now seen, for the hull was completely shrouded in a thick canopy of
smoke, shooting ahead, as if it was her intention to pay broad off
across our forefoot. Paul Jones saw the manœuvre, and determined to
avail himself of it to run afoul of his antagonist; for, with our vast
inferiority of metal, there was not the remotest chance of success in a
regular combat. The attempt, however, was in itself almost as desperate;
but it afforded a hope, though a slight one, of victory. Whatever might
be the fate of this daring proceeding, however, we were all actuated by
but one impulse, and that was, a determination to conquer or die. When,
therefore, the frigate forged ahead, we kept our sails trimmed and bore
steadily on. The result was as we had expected. Finding that she could
not effect her purpose, the frigate put her helm hard down, making a
desperate attempt to clear us. It was in vain. With a crash that shook
both vessels to their centre, we ran aboard of the foe, bows on, a
little on her weather quarter. With chagrin, we saw that it was
impossible to board our antagonist—an intention so well understood
among our men, that they had ceased firing on the moment. At this
instant the smoke swept partially away, and the English captain was seen
near the mizen rigging, shouting to know whether we had struck. The
inquiry brought the red blood in volumes into the face of Paul Jones, as
he thundered hoarsely,
“I have not yet begun to fight;” and then turning to his men, he said,
“out with your guns and have at them. Will you, by your silence, be
thought to have surrendered?”
“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—”
I was luckily by, and as the villain spoke, I struck up his arm, and his
ball glanced harmlessly over the Commodore’s head. The boatswain did not
live to take vengeance on me for my interposition—he did not even
survive to finish his sentence; for scarcely had the words left his
mouth, before Paul Jones drove his boarding pike deep into the
Englishman’s heart. There was a dull gurgling sound, as he fell back
without a groan, dropped heavily to the water, and sank like lead. His
companions were aghast, and struck with a sudden panic, retreated. The
next moment not one was left attempting to board.
During the last few minutes, my attention had been so occupied by the
sharp conflict, in which I was personally engaged with the boarders,
that I had lost sight altogether of the general battle; and I now cast a
hurried glance around to see what other advantages, if any, we had
gained over the enemy.
The sight that met my eye, almost blanched my cheek with apprehension.
Crowds of our men from the main deck were hurrying up the gangways, and
the thought instantly flashed across my mind that they had mutinied. The
guns, too, below, were all silenced, and only three or four twelves,
with a couple of pieces on the quarter deck, were being worked; while
the fire of the enemy was still kept up with unremitting fury. At this
juncture, a midshipman from the main deck passed me hurriedly.
I caught him by the arm.
“In God’s name,” I said, “what is the matter?”
“They are ripping us to pieces below, with their cursed eighteens,” was
the hurried response. “We kept it up as long as we could, often
thrusting our rammers into their ports, as we loaded, so close were we
to them. But it’s no use. They’re beating in our timbers as if our good
stout oak was no better than pasteboard. I am taking my men forward and
aloft, it is sheer murder to keep them below; they must fight now with
muskets and hand grenades,” and hurrying breathlessly away, he was the
next instant engaged in directing his men with an energy only second to
that of the Commodore, and which seemed to have diffused itself amongst
all.
The combat, which had paused a moment, now raged again with redoubled
fury. Crowding into the tops, and thronging on the forecastle, our brave
fellows kept up such a galling contest, with musketry and grenades,
that, in less than five minutes, every man of the enemy was driven
below, and his quarter deck was left tenanted only by the dead. But
fearfully did the foe return our fire from his heavy guns on the main
deck. Broadside after broadside was poured into us without
intermission—the old craft quivering like wounded flesh, at every
discharge, until it seemed as if each successive fire would end the
contest, by sending us to the bottom. Yet our men never flinched. No cry
for quarter, no murmur even, was heard. Manfully they stuck to their new
posts, keeping up their deadly warfare through the ports of the foe, and
though now and then an eye was turned around the horizon, to see whether
the Alliance was not coming to our aid, not a man displayed any signs of
fear. One of our fellows, even bolder than the rest, provided with a
bucket of grenades and a match, lay out on the yard, and coolly dropped
his combustibles on the deck of the frigate. One he threw with such
precision, that it went down the main hatchway. In an instant a slight
explosion took place, and we could hear, notwithstanding the uproar of
the guns, a whizzing sound running aft on board the enemy—while almost
simultaneously, the most thrilling shrieks of anguish rose up on the
air, succeeded by a stunning explosion, which drowned every other sound
in its fierce uproar.
“Their loose cartridges must have been fired,” I exclaimed, “God help
the poor wretches.”
“The day’s our own—huzza!” sung out a warrant officer beside me, “but,
in the name of heaven,” he said suddenly, “what means the Alliance?—she
is firing into us.”
I looked to windward, and no words can express my astonishment, when I
saw, in the hazy distance, the ship which ought to have been engaged at
our side with the foe, now heading to the westward, and firing hotly in
our direction, at the very moment that she was crossing our larboard
quarter, and when her shot could not reach the foe without passing
directly through us. The discharge, indeed, dismounted two of our guns,
beside damaging us aloft. She was by this time nearing us fast, and
directly abeam.
“You’re firing into a friend,” shouted fifty voices in a breath.
“What does he mean?” said Dale, “surely he can see that we haven’t
yellow sides like the foe—shew him the signal of recognition.”
The three lanterns, in a line, were instantly let down on the off side,
when the Alliance ceased firing.
“Lay the enemy aboard,” shouted the officer of the deck.
No answer was returned, and our consort kept coolly on her course.
“Did you hear the order?” thundered the now exasperated commodore; “lay
the enemy aboard, I say.”
“Ay, ay, sir.”
“Perdition take the cowardly traitor,” muttered Paul Jones betwixt his
teeth, as he turned from the recreant ship.
I watched, however, the course of the frigate until she had hauled off
some distance, and was almost lost in the shadowy gloom to larboard,
when suddenly a cry of “fire” startled me, and turning hastily around I
saw that the lower deck was a mass of flame. The confusion, for a
moment, baffled description. Men were hastening to and fro for buckets;
some shouted one thing and some another; a general consternation seemed
to be spreading among the crew, and all discipline, for an interval of
several minutes, was lost. To add to the disorder, the ship was
perceptibly settling, and a rumour spread through the decks that we
would sink in less than ten minutes. While everything was still plunged
in chaos, the Alliance again appeared, edging down on our larboard beam,
and hauling up athwart our bows, she poured in a fire of grape, which
took effect on our crowded forecastle, instead of on the enemy—if
indeed it was ever intended for the foe—and killed several of our own
men. Never shall I forget the fate of one of our best officers—poor
Creswell! who fell a victim to this discharge. I held his head in his
last moments, and with his eye already glazing in death, and his tongue
faltering in its accents, he prayed God to forgive his countrymen for
his wanton murder. My blood boiled with indignation against the
scoundrel who commanded the gallant Alliance, and, at that moment, I
would have given ten years of my life to have crossed swords with
Landais.
But I had no time for thoughts of revenge. Louder and louder swelled the
cry ‘that we were sinking,’ and, as I laid the dead man’s head on the
deck, I saw the carpenter hurry to the commodore with consternation
depicted on every feature of his face. Instantly the cry arose, that he
had sounded the pump-wells, and that all was over. The wildest confusion
followed. More than a hundred of our prisoners were let loose by the
master-at-arms, who imagined that all was over, and in a few minutes the
deck was crowded with them. Had they then known their power, we should
have been overpowered with ease, and, as I looked on their fierce faces,
I trembled for the first time. To add to all, the gunner rushed, at this
crisis, on deck, and not perceiving the commodore or the lieutenant,
would have hauled down our flag, and failing in this—for the staff had
been shot away—he cried out for quarter. Another second would have
decided our fate, but springing aft, I shouted that we had not
surrendered, and, at the same instant, the commodore re-appeared, and
confirming my assertion, rallied his men hastily around him, and led
them to repel a party of boarders, which taking advantage of our
disorder, was, at this moment, clustering on our gunwale. The conflict
here was short, but decisive. Fired anew by the words and example of
their commodore, our brave fellows redeemed their momentary vacillation,
and, aided by the men in the tops, hurled back the foemen, as if an
avalanche had struck them, on the decks of their frigate. Meantime, the
first lieutenant, availing himself of the fears of the prisoners, had
mustered them at the pumps, and, arming another party with buckets, had
succeeded in extinguishing the fire. The re-action, on the part of our
crew, was decisive. The men now fought with a fury that nothing could
suppress, for they knew over what a mine they hung, and that victory
must be soon theirs, or they would lose all. Several guns were dragged
over to the side against the foe, and the fire of our battery
re-commenced with treble vigor. The top-men hailed down grenades on the
frigate’s decks, and deafening volleys of musketry incessantly rattled
from our forecastle. The enemy could hold out no longer. A man darted up
the frigate’s hatchway, dashed aft, and the next moment the cross of
Britain was at our feet. A cheer, that shook the very welkin, and which,
dying away, was renewed and renewed again, burst from our brave tars,
and rolling down to leeward announced our hard bought victory.
-----
[1] The jib boom of the Serapis gave way, somewhere about this time.
Perhaps this was the moment. Ed.
* * * * *
ISRAFEL.[2]
BY EDGAR A. POE.
In Heaven a spirit doth dwell,
“Whose heart-strings are a lute;”
None sing so wildly well
As the angel Israfel,
And the giddy stars (so legends tell)
Ceasing their hymns, attend the spell
Of his voice, all mute.
Tottering above
In her highest noon
The enamoured moon
Blushes with love,
While, to listen, the red levin
Pauses in Heaven,
With the rapid Pleiads, even,
Which were seven.
And they say (the starry choir
And the other listening things)
That Israfeli’s fire
Is due unto that lyre
By which he sits and sings—
That trembling living lyre
With those unusual strings.
But the Heavens that angel trod,
Where deep thoughts are a duty—
Where Love is a grown God—
Where Houri glances are
Imbued with all the beauty
Which we worship in the star—
The more lovely, the more far!
Thou art not, therefore, wrong,
Israfeli, who despisest
An unimpassioned song.
To thee the laurels belong,
Best bard, because the wisest.
Merrily live, and long!
The ecstasies above
With thy burning measures suit—
Thy grief, thy joy, thy hate, thy love,
With the fervor of thy lute.
Well may the stars be mute!
Yes, Heaven is thine; but this
Is a world of sweets and sours—
Our flowers are merely—flowers;
And the shadow of thy bliss
Is the sunshine of ours.
If I did dwell
Where Israfel
Hath dwelt, and he where I,
He might not sing one half so well,
One half so passionately,
While a bolder note than this might swell
From my lyre within the sky!
-----
[2] And the angel Israfel, or Israfeli, whose heart-strings are a lute,
and who is the most musical of all God’s creatures.—Koran.
* * * * *
BYE-GONE HOURS.
WORDS BY THE
HON. MRS. NORTON.
MUSIC BY
MRS. PRICE BLACKWOOD.
_Philadelphia_: John F. Nunns, _184 Chesnut Street_.
[Illustration: musical score]
’Tis sad, ’tis sad to think upon
The joyous days of old—
When ev’ry year that wearies on,
Is number’d by some friendship gone!
Some
[Illustration: musical score]
kindly heart grown cold!
Could those days but come again
With their thorns and flowers!
I would give the hopes of years!
For those by-gone hours!
’Tis sad—’tis sad to number o’er
The faces glad and gay,
Which we have loved! Some smile no more,
Around us as they did of yore!
And some have turn’d away!
Could those days, &c.
’Tis sad—’tis sad to come again,
With changed heart and brow,
To our youth’s home, where none remain
Of those who made it blessed then—
Who leave it lonely now!
Could those days, &c.
Oh! little things bring back to me
The thoughts of by-gone hours.
The breath of kine upon the lea,
The murmur of the mountain bee,
The scent of hawthorn flow’rs!
Could those days, &c.
* * * * *
Sports and Pastimes.—THE FOWLING-PIECE.
A book presents to the shot an elastic body, like down, through which
large shot does not penetrate much farther than small, because it has to
displace and carry with it a larger mass of paper. Fur and feathers of
game do not present such a resisting body to the shot as the leaves of a
book do; therefore, although large shot will bear the above test, a much
fairer way of trying it would be to fire at thin pieces of wood fixed
upright, (a pile of cigar boxes would answer the purpose). The latter
trial would, we think, convince any one of the great difference in
momentum between the two charges. At forty yards, not more than three
No. 7 pellets could be calculated on to strike a partridge, and those
from a light gun would necessarily be weak; whereas, at that distance,
with our charge, two No. 2 pellets might be calculated upon, and with
what effect we leave the experimentalist to decide, when he has tried it
at a target composed of pieces of wood one eighth, one third, and one
half of an inch thick.
It is not so much the velocity as the momentum of a shot that renders it
effective. The momentum of a shot increases in a direct ratio with its
weight. The momentum of a No. 2 shot much more than compensates for the
diminished weight of powder and additional weight of lead that we have
recommended.
The structure of a bird or quadruped not protected by feathers or
fur—and we contend that game is very slightly so protected as against
shot—may be compared with that of a ship. It is a well ascertained fact
that a 64 lb. ball, moving with only half the velocity of a 32 lb. ball,
would produce more than double the effect; the larger, but slowly-flying
ball, would split a much thicker mast or beam, and do more damage to the
frame-work of a ship, than the small one. Upon the same principle, we
think large shot is more effective for shooting the stronger species of
game.
But assuming that game is right well fortified with a covering of fur,
feathers or down, that circumstance would not induce us to resort to
small shot; quite the reverse, because we know that small shot cannot be
fired through down effectively from a large gun at thirty yards, much
less from a light fowling-piece. No stanchion-gun will shoot No. 7
effectively at ducks, geese, and the larger wild-fowl—the birds killed
would be chiefly such as were struck in the head; not one would be
stopped by a body blow. Yet large shot from the stanchion-gun, after
passing through down, strikes an effective body blow. No doubt No. 7 may
be shot through down, but after overcoming the resistance, it would
scarcely injure the bird, certainly not break a bone.
Thus we find that small shot, fired from any gun, is totally inadequate
to kill birds protected with down by a body blow; but that large shot,
flying from a large gun with not half the velocity of the ineffectual
small shot, achieves what is desired. It is the momentum that effects
the object.
A collateral advantage arising from the use of large shot should not be
overlooked. In order to kill in good style with small shot, the aim must
be such that the bird fired at shall be near the centre of the charge as
thrown; for if the bird be near the outer circle of the charge, it is
ten to one that it is only slightly wounded; but if near the outer
circle of a charge of large shot, it is ten to one that it is brought
down; for it must not be lost sight of, that when large shot is used, a
single pellet will mostly be sufficient to bring a bird down. There is a
stunning effect produced by large shot, which throws the bird off its
balance at once. Small shot has not the same _immediate_ effect. Hares,
rabbits, grouse, pheasants, and full-grown partridges, will carry it
off, though they fall within a hundred yards. It is very seldom, indeed,
that a bird towers after being fired at with large shot.
The term friction implies a gradual contraction of the barrel towards
the muzzle, which retards the progress of the shot, that more time may
be allowed to the powder to burn. Relief accelerates the progress of
shot through the barrels. What is the proper degree of relief or
friction for different descriptions of barrels, is a subject fruitful of
controversy; as is also the form of the breech. The best breech is that
which will cause the greatest quantity of powder to consume in the
barrel, and give the least recoil. The percussion system of firing has
simplified the boring of guns. We think that short barrels intended to
be fired by percussion, should be bored perfect cylinders, and the
breech should be conical or nearly so, and capable of holding a little
more than half a charge of powder. Long barrels should be bored true
cylinders throughout the greater part of their length, a little relief
being allowed near the muzzle.
A barrel, which recoils from being light, or from not being held firmly
when fired, throws shot very weakly. So, on the other hand, barrels
which have sufficient weight to break the recoil, or which are placed
against something solid when fired, have their shooting power amazingly
increased. The reason is, that when the gun is allowed to recoil, a
portion of that power which should be employed in expelling the shot is
uselessly expended on a yielding surface in a contrary direction:
whereas, when the barrel is firmly fixed, or is of sufficient weight to
break the recoil, that portion of the explosive force which strikes
against the breech rebounds and is forced back upon the shot, and
consequently becomes a portion of the available strength of the charge.
This explains why the weight of the gun rather than a difference in
length or bore regulates the shooting power. In what follows, Mr.
Greener,[3] whose book contains a lucid exposition of the nature of
projectile force, shows this more clearly:—
“The fact that the shooting powers of a gun are increased by its being
fixed in an immoveable frame, is proved with the practice of mortars.
Mortars on iron beds, and these firmly embedded in the earth, will throw
a shell farther when on the ground than when placed on a platform, or on
board a ship. It is for the purpose of destroying the recoil, that
mortars for sea service, though of the same calibre as those intended
for land-service, are made three times the weight. Dr. Hutton states,
that he found no advantage by retarding the recoil in practice with
artillery. He means, that no advantage is gained by stopping at three
feet a gun accustomed to recoil to the distance of six. The statement is
perfectly true. If he were to allow a gun to recoil only an inch, and
then to strike against a solid substance, he would gain nothing. For if
it recoil ever so little, the shooting force is as much weakened as if
it recoiled twice as far.
“To increase that force, a steady fixed resistance is required. The
velocity of the projectile depends on the force of the immediate
impulse. Before a gun, suffered to recoil, could rebound from striking
some solid substance in its recoil, the charge would be gone, and could,
therefore, receive no additional impetus from that rebound. The truth of
this fact may be illustrated by throwing a hand-ball against any loose
body with sufficient force to displace it. However hard or elastic that
body might be, the ball would not rebound from it, but would fall
perpendicularly down. Fix and secure that same body, and then the ball
will rebound with little less force than that with which it was thrown
against it. So it is with gunpowder. If it meet with a firm resistance,
it will rebound and project the ball or shot with additional force.”
-----
[3] _The Gun_, by William Greener. London, 1835.
WOODCOCK SHOOTING.