“Sure enough,” said he, scanning the white sails upon the horizon. “It’s Talbot and we’re in for a tight affair. All hands prepare for action!”
There was noise and confusion upon the deck of the privateer as the guns were sponged, charges were rammed home, and all prepared for battle. Meanwhile, the stranger came nearer, and rounding to within striking distance, crashed a broadside into the slumbering Dragon, who had not yet shown her fangs.
Crackle! Crackle! Boom!
The small arms from the Britisher began to spit at the advancing privateer, and seven of her fourteen guns rang out a welcome to the sailors of Rhode Island. The solid shot ploughed through the rigging, cutting ropes and spars with knife-like precision.
“Round her to on the port quarter!” shouted Captain Talbot, “and get near enough for boarding!”
But, as the Argo swung near her antagonist, the Dragon dropped away—keeping just at pistol-shot distance.
“Run her down!” yelled the stout Rhode Islander, as he saw this manœuvre of his wily foe. Then he uttered an exclamation of disgust, for, as he spoke, a bullet struck his speaking trumpet; knocking it to the deck, and piercing it with a jagged hole.
“Never mind!” cried he, little disconcerted at the mishap. “Give it to her, boys!”
Then he again uttered an exclamation, for a bounding cannon ball—ricochetting from the deck—took off the end of his coat-tail.[1]
“I’ll settle with you for that,” yelled the old sea-dog, leaping to a cannon, and, pointing it himself, he touched the fuse to the vent. A puff of smoke, a roar, and a ball ploughed into the mainmast of the rocking Dragon.