deck of the helpless merchantman,

"God bless Captain Silas Talbot and his crew!"

But we do not know what the owners of the privateer said to the humane
skipper about this little affair when he returned to New York. They
might have uttered hard words about a Welshman who scored upon him by
means of a pious fraud. At any rate Silas Talbot had done a good deed.

This valorous privateer was born at Dighton, Massachusetts, on the
Sakonet River about the year 1752; beginning his career at sea as a
cabin-boy. At twenty-four he was a captain in the United States army
and fought in the Revolutionary war, for a time, on land. But--by
reason of his nautical training--he was placed in command of a
fireship at New York, and was soon promoted to be Major--but still
with duties upon the water and not the shore. While here, a soldier
came to him, one day, with his eyes alight in excitement.

"Major," said he, "there's a chance for a splendid little enterprise.
Just off the coast of Rhode Island, near Newport, lies a British
vessel, moored to a kedge. She mounts fifteen guns and around her is
stretched a stout netting to keep off a party of boarders. But we can
cut it and get through, I'll warrant. And the game is worth the
candle."

Young Talbot was delighted at the thought of a little expedition.

"I'll tell you how we'll cut through," said he. "We'll fix a small
anchor at the bowsprit of our sloop. Then, we'll ram her into the
netting at night, and--if our vessel can punch hard enough--we'll have
forty Americans upon the deck before you can say 'Jack Robinson.'"

The soldier laughed.

"Major Talbot," said he, "you are a true fighting man. I'll have a
crew for you within twenty-four hours and we'll take the good sloop
_Jasamine_, lying off of Hell Gate. Ahoy for the capture of the
Englishman!"

In two days' time, all was ready for the expedition. The sloop
_Jasamine_ slowly drifted into the harbor of New York, an anchor
spliced to her bowsprit, a crew of sturdy adventurers aboard; and,
filling away in a stout sou'wester, rolled down the coast in the
direction of Rhode Island. Reaching the vicinity of Newport, she lay
to behind a sheltering peninsula, waiting for the night to come, so
that she could drop down upon the Englishman under the cloak of
darkness.

Blackness settled upon the still and waveless water. With muffled oars
the sloop now glided towards the dark hull of the British gun-boat;
her men armed to the teet