“A thumping brig; there’s no doubt about it,” said the master. “Observe the rakish cut of her sails; one can almost smell the niggers on board her.”
“She’s carrying on, too, as it she was in a hurry to get away from us,” I remarked.
“So she is,” said the captain, coming on deck. “But it strikes me that those slave-dealers generally send faster craft to sea than she appears to be. It’s only some of your wise governments who don’t care about the slavers being caught who send out slow-coaches, which are fit for nothing but carrying timber.”
“Then why should she be in such a hurry?” I observed.
“A sail right ahead!” sang out the man at the mast-head.
“Because she’s in chase of something else,” remarked the captain, laughing. “Hand me the glass. I thought so. What do you make out of that ensign which has just blown out at her peak?”
I took a look through the telescope.
“A Yankee brig, sir,” I exclaimed, in a tone of vexation. “I should not wonder but what she is an American man-of-war, after all.”
Well, though it must be owned that the Yankees can build fine and fast ships when they wish to do so, and want them to go along, I must say that the chase sailed as badly as any ship-of-war I ever met. We came up with her hand-over-hand, and we were soon sufficiently near to exchange signals, when we made out that she was the United States brig-of-war the Grampus, in chase of a suspicious-looking craft to the southward.
Exchanging a few courteous expressions with the American captain, who stood on the weather side of the poop eyeing us with a look of envy, we passed rapidly by him.