At five p.m. the lookout reported a sail about two points on our weather-bow.
“What do you make her out to be?” demanded I.
“She looks large enough for a frigate,” replied the man; “but I shall have a better sight of her in a few minutes, sir; she is steering this way.”
“I say, Chester, suppose it’s a frigate from Gibraltar with despatches for the admiral; what will you do?” exclaimed young Smellie, as we stood together by the weather-bulwarks, hanging on to the main-rigging.
“There is only one thing that we can do, and that is, exchange despatches, and each return as quickly as possible to our respective starting-points. It will be a great bore if we are obliged to cut short our cruise; but our despatches are urgent, and our duty plainly is to forward them with all possible speed; and as this vessel, if she prove to be a frigate, will almost certainly be a much faster craft than ourselves, we shall be in duty bound to put our despatch-box on board of her.”
“How will you get them on board?” inquired my companion. “It would be a very ticklish business to launch a boat in this sea.”
“We must get near enough, if possible, to effect the exchange without the aid of a boat,” returned I. “With care on both sides I think it might be safely managed. What does the stranger look like by this time?” I continued to the lookout.
“Seems to me that he has a very Frenchified look about him, sir,” replied he.
“Phew! I hope not,” said I to Smellie. “Lend me your glass a moment, will you? Mine is down below. I think I’ll take a trip aloft and see what I can make out about him.”
I accordingly went aloft to the fore-yard, and sitting astride it, close to the parrals, took as good a look at the fast-approaching craft as the swaying of the yard and the lively motion of the little “Vigilant” would permit.