“Ah! Waal, may be. Whoever it is, he creeped quite close up on me in the dark. It give me quite a sterk when I seen him. ‘May be,’ says I, ‘he is a privateering—pirating—chap,’ So I runs in shore as close as I could; gets my centre board in, and, says I, ‘I’ll see what you’re made of, my boy,’ And so we goes on. He ain’t a-gaining on us, I can tell you.”
I looked through the glass, and could just make out, half or three-quarters of a mile astern, and to leeward, a vessel, looking quite black, which seemed to be standing on in pursuit of us. The shore was so close, we could almost have leaped into the surf, for when the centre board was up the Diana did not draw much more than four feet water. The skipper held grimly on. “You had better shake your wind, and see who it is; it may be Mr. Brown.” “No, sir, Mr Brown or no, I can’t help carrying on now; there’s a bank runs all along outside of us, and if I don’t hold my course I’ll be on it in one minute.” I confess I was rather annoyed, but the captain was master of the situation. He said, that if it had been the Oriental she would have fired a blank gun to bring us to as soon as she saw us. To my inquiries why he did not awaken me when she was first made out, he innocently replied, “You was in such a beautiful sleep, I thought it would be regular cruelty to disturb you.”
By creeping close in shore the Diana was enabled to keep to windward of the stranger, who was seen once or twice to bump or strike, for her sails shivered. “There, she’s struck again.” “She’s off once more,” and the chase is renewed. Every moment I expected to have my eyes blinded by the flash of her bow gun, but for some reason or another, possibly because she did not wish to check her way, the Oriental—privateer, or whatever it was—saved her powder.
A stern chase is a long chase. It is two o’clock in the morning—the skipper grinned with delight. “I’ll lead him into a pretty mess if he follows me through the ‘Swash,’ whoever he is.” We were but ten miles from Fort Morgan. Nearer and nearer to the shore creeps the Diana.
“Take a cast of the lead, John.” “Nine feet.” “Good. Again.” “Seven feet.” “Again.” “Five feet.” “Charlie, bring the lantern.” We were now in the “Swash,” with a boiling tideway.
Just at the moment that the negro uncovered the lantern out it went, a fact which elicited the most remarkable amount of imprecations ear ever heard. The captain went dancing mad in intervals of deadly calmness, and gave his commands to the crew, and strange oaths to the cook alternately, as the mate sung out, “Five feet and a-half.” “About she goes! Confound you, you black scoundrel, I’ll teach you,” &c., &c. “Six feet! Eight feet and a-half!” “About she comes again.” “Five feet! Four feet and a-half.” (Oh, Lord! Six inches under our keel!) And so we went, with a measurement between us and death of inches, not by any means agreeable, in which the captain showed remarkable coolness and skill in the management of his craft, combined with a most unseemly animosity towards his unfortunate cook.
It was very little short of a miracle that we got past the “Elbow,” as the most narrow part of the channel is called, for it was just at the critical moment the binnacle light was extinguished, and went out with a splutter, and there we were left in darkness in a channel not one hundred yards wide and only six feet deep. The centre board also got jammed once or twice when it was most important to lie as close to the wind as possible; but at last the captain shouted out, “It’s all right, we’re in deep water,” and calling the mate to the helm proceeded to relieve his mind by chasing Charlie into a corner and belabouring him with a dead shark or dog fish about four feet long, which he picked up from the deck as the handiest weapon he could find. For the whole morning, henceforth, the captain found great comfort in making constant charges on the hapless cook, who at last slyly threw the shark overboard at a favourable opportunity, and forced his master to resort to other varieties of Rhadamantine implements. But where was the Oriental all this time? No one could say; but Charlie, who seemed an authority as to her movements, averred she put her helm round as soon as we entered the “Swash,” and disappeared in black night.
The Diana had thus distinguished herself by running the blockade of Pensacola, but a new triumph awaited her. As we approached Fort Morgan a grey streak in the East just offered light enough to distinguish the outlines of the fort and of the Confederate flag which waved above it. A fair breeze carried us abreast of the signal station, one solitary light gleamed from the walls, but neither guard boat put off to board us, nor did sentry hail, nor was gun fired—still we stood on. “Captain, had you not better lie-to? They’ll be sending a round shot after us presently.” “No, sir. They are all asleep in that fort,” replied the indomitable skipper.
Down went his helm, and away ran the Diana into Mobile Bay, and was soon safe in the haze beyond shot or shell, running towards the opposite shore. This was glory enough, for the Diana of Mobile. The wind blew straight from the North into our teeth, and at bright sunrise she was only a few miles inside the bay.