We were going too slow to tell just what the vessel might be before dark. Her royals were showing white on the clear blue line, and the sun went down before even her topsails rose above the horizon. The white of her cloth, however, gave us some hope, for Americans used white canvas, and the brig could not be very far ahead of us, and undoubtedly bound on the same course.
It was calm all night, but somehow the barque slid along, and by daylight the fellow ahead could be made out plainly not over three miles distant. It was the brig, and the long skipper was evidently not much disturbed at our approach, for he took in his after stunsails and wallowed along slowly over the smooth swell.
We were through breakfast before we knew anything of Howard’s plans, although there had been much speculation among the men forward, some, who had suffered in the fracas the evening before, being especially anxious to try conclusions with the men who had inadvertently dropped the chest and themselves on top of them and their goat meat in the small boat.
Gus, a stout Swede, and Pat, a heavy-built little Irishman, showed bandaged arms which they wished avenged, and Jennings, a Dutchman, who was a good sailor, poked his swathed head over the rail and swore an unintelligible oath at the Yankee. Hawkson stood upon the poop and watched the brig steadily, until Hicks and Howard came from below.
“Will he fight?” asked Hicks, coming to the old mate’s side.
“Did you ever see a Yankee sailor that wouldn’t?” said Hawkson. “No fear! You’ll see all the fighting you want, if we come in range,--an’ we’re mighty near that now.”
“We’ll take him before eight bells,” said Howard, without interest, as though it were a thing he did every day. “Get the small arms ready, and stand by.”
We were nearing the brig, although only going about three knots an hour, and when within about a mile of her, a puff of white flew from her starboard quarter, and in a few moments later a six-pound shot landed with a loud bang against our side, and smashed through into the ’tween-decks, drowning the faint boom of the gun with its slamming around below.
“He, he, he!” laughed Howard, his ugly mouth showing barely a trace of amusement. “He means fight without any talk. That’s plain enough. Suppose you pop him one or two, just to try the range.”
Hawkson stepped down on the main-deck and went to a forward gun.