“Order all hands to be ready to make sail,” and as soon as the men had sprung to their stations, he shouted—
“Up with your helm; hard,—harder. Man the clew garnets—board tacks—topsails, royals—and flying jib,—merrily all, my men.”
And as sheet after sheet of canvass was distended to the wind, we came gallantly around, and catching the breeze over our taffrail, went off dead before the wind, passing, however, within pistol shot of the enemy.
“Have you any message for Newport?” said Paul Jones, springing into the mizzen-rigging, and hailing the infuriated English captain, as we shot past him.
“Give it to him with the grape—all hands make sail—fire!” came hoarsely down from the frigate, in harsh and angry tones.
“Good day, and many thanks for your present,” said our imperturbable commander, as the discharge swept harmlessly by; and then leaping upon the deck, he ran his eye aloft.
“Run aft with that sheet—send out the kites aloft there, more merrily—we shall drop the rascals now, my gallant fellows,” shouted the elated captain, as we swept like a sea-gull away from the foe; while the men, inspired by the boldness and success of the manœuvre, worked with a redoubled alacrity, which promised soon to place us without reach of the enemy’s fire. The desperate efforts of the frigate to regain her advantage, were, meanwhile, of no avail. Taken completely by surprise, she could neither throw out her light sails sufficiently quick, nor direct her fiery broadsides with any precision. Not a grape-shot struck us, although the water to larboard was ploughed up with the iron hail. We soon found that we outsailed her before the wind, and in less than an hour we had drawn beyond range of her shot.
Her parents are weeping, she sheds not a tear, Loved voices are calling, alas! can she hear?— The hyacinth blossom is plucked from its stem, The casket is broken, and scattered the gem.
Pale Death! the grim archer, hath bended his bow, The arrow hath vanished, the dove is laid low; Ah! fair was the victim thus fated to bleed, And well might the spoiler exult in his deed.
A VERITABLE STORY TOLD BY JEREMY SHORT, ESQ.
“Ah! Mr. Editor, glad to see you in this cramped hole—no air, hot as a furnace—egad, I’m almost baked; and as for smoking one’s meerschaum, or drinking claret in a stage coach, you might as well dream of heaven in the paws of a prairie bear. Ah! you’ve got a cigar, I see—God bless the man that first invented tobacco. But hark ’e, who was that tall, slim, low-shouldered gentleman, with the long neck, that sat in the bar-room corner, in a semi-animated state, and hadn’t spoke for a half an hour until he growled back your salutation?”