The red man was standing within a few feet of them, and he answered as if he had been spoken to.
"Ugh!" he said. "Ole chief want to know 'bout he island. Want see Manhattan. Mebbe all lobster get away. Up-na-tan go see ole place. Fish in Harlem River."
That was what was the matter with him. Warrior he might be, sailor, pirate, or privateersman, but at that moment he was dreaming of the happiness of pulling in flounders and blackfish from the waters around his island.
Guert, on his part, was thinking of his mother. He wondered if she still were living at the Avery farm-house, and if his prize-money had been duly paid over to her to make her comfortable.
"Now, every man hark!" said Captain Avery to his crew, when, a little later, he had gathered them amidships. "We've a close race to run. If this wind holds, we shall be in the Straits of Dover at about daylight to-morrow morning. We are goin' to risk it and cut our way through. Three cheers for home!"
Vigorous, indeed, were the hurrahs that answered him, and on sped the schooner. Her sails that were torn by the shot of the Arran were being replaced by new ones, and skilful sail tailors were busy with the rents of the old. The damage to her bulwarks was of no importance and not a shot had penetrated her sides. The American sailors were in fine spirits, but not so were Lieutenant Tracy and the crew of the Arran. Hardly two hours went by before his hoped-for succor came, but he wished it had been a merchantman rather than a man-of-war. The sound of the cannonading had been borne by the wind to the line-of-battle ship. She had sailed toward it, as a matter of course, and here, now, was one of the boats at the Arran's side. On her deck was the seventy-four's first lieutenant, so hot with wrath that he could hardly listen to poor Tracy's report, while he himself rapidly inspected the damages done by Up-na-tan's well-sent iron.
"Help yourself?" he exclaimed. "Why, they made a log of your brig! What's the world coming to? They're prime gunners, my boy. We must make out to sink that rascal. I don't know exactly what to do with your craft."
He did know, nevertheless. Temporary steering-gear was fitting on her as rapidly as might be, and the pumps were going, for the Arran was leaking badly at the stern.
"Tracy, my boy," said the lieutenant, "get her into any port the wind'll help you to. We're away after that saucy privateer."
So surely and so powerfully would the fugitive be followed, not to speak of any perils which might be hovering around the pathway before her. The commander of the line-of-battle ship knew something concerning at least a part of these. He listened to the report of his first officer, on his return, angrily yet coolly, and he replied:—