In less than half an hour we were back again aboard, and as the trader clambered over the side, he was greeted by his daughter. He was evidently surprised, for he threw his head back until his beard, sticking upward from his throat beneath his collar, stood out straight in a most aggressive manner. It evidently had its effect on the young lady’s spirits.

“You don’t seem overpleased to have me here again,” she said before he had spoken.

Yankee Dan gave a loud grunt of protest.

“Are you going clear to the coast, and be aboard when we take ’em on, hey?” said he, with a show of sarcasm in his harsh voice.

“I’m going with you, and you may put me ashore with Aunt Mary at St. Helena, or on board some vessel bound for New York, so I can get to Uncle Henry’s. I’m not going to stay ashore here,” she answered.

Then the father turned away; the interview ended as Hawkson came up.

Fearing trouble for the vessel in her dismasted condition when she arrived, her treasure had been removed ashore, so that in case some prying man-of-war should happen to take charge on suspicion, it would be safe. This alone saved the enterprise from failure that morning, but, when the story of the brig’s rascally skipper had been related to the trader, he instantly started ashore with Mr. Gull and a couple of men, to get the gold at once from Mr. Curtis, in order that there might be no delay in getting to sea and overhauling the brig, if only to give him a lesson in trading etiquette. At this time slave-traders were not overscrupulous in their dealing, and among themselves were little better than pirates, for they would seldom hesitate to overhaul or rob each other, knowing that the slaver robbed could get no redress without admitting guilt of similar transactions.

By the time he returned, the barque was hove short, and her sails ready to sheet home, and the young lady, who had already gone below to her cabin, was not given much thought by either her father or the old skipper. As the boat drew up alongside, I noticed Mr. Curtis aboard, but he took no thought of me as he came on deck. In an instant we had hooked the boat on and whisked her on deck, and in less than five minutes we were starting out to sea before a light westerly breeze that sent us along about five knots.

I cleared the guns and loaded them all, and then a man was sent aloft to keep a lookout for a sail, which we all hoped might be the Yankee brig. We were on our course for the African coast, but might alter it if occasion offered.

The old barque sailed well with her new topmasts, and, if anything, she showed a bit faster, as her main was now a foot higher and her new-cut topsail a little deeper. Much of her fine gear was gone, but what we had purchased in Funchal was of the best quality, and we had lines enough to rig another ship. Altogether she made a good showing, and even Mr. Gull’s crew, who had eaten much goat meat, and in consequence were in prime condition, were not sorry to get back aboard her.

All day we held to the southward over an almost glassy ocean, ruffled here and there by the falling breeze, and by sunset we were rewarded by Big Jones’s yell from the foretop: “Sail dead ahead, sir.”

We were going too slow to tell just what the vessel might be before dark. Her royals were showing white on the clear blue line, and the sun went down before even her topsails rose above the horizon. The white of her cloth, however, gave us some hope, for Americans used white canvas, and the brig could not be very far ahead of us, and undoubtedly bound on the same course.

It was calm all night, but somehow the barque slid along, and by daylight the fellow ahead could be made out plainly not over three miles distant. It was the brig, and the long skipper was evidently not much disturbed at our approach, for he took in his after stunsails and wallowed along slowly over the smooth swell.

We were through breakfast before we knew anything of Howard’s plans, although there had been much speculation among the men forward, some, who had suffered in the fracas the evening before, being especially anxious to try conclusions with the men who had inadvertently dropped the chest and themselves on top of them and their goat meat in the small boat.

Gus, a stout Swede, and Pat, a heavy-built little Irishman, showed bandaged arms which they wished avenged, and Jennings, a Dutchman, who was a good sailor, poked his swathed head over the rail and swore an unintelligible oath at the Yankee. Hawkson stood upon the poop and watched the brig steadily, until Hicks and Howard came from below.

“Will he fight?” asked Hicks, coming to the old mate’s side.

“Did you ever see a Yankee sailor that wouldn’t?” said Hawkson. “No fear! You’ll see all the fighting you want, if we come in range,--an’ we’re mighty near that now.”

“We’ll take him before eight bells,” said Howard, without interest, as though it were a thing he did every day. “Get the small arms ready, and stand by.”

We were nearing the brig, although only going about three knots an hour, and when within about a mile of her, a puff of white flew from her starboard quarter, and in a few moments later a six-pound shot landed with a loud bang against our side, and smashed through into the ’tween-decks, drowning the faint boom of the gun with its slamming around below.

“He, he, he!” laughed Howard, his ugly mouth showing barely a trace of amusement. “He means fight without any talk. That’s plain enough. Suppose you pop him one or two, just to try the range.”

Hawkson stepped down on the main-deck and went to a forward gun.

“Keep her off a couple of points,” he bawled to Henry, and, as the barque yawed a little, he fired.

We watched to see the shot strike, and saw a jet of water thrown against the brig’s side, telling plainly that the ball had struck at or below the water-line. Several men cheered, but behind me I heard a fierce oath. Turning, I saw Martin glaring savagely at Hawkson, while near him stood Anderson with a scowl on his face. Even as I looked in surprise, the wily Scot caught my eye, and his look changed.

“’Tis a pity it didn’t hit him and cut his mast out. Ye may ken it’s far better to knock out a spar in a chase,” said he to me, in a low voice that Hawkson could not hear. His tone was not natural, however, and I wondered at him for some time afterward, and thought of the possible ways the long skipper could have heard of the barque’s treasure-chest in the lazarette that he had run off with so handily. We were soon busy firing the guns of the port broadside as fast as we could serve them at the enemy, now well within range.

Shot were striking the barque often, for the Yankee was making excellent practice with his light guns, but no one had been injured aboard. This being cut up did not suit Howard. He valued the old vessel too highly to have her hurt badly, and knew also the difficulty of repairing old timbers.

“Let her head up half a point,” said he, and we were soon dead astern of the brig and creeping up toward her, our own guns unable to fire, and receiving only the fire of one little six-pounder they brought on the poop. This single gun made havoc with our sails, hitting them time and again, and tearing our outer jib so badly that it was useless. We drew closer, and suddenly the Yankee ceased firing. We were very close to him now, and the long skipper could be easily seen leaning indolently upon the poop-rail, watching us with apparent unconcern.

Hawkson took up a speaking-trumpet and bawled out.

“Heave that vessel to, or we’ll sink you,” he roared.

The long captain put his hand to his ear, as if unable to understand, and the hail was repeated.

“I can’t heave her to,” drawled the fellow. “There’s too many men aboard her, an’ they won’t let me.”

Yankee Dan now came from below, where he had taken his daughter for protection, and gazed at the brig.

“It’s Long Tom Shannon,” said he, “and it would have been a lot better if we hadn’t come up with him. It’s strange you didn’t know him, the worst rascal on the coast.”