The first gun spoke. The first shell spun across the bow of the British bull-dog Diomede, and the battle was on.
Have you ever seen a school of pollock chasing a school of smaller fry? Have you ever seen them jump and splash, and thud upon the surface of the water?
Well—that is the way that the shells looked and sounded—as they plumped and slushed into the surface of the southern sea; and every now and then there was a punk, and a crash, and a chug, as a big, iron ball bit into the side of a man-of-war.
Around and around sailed the sparring assailants, each looking for a chance to board. Crash! Roar! Crash! growled the broadsides. Shrill screams sounded from the wounded; the harsh voices of the officers echoed above the din of the conflict; and, the whining bugle squealed ominously between the roaring crush of grape and chain-shot.
But the French got nearer and nearer. Great gaps showed in the bulwarks of the Diomede; one mast was tottering. Beaten and outnumbered she stood out to sea, her sailors crowding into the rigging like monkeys, and spreading every stitch of white canvas.
“She runs! Egad, she runs!” cried the Commander of the other British vessel. “Faith, I cannot stand off four Frenchmen alone. I must after her to save my scalp.”
So—putting his helm hard over—he threw his vessel before the wind, and she spun off, pursued by bouncing shells and shrieking grapnel.
“Voilà!” cried the French. “Ze great battaile, eet belongs to us!” But there were many dead and wounded upon the decks of the proud French warships.
Soon after this smart, little affair the soldiers and sailors who had been in this fight were discharged,—and—looking about for employment, young Robert took the first position that presented itself: the command of the brig Creole,—engaged in the slave trade. He made several successful voyages, but orders were issued to—
“Arrest the Slave Hunter and all his crew,
When they arrive at the Mauritius.”