“A brig, sir,” was the answer.
“Is she like the Supplejack?” he inquired.
“Can’t say, sir. She is anyhow running to the westward, and the Supplejack would be steering to the south.”
“You are right. Call the commander,” said Adair to Desmond. The youngster had rejoined the ship at Georgetown. He himself then went aloft with his glass, to have a look at the stranger. By the time he came down Murray was on deck.
“She is certainly not the Supplejack, and, as she is running in for some Brazilian port far to the northward of Rio, she may possibly be a slaver.”
“We will overhaul her, at all events,” said Murray, and the corvette, bearing up in chase, made all sail she could set.
The stranger did not at first discover that she was pursued, and by the time that she did so the corvette had gained considerably on her. She was then seen to be a large brigantine, and by her square yards and white canvas, lighted up by the rays of the sun, Murray was more than ever convinced that she was a slaver.
The chase had set all the sail she could carry, and still kept well ahead of the corvette. The weather, as the day advanced, gave signs of changing, dark clouds gathered in the sky, and squalls, not very strong at first, but sufficient to make the commander look with anxious eyes at his spars, swept across the ocean—the dark clouds as they rushed along changing the hitherto blue, laughing waves to a leaden hue. Still the corvette persevered. The crew were at their stations, ready to shorten sail the moment it became absolutely necessary. The eagerness of the chase to escape made it still more probable that she was a slaver. She was dead before the wind, carrying topgallant-sails and royals, and studding-sails on either side. A dark cloud passing over her threw her into shade; on it went, and once more the bright rays of the sun falling on her canvas brought her more clearly into view; another squall swept by, making the corvette’s studding-sail-booms crack and bend as if they were about to break away from the braces.
“Hold on, good sticks!” cried Murray, apostrophising them, “the toughest spars will win the day.”
The crew cast their eyes aloft, fully expecting to see them carried away, but they held on, and the trim corvette went dashing forward amid the dancing seas, which rose up, foam-crested, on either side.