He passed out on to the
poop-deck, and Sir Oliver--conceiving himself at liberty to do so--
followed him.
In the waist below a little knot of shaggy seamen were crowding to the
larboard bulwarks, looking out to sea; on the forecastle there was
another similar assembly, all staring intently ahead and towards the
land. They were off Cape Roca at the time, and when Captain Leigh saw
by how much they had lessened their distance from shore since last he
had conned the ship, he swore ferociously at his mate who had charge of
the wheel. Ahead of them away on their larboard bow and in line with
the mouth of the Tagus from which she had issued--and where not a doubt
but she had been lying in wait for such stray craft as this--came a
great tall-masted ship, equipped with top-gallants, running wellnigh
before the wind with every foot of canvas spread.
Close-hauled as was the Swallow and with her top-sails and mizzen reefed
she was not making more than one knot to the Spaniard's five--for that
she was a Spaniard was beyond all doubt judging by the haven whence she
issued.
"Luff alee!" bawled the skipper, and he sprang to the wheel, thrusting
the mate aside with a blow of his elbow that almost sent him sprawling.
"'Twas yourself set the course," the fellow protested.
"Thou lubberly fool," roared the skipper. "I bade thee keep the same
distance from shore. If the land comes jutting out to meet us, are we
to keep straight on until we pile her up?" He spun the wheel round in
his hands, and turned her down the wind.
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