Wilson's Tales of the Borders and of Scotland, Volume 10
General
Wilson's Tales of the Borders and of Scotland, Volume 10
Scottish Borders (Scotland) -- Fiction
It was now late in the evening; the sun had set, and dark, louring
clouds were hanging over the horizon to the westward. The water was
still tolerably smooth, and the wind was a little on our starboard
quarter; the privateer was coming up rather to leeward, gaining rapidly
upon us, and peppering away as fast as she could with her bow-chasers.
Some of her shot _told_ upon our hull, smashing the cabin bulk-heads,
but hurting no one; and, fortunately, our spars were as yet untouched.
But she was not so lucky--for we could see, by their getting
preventer-backstays upon her fore-topmast, that the mast was crippled.
Captain Driver perceived that there was no chance of escaping much
longer by fast sailing, and he determined to try what stratagem could do
for us. He called his men round him, and explained to them what his
intentions were; telling them that everything depended upon their energy
and activity, and promising them, in the name of his owners, a handsome
reward if they succeeded in saving the ship. Immediately after the next
shot fired by the privateer, the man at the helm, by Captain Driver's
orders, began to yaw the ship about--the stunsails were hauled in--the
royal sheets let go--the sails clued up, but not furled--the
topgallantsails lowered, and the colours hauled down. Every movement
must have appeared to the enemy indicative of terror and indecision; and
we could distinctly hear the cheers with which they hailed the lowering
of our ensign. In the midst of our apparent confusion, the yards of the
Dolphin were quietly drawn forward to starboard, and the men and
passengers stationed at the topgallant and royal halyards, and royal
sheets. The privateer, which some of our men now recognised as the
notorious Hercule of Brest, came bowling upon our larboard quarter,
taking in and furling all her small sails, and hauling up her courses.
When she was so close to us that we might almost have thrown a biscuit
on board, the French captain jumped upon the bulwark with his trumpet in
his hand, as if to hail us.
"Now, my lad," said Driver to the man at the helm, "remember what I told
you. When I call out to you to put the helm hard a-starboard, put it
hard a-port."
The privateer captain was just putting the trumpet to his lips, when
Captain Driver bawled out, "Put the helm hard a-starboard!"
As he expected, this order was instantly echoed on board the privateer,
who thought we intended to try and run aboard of him. As I said before,
the wind was a little on our starboard quarter; and the Frenchman, by
paying quickly _off_, threw his sails aback; while the little Dolphin,
_her_ helm having been put to port instead of starboard, flew _up_ to
the wind, and, her yards being all ready braced up, darted away like an
arrow to windward--this being her favourite sailing point; at the same
moment, the topgallant sails were sheeted home and set, and the royals
hoisted.
Public-domain text, read in full here on John Shaqi.
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