Yankee Ships and Yankee Sailors: Tales of 1812

by James Barnes

"Yes, sir, yes," answered the Coward, excitedly. "I was captain of a gun once, o' truth I was."

But a pistol shot's distance now separated the two vessels. Captain Jones hailed through his trumpet. Down came the Spanish flag, and there was the red cross of England! The brig let go a broadside; but just before she did so, the sound of a cheer had come down on the wind.

There is no time to describe the details of the action. But few of the Wasp's crew had been in actual combat before. Soon there were deep red spots on the deck; there were groans and curses, and much sulphur smoke. Occasionally the muzzles of the guns would dip deep into the water as the Wasp hove down into the hollow of the surge. A sharp crack aloft, and down came the main topmast, and with it fell the topsail yard. It tangled in the braces, and rendered the headsails useless. The Englishman was playing havoc with the rigging, braces, and running-gear of the Wasp. Grape and round shot were mangling everything aloft.

There had been a few men in the foretop when the action had commenced. One of them was Roberts. Suddenly glancing up from his gun, McGovern saw a sight that made him start and cry out, pointing. There was Bill trying weakly to haul himself over the edge of the top. Blood was running from a wound in his forehead, and his left arm hung useless; his leg was hurt also. But he was still alive and dimly conscious. At a sudden lurch of the vessel, he almost pitched forward down to the deck. Then as McGovern watched him, he appeared to give up hope, and, twisting his hand into the bight of a rope, he lay there without moving. But no man could live there long! Splinters were flying from the masts; blocks were swinging free and dashing to and fro; new holes were being torn every second in the roaring, flapping sails. It may have been that no one else had time to think about it; but McGovern did not hesitate. He threw down the sponge and jumped into the slackened shrouds.

"Carefully he lowered away."

"Come out of that, you fool!" somebody shouted at him from below; but he did not pause. A round shot whizzed by his elbow. A musket-ball carried away a ratline above his head, just as he reached forward. He felt as if a hot flame had licked across his shoulder, and in an instant more his white shirt was white no longer, and was clinging to his back. But it was nothing but a graze, and, undaunted, he kept on ascending. He hauled himself into the top. There lay a dead marine, shot through the temple. Now he bent over the prostrate sailor. Yes, he was alive! Roberts was breathing faintly. Despite the interest and excitement of the action men were watching him from below. But he must work fast if he was to save a life—a bullet at any time might complete the work already begun. He tried to lift the heavy figure on to his shoulders, but found he could not. But good fortune! One of the halliards had been shot away aloft, and hung dangling across the yard. McGovern saw the opportunity. Passing the bitter end of it around Roberts' body, close underneath the arms, he made it fast. Then passing the rest of it through the shrouds he gave first a heave that swung the prostrate figure clear of the blood-stained top, and then carefully he lowered away until at last the body reached the deck.

Somehow the musket-balls had stopped their humming through the upper rigging, and even the firing of the Wasp had slackened, as McGovern, reaching for one of the stays, rode down it safely and reached the deck. And now occurred a thing that has been unchronicled, and yet has had its parallel in many instances of history. A cheer arose, a strong, manly cheer,—it came from across the water; it preceded by an instant the roaring of the hoarse voices close about him. But McGovern's ear had caught it.

"Hark!" he cried, pushing his way forward to reach his station. "Hark, they're cheerin'! They must have thought we've struck. We'll show 'em!" He picked up his sponge again.

Now the firing became incessant. Steadily as the blows of a hammer were delivered the telling shots from the Wasp's port divisions. The flames of powder scorched the enemy's bows. All at once there came a crash. The jibboom of the Englishman swept across the deck, tearing away the shrouds and braces, and then with a heave and a lurch the vessels came together, grinding and crunching with a sound of splintering and tearing of timbers as they rolled in the heavy sea.