{"id":"01KG8AMK3X88AF6CAC63V61AAM","cid":"bafkreida2hmjj36pdyycqmqdxolmhkkhuzgvvm2trxcm5uxtp7vb7hf7zu","type":"chunk","properties":{"end_line":12224,"extracted_at":"2026-01-30T20:48:36.274Z","extracted_by":"structure-extraction-lambda","label":"Chunk 1","source_file":"01KG89J19NC56FFGBCM2SWEZZY","start_line":12160,"text":"CHAPTER LXXV.\r\n“SINK, BURN, AND DESTROY.”—_Printed Admiralty orders in time of war_.\r\n\r\n\r\nAmong innumerable “_yarns and twisters_” reeled off in our main-top\r\nduring our pleasant run to the North, none could match those of Jack\r\nChase, our captain.\r\n\r\nNever was there better company than ever-glorious Jack. The things\r\nwhich most men only read of, or dream about, he had seen and\r\nexperienced. He had been a dashing smuggler in his day, and could tell\r\nof a long nine-pounder rammed home with wads of French silks; of\r\ncartridges stuffed with the finest gunpowder tea; of cannister-shot\r\nfull of West India sweetmeats; of sailor frocks and trowsers, quilted\r\ninside with costly laces; and table legs, hollow as musket barrels,\r\ncompactly stowed with rare drugs and spices. He could tell of a wicked\r\nwidow, too—a beautiful receiver of smuggled goods upon the English\r\ncoast—who smiled so sweetly upon the smugglers when they sold her silks\r\nand laces, cheap as tape and ginghams. She called them gallant fellows,\r\nhearts of game; and bade them bring her more.\r\n\r\nHe could tell of desperate fights with his British majesty’s cutters,\r\nin midnight coves upon a stormy coast; of the capture of a reckless\r\nband, and their being drafted on board a man-of-war; of their swearing\r\nthat their chief was slain; of a writ of habeas corpus sent on board\r\nfor one of them for a debt—a reserved and handsome man—and his going\r\nashore, strongly suspected of being the slaughtered captain, and this a\r\nsuccessful scheme for his escape.\r\n\r\nBut more than all, Jack could tell of the battle of Navarino, for he\r\nhad been a captain of one of the main-deck guns on board Admiral\r\nCodrington’s flag-ship, the Asia. Were mine the style of stout old\r\nChapman’s Homer, even then I would scarce venture to give noble Jack’s\r\nown version of this fight, wherein, on the 20th of October, A. D. 1827,\r\nthirty-two sail of Englishmen, Frenchmen, and Russians, attacked and\r\nvanquished in the Levant an Ottoman fleet of three ships-of-the line,\r\ntwenty-five frigates, and a swarm of fire ships and hornet craft.\r\n\r\n“We bayed to be at them,” said Jack; “and when we _did_ open fire, we\r\nwere like dolphin among the flying-fish. ‘Every man take his bird’ was\r\nthe cry, when we trained our guns. And those guns all smoked like rows\r\nof Dutch pipe-bowls, my hearties! My gun’s crew carried small flags in\r\ntheir bosoms, to nail to the mast in case the ship’s colours were shot\r\naway. Stripped to the waistbands, we fought like skinned tigers, and\r\nbowled down the Turkish frigates like nine-pins. Among their\r\nshrouds—swarming thick with small-arm men, like flights of pigeons\r\nlighted on pine-trees—our marines sent their leaden pease and\r\ngoose-berries, like a shower of hail-stones in Labrador. It was a\r\nstormy time, my hearties! The blasted Turks pitched into the old Asia’s\r\nhull a whole quarry of marble shot, each ball one hundred and fifty\r\npounds. They knocked three port-holes into one. But we gave them better\r\nthan they sent. ‘Up and at them, my bull-dog!’ said I, patting my gun\r\non the breech; ‘tear open hatchways in their Moslem sides!\r\nWhite-Jacket, my lad, you ought to have been there. The bay was covered\r\nwith masts and yards, as I have seen a raft of snags in the Arkansas\r\nRiver. Showers of burned rice and olives from the exploding foe fell\r\nupon us like manna in the wilderness. ‘_Allah! Allah! Mohammed!\r\nMohammed!_’ split the air; some cried it out from the Turkish\r\nport-holes; others shrieked it forth from the drowning waters, their\r\ntop-knots floating on their shaven skulls, like black snakes on\r\nhalf-tide rocks. By those top-knots they believed that their Prophet\r\nwould drag them up to Paradise, but they sank fifty fathoms, my\r\nhearties, to the bottom of the bay. ‘Ain’t the bloody ’Hometons going\r\nto strike yet?’ cried my first loader, a Guernsey man, thrusting his\r\nneck out of the port-hole, and looking at the Turkish\r","title":"Chunk 1"},"relationships":[{"peer":"01KG8AJVA04M1ZAHF5S2XQGQJC","peer_type":"chapter","predicate":"in"},{"peer":"01KG89J19NC56FFGBCM2SWEZZY","peer_type":"file","predicate":"extractedFrom"},{"peer":"01KG89HMDZKNY753EZE1CJ8HZW","peer_type":"collection","predicate":"collection"},{"peer":"01KG8AMDK6MHMAN3KDVXMEWNMS","peer_type":"chunk","predicate":"next"}],"ver":2,"created_at":"2026-01-30T20:48:42.109Z","ts":"2026-01-30T20:48:53.055Z","edited_by":{"method":"manual","user_id":"01KFF0H3YRP9ZSM033AM0QJ47H"}}