He used to give us long narratives of his own exploits in the hunting-field, and expatiated on the excitement of flying over ditches and hedges, while apparently he looked upon blockade-running and its petty risks with sublime contempt.

Soon after we crossed the bar on our way out a gentle breeze and swell began to lift the vessel up and down, and this motion he described as 'very like hunting.' Just after he had ventured this remark, a Yankee gun-boat favoured us with a broadside and made a dash to cut us off.

This part of the fun, however, my friend did not seem to think at all 'like hunting,' and after having strongly urged me to return to the anchorage under the protecting guns of the fort, he disappeared below, and never talked, to me at least, about hunting again.
But to return to my story, there was, as I said before, a considerable swell running outside, which was fortunate for us, as we ran almost into a gunboat lying watching unusually close to the bar.

It would have been useless to turn round and endeavour to escape by going back, as, if we had done so, we should inevitably have been driven on to the beach, and either captured or destroyed.

In such a predicament there was nothing for it but to make a dash past and take the gun-boat's fire and its consequences.