“What is that?” suddenly exclaimed Greaves, who had been standing at my side looking at the schooner.
I pointed the glass.
“A boat, sir,” said I. “A minute—I shall be able to count her oars. Five of a side. She is a big boat and full of men.”
He took the telescope from me and leveled it in silence.
“She is a privateersman,” said he. “There’s nothing of the man-o’-war in the rise and fall of those blades; and if yonder oarsmen are not foreigners, my name is Bartholomew Tulp. Fielding, those scoundrels must not arrest this voyage, by Isten! There is nothing for them to plunder. They will cut our throats and fire the brig. Oh, blow, my sweet breeze! What sort of a gunner are you?”
“A bad gunner,” I answered.
“I’ll try ’em myself. I’ll try ’em with the first shot!” he cried, with his face full of blood and his eyes on fire. “There will be time to load and slap thrice at them before they’re alongside, and then——” He turned, and shouted orders to the men to arm themselves to repel boarders and to prepare for a bloody resistance. “Every man of ye will have to fight as though you were three!” he roared. “You will know what to expect if you let those beauties board you. Yan Bol——” and he shouted twenty further instructions, which left the men armed to the teeth, ready to leap to the first syllable of order that should be rendered necessary by the movements of the boat.
But at this moment I caught sight of a dim blue line on the white edge of the sea in the north. It was a breeze of wind, something more than a catspaw. The color was sweet and deep, and it spread fast; yet not so fast but that it was odds if the boat were not alongside before our sails should have felt the first of the wind.
Greaves sighted the long brass stern-piece, lovingly smote it, and then directed it on its pivot as though it were a telescope.
“Stand by to load again, men!” he cried to a couple of sailors who were at hand, and applied the match.