The ordinary and more regular cannonading of a naval combat succeeded. Anxious to precipitate the issue, both ships pressed nigher to each other the while, until, in a few moments, the two white canopies of smoke, that were wreathing about their respective masts, were blended in one, marking a solitary spot of strife, in the midst of a scene of broad and bright tranquillity. The discharges of the cannon were hot, close, and incessant. While the hostile parties, how ever, closely mutated each other in their zeal in dealing out destruction, a peculiar difference marked the distinction in character of the two crews. Loud, cheering shouts accompanied each discharge from the lawful cruiser, while the people of the rover did their murderous work amid the deep silence of desperation.
The spirit and uproar of the scene soon quickened that blood, in the veins of the veteran Bignall, which had begun to circulate a little slowly by time.
“The fellow has not forgotten his art!” he exclaimed as the effects of his enemy’s skill were getting but too manifest, in the rent sails, shivered spars, and tottering masts of his own ship. “Had he but the commission of the King in his pocket, one might call him a hero!”
The emergency was too urgent to throw away the time in words. Wilder answered only by cheering his own people to their fierce and laborious task. The ships had now fallen off before the wind, and were running parallel to each other, emitting sheets of flame, that were incessantly glancing through immense volumes of smoke. The spars of the respective vessels were alone visible, at brief and uncertain intervals. Many minutes had thus passed, seeming to those engaged but a moment of time, when the mariners of the “Dart” found that they no longer held their vessel in the quick command, so necessary to their situation. The important circumstance was instantly conveyed from the master to Wilder, and from Wilder to his superior. A hasty consultation on the cause and consequences of this unexpected event was the immediate and natural result.
“See!” cried Wilder, “the sails are already banging against the masts like rags; the explosions of the artillery have stilled the wind.”
“Hark!” answered the more experienced Bignall: “There goes the artillery of heaven among our own guns.—The squall is already upon us—port the helm, sir, and sheer the ship out of the smoke! Hard a-port with the helm, sir, at once!—hard with it a-port I say.”
But the lazy motion of the vessel did not answer to the impatience of those who directed her movements nor did it meet the pressing exigencies of the moment. In the mean time, while Bignall, and the officers whose duties kept them near his person, assisted by the sail-trimmers, were thus occupied, the people in the batteries continued their murderous employment. The roar of cannon was still constant, and nearly overwhelming, though there were instants when the deep ominous mutterings of the atmosphere were too distinctly audible to be mistaken. Still the eye could lend no assistance to the hearing, in determining the judgment of the mariners. Hulls, spars, and sails were alike enveloped in the curling wreaths which wrapped heaven, air, vessels, and ocean, alike, in one white, obscure, foggy mantle. Even the persons of the crew were merely seen at instants, labouring at the guns, through brief and varying openings.
“I never knew the smoke pack so heavy on the clerk of a ship before,” said Bignall, with a concern that even his caution could not entirely repress. “Keep the helm a-port—jam it hard, sir! By Heaven Mr Wilder, those knaves well know they are struggling for their lives!”
“The fight is all our own!” shouted the second lieutenant, from among the guns, stanching, as he spoke, the blood of a severe splinter-wound in the face, and far too intent on his own immediate occupation to have noticed the signs of the weather. “He has not answered with a single gun, for near a minute.”
“’Fore George, the rogues have enough!” exclaimed the delighted Bignall. “Three cheers for vic——”