The Dartmouth goes first, and draws the fire at Culmore; we go on with what speed we can till we get to the barrier. That must give way by hook or crook, and then up the river. A good day´s work, I´m thinking, but the little Phoenix will do her share if Andrew Douglas be alive to see it."
“With the help of God we´ll all see it,” cried the mate. “This will be a great day for all of us.”
“Serve out a measure of rum to every man-jack on board, and get under way with all the haste ye can. In a quarter of an hour ye´ll see the little Phoenix slipping through the water like a seagull. Come, Mr. Orme, and lend a hand with the weapons. I take it you are well used to them.”
Gervase followed the captain on deck where the men were busy with the halliards, and all was lively confusion and disorder. The seamen were already swarming on the yards of the Dartmouth, and the long boat of the Swallow was in the water, with the carpenters hammering upon the rough barricado with which they were protecting her sides. The wind which from the morning had been blowing in quiet airs from the north-west, had gone round to the north and had freshened somewhat. In the summer sky there was hardly a cloud; the waves leapt and flashed in the sunshine, and the vessels were beginning to plunge at their cables in the livelier sea.
By the time that Gervase had finished his scrutiny of the cutlasses and muskets, and had seen to the loading of the three guns that the Phoenix carried, McKeller and the men had the vessel under sail. Then the windlass was manned, and it was only when the anchor had been lifted, and the little vessel was slipping through the water that Gervase felt their work was really begun and his task was about to be completed. The captain himself had taken the tiller, standing square and firm, with his coat thrown aside, and the sleeves of his shirt rolled up and showing his brown, muscular arms.
“There goes the Dartmouth,” he cried to Gervase, who was standing near him, “well done, and seamanly. And the Mountjoy--she has the lead of us, being weightier and more strongly timbered. I don´t grudge it to Browning; he´s a good fellow and a gallant seaman. We´ve sailed together ere now. And the old Jerusalem--she´ll come up when the eggs are boiled. We´ll have to knock once or twice before they let us in.”
The Dartmouth led the way with her ports open and the iron muzzles of her guns all agrin, the white sails on her lofty spars swelling out under the freshening wind. She did not wait for her consorts, but held her way steadily toward the river´s mouth where the castle of Culmore guarded the entrance. The Mountjoy outsailed the Phoenix much to the chagrin of Douglas, and three cables´ lengths already divided them. The men leaned over the bulwarks watching the fort where they could see the soldiers hastening to the guns, and could hear the drums beating the alarm. As yet the Dartmouth was not within range of the cannon, but already a round shot or two had come skipping along the water and had fallen short. As they drew toward the river´s mouth the breeze had grown lighter, and Gervase feared that the afternoon would set in a stagnant calm. But they had the tide with them, and the wind blew fairly up the river.
“There´s the music now,” cried Douglas, as the guns of the fort flashed along the ramparts; “there´s a hole in the royal yonder, but ´twill take more than that to turn old Leake. Will he never let them hear him?”
The Dartmouth was already within range, but she held on her way gallantly, never answering the fire that was poured upon her. Again and again the guns of the fort flashed out, and the frigate´s canvas was torn by the shot, but her spars remained untouched. Still Leake held on steadily, his guns still silent and his men sheltering themselves as best they could behind the bulwarks. Only when he came within close range so that every shot might tell, his guns spoke for the first time. Again and again the living sheet of flame leapt from the open ports, and the great shot went crashing into the fort. As the fire of the enemy slackened perceptibly the seamen set up a great cheer, which[cheer, which] was caught up by the men of the Mountjoy that had now come nearly alongside and was holding its way up the river. Lying abreast of the fort and within musket shot the crew of the frigate plied the fort with cannon and with small arms, while the Mountjoy, followed by the Phoenix, came drifting slowly up channel past the castle and safely out of range of its guns. Then the Dartmouth, her work being done, was moored in the bend of the river above Culmore, while the merchant ships went slowly up the narrow and winding channel, and the men in the Swallow´s long boat kept them company and bent to their oars with a will. The great guns in the earthen forts along the river gave them welcome as they came, and the musket balls went singing by their ears.
It was a sight to see Douglas at the tiller, with a broad smile on his face and the dancing light of battle in his eyes. Once or twice he laughed aloud as some of the smaller spars came tumbling to the deck. And now in the pauses of the great guns and above the rattle of the muskets, they could hear in the summer air the shouts of the citizens from the walls--shouts of triumph and delight. On that scene the chroniclers have dwelt with some pride and much pathos. Every man who could drag himself to the wall was gathered there that summer day. Gaunt and hollow-eyed; so hunger-stricken that they could scarcely stand, wasted by fever and by wounds, they took up the joyous shout of triumph. Stout soldiers gave way to tears upon the necks of their comrades. Their anguish and despair were swallowed up in the hope of present deliverance. Here and there little groups were kneeling as in prayer for the safety of those who were bringing them succour, and never was prayer more earnest offered to the God of battles.