Our marines, hunkered down in the shelter of the bulwarks, between the guns, scrambled cautiously to their feet to look. Cap Huff and Steven Nason worked on one of the long eighteens, slewing it so that it bore on the black schooner, and casting anxious glances at Arnold.

Arnold shook his head. “No hurry! You’ll have as many chances as you want before the day’s over: better ones than that!” Beyond the black schooner the southern end of the channel was choked with gunboats, each with its single big gun. There must have been twenty-five of them. Of the ship there was no sign, nor of the other schooner, nor of the strange floating fort we had seen.

Arnold limped up and down the quarterdeck, swinging his arms. “By George,” he said, his voice high-pitched and triumphant, “I believe the sloop-of-war fell so far to leeward she can’t get in!”

The whole fleet lay in a frozen silence, as if struck with horror at the black schooner driving so implacably toward the Royal Savage. I knew the fleet was silent only because the captains waited for Arnold to commence firing. By now it was impossible to fire, since the schooner was in line with the Royal Savage; and even had she been in range, we couldn’t fire without endangering our own men.

But the Royal Savage, canted though she was, could fire, and did. Spurts of smoke jetted from her tilted side. The thud of the guns came slowly to us. Her guns were small, mostly four-pounders, and they sounded feeble, hopeless.

There was something unreal and dreamlike about the scene. The tall black schooner came slowly into the wind, as if forced to do so by the guns of the Royal Savage. She fell off on the starboard tack—on a course that would take her across the front of our crescent and put her in a position to rake the helpless Royal Savage.

Arnold watched her come about: then limped from the quarterdeck and ran to the bow gun: a twelve-pounder. He stooped and sighted along it: pulled at it a little: then came back to the next gun and did the same. He laid all the guns of the broadside; and to Nason, who stood by the sternmost gun, I heard him say, “When she crosses that line, let her have it. Then keep on till you’re told to stop.”

He had no more than spoken when the black schooner fired her broadside at the Royal Savage. Smoke, trailing out behind her, gave her the look of a ghost-ship. Hawley hadn’t taken in his sails, probably thinking they might help him get clear of the land. We saw holes open in them. Her rigging flew apart, here and there, and a staysail came down on the run; but one of her stern guns popped defiantly.