Then the weather main-brace was hauled taut and the heavy yard swung round, the Silver Queen coming up to the wind with a sort of shiver, as if she did not like turning back and retracing her course.
However, so “Old Jock” willed it, and she must!
“Brace round your head yards!” he now sung out; and the foretack was boarded while the main-sheet was hauled aft, we on the poop swinging the cross-jack yard at the same time, the captain then calling out to the helmsman sharply, “Luff, you beggar, luff, can’t ye!”
And now, hauled up as close as we could be, the ship headed towards the strangers; steering back in the direction of Banca again as near to windward as she could forereach.
It was “like trying to catch a weasel asleep and shave his whiskers,” however, to use Tom Jerrold’s words; for the moment the proa and her consort observed our manoeuvre and saw that we were making for them, round they went too like tops, and sailing right up in the wind’s eye, all idea of pursuit on our part was put entirely out of question within the short space of five minutes or so—the Malay craft showing that they had the power when they chose to exercise it of going two knots to our one.
“Begorra, I’d loike to have a slap at ’em with a long thirty-two, or aven a blissid noine-pounder Armstrong,” cried Tim Rooney, as vexed as “Old Jock” was at the result of this testing of the Silver Queen with her lighter heeled rivals to windward. “I’d soon knock ’em into shavin’s, by the howly poker, I wud!”
“It’s no good, as you said,” sniffed out the captain, with a sigh to Mr Mackay, evidently cordially echoing the boatswain’s wish, which he must have heard as well as I did, for he stood just to leeward of him. “Ready about again, stand by, men!”
And then, our previous movement was repeated and the ship brought round once more on the port tack, heading for Pulo Sapata to the northwards—the name of this place, I may say, is derived from two Malay words, the one pulo meaning “island” and the other sapatu “shoe,” and the entire compound word, consequently, “Shoe Island,” or the island of the shape of one.
We did not see anything more of the suspicious craft that day; so we all believed that our feint of overhauling them had effectually scared them away, Tom Jerrold and I especially being impressed with this idea, attaching a good deal of importance to the talk we had overheard between Rooney and Adams, Tom being in his bunk close by the boatswain’s cabin at the time when I was outside listening to the two old tars as they confabbed together.
Weeks, though, was of a contrary opinion, and Master Sammy could be very dogged if he pleased on any point.