Young Talbot was delighted at the thought of a little expedition.
“I’ll tell you how we’ll cut through,” said he. “We’ll fix a small anchor at the bowsprit of our sloop. Then, we’ll ram her into the netting at night, and—if our vessel can punch hard enough—we’ll have forty Americans upon the deck before you can say ‘Jack Robinson.’”
The soldier laughed.
“Major Talbot,” said he, “you are a true fighting man. I’ll have a crew for you within twenty-four hours and we’ll take the good sloop Jasamine, lying off of Hell Gate. Ahoy for the capture of the Englishman!”
In two days’ time, all was ready for the expedition. The sloop Jasamine slowly drifted into the harbor of New York, an anchor spliced to her bowsprit, a crew of sturdy adventurers aboard; and, filling away in a stout sou’wester, rolled down the coast in the direction of Rhode Island. Reaching the vicinity of Newport, she lay to behind a sheltering peninsula, waiting for the night to come, so that she could drop down upon the Englishman under the cloak of darkness.
Blackness settled upon the still and waveless water. With muffled oars the sloop now glided towards the dark hull of the British gun-boat; her men armed to the teeth, with fuses alight, and ready to touch off the cannon at the slightest sign of discovery. All was still upon the towering deck of the war-vessel and the little lights twinkled at her bow.
But what was that?
Suddenly a voice came through the darkness.
“Who goes there?”
No answer came but the dip of the oars in unison.