“Never,” answered back the captain of a gun before him; “Huzza for the brave thirteen—down with the tyrants—give it to ’em one and all—huzza.”
An answering shout rose up from the crew, the guns that could be brought to bear were jerked out, and simultaneously the whole of our forward larboard side was a sheet of flame, while the old craft trembled from kelson to cross-trees, and heeled back with the recoil, till the yard-arms almost touched the water.
“Brace back the yards,” shouted the commodore, as soon as his voice could be heard above the din, and obedient to the press of the wind, our vessel fell slowly astern.
“They are laying aback their forward, and shivering their after sails, on board the frigate,” said Dale.
“Box-hauling her, by St. Andrew,” said the commodore; “the knaves are for luffing up athwart our bows, in order to rake us. But it takes two to play at that game—we’ll drop astern a little more, fill on the opposite tack, and luff up against her as she comes to the wind. Let us once lay her athwart hawse, and the battle’s won.”
Rapidly and steadily our daring leader gave his orders to execute this manœuvre, but the smoke had settled down so thick around us, shrouding the moon almost entirely from sight, that we could only now and then catch a glimpse of the approaching enemy, and miscalculating our distance, instead of meeting her as we had expected, we were run into by the frigate, her bowsprit crashing over our high towerlike poop.
“Parker,” said Paul Jones, quickly, “get some lashings and help me to fasten her head-gear to the mizzen mast. That’s it—we have her now.”
“Aye, and the frigate feels the strain already,” said I, as we finished our hasty work; “see how she swings around by our side—something has given way on board of her, by that crash.”[[1]]
“You’re right, but lash fast yonder anchor that’s hooked in our quarter—we’ll not let them escape now—but yonder come their fellows as if to board us. Boarders ahoy! beat back the villains,” and springing from my side, our ever ready leader, himself led the party to repulse the foe. I followed. Dark masses of seamen, clustered on the sides of the frigate, were endeavoring to effect an entrance on our deck; thrusting with their long pikes, cutting and slashing with their cutlasses, and cheering each other on to the attack, with shouts and imprecations. For an instant, our crew, fearfully outnumbered, seemed to waver; but at this moment Paul Jones leaped into the midst of the fray, and, with one stroke of his weapon bringing a foe to the deck, shouted, “Down with the miscreants—strike home one and all—bravely my lads,” and accompanying each word with a blow, he cleared a space before him in less time than I have taken to narrate the event. For an instant the enemy faltered, but a huge boatswain the next moment rallied them, and aiming a pistol at Paul Jones, the fellow shouted,
“Hurl the pirates to perdition—come on, hearts of oak—”