“Then go to your quarters, my hearties! Fight like Britishers of old, and all will be well!” cried the brave mariner.
Like a hornet among a group of snap-dragons, the Boscawen now sailed into the centre of the enemy’s line.
“Do not fire until I give the word!” cried Captain Walker, as the salt spray kicked and splashed about the bow of the on-coming Boscawen. “Then hammer away like anvils on a sledge!”
Sixty men were ill on board the stout little English privateer, but all save three crawled on deck in order to render what assistance they could in pointing and handling the guns.
Now was a glorious fight.
Bang! Crash! Z-i-i-p!
The French privateers were hammering away as the Englishman approached and their balls cut and tore through the rigging, damaging the mizzen topsail, and splitting a topmast. Steering straight for the largest vessel, Walker waited until he was within close range and then gave the order:
“Fire, and hull her if you can.”
Poof! Cr-a-a-sh!
A blinding broadside rolled from the port of the Boscawen, and the solid shot bit and tore the stranger like a terrier mouthing a rat.