As morning broke the day after I left Suda, I was about eight miles from Syra harbour, steaming slowly, when I saw what made my heart leap into my mouth, viz., a regular blockade-runner exactly of the type used in the American war, going at full speed for Syra harbour.
He was _outside_ my little squadron, and must pass within a mile or so ahead to get to his port.
A somewhat similar position I have so often seen, in fact, taken part in, of a craft running for dear life into Charleston or Wilmington, across the bows of blockading ships just at daylight.

I saw that he was firing up all he knew, and was going at a tremendous speed.

I signalled to my despatch boats to chase, and when my flag-ship was within about a mile and a half I fired a blank gun to make him show his colours.

To this he replied by firing his long Armstrong gun with such effect that the shot cut away the stanchion of the bridge on which I was standing.
Now, gallant fellow as he was, in doing this he was wrong; he should have shown his colours and run (if he knew he wasn't honest) for the shelter of a neutral flag, but not fired at a man-of-war, who in her duty as forming part of the police of the seas fires a blank gun asking for colours from a suspicious vessel.

He undoubtedly committed an act of piracy and gave me a splendid hold on him.
My despatch boats chased the blockade-runner close to Syra harbour, both parties keeping up a warm running fight.