“By Jingo! she’s growing saucy,” said Captain Butler. “Now let me have a shy;” and grasping the piece with a practised hand, he swiftly adjusted it.
“Huzza! I told you so! Clean through her poop!”
Sure enough, the shot struck her after-bulwarks, and must have played hob with the chandeliers in the cabin.
“Just wait till we can give her a broadside,” added the winger of the bolt, rubbing his hands good-humoredly.
“We mustn’t wait too long, then,” said the cool Lieutenant, “for I see the Lookout lights. In half an hour we shall be under the guns of Fort Macon.”
He pointed over the side as he spoke, far down the western verge, to a faint, lurid glimmering scarcely brighter than the many stars that surrounded it, but with the hazy lustre which there was no mistaking.
“The rebels are reported to have destroyed the lanterns,” said I, suggestively.
“Don’t you believe it, my boy,” replied the old sailor. “They know when to douse them and when to light a British skipper to their nest.”
The chase had now lasted between two and three hours, and the fort at Cape Fear could not be more than twelve miles to our lee. We were still two miles from the stranger, and the chances were momently lessening of overhauling her in time, unless we should succeed in materially disabling her, while our own risk of becoming crippled from her well-directed stern-shots was very great. If the wind had been light the shots in our rigging would have checked our speed but slightly; but the bracing gale that had us in its teeth lent us half our speed, and an unlucky shot in our cross-trees might be irretrievable.
“There! there! we have it now! Was there ever such luck?” cried the Captain, despondently. And our main-sail came down with a rush as he spoke, every one flying from the splinters of the mast, which was severed like a pipe-stem.