“Cruel heavy the old dame is, sir, for all her wasted appearance,” said one of the men.
The lieutenant now ranged the press-gang against the wall fronting the door, and stepping into the middle of the room, drew his pistol and cocked it. “Messmates,” he sung out, as if addressing the skulkers in the other room, “I know you are here—the house is surrounded—and unless you open that door now, by the power, but I’ll fire slap into you.” There was a bustle, and a rumbling tumbling noise within. “My lads, we are now sure of your game,” sung out Treenail, with great animation. “Sling that clumsy bench there.” He pointed to an oaken form about eight feet long, and nearly three inches thick. To produce a two-inch rope, and junk it into three lengths, and rig the battering-ram, was the work of an instant. “One, two, three,”—and bang the door flew open, and there were our men stowed away, each sitting on the top of his bag, as snug as could be, although looking very much like condemned thieves. We bound eight of them, and thrusting a stretcher across their backs, under their arms, and lashing the fins to the same by good stout lanyards, we were proceeding to stump our prisoners off to the boat, when, with the innate devilry that I have inherited, I know not how, but the original sin of which has more than once nearly cost me my life, I said, without addressing my superior officer, or any one else, directly—“I should like now to scale ‘my pistol through that coffin. If I miss, I can’t hurt the old woman; and an eyelet hole in the coffin itself, will only be an act of civility to the worms.”
I looked towards my superior officer, who answered me with a knowing shake of the head. I advanced, while all was silent as death—the sharp click of the pistol lock now struck acutely on my own ear. I presented, when—crash the lid of the coffin, old woman and all, was dashed off in an instant, the corpse flying up in the air, and then falling heavily on the floor, rolling over and over, while a tall handsome fellow, in his stripped flannel shirt and blue trowsers, with the sweat pouring down over his face in steams, sat up in the shell.
“All right,” said Mr Treenail—“help him out of his berth.”
He was pinioned like the rest, and forthwith we walked them all off to the beach. By this time there was an unusual bustle in the Holy Ground, and we could hear many an anathema, curses, not loud but deep, ejaculated from many a half-opened door as we passed along. We reached the boat, and time it was we did so, for a number of stout fellows, who had followed us in a gradually increasing crowd, until they amounted to forty at the fewest, now nearly surrounded us, and kept closing in. As the last of us jumped into the boat, they made a rush, so that if we had not shoved off with the speed of light, I think it very likely that we should have been overpowered. However, we reached the ship in safety, and the day following we weighed, and stood out to sea with our convoy.
It was a very large fleet nearly three hundred sail of merchant vessel and a noble sight truly.
A line-of-battle ship led—and two frigates and three sloops of our class were stationed on the outskirts of the fleet, whipping them in as it were. We made Madeira in fourteen days, looked in, but did not anchor; superb island—magnificent mountains—white town,—and all very fine, but nothing particular happened for three weeks. One fine evening, (we had by this time progressed into the trades, and were within three hundred miles of Barbadoes,) the sun had set bright and clear, after a most beautiful day, and we were bowling along right before it, rolling like the very devil; but there was no moon, and although the stars sparkled brilliantly, yet it was dark, and as we were the sternmost of the men of war, we had the task of whipping in the sluggards. It was my watch on deck. A gun from the commodore, who showed a number of lights. “What is that, Mr Kennedy?” said the captain to the old gunner.—“The commodore has made the night signal for the sternmost ships to make more sail and close, sir.” We repeated the signal—and stood on hailing the dullest of the merchantmen in our neighbourhood to make more sail, and firing a musket-shot now and then over the more distant of them. By and by we saw a large West Indiaman suddenly haul her wind, and stand across our bows.
“Forward there!” sung out Mr Splinter, “stand by to fire a shot at that fellow from the boat gun if he does not bear up. What can he be after? Sergeant Armstrong,”—to a marine, who was standing close by him in the waist—“get a musket, and fire over him!”
It was done, and the ship immediately bore up on her course again; we now ranged alongside of him on his larboard quarter.
“Ho, the ship, ahoy!”—“Hillo!” was the reply.—“Make more sail, sir, and run into the body of the fleet, or I shall fire into you; why don’t you, sir, keep in the wake of the commodore?” No answer. “What meant you by hauling your wind, just now, sir?”