that peninsula, and so on to the
Doce Leguas Cays; while the man on the mule navigated by the Sierras del
Cobre of St. Jago, steering by bridle for Manzanillo, and then to take
water again for the same secret destination.

The cargo that both expected to take in there was about ten thousand
pounds sterling in mildewed coin of various realms and denominations;
but it was there, and would pass current any where.

So they sailed and navigated. It was tedious work, though; and it took a
week for the old launch with the torn sail to get into the Tiger's
Trap--fine weather, and no sea--and there make fast to the rocks. At the
same evening hour the mule with his passenger planted his fore feet,
like a pair of kedges over his bows, in the fishing village near
Manzanillo, and foundered bodily, going down with his freight slap-dash
in the mud. The passenger, however, escaped, and skulled along by the
shore, where he fell in with a poor fisherman who was about to shove off
in his trim, wholesome bark for professional recreation on the Esperanza
bank.

Glad was old Miguel Tortuga to have a strong man to assist him for the
privilege of joining in a sip of aguardiente and catching a red snapper
or two; so they jumped on board and spread the sail.

Had old Miguel, however, seen the sharklike eyes of his assistant in the
sunlight, or dreamed what a snapper was about to catch _him_, he would
not have gone fishing that night, and it would have saved him much
tribulation at daylight the next morning, when he was picked off a small
rock by a fisher acquaintance of his from Manzanillo.

But we have nothing to do with old Miguel; and need only say, to console
him, that his stanch boat went safely through the blue gateway of the
roaring ledge of white breakers, and late Sunday night lay calmly in the
inlet abreast Captain Brand's former dwelling.

To go back again for a week, the "Monongahela"--double-banked leviathan
as she was--came plunging out to sea from Kingston, every man and boy,
from Jack Smith on her forecastle to Bill Pump in the spirit-room, and
from Richard Hardy to Tiny Mouse, knowing from the first plunge the
frigate made what they all sailed for.

With her proud head toward the east, she went dashing on past the White
Horse Rocks, and woe to the small angry waves which did not get out of
her way, for she smashed them contemptuously in foaming masses from her
majestic bows, sending them back in sparkling spray and bubble