As I passed under the stern of one of the ships of war in the Bay,
with my prize colours flying, the officer on deck hailed me, and said
I "had better shorten sail." I thought so too, but how was this to be
done? My whole ship's company were too drunk to do it, and though I
begged for some assistance from his Majesty's ship, it blew so fresh,
and we passed so quick, that they could not hear me, or were not
inclined. Necessity has no law. I saw among the other ships in the bay
a great lump of a transport, and I thought she was much better able to
bear the concussion I intended for her than any other vessel; because
I had heard then, and have been made sure of it since, that her owners
(like all other owners) were cheating the government out of thousands
of pounds a year. She was lying exactly in the part of the Bay
assigned for the prizes; and as I saw no other possible mode of
"bringing the ship to anchor," I steered for "the lobster smack," and
ran slap on board of her, to the great astonishment of the master,
mate, and crew.
The usual expletives, a volley of oaths and curses on our lubberly
heads, followed the shock. This I expected, and was as fully prepared
for as I was for the fall of my foremast, which, taking the foreyard
of the transport, fell over the starboard quarter and greatly relieved
me on the subject of shortening sail. Thus, my pretty brig was first
reduced to a sloop and then to a hulk; fortunately, her bottom was
sound.
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