The Frenchmen were plying their guns right willingly, but the English sailors could not be stopped, and they neared the vessel under vigorous sweeps of the oars. The lieutenant in command was badly wounded, and was forced to lie in the bottom of his boat, but—in a few moments—the tenders were alongside the merchantman, and the sailors, with a wild yell, were clambering to her deck. There was a fierce hand-to-hand struggle, but nothing would gainsay the rush of the British tars. In twenty minutes the fight was all over and the vessel was towed out of the bay, in triumph, next morning. As she was a smart, little craft she was turned into a privateer in place of the Prince Frederick (which had run aground) and was christened the Prince George.
The “Royal Family” continued upon its way, made many captures, and—after eight months—put into the harbor of Lisbon with prizes and prize-money amounting to £220,000 (about $1,100,000). So you can see that privateering was a very lucrative trade in those days, when successfully pursued. Not a single man had been killed aboard the little fleet, but many had been severely wounded. The ships were overhauled, refitted, and, being joined by the Prince Frederick, amounted to six in number, for the vessel captured in the harbor of Safia had been converted into a full-fledged privateer. Now was to be one of the most gruelling sea-fights in which George Walker ever engaged.
In the month of October the squadron was cruising off of Lagos Bay, on the coast of Portugal, when a large sail was sighted at about five in the morning. The Princess Amelia was at anchor in the harbor of Lagos, so Captain Walker sent a small sloop (a recent capture) after her to tell her to “Hurry up and get under way,” while he gave signal to the other vessels to chase the stranger at once. All started after the foreigner, who stood to the northward and could be seen to be crowding on all possible canvas. There were four ships in this merry little chase, but two of them—the Duke and the Prince George—dropped out, after about an hour’s run. They either could not get up, or else their captains grew tired of the affair.
On, on, went the other privateers, and—at about noon—Walker drew near the fugitive, in the King George. The Prince Frederick, with her twenty-six guns, was still some distance away, but Walker kept after the stranger, although he now saw that she was a large vessel,—much more powerful than the King George, with her thirty-two guns and three hundred men. He was rapidly nearing the big fellow, when it grew suddenly calm, so that neither could move.
At this moment an ejaculation of astonishment burst from the lips of some of the officers aboard the saucy King George.
“She’s a seventy-four!” cried several. “We’re in a tight hole!”
Sure enough, the pursued hoisted her colors, ran out her guns, and showed herself to be a man-of-warsman carrying seventy-four cannon: over double the amount of armament aboard the plucky King George.
“I can’t make out whether she’s Spanish or Portuguese,” said Captain Walker, gazing carefully at her drooping flag.
The colors hung down in the dead calm, and it was impossible to tell whether they were Spanish or Portuguese; for the two ensigns—at that period—were very similar.
The sea-warriors drifted along, eyeing each other, for about an hour, when the stranger ran in her lower deck-guns and closed her port-holes.