This order was soon carried out; when, with our sticks braced round to the brisk breeze, which had shifted to the westward since the thunder-storm, we were soon bowling down before it, our sails bellied out to their utmost in the direction indicated by the lookout-man in the foretop, who was now aided by the eyes of half a dozen midshipmen or more, all eagerly scanning the horizon ahead with all sorts of telescopes and binoculars.
“Lookout-man!” hailed the commodore after a bit, “how does the boat bear now?”
“Dead on the weather bow, sir,” returned the man the next instant. “We’re about a couple o’ mile off her, sir.”
The commodore then addressed the quarter-master aft.
“Luff up!” he cried—“half a point will do; and, Mr Osborne, take a pull at your lee braces. That will do—steady!”
The ship having good way upon her, we soon overhauled the drifting boat, which we could make out presently quite clearly from the deck.
Nearer and nearer we approached it, until we could look down right into it and see a number of figures, all of whom, however, were motionless.
“Begorrah!” cried Mick, who stood near me in the fore-chains, ready with a rope to chuck down into the little craft as we surged alongside it, as indeed were several others also, like prepared, forwards; “they’ve bin havin’ a divvle ov a row, or foightin’, or somethin’, sure; fur Tom, look thare, me bhoy—can’t ye say some soords or a pair of cutlashes or somethin’ like ’em oonder the afther-thwart theer?”