All at once the fog lifted, and the sun came out sharp and dazzling, scattering the white banks of vapor. The Rebel might be seen not a third of a mile off. A shot came from her as a signal to the Artful to heave to. Vance ordered the Stars and Stripes to be run up, and the engines to be reversed. The Rebel, as if astounded at the audacity of the act on the part of her contemptible adversary, swayed a little in the current so as to present a good part of her side. Vance saw his opportunity, and, with the quickness of one accustomed to deadshots, decided on his range. The next moment, and before the Rebel could recover herself, he fired, the shock racking every joint in the little tug. The effect of the shot was speedily visible and audible in the issuing of steam and in cries of suffering on board the Rebel. The boiler had been hit, and she was helpless. Vance fired a second shot, but this time over her, as a summons for surrender. The confederate flag at once disappeared. The next moment a small boat, containing half a dozen persons, put out from the Rebel as if they intended to gain the bank and escape among the low willows and dead reeds of the marshy deposits. But before this could be done, two cutters bearing United States flags, were seen to issue from a diminutive bayou in the neighborhood, and intercept the boat, which was taken in tow by the larger cutter. The Artful Dodger then steamed up to the disabled Rebel and took possession. At the mouth of the Southwest Pass they met the Brooklyn. Vance went on board, found in the Commodore an old acquaintance, and after recounting the adventures of the last twelve hours, gave up the two steamers for government use. It was then arranged that he and his companions should take passage on board the store-ship Catawba, which was to sail for New York within the hour; while all the persons captured on board the Rebel, together with the detective carried off by Vance, should be detained as prisoners and sent North in an armed steamer, to leave the next day. “There’s one man,” said Vance,—“his name is Ratcliff,—who will try by all possible arts and pleadings to get away. Hold on to him, Commodore, as you would to a detected incendiary. ’T is all the requital I ask for my little present to Uncle Sam.” “He shall be safe in Fort Lafayette before the month is out,” replied the Commodore. “I’ll take your word for it, Vance, that he isn’t to be trusted.” “One word more, Commodore. My crew on board the little tug are all good men and true. Old Skipper Payson, whom you see yonder, goes into this fight, not for wages, but for love. He has but one fault!” “What’s that? Drinks, I suppose!” “No. He’s a terrible Abolitionist.” “So much the better! We shall all be Abolitionists before this war is ended. ’T is the only way to end it.” “Good, my Commodore! Such sentiments from men in your position will do as much as rifled cannon for the cause.”