“The Molly Swash, of New York, Stephen Spike, master.”
“Where from, and whither bound?”
“From New York, and bound to Key West and a market.”
A pause succeeded this answer, during which the officers on the poop of the cruiser held some discourse with him of the trumpet. During the interval the cruiser ranged fairly up abeam.
“You are well to windward of your port, sir,” observed he of the trumpet significantly.
“I know it; but it's war times, and I didn't know but there might be piccaroons hovering about the Havanna.”
“The coast is clear, and our cruisers will keep it so. I see you have a battery, sir!”
“Ay, ay; some old guns that I've had aboard these ten years: they're useful, sometimes, in these seas.”
“Very true. I'll range ahead of you, and as soon as you've room, I'll thank you to heave-to. I wish to send a boat on board you.”
Spike was sullen enough on receiving this order, but there was no help for it. He was now in the jaws of the lion, and his wisest course was to submit to the penalties of his position with the best grace he could. The necessary orders were consequently given, and the brig no sooner got room than she came by the wind and backed her topsail. The cruiser went about, and passing to windward, backed her main-topsail just forward of the Swash's beam. Then the latter lowered a boat, and sent it, with a lieutenant and a midshipman in its stern-sheets, on board the brigantine. As the cutter approached, Spike went to the gangway to receive the strangers.