“She’s a rich prize,” said he. “An Indiaman. All hands on deck. Make sail! Drinks all round for the men! Clear for action!”
He spoke this to himself, for he was aloft, and, climbing to the deck, ordered everybody aft to listen to a speech. When they had collected there, he said, with feeling:
“I suppose each one of you is more than equal to one Englishman? Very good—be armed and ready for boarding—and, as it is going to be hot work, I’ll give you one hour for pillage. You can fight, and, behind me, you should be invincible! Strike, and strike hard; and you will be rich.”
The Kent had four hundred and thirty-seven souls aboard, says an old chronicler, for she had picked up a great part of the crew of the Queen: an East Indiaman which had been destroyed off the coast of Brazil. Her Captain’s name was Rivington and he was a fellow of heroic courage.
As the Confiance drew near, the crew of the Englishman gave her a fair broadside and pumped gun after gun into her hull. But the Frenchman held her fire, and bore in close, in order to grapple. Hoarse shouts sounded above the roar of the guns and the splitting of timber, as the two war-dogs closed for action. The crew of the Kent were poorly armed and undisciplined: they had never fought together. With Surcouf it was far different. His sailors were veterans—they had boarded many a merchantman and privateer before—and, they were well used to this gallant pastime. Besides, each had a boarding-axe, a cutlass,—pistol and a dagger—to say nothing of a blunderbuss loaded with six bullets, pikes fifteen feet long, and enormous clubs—all of this with “drinks all round” and the promise of pillage. No wonder they could fight!
With a wild, ear-splitting whoop the wild men of the French privateer finally leaped over the rail—upon the deck of the Englishman—and there was fierce struggling for possession of her. At the head of his men, Rivington fought like a true Briton,—cutlass in hand, teeth clinched, eyes to the front. He was magnificent.
But what could one man do against many?
Back, back, the French forced the valiant lion, while his crew fell all about in tiers, and, at length, they drove him to the poop. He was bleeding from many a wound. He was fast sinking.
“Don’t give up the ship!” he cried, casting his eye aloft at the red ensign of his country.
Then he fell upon his face, and the maddened followers of Surcouf swept over the decking like followers of Attila, the terrible Hun.