“Overboard with the rest of the powder!”
shouted Spike. “Keep the brig off a little,
Mr. Mulford—keep her off, sir; you luff
too much, sir.”
“Ay, ay, sir,” answered the mate.
“Keep her off, it is.”
“There comes the other shell!” cried Ben,
but the men did not quit their toil to gaze this time.
Each seaman worked as if life and death depended on
his single exertions. Spike alone watched the
course of the missile. On it came, booming and
hurtling through the air, tossing high the jets, at
each leap it made from the surface, striking the water
for its last bound, seemingly in a line with the shell
that had just preceded it. From that spot it made
its final leap. Every hand in the brig was stayed
and every eye was raised as the rushing tempest was
heard advancing. The mass went muttering directly
between the masts of the Swash. It had scarcely
seemed to go by when the fierce flash of fire and
the sharp explosion followed. Happily for those
in the brig, the projectile force given by the gun
carried the fragments from them, as in the other instance
it had brought them forward; else would few have escaped
mutilation, or death, among their crew.
The flashing of fire so near the barrels of powder
that still remained on their deck, caused the frantic
efforts to be renewed, and barrel after barrel was
tumbled overboard, amid the shouts that were now raised
to animate the people to their duty.
“Luff, Mr. Mulford—luff you may,
sir,” cried Spike. No answer was given.
“D’ye hear there, Mr. Mulford?—it
is luff you may, sir.”
“Mr. Mulford is not aft, sir,” called
out the man at the helm—“but luff
it is, sir.”
“Mr. Mulford not aft! Where’s the
mate, man? Tell him he is wanted.”
No Mulford was to be found! A call passed round
the decks, was sent below, and echoed through the
entire brig, but no sign or tidings could be had of
the handsome mate. At that exciting moment the
sloop-of-war seemed to cease her firing, and appeared
to be securing her guns.
Thou art the same, eternal sea!
The earth has many shapes and forms,
Of hill and valley, flower and tree;
Fields that the fervid noontide warms,
Or winter’s rugged grasp deforms,
Or bright with autumn’s golden store;
Thou coverest up thy face with storms,
Or smilest serene,—but still
thy roar
And dashing foam go up to vex the sea-beat
shore:
Lunt.
We shall now advance the time eight-and-forty hours.
The baffling winds and calms that succeeded the tornado
had gone, and the trades blew in their stead.
Both vessels had disappeared, the brig leading, doubling
the western extremity of the reef, and going off before
both wind and current, with flowing sheets, fully three
hours before the sloop-of-war could beat up against
the latter, to a point that enabled her to do the
