‘Keep her away another point, Mr. Millman,’ said the captain to his second. ‘The rascal will murder the whole crew at this rate, and I not able to strike a single blow.’
‘I’m afraid she wont bear another point, sir,’ ventured the Lieutenant; ‘she strains fearfully as it is, sir.’
‘Then keep her as she is, sir, if you can,’ growled the captain, ‘and the d———d rascal don’t sink us before the night sets in.’
There was indeed a fearful accuracy to the shot from the Constance, and there was that singular good luck (if we may call that good luck which sacrifices human life) attending every discharge that sometimes follows the throws of a gambler, who for a time seems sure of every game and high numbers—thus was it from the shot from the American brig. Nearly every one told with fearful accuracy upon the deck of that Dolphin. It looked almost like a miracle that gunnery could be so accurate in such a sea, but so it was, and fatally so.
The captain of the Dolphin foamed and raged like the very tempest about him at this unaccountable state of things, until at length he walked up to Mr. Millman who was at the helm, and said: ‘Mr. Millman, we must pull down that article,’ pointing to the English flag that was flapping and cracking like the report of a pistol, at the main; ‘the brig already leaks from one of those cursed shot. And besides in such a storm.’
‘Strike, sir?’ asked the Lieutenant in astonishment.
‘For a while only.’
‘Ah! I see, sir; a ruse, that is all, I suppose.’
‘Mr. Millman,’ continued the captain, ‘they can’t board, would to God they might try that,’ said he, clenching his fist.
‘The night will soon set in, sir.’