The Holker had spirited away for half a mile before the lumbering yards of the frigate could be trimmed to meet the Yankee’s course. The chase was now on, for better or for worse. Nothing less than heroic means could save the Holker. Her main-topsail, foresail, and fore-topsail, were all set and she was laboring hard under her cargo of flour; yet if Captain Risk could hold his own until he reached Egg Harbor Inlet, he would show the frigate, Roebuck, the most devilish piece of Yankee seamanship this side of Davy Jones’ locker. On came the Roebuck with huge wings like a monstrous demon, yawing wildly on each crest from the enormous stretch of her after-canvas, but she was surely closing the gap between the ships. In another half-hour she would be within short range of the Holker. A chance shot might bring down the privateer’s topmast, and then all would be lost. Captain Risk stood on the port quarter with glass in hand, watching every rope and sail as he turned to his men and commanded sharply: “Man that main-stay garnet, with a luff-tackle, bullies, and overboard cargo with a will. No time to lose, my lads.” “Ay, ay, sir,” came from twenty throats, as every man jumped to his station. The hatches came off in a trice, and the flour came swinging out, two barrels at a heave. “No hell-hole of a British prison for us this day,” came out from the heart of every privateersman when he swung on the cargo with might and main. A puff of smoke now appeared out of the bow of the Roebuck, which the crew of the Holker watched with bated breath, until the eighteen-pound shot fell three hundred feet astern. A cheer rang from the watch on the Holker’s deck. “Now, men, heave over the six-pounders!” ordered the unruffled Risk. “Every inch of free board means our bacon saved,” continued Risk, as he stepped to the wheel and ordered the helmsman to lighter ship. Just then another puff of white smoke curled out of the frigate’s fore bulwarks and an eighteen-pound shot came crushing through the captain’s cabin, and buried itself among the flour barrels in the hold. “That is close shavin’,” said Risk dryly. “Unbend that long tom and we’ll try that lime-juicer’s topsail!” ordered the little captain restlessly. Six of the lads on deck swung on the watch-tackle, and the long tom was trained astern for Captain Risk to sight a life-saving shot at the Roebuck’s rigging. The little privateersman took off his coat and hat and elevated the piece for a long shot. He took a careful squint while he signalled with either hand to haul on the side-tackles and when the mark was sure, he ordered: “Fire!”