“A large sail standing into Balasore Roads!”
In a moment Surcouf had clapped his glass to his keen and searching eye.
“An East Indiaman,” said he. “And rich, I’ll warrant. Ready about and make after her. She’s too strong for us,—that I see—but we may outwit her.”
The vessel, in fact, was the Triton, with six-and-twenty guns and a strong crew. Surcouf had but nineteen men aboard, including the surgeon and himself, and a few Lascars,—natives. The odds were heavily against him, but his nerve was as adamant.
“My own boat has been a pilot-brig. Up with the pilot flag!” he cried.
As the little piece of bunting fluttered in the breeze, the Triton hove to, and waited for him, as unsuspecting as could be. Surcouf chuckled.
Nearer and nearer came his own vessel to the lolling Indiaman, and, as she rolled within hailing distance, the bold French sea-dog saw “beaucoup de monde”—a great crowd of people—upon the deck of the Englishman.
“My lads!” cried he, turning to his crew. “This Triton is very strong. We are only nineteen. Shall we try to take her by surprise and thus acquire both gain and glory? Or, do you prefer to rot in a beastly English prison-ship?”
“Death or victory!” cried the Frenchmen.
Surcouf smiled.