And—sure enough—from the direction of France, and boiling along under full canvas, rolled two privateersmen of St. Malo. Cheer after cheer went up from the deck of the St. Jacques des Victoires, as they pounded through the spray, for this made the contending parties about equal, although the Dutch boats were larger, heavier, and they had more guns aboard.
The Dutchmen now formed in line. In front was the flagship—the Delft—with her fifty guns glowering ominously from the port-holes; second was the thirty-gun frigate; and third, the other war-hound of fifty guns: the Hondslaardjiik. Through a trumpet Du Guay-Trouin shrilled his orders.
“The Sans-Pareil will attack the Hondslaardjiik,” cried he. “The two privateers will hammer the frigate, while I and the St. Jacques des Victoires will attend to the Delft. The Lenore will sail in among the convoy. Fight, and fight to win!”
A fine breeze rippled the waves. The two squadrons were soon at each others’ throats, and there upon the sobbing ocean a sea-fight took place which was one of the most stubborn of the ages.
As the Frenchmen closed in upon the Dutch, the Hondslaardjiik suddenly left the line and crashed a broadside into the St. Jacques des Victoires. It staggered her, but she kept on, and—heading straight for her lumbering antagonist—ran her down. A splitting of timber, a crunch of boards, a growl of musketry, and, with a wild cheer, the Frenchmen leaped upon the deck of the Dutch warship; Du Guay-Trouin in the lead, a cutlass in his right hand, a spitting pistol in the left.
Crash! Crackle! Crash! An irregular fire of muskets and pistols sputtered at the on-coming boarders. But they were not to be stopped. With fierce, vindictive cheers the privateers of St. Malo hewed a passage of blood across the decking, driving the Dutchmen below, felling them upon the deck in windrows, and seizing the commander himself by the coat collar, after his cutlass had been knocked from his stalwart hand. The Dutchman was soon a prize, and her proud ensign came fluttering to the decking.
But things were not going so well in other quarters. Disaster had attended the dash of the Sans-Pareil upon the Delft. An exploding shell had set her afire and she lay derelict with a cloud of drifting smoke above, when suddenly, Crash!
A terrible explosion shook the staunch, little vessel, her sides belched outward, and a number of sailors came shooting through the air, for a dozen loose cartridge boxes had been caught by the roaring flames. Helplessly she lolled in the sweep of the gray, lurching billows.
“Hah!” shouted Van Wassenaer, as he saw his work. “Now for the saucy Du Guay-Trouin,” and, twisting the helm of the Sans-Pareil, he soon neared the St. Jacques des Victoires, which was hanging to the Delft like a leech, firing broadside after broadside with clock-like precision, her sea-dogs cheering as the spars crackled, the rigging tore; and splinters ricochetted from her sides.
“Ready about!” cried Rénee, wiping the sweat from his brow, “and board the Hondslaardjiik. Now for Van Wassenaer and let us show the Dutchman how a privateer from St. Malo can battle.”