Captain Deadeye was a staid, wall-eyed veteran, with his coat of a regular Rodney cut, broad skirts, long waist, and stand-up collar, over which dangled either a queue, or marlinspike with a tuft of oakum at the end of it—­it would have puzzled old Nick to say which.  His lower spars were cased in tight unmentionables of what had once been white kerseymere, and long boots, the coal-scuttle tops of which served as scuppers to carry off the drainings from his coat-flaps in bad weather; he was, in fact, the “last of the sea-monsters,” but, like all his tribe, as brave as steel, and, when put to it, as alert as a cat.

He no sooner heard Splinter’s report, than he sprang up the ladder.

“Clear away the larboard guns!” I absolutely jumped off the deck with astonishment—­who could have spoken it?  The enemy was a heavy American frigate, and it appeared such downright madness to show fight under the very muzzles of her guns, half a broadside from which was sufficient to sink us.  It was the captain, however, and there was nothing for it but to obey.

“Now, men, mind your aim; our only chance is to wing him.”  The men—­with cutlasses buckled round their waists, and many with nothing but their trousers on—­instinctively cheered.  Blaze went our cannonades and long gun in succession, and down came the fore-topsail; the head of the topmast had been shot away.  “That will do; now knock off, my boys, and let us run for it.  Make all sail.”

Jonathan was for an instant paralysed by our impudence; but he yawed and let drive his whole broadside; and fearfully did it transmogrify us.  Half an hour before we were as gay a little sloop as ever floated, with a crew of 120 as fine fellows as ever manned a British man-of-war.  The iron-shower sped—­ten of the 120 never saw the sun rise again; 17 more were wounded, three mortally; our hull and rigging were regularly cut to pieces.

But we had the start, crippled and be-devilled though we were; and as the night fell, we contrived to lose sight of our large friend, and pursue our voyage to Jamaica.

A week later, and the hurricane fell upon us.  Our chainplates, strong fastenings, and clenched bolts, drew like pliant wires, shrouds and stays were torn away, and our masts and spars were blown clean out of the ship into the sea.  Had we shown a shred of the strongest sail in the vessel, it would have been blown out of the bolt-rope in an instant.  With four men at the wheel, one watch at the pumps, and the other clearing the wreck, we had to get her before the wind.

Our spirits were soon dashed, when the old carpenter, one of the coolest and bravest men in the ship, rose through the forehatch pale as a ghost, with his white hairs streaming out in the wind.  He did not speak to any of us, but clambered aft, towards the capstan, to which the captain had lashed himself.

“The water is rushing in forward like a mill-stream, sir; she is fast settling down by the head.”