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- 3899
- extracted_at
- 2026-01-30T20:48:05.590Z
- extracted_by
- structure-extraction-lambda
- start_line
- 3830
- text
- responded to, he ran to the braces to get the cutter before the wind,
followed by one officer, while the other, for a useless bravado,
hoisted the colors at the stern.
But Israel stood indifferent, or rather all in a fever of conflicting
emotions. He thought he recognized the voice from the strange vessel.
“Come, what do ye standing there, fool? Spring to the ropes here!”
cried the furious captain.
But Israel did not stir.
Meantime the confusion on board the stranger, owing to the hurried
lowering of her boat, with the cloudiness of the sky darkening the
misty sea, united to conceal the bold manoeuvre of the cutter. She had
almost gained full headway ere an oblique shot, directed by mere
chance, struck her stern, tearing the upcurved head of the tiller in
the hands of the cabin-boy, and killing him with the splinters. Running
to the stump, the captain huzzaed, and steered the reeling ship on.
Forced now to hoist back the boat ere giving chase, the stranger was
dropped rapidly astern.
All this while storms of maledictions were hurled on Israel. But their
exertions at the ropes prevented his shipmates for the time from using
personal violence. While observing their efforts, Israel could not but
say to himself, “These fellows are as brave as they are brutal.”
Soon the stranger was seen dimly wallowing along astern, crowding all
sail in chase, while now and then her bow-gun, showing its red tongue,
bellowed after them like a mad bull. Two more shots struck the cutter,
but without materially damaging her sails, or the ropes immediately
upholding them. Several of her less important stays were sundered,
however, whose loose tarry ends lashed the air like scorpions. It
seemed not improbable that, owing to her superior sailing, the keen
cutter would yet get clear.
At this juncture Israel, running towards the captain, who still held
the splintered stump of the tiller, stood full before him, saying, “I
am an enemy, a Yankee, look to yourself.”
“Help here, lads, help,” roared the captain, “a traitor, a traitor!”
The words were hardly out of his mouth when his voice was silenced for
ever. With one prodigious heave of his whole physical force, Israel
smote him over the taffrail into the sea, as if the man had fallen
backwards over a teetering chair. By this time the two officers were
hurrying aft. Ere meeting them midway, Israel, quick as lightning, cast
off the two principal halyards, thus letting the large sails all in a
tumble of canvass to the deck. Next moment one of the officers was at
the helm, to prevent the cutter from capsizing by being without a
steersman in such an emergency. The other officer and Israel
interlocked. The battle was in the midst of the chaos of blowing
canvass. Caught in a rent of the sail, the officer slipped and fell
near the sharp iron edge of the hatchway. As he fell he caught Israel
by the most terrible part in which mortality can be grappled. Insane
with pain, Israel dashed his adversary’s skull against the sharp iron.
The officer’s hold relaxed, but himself stiffened. Israel made for the
helmsman, who as yet knew not the issue of the late tussle. He caught
him round the loins, bedding his fingers like grisly claws into his
flesh, and hugging him to his heart. The man’s ghost, caught like a
broken cork in a gurgling bottle’s neck, gasped with the embrace.
Loosening him suddenly, Israel hurled him from him against the
bulwarks. That instant another report was heard, followed by the savage
hail—“You down sail at last, do ye? I’m a good mind to sink ye for your
scurvy trick. Pull down that dirty rag there, astern!”
With a loud huzza, Israel hauled down the flag with one hand, while
with the other he helped the now slowly gliding craft from falling off
before the wind.
- title
- Chunk 1