The valiant little privateer was now in the midst of the enemy. Two were to right of her; two to the left of her; one across her bow; and one across her stern. Two of the eight decamped, at this juncture; making the odds six, instead of eight, to one.
“Pow! Pow! Cu-boom!”
The vessel astern was banging away like a Banshee, but a sudden crash from the stern guns so badly damaged her that she hauled off. It was now five to one.
“Keep it up, boys!” cried Walker, above the roar and rattle of the fray. “You’re doing splendidly. You all deserve statues in the temple of fame.”
“Huzzah!” shouted his men. “Hurray for the Boscawen. Down with the Frenchmen!”
“Cu-pow! Boom! Boom!” roared the cannon, while the broadsides from the Boscawen were delivered without either confusion or disorder. The five were sparring gamely, but they were lightly armed, with only a few guns to each, so the thirty nine-pounders on board the English privateer were about an equal match for the greater numbers of the foe.
Thus the fight raged for an hour, when, suddenly, the ensign upon the mast of the French flagship was seen to flutter to the deck. Ten minutes later a cry arose from a sailor aboard the Boscawen:
“Look, Captain, she’s sinking!”
Sure enough, the accurate fire from the British privateer had so riddled the hull of the Frenchman, that she fast filled with water, and sank, stern first, her men escaping in their small boats.
“That’s one less, anyway,” mused Captain Walker.