“That’s near enough for the present,” said the American commander, but Captain Kemp exclaimed, in astonishment:
“They are firing on the British flag, are they? Then there is something up that we don’t know anything about. We must get away at all risks.”
They were not doing so just now, although another change of course and a strong puff of the gale carried the Goshawk further out of range. The fact was that her pursuer did not feel quite ready to land shot on board of her, believing that he was doing well enough and that his prize would surely be taken sooner or later. Besides, if she were, indeed, to become a prize, no sound-minded sea-captain could be willing to shoot away her selling value or that of her cargo.
Noon came, and there did not appear to be any important change in the relative positions of the two ships. At times, indeed, the Goshawk had gained a quarter-mile or so, but only to lose it again, as is apt to be the case in ocean races. She was not at all tired, however, and both of the contestants had all the wind they needed.
Two hours more went slowly by, and Captain Kemp began to exhibit signs of uneasiness at the unexpected persistence with which he was followed.
“What on earth can be the matter?” he remarked, aloud. “I’d have thought she’d get tired of it before this—”
“Captain!” sharply interrupted Zuroaga, standing at his elbow, glass in hand. “Another sail! Off there, southerly. Seems to be a full-rigged ship. What are we to do now?”
“Keep on!” roared the captain, and then he turned to respond to a similar piece of unpleasant information which came down from the lookout.
“We’ll soon know what she is,” he remarked, but not as if he very much wished to do so. “What I’d like to do would be to sail on into the darkest kind of a rainy night. That’s our chance, if we can get it.”
It might be, but at that very moment the commander of the Portsmouth was asserting to his first lieutenant: