At length we saw a light wind was playing across the stream, and our sails were rigged out. It came right aft. Away we flew, the canvas of the Spaniard filling at the same time. On and on we sped, but the Spaniard seemed to move through the water fully as fast. Kallolo now told us how, after having had a successful hunt, he and his companions were returning on the previous evening, expecting to get on board before nightfall, when they found themselves on the opposite side of the bay. Suddenly a party of white men, whom they took to be hunters, sprang out on them and made them prisoners. The strangers had seen the Good Hope, and had managed to draw from them the information that those on board were English and Dutch. On hearing this, their captors had despatched two of their party up the river, where a Spanish guardacosta lay at anchor. They pretended to be very indifferent as to what had happened; and the Spaniards, who in reality belonged to the vessel, were thrown off their guard. During the night Kallolo and his companions managed to make their escape, and finding no canoe in which to cross the bay, had hastened round by the shore to warn us of our danger. It was now clear that the Spanish vessel was following us with hostile intentions, and that should she overtake us we might suffer the fate we apprehended.
But “a stern chase is a long chase,” and the Good Hope proved herself a fast little craft. As she drew but a few feet of water, we were able to keep a straight course, whereas the larger vessel had to deviate from hers several times; thus by nightfall we had drawn considerably ahead.
On the previous night we had slept but little; this night not one of us closed our eyes. We could just see the lofty sails of the Spaniard gliding after us like some ferocious giant eager for our destruction. The wind increased, and she was evidently making more rapid way. On and on she came. Presently the loud sound of a piece of ordnance boomed through the night air, and the shot splashed into the water close astern of us.
“A miss is as good as a mile,” said the skipper, who was at the helm, in his usual quiet tone. “We will not give in, though a dozen such popguns as she carries should be fired at us.”
Another shot came whistling past our quarter, and dropped alongside; a third came, and that fell astern.
“We passed over some shallow water just now,” said Peter, who was sounding with a pole.
“Ah, and the Spaniard too has found out that the water is shallow. See! see! she’s on shore!” exclaimed the skipper.
As we looked astern we saw that the vessel chasing us had let all her sails fly. On we glided. She grew fainter and fainter, till we could barely distinguish her outline. We all began to breathe more freely. In less than half an hour we could no longer discern her. We stood on, and when the sun rose right ahead no sail was in sight.
The weather continued fine, and in a few days the Good Hope was rising buoyantly on the ocean wave, her head directed to the southward.
Stabroek was soon reached, and our brave skipper, who was well-known there, introduced us to his friends, to whom he recounted our adventures, and secured us a warm reception.