The chase sailed well, and though the frigate gained on her it was not at a rate to satisfy Morton’s impatience. It was getting dusk as they drew near; his glass had scarcely ever been off the chase.
“That must be the ‘Osterley;’ and yet it is strange,” he exclaimed. “What can have happened to her?”
The frigate at length ranged up alongside. By this time it was dark; lights were seen glimmering through her ports. Captain Calder hailed. “Wa, wa, wa,” was the only answer he received.
“She must be in the hands of an enemy,” he said.
Morton’s heart sank within him.
“Heave-to, or we fire!” cried the captain.
In a little time the creaking of blocks was heard, and the Indiaman’s courses being hauled up, she slowly came to the wind. The frigate hove-to to windward of her, a boat was lowered and manned, and Morton leaped into her, followed by Glover.
“Give way, lads!” shouted the lieutenant, eagerly.
She was soon alongside; her officers and their followers scrambled on board: little help was afforded them to do so; on the contrary, the expression of the countenances which looked down on them, seen by the glare of the lanterns, showed that if not backed by the guns of the frigate, they would have been received at the points of boarding-pikes and with the muzzles of pistols presented at their heads. The determined looks of the sturdy man-of-war’s men made the crew of the Indiaman hold back. Directly Ronald stepped on board he glanced his eye anxiously around; he had no longer any doubt that she was the “Osterley,” but with not a face that met his gaze was he acquainted.
A rough piratical-looking man, in a naval uniform, stepped forward, sword in hand, and presenting the hilt with an air which none but a Frenchman could assume, said—