“Let her see our colours, Mr Saltwell. It may induce her to show hers in return.”
The British ensign flew out to the breeze at the peak of the Ione; but, for some time, no attention was paid to it by the stranger—perhaps, it might not have been observed—at all events, no answer was made.
“Ah, the rascal is ashamed of his nation, or is puzzled to know what bunting to show us,” said the master. “No, by Jove; there flies the new flag of independence, and a pennant to boot. He wishes to make us suppose he is a Greek man-of-war.”
“He may try to do so, but he will not deceive us,” said Linton. “There’s a most piratical cut about the fellow, which is enough to condemn him anywhere.”
“We shall soon get her within range of our long guns, and we shall then see what she is made of,” observed Saltwell, eyeing her. “Shall we get the gun ready, sir?” he asked of Captain Fleetwood.
“You may, Mr Saltwell; but as long as she does not show any intention of avoiding us, on no account fire,” was the answer.
“He seems in no hurry to move, at all events,” observed the first lieutenant. He had scarcely spoken, however, before the breeze which the Ione had brought up with her reached the stranger, and, as if to make amends for her former inactivity, the heavy folds of the foresail were let fall, the royals were sent aloft, her head fell off from the wind, studdensail after studdensail was set, and away she flew, before the freshening breeze, like a sea-fowl darting from its slumber on the wave, at a rate which those on board the British ship felt it would take their utmost speed to compete with.
“Up with the helm—square away the yards, Mr Saltwell,” exclaimed Captain Fleetwood, as soon as he saw what she was about to do.
“Ay, ay, sir. All hands make sail,” cried Saltwell.
“All hands make sail,” was echoed along the decks.