Again rang the fame of Silas Talbot, but he was not to rest long upon laurels won. The British privateer _Dragon_--of three hundred tons and eighty men--was hovering near Providence, Rhode Island, hungry and eager for unprotected merchantmen.

"I'll have to strike her," said Captain Talbot.

It was a beautiful day in June. As the _Dragon_ drowsed along listlessly a dozen miles off the sh.o.r.e, her topsails barely filling in the gentle southerly breeze, the watch suddenly stirred, and sang out in no gentle tones,

"Sail ho, off the starboard! Looks like Captain Talbot of the _Argo_!"

The captain came bounding from his cabin, gla.s.s in hand.

"Sure enough," said he, scanning the white sails upon the horizon.

"It's Talbot and we're in for a tight affair. All hands prepare for action!"

There was noise and confusion upon the deck of the privateer as the guns were sponged, charges were rammed home, and all prepared for battle. Meanwhile, the stranger came nearer, and rounding to within striking distance, crashed a broadside into the slumbering _Dragon_, who had not yet shown her fangs.

_Crackle! Crackle! Boom!_

The small arms from the Britisher began to spit at the advancing privateer, and seven of her fourteen guns rang out a welcome to the sailors of Rhode Island. The solid shot ploughed through the rigging, cutting ropes and spars with knife-like precision.

"Round her to on the port quarter!" shouted Captain Talbot, "and get near enough for boarding!"

But, as the _Argo_ swung near her antagonist, the _Dragon_ dropped away--keeping just at pistol-shot distance.

"Run her down!" yelled the stout Rhode Islander, as he saw this manoeuvre of his wily foe. Then he uttered an exclamation of disgust, for, as he spoke, a bullet struck his speaking trumpet; knocking it to the deck, and piercing it with a jagged hole.

"Never mind!" cried he, little disconcerted at the mishap. "Give it to her, boys!"

Then he again uttered an exclamation, for a bounding cannon ball--ricochetting from the deck--took off the end of his coat-tail.[1]

[1] A true incident vouched for by two historians.

"I'll settle with you for that," yelled the old sea-dog, leaping to a cannon, and, pointing it himself, he touched the fuse to the vent. A puff of smoke, a roar, and a ball ploughed into the mainmast of the rocking _Dragon_.

Talbot smiled with good humor.

"Play for that, my brave fellows," he called out, above the din of battle. "Once get the mainmast overside, and we can board her."

With a cheer, his sailors redoubled their efforts to sink the _Dragon_, and solid shot fairly rained into her hull, as the two antagonists bobbed around the rolling ocean in this death grapple.

Thus they sparred and clashed for four and a half hours, when, with a great splitting of sails and wreck of rigging, the mainmast of the _Dragon_ trembled, wavered, and fell to leeward with a sickening thud.

"She's ours!" yelled Captain Talbot, through his dented speaking trumpet.

Sure enough, the _Dragon_ had had enough. Her wings had been clipped, and, in a moment more, a white flag flew from her rigging.

"The _Argo_ is sinking! The _Argo_ is sinking!" came a cry, at this moment.

"Inspect the sides of our sloop," cried Talbot.

This was done, immediately, and it was found that there were numerous shot-holes between wind and water, which were speedily plugged up.

Then, bearing down upon the crippled _Dragon_, she was boarded; a prize-crew was put aboard; and the _Argo_ steered for home, her men singing,

"Talk about your gay, old c.o.c.ks, Yankee, Doodle, Dandy, 'Si' Talbot he can heave the blocks, And stick like pepp'mint candy.

"Yankee--Doodle--Shoot and kill, Yankee--Doodle--Dandy, Yankee--Doodle--Back an' fill, Yankee--Doodle--Dandy."

Silas Talbot, in fact, had done extremely well, but, not content with his laurels already won, he soon put out again upon the _Argo_, in company with another privateer from Providence, Rhode Island, called the _Saratoga_; which sailed under a Captain Munro. They were not off the coast more than two days when they came across the _Dublin_; a smart, English privateer-cutter of fourteen guns, coming out of Sandy Hook. Instead of running away, she ploughed onward, and cleared for action.

The _Argo_ and the _Saratoga_ ran in upon the windward quarter and banged away with audacity. The fight lasted for an hour. Then--as the _Argo_ tacked in closer in order to grapple and board--the _Saratoga_ was headed for the privateer. But--instead of coming in--she began to run off in the wind.

"Hard a-weather! Hard up there with the helm!" cried Captain Munro.

"It is hard up!" cried the steersman.

"You lie, you blackguard!" cried Munro. "She goes away lasking! Hard a-weather I say again!"

"It is hard a-weather, I say again, captain," cried the fellow at the tiller.

"Captain Talbot thinks that I am running away when I want to join him," cried Munro. "What the deuce is the matter anyway?"

"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!"