For an instant the captain did not reply. He seemed to measure carefully the rate of the other vessel’s speed against that of his own. The result apparently satisfied him, for he turned again with a smile.
“I’ve got half a mind to try a few passes with him,” he said, “and I would do it if it were not for the old adage about discretion. For an Irishman, sure I have a reputation for discreetness that must not be broken. And so,” he continued, “we’ll let well enough alone.”
It was evident to every one on board the Revenge that their vessel sailed faster and closer on the wind than did the brig. And though both were heading toward the white cliffs, it became apparent that if the wind held, the Revenge would not only cross the brig’s bows at a distance that was practically out of range of her broadside guns, but would also weather the point that was the southernmost cape on the English coast—Land’s End. By nightfall, if all went well, she should be past the entrance to the Irish Channel and in her new cruising grounds. But an unlooked-for occurrence put an end to all such hopes. Suddenly appearing around the point of land, carrying the wind from an entirely new direction, came a large three-masted vessel. At once the brig, that, although to leeward, was the nearer, began to set a little row of signal flags, and, as if noticing the shift of the wind, she came about, apparently abandoning the attempt to head off the Revenge. Instantly Conyngham divined her purpose, and came about also as quickly as he could. The breeze, which had been from the eastward, was rapidly dying down.
The big stranger, carrying the new wind, grew larger and larger. Through the glass Conyngham could make out three rows of ports, and the billowing canvas rising above the dark hull looked like a cloud hanging low in the sky. It was almost dead calm, and the Revenge swung lazily up and down, with her steering sails dipping uselessly in the water, while the brig, that had now caught the wind, bore down nearer and nearer. The men looked back at the quarter-deck with frightened, white faces. All the good fortune that had so far followed them in the cruise had apparently deserted them. They saw visions of their prize-money disappearing, and many of the knowing ones could imagine the crowded harbor of Portsmouth, with the big seventy-four lying at anchor, while black, faintly struggling objects depended from her yard-arms. The first mate and Conyngham had not exchanged a word, when suddenly the former, lifting his hand, broke the silence.
“She’s coming, captain; by tar, she’s coming!” he cried.
The big foresail of the Revenge lifted and the sheets and outhauls of the steering-sails spattered a line of spray as they tautened up out of the water. But it seemed almost too late that the breeze had reached them. Broad off the starboard bow was the brig, but a mile and a half away, while little more than twice that distance, dead astern, came the seventy-four, a roll of seething white playing under her forefoot and sweeping out on either side. Down on the wind came the ominous rolling of a drum.
“They’re beating to quarters, sir,” observed the mate; and then in almost semitragic despair he muttered, “and they’ve got us in their locker!”
But the Revenge was now slipping along swiftly, although she had not yet felt the full force of the following wind. The brig had set a little answering pennant to a new string of signals that had risen to the masthead of the seventy-four, and in obedience, although at extreme range, she began firing with her bow guns, the balls plashing harmlessly in the water a few hundred yards away, but each one appearing to come nearer than the last, and threatened to reach the Revenge at any moment. It looked black indeed for the little cruiser. Her actions had placed her, beyond doubt, in the minds of her pursuers as the vessel for whose capture a large reward had been offered. Subterfuge was useless. She had proclaimed herself as much as if she had flown the cross-barred flag with the wriggling rattlesnake that, bent to the color halyards, lay on deck ready to have risen and to have been tossed to the wind.
The feeling of terror that was spreading through the crew seemed to unnerve them. A French sailor, as a shot from the brig came closer than before, fell on his knees and began to call upon the saints. Something must be done, although it seemed that all human exertion would be futile, for even now the line-of-battle ship had opened up with her two forward guns, but, like her smaller consort, the shots fell harmlessly some distance off. Now the Revenge had caught the full force of the wind, and every sheet was taut as a bar of iron. The spray began to fly over her bows as she dipped and rose against the crest of the seas. For an instant it appeared as if she was holding her own, and it was so, as far as the brig was concerned; but the seventy-four was faster than her bulk would lead one to suspect. A shot came skipping along the water, jumping from wave to wave until it sank almost broad off the beam of the Revenge.
“We must try the last resort, Mr. Minott,” said Conyngham quietly; “we must lighten her.”