“It’s Long Tom Shannon,” said he, “and it would have been a lot better if we hadn’t come up with him. It’s strange you didn’t know him, the worst rascal on the coast.”
CHAPTER XXVI.
WE REPEL BOARDERS
There was no one in sight aboard the brig save the skipper and the man at the wheel, but we knew she had a full crew. The barque hauled up rapidly, even while the mate and skipper spoke, and we stood at the port guns, ready to let loose a broadside that would finish our enemy.
“Hard aport,” came the order, and we expected to swing quickly to starboard, and thus bring each gun to bear at close range, our heavier battery of twelve-pounders being sufficient to cripple any vessel the size of the brig, who, with her little six-pounders, could hardly hope for escape.
Some one, I think it must have been Martin, let fly the jib-sheet as a little air filled it, and prevented our paying off rapidly, and, as we went, we had the satisfaction of seeing the brig port his helm also, and swing up ahead of us, while he opened again with his gun on the poop. Hawkson saw the mistake, or trick, whichever it was, with the head-sheet, and, roaring out orders to flatten it in, he sprang down upon the main-deck, followed by Gull and Henry, and rushed forward to the braces.
A shot from the brig’s six-pounder struck Pete, a dago, and cut him almost in half, flinging him bodily upon Anderson, both going into the starboard scuppers in a heap. Then, before the long Yankee captain realized what we were about, we had braced sharp on the starboard tack forward, and he, thinking we would haul up to bring our battery to bear, came up into the wind, and, falling off, drifted down upon us until it was certain we would be alongside in a few minutes.
“Tumble up here, ye bullies,” he cried, in his drawling tones, and, as he spoke, his men came bounding from below, rushing for the starboard fore-rigging, to come aboard us the instant the vessels fouled. Luckily the battery was loaded, and in an instant Hawkson was at the guns with Gull, Henry, and myself, bawling for men to leave the main-braces and lend a hand, while Howard himself rolled the wheel hard up again.
The brig fell off until her jib-boom came across the poop, where Hicks and a couple of men tried to bear it off astern. They only partly succeeded, but they managed to keep it clear of the backstays and prevent fouling, while the brig’s crew fired several shot into us, getting in return our four heavy twelves, that did some execution among them, several men falling upon the deck at the discharge. Howard jumped forward on the poop, calling for men to repel boarders, and, after firing the last gun, we swarmed up the poop-ladder to check the piratical-looking crew that had now left everything on the brig’s deck, and was climbing into her chains, armed with cutlass and pistol, for a spring aboard us.
The long skipper balanced himself on the fore sheer-pole, with his cutlass swinging in his hand and a belt stuck full of pistols. In an instant he gave a yell for his men to follow, and sprang with the ease of a cat upon our poop-rail, right among us. It was a long jump, and only possible for a man of great length of limb.
“Come on, Brannigan,” he drawled out to his mate, making a slash at Howard’s bare poll, but the old skipper warded off the blow, while we rushed in upon him. Then we were favoured by a most singular turn of fortune, aided by Hawkson’s skill.