The shore line had not yet been dipped under the sparkling waters, when Mr. Johnson’s prophecy came true. A fleet of privateers suddenly hove in sight, close under the land. The Revenge flew the signal for a superior force, and ordered all unarmed vessels to return to port, and the others to rally about her. The Defence promptly bore up in answer to the signal, but, to the shame of the others, only one brig followed her example; the rest ran for Hampton Roads.
The British fleet consisted of a large ship of eighteen guns, a brig of sixteen and three schooners; and with one accord they stood in for the body of the merchantmen.
“There will be a general capture if that is allowed,” said the skipper of the Defence to his mate.
“Ay, ay,” growled Mr. Johnson. “It’s time for the Revenge to show her teeth, if Murray expects to do anything.”
“And for the Defence, too,” said Captain Deering. “Ready the Long Tom, Mr. Johnson; we’ll try a round shot at that nearest schooner; she’s too saucy by far for the weight she carries.”
The long gun was charged and the captain himself sighted it.
“There is a long, slow swell,” said he to Tom, “and that’s the best sort for gunnery afloat. You can time the rise to a fraction of a second. The best gunners are going to win this fight, for everything is in their favor.”
He ran his eye along the polished length of the pivot gun, then applied the match. Long Tom barked sharply, the solid shot went skipping across the waves like a heavy-winged bird; there came a quick crackling sound upon the schooner fired into and her foremast, splintered close to the deck, went, in a tangle of rigging and spars, over the side.
“Well aimed,” praised Mr. Johnson, admiringly. “She’s out of the fight for awhile, anyhow.”
“There goes the Revenge,” cried Tom.