"Sir," replied Walker, "if you will look at my commission you will find I had as good a right to fight as you; and if my force had not been so inferior to yours I had shown you more civil treatment on board my ship"—which was a very good specimen of English politeness.
"How many men of yours have I killed?" demanded the Frenchman.
"None at all, sir." "Then, sir, you have killed six of mine, and wounded several; you fired pieces of glass."
This preposterous accusation was, of course, denied; but it turned out that some missiles of a very unusual nature had been discharged from the Mars. The captain of one of the stern guns, realising that they must surrender, took about sixteen shillings from his pocket, saying that "sooner than the French rascals should plunder him of all he had in the world, he would first send it among them, and see what a bribe would do." So he wrapped his shillings up in a rag, crammed them into the gun, and sent them humming and whistling through the Frenchman's rigging, which no doubt gave rise to the glass theory—neither Frenchmen nor any one else could be expected to recognise the "ring" of a coin under the circumstances! The facetious gunner was an Irishman.
Well, the Mars was captive, while the Boscawen had prudently escaped; but this was not the end of the incident. The action took place on a Friday, and at daybreak on Sunday morning four large ships were sighted astern; it did not require a long period of observation to realise that they were coming up pretty fast, and in a couple of hours they were recognised as English men-of-war. Then the Frenchmen began to regret that they had stopped to capture the privateer, instead of making the most of their way homeward with their treasure, which now appeared almost inevitably destined to become English treasure.
The captain of the Fleuron—who by this time had learned that his prisoner, though only captain of a privateer, was worthy of respect—discoursed to Walker in some bitterness on this subject, and added: "It is seldom any great accident happens from single causes, but by a chain or series of things; thus, if we be here overcome, our loss will be owing to the waspishness of a single frigate, which would not cease fighting so long as it had a sting in its tail"—a remark which, if somewhat bitter, was appreciative.
The English squadron gained steadily, and the French officer in charge of the Mars put his helm up and ran to leeward, hoping to draw off one of the ships after him; in which he was successful, the Captain, a 70-gun ship, giving chase, and eventually recapturing the Mars.
The other three ships were the Hampton Court, 70 guns, and the Sunderland and Dreadnought, each of 60 guns. The Sunderland lost a spar, and dropped astern, but the other two were nearly alongside the French ships by sunset, the Dreadnought, a poor sailer, being somewhat astern.
The French captain thereupon, seeing an action inevitable, politely requested Walker and his officers to go below. "Sir," said Walker, "I go off with great pleasure on the occasion, as I am now certain of my liberty; and I hope to have the satisfaction of seeing you again in being."
He was not destined, however, to regain his liberty so easily, for these naval captains, what with faulty tactics and absolute want of zeal and enterprise, entirely bungled the whole business, and permitted the French ships to escape, treasure and all. The Captain was commanded by Captain Thomas Griffin, senior officer of the squadron, who detached himself to chase the Mars, and gave, as an excuse, when he was tried by court-martial, that he thought the Mars was the only man-of-war, and the two larger vessels her convoy. The court apparently accepted this flimsy story—although the Captain was nearer than the other ships, and no one else had any such notion—but the Service generally did not.