“That they have, sir,” he assented, “and unless we get a cloudy sky before morning I fear we shan’t shake them off at all, sir.”
It was a fear that kept every one of us on the deck that night—a fear that grew more and more into a certainty. Ten times I changed our helm; ten times the pursuing vessel took our trail—and morning came with her less than a half mile behind us.
To add to our discomfiture the stiff breeze of the last twenty-four hours died away to an occasional puff. Under the light wind with our heavy cargo we scarcely moved, while the frigate, of lighter draft, crept steadily down upon us.
At seven o’clock a shot from her bow gun carried away our maintopmast, and sent sails and spars tumbling to the deck. This crippled us and enabled her to gain rapidly upon us, and soon she was where she could pour a broadside in upon us.
“Heave to, or we’ll sink you,” her commander shouted out, and with a heavy heart I gave the order to heave to the ship; then I hastened below, where, mindful of Captain Tucker’s command, I destroyed the record of his signals, and his letter to me.
When I came out of the cabin a boat from our capturer was at our side. An instant later the officer in charge mounted to the deck and called out in per-emptory tones:
“What craft is this? And who is in command of her?”
“The ship Martha, a prize of the Continental frigate Boston, Midshipman Arthur Dunn with a crew of fifteen in charge, and bound for Boston,” I replied with the best grace I could assume.
“Show me the ship’s original papers,” he demanded.
Having anticipated such a request I had the papers with me, and now handed them to him. He looked them over, and then began to laugh uproariously. Finally he managed to say: