Again the topsails were hoisted and top-gallant sheets home. It was a strong breeze, although the water was smooth, and the Aurora dashed through at the rate of eight miles an hour, with her weather leeches lifting.
“Didn’t I tell you so?” said Martin to his mess-mates on the gangway; “but there’s more yet, my boys.”
“We must take the top-gallant sails off her,” said Captain Wilson, looking aloft—for the frigate now careened to her bearings, and the wind was increasing and squally. “Try them a little longer;” but another squall came suddenly—the halyards were lowered, and the sails clewed up and furled.
In the meantime the frigate had rapidly gained upon the vessels, which still carried on every stitch of canvas, making short tacks in-shore. The Aurora was again put about with her head towards them, and they were not two points on her weather bow. The sky, which had been clear in the morning, was now overcast, the sun was obscured with opaque white clouds, and the sea was rising fast. Another ten minutes, and then they were under double-reefed topsails, and the squalls were accompanied with heavy rain. The frigate now dashed through the waves, foaming in her course and straining under the press of sail. The horizon was so thick that the vessels ahead were no longer to be seen.
“We shall have it, I expect,” said Captain Wilson.
“Didn’t I say so?” observed Martin to Gascoigne. “We take no prizes this day, depend upon it.”
“We must have another hand to the wheel, sir, if you please,” said the quarter-master, who was assisting the helmsman.
Mr Pottyfar, with his hands concealed as usual, stood by the capstern. “I fear, sir, we cannot carry the mainsail much longer.”
“No,” observed the chaplain, “I was thinking so.”
“Captain Wilson, if you please, we are very close in,” said the master: “don’t you think we had better go about?”