“Captain of the Meta, we are going to send our lieutenant aboard you!”
“What is that?” shouted Poole. “We are under the protection of the United States flag. I warn you not to trouble us!”
A jeering laugh came back.
“Lower your gangway,” was the reply.
Then a boat slid down from the Santa Maria’s davits and six men entered it. One in the uniform of a lieutenant entered and stood in the bow.
Another boat followed this, with a dozen armed marines. Matters began to look serious.
The wrath and alarm felt by Poole was of the most intense description. He was utterly powerless, though.
How he would have liked to turn his gun upon the oncoming boats and sink them! But he did not dare to do this.
He stood savagely by the gangway, therefore, as they came on. The first boat touched the Meta’s side, and the natty Spanish lieutenant sprung upon deck.
“Buenas, Senor Capitan,” he said, touching his gold-laced cap, with much politeness. “I am Carriero, lieutenant of His Majesty’s navy. I salute you in the name of the king of Spain.”