Silas Talbot, in fact, had done extremely well, but, not content with his laurels already won, he soon put out again upon the Argo, in company with another privateer from Providence, Rhode Island, called the Saratoga; which sailed under a Captain Munro. They were not off the coast more than two days when they came across the Dublin; a smart, English privateer-cutter of fourteen guns, coming out of Sandy Hook. Instead of running away, she ploughed onward, and cleared for action.
The Argo and the Saratoga ran in upon the windward quarter and banged away with audacity. The fight lasted for an hour. Then—as the Argo tacked in closer in order to grapple and board—the Saratoga was headed for the privateer. But—instead of coming in—she began to run off in the wind.
“Hard a-weather! Hard up there with the helm!” cried Captain Munro.
“It is hard up!” cried the steersman.
“You lie, you blackguard!” cried Munro. “She goes away lasking! Hard a-weather I say again!”
“It is hard a-weather, I say again, captain,” cried the fellow at the tiller.
“Captain Talbot thinks that I am running away when I want to join him,” cried Munro. “What the deuce is the matter anyway?”
“Why, I can tell you,” cried a young Lieutenant. “You’ve got an iron tiller in place of the wooden one, and she’s loose in the rudder head, so your boat won’t steer correctly.”
“Egad, you’re right,” said Munro, as he examined the top of the tiller. “Now, jam her over and we’ll catch this Dublin of old Ireland, or else I’m no sailor. We’ll give her a broadside, too, when we come up.”
The Argo, meanwhile, was hammering the Englishman in good fashion, and, as the Saratoga pumped a broadside into her—raking her from bow to stern—the Dublin struck her colors.