"Down with the helm! Hard down, sheets and tacks!"
The men whose duty it was to trim the sails ran to the sheets and
braces. The Madras swept up into the wind, and, as her sails drew on
the other tack, she came along on a course that would take her within
a hundred yards of the brig.
As she approached, three rifles cracked out on her poop. One of the
men at the helm of the brig fell, and as he did so, half a dozen more
shots were fired; and as his companion dropped beside him, the brig,
deprived of her helm, flew up into the wind.
Three men ran aft to the wheel, but the deadly rifles spoke out again.
Two of them fell. The third dived under the bulwark, for shelter.
"Steady, men!" the captain shouted. "Fetch her mainmast out of her!"
As they swept along under the stern of the brig, each gun of their
other broadside poured in its fire in succession, raking the crowded
deck from end to end. A moment later, the mainmast was seen to sway,
and a tremendous cheer broke from the Madras as it went over the side,
dragging with it the foretopmast, with all its gear.
"Down with the helm again!" the captain shouted. "Bring her head to
wind, and keep her there!"
The first officer sprang forward, to see that the order was carried
into effect, and a minute later the Indiaman lay, with her sails
aback, at a distance of a hundred yards, on the quarter of the brig.
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