Brothers of Peril: A Story of old Newfoundland

by Theodore Goodridge Roberts

"God strengthen you, brave hearts," she cried, softly; and the nearer of the loyal mariners saw the tears shimmering beneath her lashes.

The Heart of the West held on her course, breaking the waves in fountains from her forging bow. The Cristobal raced down upon her with the wind square abeam. It was evidently her intention to cross the merchantman's bows and rake her with a broadside.

Aboard the Heart of the West every man was at his post, and the matches were like pale stars in the hands of the gunners. The second mate was on the forecastle-head, beside the bow-chaser. The first mate stood in the waist. Kingswell paced the poop, fore and aft. Each measured and calculated the brisk approach of the Cristobal with unwinking eyes, and considered the straining sails overhead and the speed of the wind.

Still the pirate boiled down upon them, leaning over in the press of the half-gale. It was evident to Kingswell that she would pass across his bows within a distance of a hundred yards, unless something was done to prevent it. He spoke quietly to the men at the tiller, and called an order to the officer amidships. Twenty seconds later he gave the signal. The tiller was pushed over, the yards were hauled around, and the good ship swung to the north and took the wind on her larboard beam. Now the vessels leaned on the same course, and were not two hundred yards apart. Almost at the same moment they exchanged broadsides, and the challenging shouts of men mingled with the roaring of the little cannonades. The smoke from the merchantman's ports blew down, in a stifling cloud, upon the enemy. The Cristobal fell off before the wind in an unaccountable manner. The Heart of the West luffed, in the hope of bringing her heavy after-battery to bear, saw that the manœuvre could not be accomplished, and flew about on her old course.

"Her tiller is shot away," cried Kingswell. A cheer rang along the decks and penetrated the cabins fore and aft. Beatrix heard it, and thanked God. Old Trowley heard it, and, beating his manacled wrists against the bulkhead, roared to be cast loose that he might bear a hand in the fight.

From that first exchange of round-shot, the Heart of the West escaped without hurt, owing to the fact that the enemy's guns, elevated by the pressure of the gale upon her windward side, sent their missiles high between the upper spars of the merchantman. The Cristobal, however, was hulled by two balls, and had her tiller carried away by a third; for, just as her guns were elevated to harmlessness by the list of the deck, so were the merchantman's depressed to a deadly aim by the list of hers.

Taking every advantage which a sound tiller and perfectly trimmed sails gave her over her enemy, the Heart of the West raced after the buccaneer. Passing close astern, she raked her with her three larboard guns. Running on, and slanting across the wind's course more and more, she presently had her two after-guns to bear on the three-quarter target of the Cristobal's starboard side. The range was middling; but, even so, the gunners sent up a prayer to Luck, so violent were the soarings and sinkings of the deck. The shots were followed by a tottering of high sails above the Cristobal, and with a flapping and rending, the mizzenmast fell forward and stripped the main of three of her yards.

Now the disabled, tillerless Cristobal, kept before the wind by a great sweep, fled heavily. Her decks were cluttered with snarled wreckage. Half a dozen of her crew were injured. Her commander and Master Silva were mad with rage at the unexpected turn of events.