“Yes, twice, but out in the deep water.  I suppose you hug along the west shore.  How is the sloop—­pretty heavily loaded?”

He nodded, still grinning cheerfully over the ease with which I manipulated the wheel.

“Chuck full ter de water line; we’ve done been shovin’ things inter dat hold fer a week past, but she’s sure a good sailor.  Whut wus it Massa Roger say yer name wus?”

“Carlyle.”

“So he did; don’t ever recollect hearin’ dat name afore.  Ye’s one of dem rebels ober in England?”

“I got mixed up in the affair.”

“An’ whut dey done give yer?”

“My sentence, you mean—­twenty years.”

“Lordy! dat’s sure tough.  Well, I reckon yer done know yer job all right, so I’ll just leave yer here awhile, an’ go forrard an’ git a snack.  Ain’t eat nuthin’ fer quite a spell.  Ah’ll be back afore yer ’round de point yonder.”

I was alone at the wheel, the sloop in my control, and somehow as I stood there, grasping those spokes, the swift boat leaping forward through the water, leaning recklessly over before the force of the wind, the numbing sense of helpless servitude left me in a new return of manhood and responsibility.  It was a scene of exhilaration, the sun, still partially obscured by misty clouds already well down in the western sky, with the tossing waves of the Bay foam-crested.  The distant headlands appeared spectral and gray through the vapor, while the waters beyond took on the tint of purple shadows.  The Adele responded to the helm gallantly, the spreading canvas above standing out like a board, a broad wake of white foam spreading far astern.  Not another sail appeared across that troubled surface of waters, not even a fisherman’s boat, the only other vessel visible along our course being a dim outline close in against that far-away headland toward which I had been instructed to steer.  I stared at this indistinct object, at first believing it a wreck, but finally distinguishing the bare masts of a medium-sized bark, evidently riding at anchor only a few hundred yards off shore.

Satisfied as to this, my glance shifted to our own decks, feeling a seaman’s admiration for the cleanliness of the little vessel, and the shipshape condition of everything aboard.  The decks had more the appearance of a pleasure yacht, than that of a cargo carrier, although the broad beam, and commodious hatches bespoke ample storage room below.  Apparently all this hold space had been reserved for the transportation of goods, the passenger quarters being forward, with the cook’s galley at the foot of the mast.  Where the crew slept I was unable to discern, but they were few in number, and as Sam had disappeared up a short ladder, and then across the roof of the cabin, it was highly probable there would be a compact forecastle nestled between the bows.  The blacker negro was busily engaged in the galley, his figure occasionally visible at the open door, and a column of black smoke poured out through the tin funnel.  The deck planks were scrubbed white, and the hand-rails had been polished until they shone.