At break of day we could gather some true facts of the state of affairs. Under the guns of Port Royal lay a small armed merchant vessel, the _Whitby_, of ten guns, sadly shattered about the hull. In the offing were five ships that many recognized as belonging to one Lewis, a renegade king’s officer, who, attracted by the glamour of easily acquired wealth, had seduced his crew from their allegiance and turned buccaneer. Joined by several others of like nature, Lewis had collected a squadron of seven swift vessels; but the _Assurance_ had captured two of the ships, and Lewis, with four of his fellow rogues, formed the party of captives whose fate now hung in the balance as they lay in irons in the castle. The _Gazelle_, a consort of the _Whitby_, had been captured and sunk by the buccaneers that night; but after a long running fight the latter ship had managed to make Port Royal in the darkness, this being the cause of the firing we had heard. Captain Poynings lost no time in preparing to float the _Gannet_ out of her mud dock, though it was evident from his puckered brows that he had doubts as to whether the increased weight on board would prevent the ship from coming off. Nevertheless he could not have completed the task of fitting out so hurriedly if every piece of ordnance had to be brought off to the ship in barges or lighters after she was afloat, so he resorted to the hazardous expedient of careening her still more. Our best bower anchor, with its great twenty-inch hempen cable, was carried out towards the centre of the harbour, the tail of the cable remaining on board. All the guns were run over to the larboard side, so that the _Gannet’s_ lower-deck ports were within a few inches of the surface of the water, her draught being thereby lessened. Two additional cables were carried from the quarters to opposite sides of the creek, where gangs of negroes were directed to pull their hardest. It was an anxious time. The capstan clanked slowly round as the main cable tautened and came in foot by foot; the negroes, the sweat glistening on their ebony arms and backs, bent to their task, encouraged or goaded by the shouts of their overseers. Slowly the _Gannet_ moved towards the open water and freedom, her keel ploughing through the liquid mud and causing a regular turmoil of yellow foam within the little dock. Gradually she gathered way till her bow projected beyond the entrance to the creek, then, as if gripped by a powerful hand, she brought up and stopped immovable. The master, wild with rage, called upon the seaman to take soundings, and, this being done, it was found that the _Gannet_ was held by the heel, the forepart being well afloat. "Give the men breathing space, Master Widdicombe," said the captain, as he saw the panting forms of his men. "Another effort and we are free."