This was going from one extreme to the
other; in my last ship we had too much liquor, and in this too little.
Naturally thirsty, our desire for drink needed not the stimulus of
salt fish and calavances, for such was our cargo and such was our
food, and deeply did we deplore the loss of our spirits.
On the third day after leaving the frigate, on our way to Gibraltar, I
fell in with a ship on the coast of Spain, and knew it to be the one
Murphy commanded, by a remarkable white patch in the main-topsail. I
made all sail in chase, in hopes of obtaining some spirits from him,
knowing that he had more than he could consume, even if he and his
people got drunk every day. When I came near him, he made all the sail
he could. At dusk I was near enough almost to hail him, but he stood
on; and I, having a couple of small three-pounders on board, with
some powder, fired one of them as a signal. This I repeated again and
again; but he would not bring to; and when it was dark, I lost sight
of him, and saw him no more until we met at Gibraltar.
Next morning I fell in with three Spanish fishing-boats. They took me
for a French privateer, pulled up their lines, and made sail. I came
up with them, and, firing a gun, they hove to and surrendered. I
ordered them alongside; and, finding they had each a keg of wine on
board, I condemned that part of their cargo as contraband; but I
honestly offered payment for what I had taken. This they declined,
finding I was "_Ingles_," too happy to think they were not in the
hands of the French.
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