“How do you know that?” returned Aaron, with a grim smile, “since I have been fool enough to trust myself in this dancing cork of a vessel;” as he spoke he laid aside his coat, unsheathed a cutlass, and bound a red woolen cloth round his head.
The slaver, who was now hardly a cable’s length from us, suddenly put up his helm with the evident intention of running under our quarters, but at this moment we poured a broadside into him. I could see the white splinters fly from his side, and again there rang in our ears a sharp piercing cry, followed by that long, melancholy howl already described.
“We have hit some of the poor blacks again,” said Tailtackle, who was still on deck.
But we had no further time for observation, for the Spaniard returned our broadside with the same cold-blooded precision as before.
“Down with the helm and let her swing round,” cried I––“cross his quarters––forward there––out with the sweeps, and hold her steady––that’s right––now run over a gun and let him have it––steady boys––aim well––fire!”
We now lay directly across the stern of the slaver, hardly thirty feet from him, and although he defended himself with great determination and courage, pouring 108 upon us a perfect shower of musket balls from his rigging and cabin windows, yet I saw very clearly that in consequence of the skill with which our helm was managed, enabling us to retain a raking position, that our fire was making terrible havoc on board of him.
“Hurrah! his foremast’s down. Well done, boys; pepper him well, whilst he is in confusion. There goes his gaff and flag, but don’t stop firing on that account; it did not come down with his consent. I told you so––he has run it up again. Good, my lads; you have shot the main yard away now, and he can’t escape us.”
Nimbly as monkeys, two sailors clambered up the rigging to repair the injury done. Had they succeeded in their object, the slaver would again have got under way and escaped from our fire. All this time, Bangs and Gelid had been firing at the enemy with the most murderous precision. They lay behind the bulwarks, and their black servants were in the cabin busily engaged in loading their muskets for them. Wagtail, who was not much of a shot, sat on deck and passed the weapons up and down.
“For heaven’s sake, Master Bangs,” cried I, “pick off those two men in the rigging. Down with them.”
“What! those two chaps at the end of the long pole?” asked Bangs, turning to me with the greatest coolness imaginable.