IT was about eight o’clock in the evening. The moon was bright, and as the privateer Pomona swung along in the fresh breeze, her Captain, Isaiah Robinson of New York, laid his hand softly upon the shoulder of his first officer, Joshua Barney, saying,
“A ship off the lee-quarter, Barney, she’s an Englishman, or else my name’s not Robinson.”
Barney raised his glass.
“A British brig, and after us, too. She’s a fast sailer and is overhauling us. But we’ll let her have a broadside from our twelve guns and I believe that we can stop her.”
The Pomona carried thirty-five men. Laden with tobacco for Bordeaux, France, she was headed for that sunny land,—but all ready for a fight, if one should come to her. And for this she carried twelve guns, as her first officer had said.
The British boat came nearer and nearer. Finally she was close enough for a voice to be heard from her deck, and she ran up her colors. A cry came from the black body,
“What ship is that?”
There was no reply, but the Stars and Stripes were soon floating from the mainmast of the American.
“Haul down those colors!” came from the Britisher.
There was no answer, but the Pomona swung around so that her port guns could bear, and a clashing broadside plunged into the pursuer. Down came her fore-topsail, the rigging cut and torn in many places, and, as the American again showed her heels, the British captain cried out,