The Silver Sea did hold her head up to the sea without any canvas, for she was very deep, and she sagged off to leeward less than the Hawke.
Enoch Moss went below and came on deck again with a Winchester rifle. Then he seated himself comfortably near the wheel and fired cartridge after cartridge at the trysail of the schooner. After half an hour’s sport there was nothing to indicate that his shots had taken effect, so he desisted. All Christmas day the vessels were within sight of each other and towards evening the wind began to slack up.
Gonzales was first to take advantage of the lull. He put a close-reefed mainsail on his little vessel, and, with a bonneted jib hoisted high above the sea-washed forecastle, he sent the Hawke reaching through it like mad.
He came close under the Silver Sea’s lee-quarter, and fired his whale-gun slap into the ship’s cabin. The shell burst and scattered the skipper’s charts all over the deck and set fire to the bulkhead. Then began the most novel fight that ever occurred on deep water.
Enoch Moss, O’Toole, and Garnett kept up a rapid fire with their rifles upon the schooner’s deck, but, although the range was not great, the motion of the plunging vessels made it almost impossible to hit even a good-sized mark. Gonzales, in turn, fired his whale-gun as long as he was close enough to use it, and he made the splinters fly from the deck-house and cabin. Then he and his fellows took to their sealing rifles and kept up a hot fire until the Hawke passed ahead out of range. Three times did the Spaniard go to windward and run down on the heavily loaded ship, while all hands worked to get canvas on her. Finally, when the Silver Sea hoisted topsails, fore and aft, she began to drive ahead at a reasonable rate, but with dangerous force, into the heavy sea. Even then Gonzales could outpoint her, and had no difficulty in keeping within easy rifle range. From there he kept up a slow but steady fire upon everything that had the appearance of life on the Silver Sea’s deck.
Late in the evening it was still quite light, and he drew closer. A huge Patagonian was seen upon the schooner’s forecastle, firing slowly and carefully. Soon after this a sailor was struck and badly injured. The faint crack of the sealing rifle continued to sound at regular intervals, and Enoch Moss began to get desperate. He stood behind the mizzen, watching the Hawke following him as a dog follows a boar.
“This can’t keep up forever,” he said to O’Toole. “He’ll wear us out before we make port. I reckon we might as well stand away for the Falklands.”
“’Tis no use; I can’t hit him,” said O’Toole, jamming his rifle into the furled spanker. “Th’ men are all scared half mad, an’ if it falls calm he’ll board us certain; ’pon me whurd he will.”
“We must chance it, then,” said Enoch Moss. “Hoist away the fore-and main-t’gallant-sails. We’ll run for it.”
In ten minutes the Silver Sea was standing away to the eastward, with half a gale on her quarter. She hoisted sail after sail, until she drove along fully twelve knots an hour, leaving a wide, white wake into which Gonzales squared away. But he could not overhaul her. He shook out his reefs and hoisted a foresail, burying his little vessel’s head in a wild smother of foam.