A Middy in Command | Page 7

fellows, who,
unarmed as they were, could have easily taken the ship from us and
heaved us all overboard.
The Dolores had been in our possession just forty-eight hours, and we
were off Cape Three Points, though so far to the southward that no land
was visible, when a sail was made out on our lee bow, close-hauled on
the larboard tack, heading to the southward, the course of the Dolores
at the time being about north-west by west. As we closed each other we

made out the stranger to be a brig, and our first impression was that she
was the Shark, which, having either captured or lost sight of the craft of
which she had been in chase, was now returning, either to her station or
to look for us and convoy us into Sierra Leone; and, under this
impression, we kept away a couple of points with the object of getting a
somewhat nearer view of her. By sunset we had raised her to half-way
down her courses, by which time I had come to the conclusion that she
was a stranger; but as Gowland, the master's mate, persisted in his
assertion that she was the Shark, we still held on as we were steering,
feeling persuaded that, if she were indeed that vessel, she would be
anxious to speak to us; while, if she should prove to be a stranger, no
great harm would be done beyond the loss of a few hours on our part.
The night fell overcast and very dark, and we lost sight of the stranger
altogether. Moreover the wind breezed up so strongly that we were
obliged to hand our royal and topgallant-sail and haul down our gaff-
topsail, main-topmast staysail, and flying-jib; the result of the
freshening breeze being that a very nasty sea soon got up and we
passed a most uncomfortable night, the schooner rolling heavily and
yawing wildly as the seas took her on her weather quarter. We saw no
more of the stranger that night, although some of us fancied that we
occasionally caught a glimpse of something looming very faint and
indefinite in the darkness away to windward.
Toward the end of the middle watch the weather rapidly improved, the
wind dropped, and the sea went down with it, although the sky
continued very overcast and the night intensely dark. By four bells in
the morning watch the wind had died away almost to a calm, and with
the first pallor of the coming dawn the clouds broke away, and there,
about a mile on our weather quarter--that is to say, dead to windward of
us-- lay the stranger of the preceding night, black and clean-cut as a
paper silhouette against the cold whiteness of the eastern sky, rolling
heavily, and with a number of hands aloft rigging out studding-sail
booms. The brig, which was most certainly not the Shark, was heading
directly for us, and I did not like the look of her at all, for she was as
big as the sloop, if not a trifle bigger, showed nine guns of a side, and
was obviously bent upon getting a nearer view of us. We lost no time in

getting our studding-sails aloft on the starboard side, bracing the yards
a trifle forward, and shaping a course that would give us a chance
ultimately to claw out to windward of our suspicious-looking
neighbour; but she would have none of it, for while we were still busy a
ruddy flash leapt from her bow port, a cloud of smoke, blue in the early
morning light, obscured the craft for a few seconds, and a round shot
came skipping toward us across the black water, throwing up little jets
of spray as it came, and finally sinking less than twenty yards away.
"Well aimed, but not quite enough elevation," exclaimed I to Gowland,
who had charge of the deck, and who had called me a moment before.
"Now, who is the fellow, and what does he mean by firing at us? Is he a
Frenchman, think you, and does he take us for a slaver--which, by the
way, is not a very extraordinary mistake to make? We had better show
him our bunting, I think. Parsons," to a man who was hovering close by,
"bend on the ensign and run it up to the gaff-end."
"There is no harm in doing that, of course," remarked Gowland; "but he
is no Frenchman--or at least he is not a French cruiser; I am sure of that
by the cut of his canvas. Besides, we know every French craft on the
station, and Johnny Crapaud has no such beauty as that brig among
them. No; if you care for my opinion, Grenvile, it is that yonder fellow
is a slaver