“Run for the shore! Run our ship aground! We will fix her so that this English hound cannot make a prize of us!”
“Voilà! Voilà!” his men had shouted. “Oui! We will f-e-e-x th-e-es Eengleesh chien! Oui! Au revoir, Monsieur Wright!”
So saying, the privateer had been run upon the sandy beach, bows on, where her crew took to the brush, yelling derisively at the Fame as she came up within hail,—sails snug down so as to move cautiously.
The Frenchmen had counted without their host.
“We’ll float her, my hearties!” cried Wright. “All hands ashore in the small boats. Tie hawsers to her stern and pull her off!”
This they did, while the French captain, far back in the brush, saw it and fairly boiled with disappointment and rage.
“Zees Wright,” he blustered. “One cannot outweet heem.”
So the privateer was towed into the harbor of Leghorn, where all the English merchants cried:
“Good! Good! Now we have a true man to fight our battles! Huzzah for Fortunatus Wright!”
The French were furious, while at the island of Malta (where were numerous French, Spanish, Austrian and English traders) the feeling grew intense. Here the Austrians sided with the English and several duels were fought by angry officers, as crafty Fortunatus Wright continued to send in his prizes.