“The ship Barton.”
“Where do you belong?”
“To Liverpool.”
“What is your cargo?”
“Red-wood, palm oil and ivory.”
“Where are you bound to?”
“To St. Thomas.”
Just at that moment our English flag was hauled down, and, to the inexpressible annoyance of the officers of the Barton, the stars and stripes supplied its place.
“Haul down your colors!” continued Captain Nicholson.
The old captain, who, up to this moment, had been enjoying a comfortable nap in his very comfortable cabin, now came upon deck in his shirt sleeves, rubbing his eyes, and looking so exquisitely ridiculous, it was scarcely possible to avoid laughing. So surprised was he at the unexpected termination of his dreams, he could not command skill enough to strike his colors; which was accordingly done by the mate. As they had two or three guns aboard, and as some of the men looked as if they would like to fight, our captain told us, if they fired to not “leave enough of her to boil a tin pot with.” After this expressive and classical threat, we lowered our boats and took possession of this our first prize.