Till dawn the convicts urged the boat along through the fog, then they
ceased rowing and ate ravenously of the food in the boat's locker.
Lying upon the sail in the bottom, of the boat, Mrs. Clinton slept. The
night was warm, her wet clothing did her no harm, and her sleep was the
sleep of physical and mental exhaustion. As the rising sun sent its rays
through the now lifting fog, Adair touched the sleeping woman on her
shoulder.
She opened her eyes and looked wildly about her, then at the outline
of a little figure that lay beside her covered with a convict's coarse
jacket, and seizing it in her arms, looked at the five men with eyes of
such maddened terror, they thought her reason was gone.
But rough, unkempt and wild-looking as were Adair's four companions,
they treated her with the tenderest pity, and watched in silent sympathy
the bitter tide of grief that so quickly possessed her. As the sun rose
higher, the glassy water rippled here and there in dark patches, and the
men looked longingly at the sail on which she sat, holding the infant,
but hesitated to disturb her. Away to the westward the dim summits of a
range of mountains showed faintly blue, but of the _Breckenbridge_ there
was no sign, and a grey albatross sailing slowly overhead was their
only companion. Already Adair and the others had cast away their hated
convict garb, and clothed themselves in tattered garments given them by
some of the transport's crew.
Another hour passed, and then helping Mrs. Clinton to a seat in the
stern, they hoisted the mainsail and jib, and headed the boat for the
land, for the breeze was now blowing freshly.
What Adair's intentions were regarding Mrs. Clinton the others did not
ask. Theirs was unquestioning loyalty, and they were ready to follow him
now with the same blind and fateful devotion that had brought them with
him on board the _Breckenbridge_ in manacles.