“If I might advise, sir, I think we had better keep our hatches down; that fellow is not honorable, depend upon it, sir.”
“Very well, Tailtackle, very well. Forward there, Master Jigmaree; give him a shot, if he won’t speak, right between the masts, sir. Do you hear?”
“Aye, aye, sir,” answered the boatswain.
“Fire.”
The gun was discharged, and immediately we heard the crashing of timbers on board the stranger, accompanied by a piercing cry, such as a negro makes at the death of his companions, and then came a long and doleful howl.
“A slaver, sir, and our shot has struck him,” cried Handlead, the gunner.
“Then we shall have a little sport,” remarked I. Hardly had I spoken, when the brig again shortened sail, and fired 95 a shot from her bows; then came another, and another, and another.
“She shows a good set of teeth,” cried Jigmaree; “nine on a side, as I am a living sinner!”
Three of the shots struck us, mortally wounding a sailor, and injuring the poor little midshipman, Reefpoint, who was hit by a splinter.
“Steady, men––aim low––fire!”