“All hands quit the ship!” he shouted, before he would allow the boat to shove off.
No one, we were assured, was left behind. It was time to be free of her. Glad enough we were to pull away, and we soon had the satisfaction of seeing the other three boats free of the ship and pulling out to sea. Several of the crew of the boat had once belonged to the Syren.
“There goes the old girl. She deserved a better fate,” they exclaimed, as they watched the conflagration. “She keeps up her spirits to the last, though,” they added, as her guns were discharged one after the other in rapid succession—some of them doing, I suspect, some damage on shore, towards which their muzzles were pointed. We were saved the trouble of destroying the transport, for by some means or other she had caught fire, and before the enemy could get on board to put it out or to save any of her stores, she had burnt to the water’s edge. The enemy kept popping away at us while we pulled off from the shore, for the light of the burning frigate falling on the boats’ sides made us tolerably conspicuous targets. However, we kept the ship as much as possible between us and the rebels, and as they were likewise not particularly good shots, we escaped with a very trifling amount of damage. Indeed, I should, before I had had experience in the matter, have believed it scarcely possible that so much powder and shot could have been expended with so small a result. One man got a flesh-wound in the right arm, and another had his head grazed, while the boats were struck not more than half-a-dozen times in all. Suddenly the firing ceased. There was a perfect silence. Then the flames from the frigate seemed to burn brighter than ever, and it appeared as if the whole blazing mass was lifted bodily up into the air like a huge sky-rocket. Fragments of masts and spars and planks darted above the rest, and then, scattering around, very quickly again came hissing down into the water. A deep groan escaped the bosoms of many of our men. There was no cheering—no sound of exultation. An old friend had been destroyed; they mourned for her, though they themselves had assisted in her destruction. War, and what war produces, is at the best very horrid work. I cannot, even now, think over all the havoc and destruction we, as was our duty, were the means of producing, without feelings of regret and shame.
It was nearly midnight when I got back to my craft. The signal was soon afterwards made to weigh anchor, when we made sail towards the mouth of the harbour. There had been a stiffish breeze all the time we had been engaged in the destruction of the Syren, but it had not come on to blow very hard, and the night was extremely dark. The schooner’s head was off shore, and, overcome with fatigue, I had just thrown myself on a locker, with my clothes on, to snatch a few moments’ sleep, when Tom Rockets roused me up with the information that a strange sail was crossing our bows. I instantly sprang on deck, and, catching sight of the stranger, put up the helm in chase. Away we flew through the hissing, heaving seas after her, shrouded in a mass of foam. I asked Grampus what he thought her.
“A schooner, sir. When I first saw her there was no doubt of it,” was his answer. “An enemy’s coaster.”
Just as he spoke, a gleam of light breaking through the clouds showed us the chase right ahead. She had now very little chance of escaping from us. We were coming up with her hand-over-hand. As we drew near I fired one of our bow-chasers. Still she held on, so I fired another, and this time with some effect, for she at once put down her helm and hauled her foresail to windward. The tender had a jolly-boat belonging to her. I jumped into it with Tom Rockets and another hand, and soon stood in safety on the deck of the prize. She had, I saw, a number of hands on board, and I felt somewhat surprised that they did not bundle me and my two hands into the boat, and tell us to go back whence we had come. She was, however, only a quiet honest trader, so her master affirmed, from Bedford, bound to Connecticut with fish and oil. On counting her people, I found that she mustered sixteen in all—stout, fierce-looking fellows. Some two or three of them said they were landsmen, and one hailed as a Quaker and a non-combatant, but I did not like the looks of any of them. I sent Rockets to the helm, and told him to keep the prize under the lee of the tender. I found that the schooner had a large boat on board. I accordingly ordered the crew to lower her into the water.
“Now, my lads,” said I, “tumble into her yourselves, and make the best of your way to the shore. It is a dark night, and not very pleasant weather, I own, but it is either that or a prison, you know.”
Before I had done speaking the rebels had begun to launch the boat, too glad of the opportunity of getting on shore to consider the danger they must run in reaching it. The Quaker, however, did not appear at all to relish the trip, and protested vehemently against being thus unceremoniously sent adrift. He protested that he was as quiet as a lamb, and, that he would obey my orders as strictly as if he had taken the oath of allegiance to King George. I told him that might be, but that “necessity has no law greater than itself.” Then he assured me that he was a non-combatant; that to fight was against his principles, and that he would not dream of lifting a finger against any man.
“I dare say not, friend,” I answered, “but you wouldn’t mind boring a hole in a ship’s bottom and letting her go down, or setting fire to her, and letting her blow up with all hands on board, provided you could make your escape unhurt, eh?”
I saw that I had by chance hit the right nail on the head, and that he had, some time or other, done the very thing I suggested. He said nothing further. Still he evidently did not like being turned adrift in the boat. I, however, was inexorable. The enemy had so frequently retaken vessels which had been captured from them, that I was, I own, afraid to trust any of the prisoners I had just made. I accordingly bundled the Quaker in with the rest. I must own that I acted a harsh part. It turned out a terrible night. It was blowing very fresh, and there was a heavy sea running, while it was more than usually dark. I scarcely reflected at the time on the dreadful risk to which I was exposing the poor fellows. In vain I afterwards endeavoured to discover what became of them. They might have reached the shore in safety, or been picked up by some friendly vessel; but they might have been run down, or their boat might have been swamped, and they all might have perished miserably. I pray they might have escaped. If not, their deaths were at my door.