One hazy day in August, the watch sang out,
“Several sail astern, Sir! Looks like a whole squadron!”
Talbot seized the glass and gazed intently at the specks of white.
“Egad! It is a squadron,” said he, at length. “And they’re after me. Crowd on every stitch of canvas and we’ll run for it.”
So all sail was hoisted, and the General Washington stood out to sea.
But the sails of the pursuers grew strangely clear. They came closer, ever closer, and Talbot paced the deck impatiently.
“Gad Zooks!” cried he, “I wish that I could fly like a bird.”
He could not fly, and, in two hours’ time the red flag on the foremast of a British brig was clear to the eyes of the crew of the privateer. When—an hour later—a solid shot spun across his bow, “Old Si” Talbot hove to, and ran up the white flag. He was surrounded by six vessels of the English and he felt, for once, that discretion was the better part of valor.
“Old Si” was now thrown into a prison ship off Long Island and then was taken to England aboard the Yarmouth. Imprisoned at Dartmoor, he made four desperate attempts to escape. All failed.