Bob looked at the craft. She was about a mile away, and by the course they were steering--almost at right angles--would come very near to them. There was something familiar in her appearance, and he looked at her intently, examining every sail and shroud. Then doubt became certainty, as his eye fell upon a small patch in one of the cloths of the topgallant sail.
It was the Antelope. One of the Spanish shot had passed through the topgallant sail and--as that was the only injury that sail had received--the bit had been cut out, and a fresh one put in, before she sailed again from Gibraltar. She was flying Spanish colours.
His heart beat fast. Would she overhaul them, or pass without taking notice of them--seeing that the polacre was a small one, and not likely to be a valuable prize?
The vessels approached each other quickly. The course the Antelope was taking would carry her some length or two behind the Spaniard. Bob hesitated whether to hail her, as she came along. If his hail was not heard he would, of course, be detected, and his plans entirely spoilt; and with the wind blowing straight across, and he in the bow, it would be by no means certain that his hail would be distinguished. Suddenly, to his delight, when the brig was within a hundred yards of the polacre he saw her head come up, while the crew began to haul upon the sheets.
An exclamation of surprise and alarm broke from the Spaniards as, in another minute, the Antelope was running parallel with them, a cable's length to windward. Then the portholes were opened, and eight guns run out. The Spanish flag was run down and the British hoisted to the peak; and a summons to strike their flag shouted to the Spaniards. As the latter carried only four small guns, resistance was out of the question. The Spanish flag was lowered and, in obedience to the gesticulations, rather than the words, of an officer on board the English brig, the halliards were thrown off, and the sails came down with a run.
The Spanish sailors were frantic with rage, swearing by all the saints in the calendar. Bob had moved, at once, across to Amy.
"Lie still, Amy. We are going to be captured by an English ship. It is the same privateer that I was in before. Don't make any sign, until they come on board. In the fury that these Spaniards are in, they might stick their knives into us, if they knew we were English."
The brig had been thrown up into the wind as soon as the polacre's sails had been lowered and, in three minutes, a boat came alongside. Then Joe Lockett, followed by half a dozen sailors armed with pistol and cutlass, scrambled on board.
"Now, follow me, Amy," and, descending the ladder, Bob made his way along the narrow gangway between the lines of cattle, and then mounted to the poop.
"Well, Joe, how are you?"