“Who goes there? Answer, or I fire!”
Again the slow beat of the oars and nothing more.
Crash!
A musket spoke from the jutting bow in front of the sloop and a bullet struck in the foremast of the staunch attacker, with a resounding z-i-n-n-g!
“We’re discovered,” whispered Talbot. “Pull for your lives, men, and punch her like a battering-ram. When we’ve cut through the netting, let every fellow dash upon her decks, and fight for every inch you can.”
As he ceased speaking, the bow of the sloop struck the roping stretched around the man-o’-warsman, and a ripping and tearing was plainly heard above the crash of small arms, the shouts of men, and the rumble of hawsers. Two cannon spoke from the side of the Englishman, and, as their roar echoed across the still ocean, the guns of the Jasamine belched forth their answer.
“TALBOT, HIMSELF, AT THE HEAD OF HIS ENTIRE CREW, CAME LEAPING ACROSS THE SIDE.”
The anchor attached to the bowsprit had done what was desired. It tore a great hole in the stout netting, ripped open a breach sufficiently wide for entrance to the deck, and, as the cannon grumbled and spat at the sloop,—the bowsprit was black with jack-tars scrambling for an opportunity to board the Britisher.