"So much for undervaluing our American friends," grumbled Mr Splinter.
We made all sail in chase, blazing away to little purpose; we had no chance
on a bowline, and when our amigo had satisfied himself of his superiority
by one or two short tacks, he deliberately hauled down his flying jib and
gaff--topsail, took a reef in his mainsail, triced up the bunt of his
foresail, and fired his long thirty--two at us. The shot came in at the
third aftermost port on the starboard side, and dismounted the carronade,
smashing the slide, and wounding three men. The second shot missed, and as
it was madness to remain to be peppered, probably winged, whilst every one
of ours fell short, we reluctantly kept away on our course, having the
gratification of hearing a clear well--blown bugle on board the schooner
play up "Yankee Doodle."
As the brig fell off, our long--gun was run out to have a parting crack at
her, when the third and last shot from the schooner struck the sill of the
midship--port, and made the white splinters fly from the solid oak like
bright silver sparks in the moonlight. A sharp piercing cry rose into the
air--my soul identified that death--shriek with the voice that I had heard,
and I saw the man who was standing with the lanyard of the lock in his hand
drop heavily across the breech, and discharge the gun in his fall.
Thereupon a blood--red glare shot up into the cold blue sky, as if a
volcano had burst forth from beneath the mighty deep, followed by a roar,
and a shattering crash, and a mingling of unearthly cries and groans, and a
concussion of the air, and of the water, as if our whole broadside had been
fired at once.
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