The next Monmouth had a hand in defeating two French fleets within six months—first with Anson and then with Hawke, in May and October 1747. This was the Monmouth whose brilliant capture of the great French flagship the Foudroyant in a desperate ship-to-ship duel at night forms our main story here.
The fourth Monmouth, at the close of a hot and bloody day, after a drawn battle with the French in the West Indies, in July 1779, received the unique compliment of being toasted that same night at dinner by the officers of the enemy's flagship—'To the brave little black English ship!' Nor is it easy to match another story of how this same Monmouth, in battle in the East Indies in 1782, resisted the fiercest onsets of the mighty De Suffren and his best captains, holding her own at bay, and stubbornly standing up to five French seventy-fours at once. Her main and mizen masts were shot down; the wheel was cleared of the men at it three times; the colours were shot away twice. Still, though, the Monmouth fought on—until help came. Only three men were left alive on the Monmouth's quarter-deck when the fight was over; one being her captain, James Alms, a sturdy son of Sussex, who stood at his post dauntlessly to the end, though twice wounded by splinters, with his coat ripped half off by a shot, with two bullet-holes through his hat, and his wig set on fire.
Yet another Monmouth proved herself the bravest of the brave at Camperdown.
The brief summary of the Monmouths' deeds of valour here given is, of course, not nearly all. It would take a big book to do adequate justice to the Monmouths' war record—and there need not be a dull page in the volume.
So we pass on to what is by common consent accounted the brightest gem in the Monmouth's coronet of fame, her fight with the Foudroyant, a French ship powerful enough to have sent the Monmouth to the bottom at the first broadside, a set-to that lasted half through a February night, and ended the right way.
Now clear the ring, for hand to hand
The manly wrestlers take their stand.
It was in February 1758, in the middle of the Seven Years' War. The British Mediterranean fleet in that month was blockading a French squadron that had sought shelter in the Spanish naval harbour of Carthagena. The squadron, numbering seven ships of the line and two frigates, had set sail from Toulon in January to reinforce the French fleet on the coast of Canada, and assist in the defence of Louisbourg, Cape Breton, which, as was known at Versailles, was to be attacked in force in the following summer. They counted on being able to evade the British Mediterranean fleet and give it the slip by running through the Straits of Gibraltar under cover of a dark winter's night. But ils se faisaient un tableau, that fault against which Napoleon in later days was always cautioning his generals. It all depended on the chance of their getting past Gibraltar unseen.
Unfortunately for the French plans, the British Admiralty were well aware of what was to be attempted. The fitting-out of the squadron at Toulon had been carried on with the greatest secrecy, but not so secretly that the British admiral at the head of the Mediterranean fleet had not learnt all about it. Admiral Osborn had also been warned from home of the probable destination of the French ships. The result was that when the French came they found him cruising with twelve line-of-battle ships a little to eastward of the Rock, and with a chain of look-out frigates stretching right across from Ceuta to Cape de Gata. M. de la Clue, the French admiral, found his way out of the Mediterranean barred, and having only seven ships of the line with him to the British commander's twelve, he turned aside and ran into the 'neutral' harbour of Carthagena.[2] He only got inside the port in the nick of time. Just as M. de la Clue's ships let go anchor within the Spanish batteries. Admiral Osborn's ships, duly warned by signals from their look-out frigates of every movement of the French squadron, came hastening up.