WE REPEL BOARDERS
There was no one in sight aboard the brig save the skipper and the man
at the wheel, but we knew she had a full crew. The barque hauled up
rapidly, even while the mate and skipper spoke, and we stood at the port
guns, ready to let loose a broadside that would finish our enemy.
“Hard aport,” came the order, and we expected to swing quickly to
starboard, and thus bring each gun to bear at close range, our heavier
battery of twelve-pounders being sufficient to cripple any vessel the
size of the brig, who, with her little six-pounders, could hardly hope
for escape.
Some one, I think it must have been Martin, let fly the jib-sheet as a
little air filled it, and prevented our paying off rapidly, and, as we
went, we had the satisfaction of seeing the brig port his helm also, and
swing up ahead of us, while he opened again with his gun on the poop.
Hawkson saw the mistake, or trick, whichever it was, with the
head-sheet, and, roaring out orders to flatten it in, he sprang down
upon the main-deck, followed by Gull and Henry, and rushed forward to
the braces.
A shot from the brig’s six-pounder struck Pete, a dago, and cut him
almost in half, flinging him bodily upon Anderson, both going into the
starboard scuppers in a heap. Then, before the long Yankee captain
realized what we were about, we had braced sharp on the starboard tack
forward, and he, thinking we would haul up to bring our battery to bear,
came up into the wind, and, falling off, drifted down upon us until it
was certain we would be alongside in a few minutes.
“Tumble up here, ye bullies,” he cried, in his drawling tones, and, as
he spoke, his men came bounding from below, rushing for the starboard
fore-rigging, to come aboard us the instant the vessels fouled. Luckily
the battery was loaded, and in an instant Hawkson was at the guns with
Gull, Henry, and myself, bawling for men to leave the main-braces and
lend a hand, while Howard himself rolled the wheel hard up again.
The brig fell off until her jib-boom came across the poop, where Hicks
and a couple of men tried to bear it off astern. They only partly
succeeded, but they managed to keep it clear of the backstays and
prevent fouling, while the brig’s crew fired several shot into us,
getting in return our four heavy twelves, that did some execution among
them, several men falling upon the deck at the discharge. Howard jumped
forward on the poop, calling for men to repel boarders, and, after
firing the last gun, we swarmed up the poop-ladder to check the
piratical-looking crew that had now left everything on the brig’s deck,
and was climbing into her chains, armed with cutlass and pistol, for a
spring aboard us.
The long skipper balanced himself on the fore sheer-pole, with his
cutlass swinging in his hand and a belt stuck full of pistols. In an
instant he gave a yell for his men to follow, and sprang with the ease
of a cat upon our poop-rail, right among us. It was a long jump, and
only possible for a man of great length of limb.
“Come on, Brannigan,” he drawled out to his mate, making a slash at
Howard’s bare poll, but the old skipper warded off the blow, while we
rushed in upon him. Then we were favoured by a most singular turn of
fortune, aided by Hawkson’s skill.
A lively little puff of wind filled our spreading canvas and shoved the
barque ahead. Before the brig could quite reach us, we had drawn a
couple of fathoms clear. One fellow threw a grappling-hook over our
rail, but Bill cut the line. Hawkson jumped for the forebrace, calling
for men to follow, and, before the brig’s crew realized it, we had
extended the couple of fathoms into a dozen, and were slipping along
before the light breeze very handsomely indeed.
In vain did the Yankee crew fire at us with their small arms. Not a soul
was hit, and, while their helmsman rolled the wheel up to follow in our
wake, I trained the heavy stern-chasers upon him, and sent a couple of
shots through his foresail, which rendered that piece of canvas worse
than useless. While these affairs were taking place, Shannon was having
a lively time of it on our poop. He sprang away from the first rush upon
him, but so covered our men that his own could not deliver an effective
shot without danger of killing their leader. He bawled lustily for his
mate, Brannigan, and, being so hard pressed, he could not turn to see
what had happened, wondering why he had been so suddenly deserted.
Then he heard shouting recede astern, and, as he listened to Mr.
Brannigan’s tongue expressing the grossest possible encomiums upon us,
he realized the game was up. He sprang backward a space and turned to
clear the rail, preferring to take his chances swimming back to his
vessel than to accept our hospitality. At this instant, however, Yankee
Dan sprang upon him from behind and clasped him firmly around the legs,
at the same time calling for some one to bring a lashing to make him
fast. The plucky trader would have had a hard time of it but for Henry.
Shannon tore him clear, and was about to heave him over the side also,
when the ferret-faced man, with a bound like a monkey, fastened those
terrible fingers of his into Shannon’s throat. It was useless to try to
shake him off, for well I knew the fatal strength of his grip. We let
him hold on while we passed a line about the struggling man, hoping we
would get him fast before the strangle would kill.
The long man’s struggles were terrific. Twice he flung Gull and myself
from him, giving Yankee Dan a kick that shot him clear across the deck,
and landed him helpless to leeward. Big Jones alone managed to keep his
hold beside Henry, and I heard the high, cackling laugh of old Howard
enjoying the struggle. Up and down, sometimes all in a tangle, we rolled
over and over that poop, Shannon gradually getting blue in the face and
weakening under that horrible grip. But he was an American, and fought
with the steadiness of a man who was used to taking trouble lightly.
Finally we drew the line close about him, pinning his arms to his sides,
and then passed a gasket over his ankles. Then Henry let go, but the
want of air had done its work, and the long fellow lay limp as a rag. We
stood up, gasping for breath from our exertions, and then Howard’s high
cackle sounded upon our ears.
“Hi, hi, hi! don’t kill him. Throw a bucket of water over the fellow,”
he cried. “We want that man. We need that long rascal.”
Ernest started to get a draw-bucket, but, before he left the poop,
Watkins came from below with a bottle of spirits, and, running to the
long skipper, raised his head and poured a little into his mouth. This
nearly finished Henry’s work, but, instead of choking to death, Shannon
gave a gasp and choke, blowing the liquor out of his mouth.
At this instant a shot from the brig struck the deck close to Watkins,
ripping a great rent in the white planks, and driving a cloud of
splinters among us. One of these long pieces of pine struck the old
steward in the middle of the back. It drove clear through his body, and
came out several inches in front, piercing him through and through. He
gave a sharp scream, dropped the bottle, and rose to his feet with
staring eyes. Then he drew forth a pistol and pointed it at my head.
Before he could pull the trigger, he staggered and fell, the weapon
exploding harmlessly, and when we reached him he was dead.
Howard came to where he lay, and gazed down upon him for an instant,
while Gull, Hawkson, and the rest went at the long stern-chasers, and
opened fire again upon the brig, which was still within close range. I
stood but a moment gazing at the old steward, with somewhat mixed
feelings in regard to him, and, as Howard ordered a couple of men to
carry him below, I joined the rest at the guns.
We now delivered such a heavy and accurate fire upon the pirate slaver
that it soon silenced him, and in half an hour we were well out of
range, leaving him with his foremast over the side and several of his
numerous crew killed and wounded.
We had lost two men, Pete, the dago, and Watkins, the steward, while a
fellow named Guinea was badly wounded in the leg, and a German sailor,
named Johns, had received a bullet through the arm. Altogether a heavy
loss for a vessel without a fighting crew. We had had a narrow escape
from being boarded by a stronger force, and, while I knew we would have
given a good account of ourselves, our officers showed good judgment in
not engaging too closely a force of Americans with our mongrel crowd.
The brig was at our mercy before we finished, but there was nothing to
be gained by taking her, and Howard seemed more than satisfied in having
taken her skipper. I expected him to lay the barque across the brig’s
bow, and fire at her until she sank, but instead he kept straight away
on his course, without thought of revenge further than the chastisement
already administered.
As we loaded the guns for the last time, holding the fire in reserve, a
voice broke upon our ears that had grown familiar of late.
“I wanter know! I wanter know! What the devil has happened around here,
anyway?” it drawled. “Am I a soger, an’ this here a battlefield covered
with blood and glory, or am I on a stinking slave-ship? That’s what’s
worryin’ me.”
And then Shannon proceeded to pronounce the grossest possible things
upon us.