Part 67

"Why, I can tell you," cried a young Lieutenant. "You've got an iron tiller in place of the wooden one, and she's loose in the rudder head, so your boat won't steer correctly."

"Egad, you're right," said Munro, as he examined the top of the tiller. "Now, jam her over and we'll catch this Dublin of old Ireland, or else I'm no sailor. We'll give her a broadside, too, when we come up."

The Argo, meanwhile, was hammering the Englishman in good fashion, and, as the Saratoga pumped a broadside into her--raking her from bow to stern--the Dublin struck her colors.

"Two to one, is too much odds," cried the English captain, as a boat neared the side of his vessel. "I could have licked either of you, alone."

And, at this, both of the American privateersmen chuckled.

Old "Si" Talbot was soon in another fight. Three days later he chased another sail, and coming up with her, found his antagonist to be the Betsy: an English privateer of twelve guns and fifty-eight men, commanded by an honest Scotchman.

The Argo ranged up alongside and Talbot hailed the stranger. After a bit of talk he hoisted the Stars and Stripes, crying,

"You must haul down those British colors, my friend!"

To which the Scot replied:

"Notwithstanding I find you an enemy, as I suspected, yet, sir, I believe that I shall let them hang a little longer, with your permission. So fire away, Flanagan!"

"And that I'll do," yelled Talbot. "Flanagan will be O'Toole and O'Grady before the morning's over. For I'll beat you like an Irish constable from Cork."

So it turned out. Before an hour was past, the Betsy had struck, the captain was killed, and all of his officers were wounded.

"Old Si"--you see--had had good luck. So well, indeed, had he fought, that in 1780 he was put in command of a good-sized vessel, the General Washington. In her he cruised about Sandy Hook in search of spoil.

One hazy day in August, the watch sang out,

"Several sail astern, Sir! Looks like a whole squadron!"

Talbot seized the glass and gazed intently at the specks of white.

"Egad! It is a squadron," said he, at length. "And they're after me. Crowd on every stitch of canvas and we'll run for it."

So all sail was hoisted, and the General Washington stood out to sea.

But the sails of the pursuers grew strangely clear. They came closer, ever closer, and Talbot paced the deck impatiently.

"Gad Zooks!" cried he, "I wish that I could fly like a bird."

He could not fly, and, in two hours' time the red flag on the foremast of a British brig was clear to the eyes of the crew of the privateer. When--an hour later--a solid shot spun across his bow, "Old Si" Talbot hove to, and ran up the white flag. He was surrounded by six vessels of the English and he felt, for once, that discretion was the better part of valor.

* * * * *

"Old Si" was now thrown into a prison ship off Long Island and then was taken to England aboard the Yarmouth. Imprisoned at Dartmoor, he made four desperate attempts to escape. All failed.

In the summer of 1781 he was liberated; found his way home to Rhode Island; and died "with his boots on" in New York, June 30th, 1813. The old sea-dogs of his native state still cherish the memory of "Capting Si;" singing a little song, which runs:

"He could take 'er brig or sloop, my boy, An' fight her like 'er man. He could steer 'er barque or barquentine, An' make her act jest gran! 'Ole Si' wuz 'er rip-dazzler, His flag wuz never struck, Until 'er British squadroon, Jest catched him in th' ruck.

"So drink 'er drop ter 'Ole Si,' Sky-high, Oh my! Drink 'er glass ter 'Ole Si,' th' skipper from our kentry. Give three cheers fer 'Ole Si,' Sky-high, Oh my! Give three cheers fer 'Ole Si,' th' pride o' Newport's gentry."

CAPTAIN "JOSH" BARNEY

THE IRREPRESSIBLE YANKEE