“Don’t hear nothing, sir,” said the gunner. “Yes, I do. It’s a ship of some kind, and not very far-off. I can hear the water under her bows.”
“Far-off?—no. Look!” cried Hilary, in a hoarse whisper. “Down with the helm! hard down!” he cried. “Hoist a light!”
But as he gave the orders he felt that they were in vain, for they had so well chosen their place to intercept the French vessel they hoped to meet, that it was coming, as it were, out of a bank of darkness not fifty yards away; and in another minute Hilary, as he saw the size and the cloud of sail, knew that the Kestrel would be either cut down to the water’s edge or sunk by the coming craft.
Chapter Thirty Six.
Without Lights.
In those moments of peril Hilary hardly knew how it all happened, but fortunately the men with him were men-of-war’s men, and accustomed to prompt obedience. The helm was put down hard as the strange vessel came swiftly on, seeming to the young officer like his fate, and in an instant his instinct of self-preservation suggested to him that he had better run forward, and, as the stranger struck the Kestrel, leap from the low bulwark and catch at one of the stays. His activity, he knew, would do the rest.
Then discipline set in and reminded him that he was in charge of the deck, and that his duty was to think of the safety of his men and the cutter—last of all, of himself.
The stranger showed no lights, a suspicious fact which Hilary afterwards recalled, and she came on as the cutter rapidly answered her helm, seeming at first as if she would go right over the little sloop of war, but when the collision came, so well had the Kestrel swerved aside, the stranger’s bowsprit went between jib and staysail, and struck the cutter just behind the figurehead.