At a word from the Captain the man who had been heaving the lead came aft to the ship’s bell and struck ten quick strokes. He waited and repeated the warning, but no one answered. They were alone in these shallow channels. Fortunately the man faced forward, as sailors always do by instinct, turning his back upon the Captain and Barebone.
The painter was cast off now and, under his elbow, Barebone was slowly hauling in. The dinghy was heavy and the “Petite Jeanne” was moving quickly through the water. Suddenly Barebone rose to his feet, hauled in hand over hand, and when the dinghy was near enough, leaped across two yards of water to her gunwale.
The Captain heard the thud of his feet on the thwart, and looking back over his shoulder saw and understood in a flash of thought. But even then he did not understand that Loo was aught else but a landsman half-recovered from sea-sickness. He understood it a minute later, however, when the brown sail ran up the mast and, holding the tiller between his knees, Barebone hauled in the sheet hand over hand and steered a course out to sea.
He looked back over the foot of the sail and waved his hand. “Sans rancune!” he shouted. “C’est entendu!” The Captain’s own words.
The “Petite Jeanne” was already round to the wind, and the Captain was bellowing to his crew to trim the sails. It could scarcely be a chase, for the huge deep-sea fishing-boat could sail half as fast again as her own dinghy. The Captain gave his instructions with all the quickness of his race, and the men were not slow to carry them out. The safe-keeping of the prisoner had been made of personal advantage to each member of the crew.
The Captain hailed Barebone with winged words which need not be set down here, and explained to him the impossibility of escape.
“How can you—a landsman,” he shouted, “hope to get away from us? Come back and it shall be as you say ‘sans rancune.’ Name of God! I bear you no ill-will for making the attempt.”
They were so close together that all on board the “Petite Jeanne” could see Barebone laugh and shake his head. He knew that there was no gun on board the fishing-boat. The lugger rushed on, sailing quicker, lying up closer to the wind. She was within twenty yards of the little boat now—would overhaul her in a minute.
But in an instant Barebone was round on the other tack, and the Captain swore aloud, for he knew now that he was not dealing with a landsman. The “Petite Jeanne” spun round almost as quickly, but not quite. Every time that Barebone put about, the “Petite Jeanne” must perforce do the same, and every time she lost a little in the manoeuvre. On a long tack or running before the wind the bigger boat was immeasurably superior. Barebone had but one chance—to make short tacks—and he knew it. The Captain knew it also, and no landsman would have possessed the knowledge. He was trying to run the boat down now.
Barebone might succeed in getting far enough away to be lost in the fog. But in tacking so frequently he was liable to make a mistake. The bigger boat was not so likely to miss stays. He passed so close to her that he could read the figures cut on her stern-post indicating her draught of water.