But Captain Robinson laughed.
“That’s an old game,” said he. “They’re tryin’ to fool us into the belief that she’s a real gun-boat, so’s we’ll surrender immediately. But see—she’s drawin’ near again—and seems as if she’s about to board us from the looks of her crew.”
Barney gazed intently at the stranger.
“You’re right,” said he. “Load the three-pounder with grape-shot.”
“And here’s a crow-bar as’ll top it off nice,” put in a sailor.
Captain Robinson laughed.
“Yes, spike her in, too. She’ll plunk a hole clear through th’ rascal,” he cried. “I’ll touch her off myself.”
The British gun-boat drew nearer and nearer. Just as she was within striking distance—about ten yards—the three-pounder was touched off with a deaf’ning roar.
“So accurate was the aim,” says an old historian, “that the British were completely baffled in their attempt; their foresails and all their weather foreshrouds being cut away.”
“Give her a broadside!” called out Captain Robinson, as the brig sheered off in order to support its foremast, which tottered with its own weight; the rigging which supported it, being half cut away. And, as he spoke—the crew let drive a shower of balls and grape-shot. It was the last volley.