She continued all black hull and
white sail, not a soul to be seen on deck, except a dark object, which we
took for the man at the helm. "What schooner's that?" No answer.
"Heave--to, or I'll sink you." Still all silent. "Sergeant Armstrong, do
you think you could pick off that chap at the wheel?" The marine jumped on
the forecastle, and levelled his piece, when a musket--shot from the
schooner crashed through his skull, and he fell dead. The old skipper's
blood was up. "Forecastle, there! Mr Nipper, clap a canister of grape
over the round shot into the boat--gun, and give it to him."
"Ay, ay, sir!" gleefully rejoined the boatswain, forgetting the augury and
every thing else in the excitement of the moment. In a twinkling, the
square foresail--topsail--topgallant--royal--and studdingsail haulyards
were let go by the run on board of the schooner, as if they had been shot
away, and he put his helm hard aport as, if to round to.
"Rake him, sir, or give him the stem. He has not surrendered. I know
their game. Give him your broadside, sir, or he is off to windward of you
like a shot.--No, no! we have him now; heave to, Mr Splinter, heave--to!"
We did so, and that so suddenly, that the studdingsail booms snapped like
pipe--shanks, short off by the irons. Notwithstanding, we had shot two
hundred yards to leeward before we could lay our maintopsail to the mast. I
ran to windward. The schooner's yards and rigging were now black with men,
clustered like bees swanning, her square--sails were being close furled,
her fore and--aft sails set, and away she was, close--hauled and dead to
windward of us.
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