Both vessels whirled swiftly up to the wind, with their heads
towards the land; and as the huge black side of the three-decker,
checkered with its triple batteries, frowned full upon her foe, it
belched forth a flood of fire and smoke, accompanied by a bellowing roar
that mocked the surly moanings of the sleeping ocean. The nerves of the
bravest man in the frigate contracted their fibres, as the hurricane of
iron hurtled by them, and each eye appeared to gaze in stupid wonder, as
if tracing the flight of the swift engines of destruction. But the voice
of Captain Munson was heard in the din, shouting while he waved his hat
earnestly in the required direction:
"Meet her! meet her with the helm, boy! meet her, Mr. Griffith, meet
her!"
Griffith had so far anticipated this movement as to have already ordered
the head of the frigate to be turned in its former course, when, struck
by the unearthly cry of the last tones uttered by his commander, he bent
his head, and beheld the venerable seaman driven through the air, his
hat still waving, his gray hair floating in the wind, and his eye set in
the wild look of death.
"Great God!" exclaimed the young man, rushing to the side of the ship,
where he was just in time to see the lifeless body disappear in the
waters that were dyed in its blood; "he has been struck by a shot! Lower
away the boat, lower away the jolly-boat, the barge, the tiger, the----"
"'Tis useless," interrupted the calm, deep voice of the Pilot; "he has
met a warrior's end, and he sleeps in a sailor's grave! The ship is
getting before the wind again, and the enemy is keeping his vessel
away.
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