was pointing it at the recent prisoners.
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