The weather continuing on the mend, the commodore gave orders to the officer of the watch, soon after dinner, to shape a course for Madeira, that being the appointed rendezvous of the squadron in the event of their parting company at any time in this first part of our cruise; for we had seen nothing of any of them since the beginning of the gale, the little Ruby being the last we had sighted shortly before our being forced to lie-to.
During the afternoon, however, the horizon clearing to the nor’ard and a gleam of sunshine lighting up the sea, a distant sail was seen hull down on our lee quarter.
“Signalman,” hailed the officer of the watch, “what do you make her out to be?”
“Can’t say yet, sir,” replied the man, with the glass screwed to his eye, squinting to leeward. “She’s too fur off, sir.”
After a short pause the officer repeated his question.
“Make her out yet, Jones?”
“No, sir,” replied the signalman; “but she’s rising now, sir, an’ I thinks she’s closing us.”
“Ay.”
Another short interval elapsed; and then, being down in the waist, right under the break of the poop, the quarter-master having set me to work flemishing down the slack ends of some of the sheets that he did not think were tidily arranged, I heard the signalman mumble some exclamation or other which he could not get out properly from his excitement.
“What is it, you say?” said the officer of the watch, who had gone to the binnacle to look at the compass and did not quite catch what the man said. “Speak distinctly, my man. I can’t hear you!”