The Swift rounded into Funchal Bay, and anchored in the calm waters, under the guns of a picturesque fort covered with green. The fires were raked out, and the long craft, weather-beaten and streaked with rust stains, was at rest—an object, however, of suspicion to the peaceful merchant-ships. A tug from the shore shot out, encircled the catcher, and returned in haste.
“That doesn’t look friendly,” said Lieutenant Webster.
“They’ve had notice to look out for us,” was the Captain’s comment. “It’s what I feared; but so long as they give us coal they may do what they like.”
“There’s a boat putting off, sir—probably to warn us off.”
“Well, we can’t go without coal, and if they won’t give it we’ll take it.”
“Yes,” said Webster, looking reflectively at the fort.
The boat approached within a ship’s length, and a fat man in uniform, who held the tiller, took a long look at the Swift, then made a signal, and was rowed back again.
The fat man was met by a number of men in uniform, and after much gesticulation the whole party entered a larger boat, flying the Portuguese flag at the peak and stern, and with an awning aft.
This time they came alongside, mounted the steps, and stood twirling their black moustaches, while their dark eyes roamed over the long deck.
“Have I the pleasure of speaking to the Captain?” said the stout man, looking at a group of three.