There seems to be a strange fatality among ships as well as among men. In the height of success is the period of gravest fear of the unexpected to occur.
The prize crew on the General Monk were busy setting up and splicing rigging and fishing the spars as the prisoners were put below when daylight stole upon the scene. The sound of the guns had borne down on the other ship of the blockade. The crew of the Holker were tricing up stays and shrouds in order to keep the Holker’s sticks from rolling out of her, when about four miles, dead astern, loomed up a heavy frigate under a cloud of canvas, making for the scene of action.
Captain Risk had to be served now by his wits rather than by his guns, for, if he took to his heels, the prize would be left to the mercy of the frigate.
Risk mounted his shrouds, trumpet in hand, and signalled his prize to run before him on a course opposite to the Holker’s while he ordered deliberately, in notes clear and strong:
“Ready, about!
“Mainsail haul!
“Raise tacks and sheets!
“Helm’s a-lee!
“’Vast bracing!”
The doughty little captain brought his ship over on the starboard tack, and stood into the wind to draw off the stranger and try his speed.