We all looked glum enough at this mishap, and began to consider the prize as a might-have-been. But the Captain determined on a last effort, and ordered a broadside volley, though the distance, a mile and a half at least, made success extremely doubtful. The ship rounded to handsomely. The ports were open, twenty cannon were already loaded and manned, and, at the given signal, a long sheet of flame leaped from the side, and the noble frigate roared and quivered to her keelson. Another instant and a wild huzza swelled upward from our crowded deck; for the broadside was a success. The entire rigging of the stranger seemed in ruins; her bowsprit was trailing in the sea; and we could distinguish another ugly smash in her stern, which must have come very near destroying her precious flukes. Of course the prospect was now far better than before, but still by no means certain, as it was questionable whether we were not almost equally disabled in the rigging, and the rapidity with which the damaged tops of the stranger were mended and cleared away seemed miraculous, though she now gave over firing, apparently bent on safety only by sharp sailing.
New spars were already up on our own main-mast, and, with a clew or two on the mizzen-shrouds, and the use of the after-braces, with double duty on the mizzen-top-gallant spars, our main-sail was again aloft, with cheering indications that we were gaining fast. In fifteen minutes we had so sensibly diminished the interval between us and our prey that we ceased firing. But we were over-confident. The lanterns of Cape Lookout were now left far away on our starboard quarter, and every forward furlong we made was so much nearer to the formidable fort. Just then a faint flash, like the horizon glimmer of summer lightning, shone above the waters far beyond the ship we were pursuing, and a hardly heard but ominous boom told us that the old sea-dragon, Fort Macon, was not sleeping in the moonlight. We now renewed our pelting of the stranger with further damage to her tops. Whereupon she veered for Shackleford Shoals, with the evident intention of beaching herself if unable to get under the fort. Another quarter of an hour and we were within long range of the heavy coast-guns of the fortress, which seemed to understand the state of the case perfectly, for shells began to drop around us briskly. And now the great breakers of the sandy coast were plainly discernible on the starboard, tossing their white plumes high above the beach. Here and there a bluff rose from the monotone of sand; and the Devil’s Skillet—a dangerous reef—was boiling white a little lower down.
Shackleford Shoals is a low, narrow sand-bank, about twenty miles in length. Its lower extremity comes within three miles, at a rough guess, of the Borden Banks, or Shoals, on the easternmost point of which the fort is situated. The bank is everywhere treacherous, but especially at this southern point, where the danger of the shoals is hidden by apparently deep water. And now as we neared our expected prey, she made a bold push for this inlet; but as we dashed in between her and the fort, regardless of the latter’s continuous firing, she altered her course, and steered head-on for the fatal breakers.
“She’s bent on suicide!” said Jerry, who then ran below for his pistols, as the Captain ordered the boats to be manned.
“Has she struck?”
“No—yes—there she goes!”
Sure enough, she had grounded and slightly heeled over, but in such deep water that the soft sand of the shoals would not hold her long. Two of our boats were manned, with our beloved Lieutenant as commander of the expedition, and I was in his boat. We pushed off with some difficulty, on account of the heavy sea. As we did so we saw the boats of the blockade-runner also lowered, and pulling inside for the inlet. The rats were leaving the crib.
“You can get her off if you try, Bracetaut. Throw over everything to lighten her,” was the parting injunction of Captain Butler, and as we pulled away he hauled his ship out of range of the fort. It was rather uncomfortable the way the shells ducked and plunged around us, or burst above our heads, but we pulled away for the prize. Our boat was the last to reach the ship—a first-class iron propeller, of great tonnage, and clipper-built. As the crew of the advanced boat climbed up her sides several crashes made us aware that the fort was turning her guns against the vessel, to deprive us of the plunder.
“And hot-shot at that. Listen!” said Bracetaut to me; when the fizzing sound of the plunging hot-shot was plainly distinguishable.
Our boat was within a rod of the prize when we perceived the men who had already boarded her jumping hastily over the bulwarks, dropping into their boat, and pushing off, as if something unusual was to pay. One had been left behind. It was the little middy, Jerry Bloom, who now appeared unconcernedly leaning over the side and coolly awaiting the Lieutenant’s orders.