“‘“Yes, and I be ready too, massa!” cried the black cook, bringing out from the caboose the red-hot poker.
“‘“Well, then, up on the wind with her, and fire when the guns bear.”
“‘The men kept their eyes on the guns; and when they cried “fire!” the cook set them all off, one after another, with the hot poker, and no small mischief did these three guns do. His forecastle was cleared of men in no time; down came his gaff and, fore-topsail, and being now right on our beam, he put his helm up to lay us on board; but we were too quick for him—we wore round too, and gave him the three other guns, which did him no good.
“‘Well, he came after us on the other tack, and pelted us with musketry in a cruel way. The mate was hit in the head, and taken down below; and poor old Nesbitt, who was at the wheel, steering the craft beautifully, had a bullet right into his bow-window, as they call it. “Well,” the old fellow says, “here’s a shot between wind and water, I reckon—we must have a plug;” so he puts his flippers into his waistband, and stuffs his flannel jacket into the hole. Then we throws her up in the wind again, and rakes him with our three guns well into him, and carries away more of his gear, and stops his sailing—and so we goes on for a whole hour and thirty-five minutes; and, to make a long story short, we beat him off, and he turned tail and ran for it with both pumps going.’
“Now you see, Tom, that’s the account of the affair, given to me by a man who I can trust; and there you see what can be done if men are resolute and determined to fight. Some little difference between that affair and this one, Tom.”
“Did old Nesbitt die or recover?”
“I asked that question: he was doing well when my friend left; somehow or another no vital part was injured, and he has had many presents made him for his gallant conduct, and the sergeant was well rewarded also. Well, my pipe’s out, and it’s not far from midnight; I should think we may just as well try for a little sleep, Tom, for perhaps we may not get any for some time to come.”
Bramble coiled himself up under the bulwark; I did the same; and in a few minutes we both had forgotten whether we were in our beds at our house at Deal or prisoners bound for the French coast.
At daylight the next morning Bramble roused me up.
“Here we are now, Tom! here’s the French coast not four leagues from us; but it’s hazy, and I cannot make it out very clear; how ever, the sun will soon drive all this away, and we shall have a fine day; but the wind has gone down, and I think we shall have still less of it.”