entrance, and from the gun-boat's deck they were peeping down on us,
grinning and yelling the same as everybody else, waiting to see us pile
up on the rocks somewhere.

But no rocks for the _Aurora_ that Christmas Day. She knew what we
wanted of her. There's a spindle beacon in Saint Pierre harbor,
white-painted slats on a white-painted rock sticking out of the water,
and there was a French packet lying to the other side. We had to go
between. I knew they were betting a hundred to one we'd hit one or the
other.

We weathered the packet and squeezed by the beacon. The end of our long
bowsprit did hit the white-painted slats, gave 'em a good healthy
wallop, but that wasn't any surprise--we figured on going close. We were
by and safe, and looking back from the wheel to mark her wake swashing
over the very rock itself, I had to whisper _to_ her:

"_Aurora_, girl, you're all I ever said you were." But if you'd seen
her, the big spars of her, the set of her rigging, the fine-fitting
sails, the beautiful line of the rail, and the straight flat deck, you'd
have to admit it wasn't any surprise. You couldn't 've done it with
every vessel--but the _Aurora!_ A great bit of wood, the _Aurora!_

And looking past her wake, I picked out Miller's motor boat along inside
the French gun-boat. But no gun-boat was worrying me then. They might
chase me, but the gun-boat wasn't afloat that could 've chased and
caught the _Aurora_ in that gale. A man didn't need to be a French
captain to know that.

But for fear they might chase us, I kept her going. And after we'd had