“And there comes the breeze again,” said the lieutenant, “how the Englishman walks up toward us!” It was even as he said. The breeze which, during the last five minutes, had been chopping about the horizon, now blowing in fitful gusts, and now dying away into an almost perfect calm, came out, as the lieutenant spoke, from its old quarter, and heeling the tall ninety-four over until his coppers glanced in the sunlight, sent him like an arrow from the string across the deep. We could see the breeze ruffling the sea ahead of the enemy, and keeping provokingly but a few cables’ length in his advance for many minutes before it reached ourselves, and when at length it bellied out our canvass, and we began to forge along, the man-of-war had lessened by one-third the distance that had intervened betwixt us. As if re-inspired by his advantage, the Englishman began to fire on us with rapid and murderous velocity. Ball after ball came whizzing after us, some tearing up the bulwark, some madly splintering the hull, and more than one cutting its terrific passage along our decks. In vain we made the most desperate exertions to increase our speed. The strength of the breeze was a disadvantage against which our comparatively light canvass could not contend. Every moment, we saw, lessened the distance between us and the foe. It seemed madness to contend further. Already the ninety-four was in dreadful proximity. The schooner was becoming terribly cut up in her hull, and it seemed a miracle that her spars had hitherto escaped. If we should be crippled, and we knew not but the next shot might do it, how could we expect any mercy from our foe? Rebels already in the eye of our pursuers we had nothing to hope for if captured. Every one felt this. No one therefore dreamed of a surrender. As the wounded men were carried below, their departing looks were directed frowningly on the enemy,—and the last words of the dying were to conjure their messmates never to give up. “Never flinch, my hearties,” ejaculated the gunner, as one of his crew was struck by a splinter; and had to be carried below. “Give it to ’em, for villains and tyrants as they are. Hah! I have him in a line there. Stand by all now,” and giving a last squint along his piece, he applied the match, and gazing after the shot as it went whistling away, exclaimed, “hit him on the quarter. I wonder who’s hurt,” he added, as a sudden commotion was seen on the enemy’s deck; “somebody of more note than a mere topman, I guess, or they wouldn’t be in such a flurry about it.” “And that’s the answer,” said Westbrook, as a ball struck us forward, scattering the bulwark about the deck, and killing a man outright at the gunner’s side.