“Pop! Pop! Crash!”
The other French vessel now threw her lead into the stern of the defender of the flag of the States General and her mizzen-mast was seen to rock like an unfastened May pole.
“Whow!”
The Esperance was not slow in answering back and her twelve guns spat like leopards in the brush. She filled away and bore towards the land, but the French gun-boat saw this move and checkmated it.
Sailing across her bow, the Frenchman raked her fore and aft, while the rub-a-dub-dub of Jean Bart’s guns went drumming against her starboard side. Crash! Crash! Crash! Her boards were split, her mizzen-mast was swaying, and her rigging was near cut in two. Men were falling fast and two of her guns had blown up and were rendered useless.
“Surrender!” came a sharp hail from the lusty throat of Jean Bart, and, as he spoke, a perfect hail of grape came from his French ally, now creeping up to port for a chance to grapple and board.
“What can I do?” sighed the stout, Dutch commander, turning to one of his lieutenants. “Boy, haul down our flag!”
So down came the emblem of the States General amidst ringing cheers from the throats of the followers of Jean Bart. They had won a notable victory.
When the Esperance was towed and half-sailed into Dunkirk harbor, old Antoine Sauret was there.
“Ah, my friends,” said he, “I always told you that my boy, Jean Bart, would make a great name for himself. Three times three for the great privateer of Dunkirk!”