We had been in hopes that we might possibly reach Clawbonny before the
tidings of our loss. This intelligence was likely to defeat the
expectation; but, luckily, one of the fastest sloops on the river, a
Hudson packet, was on the point of sailing, and, though the wind held
well to the northward, her master thought he should be able to turn up
with the tides, as high as our creek, in the course of the next
eight-and-forty hours. This was quite as much as the Wallingford could
do, I felt well persuaded; and, making a bargain to be landed on the
western shore, Rupert and I put our things on board this packet, and
were under way in half an hour's time.
So strong was my own anxiety, I could not keep off the deck until we
had anchored on account of the flood; and much did I envy Rupert, who
had coolly turned in as soon as it was dark, and went to sleep. When
the anchor was down, I endeavoured to imitate his example. On turning
out next morning, I found the vessel in Newburgh Bay, with a fair
wind. About twelve o'clock I could see the mouth of the creek, and the
Wallingford fairly entering it, her sails disappearing behind the
trees, just as I caught sight of them. As no other craft of her size
ever went up to that landing, I could not be mistaken in the vessel.
By getting ashore half a mile above the creek, there was a farm-road
that would lead to the house by a cut so short, as nearly to bring us
there as soon as Neb could possibly arrive with his dire, but false
intelligence.
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