‘We are overhauling her,’ said I.
‘Ay,’ he answered, keeping his eyes fixed upon her. ‘Doesn’t she seem a bit uncertain, though?’ he muttered, as if thinking aloud.
I had wonderfully good sight in those days, and after straining my eyes awhile against the heap of scarce determinable shadow which the craft made, I exclaimed: ‘She’ll be a French lugger, or I’m greatly mistaken.’
‘I believe you are right, sir,’ answered the mate.
He drew a little away from me, as a hint, perhaps, that he desired to address his attention to the vessel on the bow, and suddenly putting his hand to his mouth, he hailed the forecastle in a sharp clear note. An answer was returned swift as the tone of a bell to the blow of its tongue.
‘Show a light forward! Smartly now! That chap ahead seems asleep.’
There were no side-lights in those days. Some long years were to elapse before the Shipping Act enforced the use of a night signal more to the point than a short flourish of the binnacle lamp over the side. In a few moments a large globular lantern in the grip of a seaman, whose figure showed like a sketch in phosphorus to the illumination of the flame, was rested upon the forecastle rail, with the night beyond him looking the blacker for the rising and falling point of fire. The hint seemed to be taken by the fellow ahead, and the mate walked aft to the binnacle, into which he stood looking, afterwards going to the rail, at which he lingered, staring forwards.
I crossed over to leeward to watch the milk-like race of waters along the side. The foam made a sort of twilight of its own in the air. Under the foot of the mainsail that was arched transversely across the deck, the wind stormed with a note of hurricane out of the huge concavity of the cloths, and made the rushing snow giddy with the whipping of it, till the eye reeled again to the sight of the yeasty boiling. Never did any ship raise such a smother about her as the Countess Ida. Our speed was scarce a full five miles, and yet, looking over to leeward, when the huge fabric came heeling down to her channels to the scud of a sea and to the weight of the wind in her canvas, you would have supposed her thundering through it a whole ten knots at least.
On a sudden there was a loud and fearful cry forward. ‘Port your hellum! port your hellum!’ I could hear a voice roaring out with a meaning as of life or death in the startling vehemence of the utterance.
‘Starboard! starboard!’ shouted Mr. Prance, who was still standing aft: ‘over with it, men, for God’s sake, before we’re into her!’