"Sail, ho!"
Never, surely, did the cry fall upon more welcome ears, save and except those of
men becalmed in a boat upon the open sea. For twelve weary days and nights
had we, the officers and men of H.M.S. Petrel (six guns, Commander B. R.
Neville), been cooped up in our iron prison, patrolling one of the hottest sections
of the terrestrial globe, on the lookout for slavers. From latitude 4 deg. north to
latitude 4 deg. south was our beat, and we dared not venture beyond these
limits. Our instructions were to keep out of sight of land and try to intercept some
of the larger vessels, which, it was suspected, carried cargoes of slaves from the
---- coast. The ship, the sea, the cloudless sky--there was nothing else to see,
nothing else to think of. Work, study, play even, were alike impossible in that
fierce, scorching heat. If you touched a bit of iron on deck it almost burned your
hand. If you lay down between-decks covered with a sheet, you awoke in a bath
of perspiration.
"Sail, ho!"
The man, in his excitement, repeated the shout before he could be hailed from
the deck.
"Where away?" sang out the captain.
"Two points on the weather-bow, sir," was the reply.
That phrase about the "weather-bow" was a nautical fiction, for there was no
wind to speak of, and what there was was nearly dead astern.
"Keep her away two points," said Commander Neville; and the order was
promptly obeyed.
In a few seconds the news had spread through the ship, and the men clustered
on the bulwarks, straining their eyes to get a glimpse of the stranger. Even the
stokers, poor fellows, showed their sooty faces at the engine-room hatchway. Of
course the stranger might be, and probably was, an innocent trader; but then she
might be a slaver; and golden visions of prize-money floated before the eyes of
every man and boy on board the Petrel.
We did not steam very fast, as of course our supply of coal was limited; and it
was about two hours before sundown when we fairly sighted the stranger. She
was a long three-masted schooner, with tall raking masts, lying very low in the
water. All her canvas was set; and as a little wind had sprung up, she was
slipping through the water at a fair pace.
"She looks for all the world like a slaver, sir," remarked Mr. Brabazon, the first
lieutenant, to the commander.
Neville said nothing, but his lips were firmly compressed, and a gleam of
excitement was in his eyes.
"Fire a blank cartridge, Mr. O'Riley," said he to the second lieutenant; "and signal
her to ask her nationality and her code number."
