The line-of-battle ships were by this time beginning to feel the fury of the gale, which was well nigh carrying her masts out of the frigate, or sending her over on her beam-ends. The more, however, the Spaniards saw her pressed, the less willing they were to shorten sail. She now kept edging more and more away to bring the wind further astern, squaring her yards as she did so, the Spaniards having to do the same. They did not seem to think it worth while to spend much powder and shot on her, as they, of course, felt sure of capturing her in the end. It was a grand sight to see the little English frigate dauntlessly doing her utmost to escape from her huge pursuers, the foam in dense masses flying over her, while, with bending masts, and lee-shrouds bulging out, she dashed through the frantic waves, her side, as she heeled over, half buried beneath them. What hope was there of her escaping?
One huge Spaniard was on her weather, another on her lee-beam, while the other was coming up fast astern on her weather quarter. Still Lord Claymore did not despair. He stepped down among the crew and spoke to them.
“My lads, never say die while there’s life. Let every man and boy of you do your best, and we’ll yet give the Dons the slip. Be smart, as if your lives depended on it. To your stations now.”
Every man stood ready, watching the captain’s eye. He had explained his plan to his officers. All was ready. There was a dead silence—the gale roared louder than ever—the frigate tore through the waves. The Spaniards were close upon her; angry at her still holding out, they began to fire; the shots came fast and thick, flying over and on each side of the frigate, but hitherto none had struck her. At length the Spaniards saw again that firing was of no use—they should only be knocking their destined prize to pieces—like vast mountains of snow they came rushing on. It appeared as if they were about to crush the little frigate with their united weight.
“Ready, lads!” shouted the captain of the “Pallas.”
“Clew up! Haul down!”
Those magic words put every human being on board the frigate in motion. Tacks and sheets were let go. Some hauled away at the brails. Topsails were clewed up, topgallant sheets were let fly, stay-sails hauled down, and the frigate, which an instant before was under a cloud of canvas, was now reduced to her bare poles.
The Spaniards, totally unprepared for such a manoeuvre, at first scarcely comprehended what had happened. On the huge ships sailed in their headlong course. It did not occur to their captains to attempt instantly to shorten sail, but one and all turned their eyes aft to see what their expected prize was about.
Lord Claymore watched them for a short time, but only to assure himself that they were well to leeward of him. The frigate had not lost her way through the water.
“Down with the helm!” cried the captain, in a cheerful tone, which gave encouragement to all. “Hoist away! Flatten aft the sheets!”