The lad comprehended so well that he was frightened half out of his wits, and went round the deck, taking an extra pull here, easing off half an inch of sheet there, shifting the water-casks, and, in short, doing all he knew to increase the speed of the cutter, glancing anxiously astern at the guarda-costa in the intervals, and from her to his dreaded shipmate.
Of course I am aware that I ought to have interfered and put a stop to this terrorism on the part of the hot-blooded Corsican, and I should have done so, had there appeared any probability of his executing his sanguinary threats; but I had already seen enough of him to believe that his bark was a great deal worse than his bite, and so, as the prisoner had evidently got us into what might prove a very awkward scrape, I was willing that he should not be allowed to go altogether unpunished.
It was even as Giaccomo had foreseen. We were scarcely a mile from the guarda-costa when we saw her canvas drooping in heavy festoons from her long tapering yards, and by the time that we had increased our distance to a couple of miles her anchor was a-trip, and she was sweeping round on her way out after us.
I called my aide aft and asked him whether he knew the craft.
“Too well, signor,” he replied. “It has been my lot to be chased by her often, and many an anxious moment has she caused me. She has the name of being the fastest sailer inside the Gut, and she is the terror of every honest smuggler round the coast here.”
“Ho, ho!” said I. “So that is how the land lies, is it, master Giaccomo? You have been a bit of a smuggler in your time, eh?”
“Yes,” he frankly returned, “and not so very long ago either. And I should have been taken to a certainty, had not a shot from one of your cruisers turned yonder inquisitive gentleman back.”
“Let us hope we may meet with a similar slice of luck this time,” said I. “Do you think we stand any chance of getting away from her?”
“Everything depends on the weather,” was the reply. “In light winds, such as this, I have never seen anything to approach this cutter for speed; but should it come on to blow, the ‘Vigilant’ will run us under water.”
This was a singularly agreeable piece of information to receive just at that moment, for the sky had gradually become flecked with fast-flying patches of scud, and a dark threatening bank of cloud was working up to windward. So far, however, the breeze remained light, and while we were gliding through the water at the rate of something like five knots, with scarcely a ripple under our bows to indicate the fact, the guarda-costa appeared to have little beyond bare steerage-way.