r, steady."
"Steady," sung the man at the helm; and a slow melancholy cadence,
although a familiar sound to me, now moaned through the rushing wind,
and smote upon my heart as if it had been the wailing of a spirit. I
turned to the boatswain, who was now standing beside me, "is that you
or Davy steering, Mr. Nipper? if you had not been there bodily at my
side, I could have sworn that was your voice." When the gunner made
the same remark, it started the poor fellow; he tried to take it as a
joke, but could not. "There may be a laced hammock with a shot in it,
for some of us ere morning."

At this moment, to my dismay, the object we were chasing
shortened,--gradually fell abeam of us, and finally disappeared.

"The flying Dutchman." "I can't see her at all now."--"She will be a
fore and aft rigged vessel that has tacked, sir." And sure enough,
after a few seconds, I saw the white object lengthened and drew out
again abaft our beam. "The chase has tacked, sir; put the helm down,
or she will go to windward of us." We tacked also, and time it was we
did so, for the rising moon now showed us a large schooner with a
crowd of sail. We edged down on her, when finding her manoeuvre
detected, she brailed up her flat sails and bore up before the wind.
This was our best point of sailing, and we cracked on, the captain
rubbing his hands--"It's my turn to be the big un this time." Although
blowing a strong north-wester, it was now clear moonlight, and we
hammered away from our bow guns, but whenever a shot told amongst the
rigging, the injury was repaired as if by magic. It was evident we had
repeatedly hulled her, from the glimmering white streaks across her
counter and along her stern, occasioned by the splintering of the
timber, but it seemed to produce no effect.

At length we drew well upon her quarter. She continued all black hull
and white sail, not a soul to be seen on deck, except a dark object
which we took for the man at the helm. "What schooner is that?" No
answer. "Heave to, or I'll sink you." Still all silent. "Serjeant
Armstrong, do you think you can pick off that chap at the wheel?" The
mariner jumped on the forecastle, and levelled his piece, when a
musket-shot from the schooner crushed through his skull, and he fell
dead. The old skipper's blood was up. "Forecastle there! Mr. Nipper,
clap a canister of grape over the round shot in the bow gun, give it
to him." "Ay, ay, sir!" gleefully rejoined the boatswain, forge