At one of the quarter-deck gangways stood the captain's lady, a lean
and wizened Hecate, as famous for her love of rum as any of the crew,
but more openly rejoicing in the no less objectionable spirit of
ultra-methodism. Screaming at the top of her voice, whilst her
unshawled and dusky shoulders, as well as the soiled ribands of her
dirty cap, were gently fanned by the sea-breeze, she commanded the
men to return to their duty, in a volume of vociferation that seemed
perfectly inexhaustible. Fearing that the quarter-deck would be
carried by storm, we divided our party, consisting of the two mates,
three passengers with their servants, and Mungo the black servant,
into two divisions, each occupying one of the gang-ways.

In a few moments the carpenter ceased his oration; the men cheered
and danced about the deck, brandishing their weapons, and urging one
another to "come on." Then with a rush, or rather a stagger, they
assailed our position, hoping to carry it in an instant by storm.
The mate shouted to us to fire, and pick out three or four of the
most desperate; but perceiving the intoxicated state of the men we
refused to shed blood, except in the last extremity of self-defence;
and determined to maintain our post, if possible, by means of our
pistol-butts, or our fists alone. In the general melee which ensued,
the captain's lady, who fought in the van, and looked like a lean
Helen MacGregor, or the mythological Ate, was captured by the
assailants, and dragged to the deck below. Then it was that
combining our forces, and inspired with all the ardour which is
naturally excited by the appearance of beauty in distress, we made a
desperate sally, and after a fearful skirmish, succeeded in rescuing
the lady, and replacing her on the quarter-deck, with the loss only
of her cap and gown, and a few handfuls of hair.