CAPTAIN CANOT -- BRANTZ MAYER (1854) (Episode 190/376)

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Déjà vu:
cabin windows; secondly, a basket of provisions, water and brandy,
stands packed on the transom, almost ready to slip into the boat by
itself; next, your boy is in the neighborhood to help you with the
skiff; and, finally, it is pitch dark, perfectly calm, and there isn't
a sentry to be seen aft the cabin door. Now, good night, my clever
fighter, and let me never have the happiness of seeing your face
again!"
. . .

As he said this, he rose, shaking my hand with the hearty grasp of a
sailor, and, as he passed my servant, slipped something into his
pocket, which proved to be a couple of sovereigns. Meanwhile, the
steward appeared with blankets, which he spread on the locker; and,
blowing out the lamp, went on deck with a "good night."

It was very still, and unusually dark. There was dead silence in the
corvette. Presently, I crawled softly to the stern window, and lying
flat on my stomach over the transom, peered out into night. There,
in reality, was my boat towing astern by a slack line! As I gazed,
some one on deck above me drew in the rope with softest motion,
until the skiff lay close under the windows. Patiently, slowly,
cautiously,--fearing the sound of his fall, and dreading almost the
rush of my breath in the profound silence,--I lowered my boy into
the boat. The basket followed. The negro fastened the boat-hook to
the cabin window, and on this, lame as I was, I followed the
basket. Fortunately, not a plash, a crack, or a footfall disturbed
the silence. I looked aloft, and no one was visible on the
quarter-deck. A slight jerk brought the boat-rope softly into the
water, and I drifted away into the darkness.