The shrill tone of the boatswain’s pipe, was soon heard, and the celerity with which the anchor was got, catted and fished, and sail made upon the schooner, proved her crew to be both active and efficient, if they were of many colors; for in five minutes after the call was first sounded she was under sail, moving down the river, and in twenty more was standing away from the shore of Cuba, with a fresh breeze, at the rate of eleven knots an hour, bound to the coast of Africa. The Maraposa was seven days out, and it had just struck four bells in the mid-watch; the night was clear and star-light; a fresh wind was blowing from the southward and eastward, making it about three points free for the schooner—her best trim for sailing; naught was to be heard on her decks but the ripple of the water, as it curled up and divided before her wedge-like bow; so deathly silent was every thing, that had it not been for the figure of the man at the wheel, the mate leaning against the weather bulwark, and the outline of the look-out on the cat-head, giving evidence of human agency, she would have seemed some ocean-spirit, cleaving its way through its native element; the rest of the watch stowed away between the guns, sleeping, or, in sailor phrase, “caulking,” were invisible, when the look-out on the fore-topsail yard sang out, “Sail ho!” This sound, so agreeable to the ears of a merchantman, has a very different effect upon the tympanum of a slaver—for, expecting in every sail to find an enemy, they desire no greetings on the ocean. The mate, instantly aroused, called out in quick, short tones, “Where away?” “Dead astern, sir,” answered the look-out. “Can you make her out?” “No, sir, not yet; she’s square-rigged, but so far I can’t tell whether brig or ship.” “Very well; a stern chase is always a long one. Keep your eye on her, and let me know when you can make her out.” “Ay, ay, sir.”