He was then commanding the St. Jacques des Victoires, and had in company his old ship the Sanspareil, commanded by his cousin, Jacques Boscher, and the Leonore, of 16 guns. Being joined, after sighting this fleet, under the care of two 50-gun and one 30-gun ship, by two large St. Malo privateers, Du Guay Trouin reckoned that he was strong enough to attack—with five ships to three, though the Leonore did not count for much in such an action. However, he despatched her to seize some of the convoy, told his cousin in the Sanspareil to tackle one of the 50-gun ships while he went for the other, and the two St. Malo men took care of the frigate in the middle. By the action of the Dutchmen Du Guay Trouin and his cousin exchanged antagonists; the ship destined for Boscher fell foul of the St. Jacques, and Trouin, with his customary promptitude and impetuosity, immediately launched half his crew on board and carried her. The Dutch commodore's ship, the Delft, proved a very hard nut to crack. The Sanspareil was repulsed with great loss, her poop on fire, cartridges exploding promiscuously, and nearly a hundred men blown up, shot dead, or wounded. She sheered off, and Du Guay Trouin ran alongside the Delft, to be received with even greater warmth. Her captain, an heroic man, fought like a demon, and the St. Jacques also was forced to haul off to breathe the men, who were getting somewhat disheartened, and repair considerable damages. Meanwhile, the larger of the St. Malo vessels, the Faluère, was directed to keep the redoubtable Dutchman amused, but she soon had enough of it, losing her captain, and running to leeward.
Du Guay Trouin was not going to give in, however. He rallied his men, and, summoning the Faluère to his aid, he went for the Delft once more—as he says, "with head down." He got her—but it cost him more than half his crew, and every one of the Dutch officers was killed or wounded. The commodore, Baron de Wassenaer, fell on his quarter-deck with four deadly wounds, his sword still grasped in his hand, and was made prisoner.
Then they had an awful night, for it came on to blow hard, on a lee shore; all the ships were frightfully battered and leaking, masts and rigging cut to pieces, and the already exhausted crews had to turn to at the pumps for dear life. On board the St. Jacques the Dutch prisoners were set to work to lighten the ship by throwing overboard all her upper-deck guns, spars, shot—everything movable, to keep her afloat.
Day broke at length, the wind abated, and, with the assistance of boats from the shore, the ship was brought in: a sorry wreck, indeed, but the fruits of her labour soon came to hand—three Dutch men-of-war and twelve ships of the convoy. The Sanspareil arrived twenty-four hours later, having barely survived the Dutchman's furious onslaught.
For this service Du Guay Trouin received a commission as commander in the Navy, and was again presented to the king.
As a regular naval officer, he no longer remains within the scope of these pages; but there is one incident which should not be omitted, even though it be somewhat to the discredit of the English.
In the year 1704 Du Guay Trouin was in command of the Jason, 54 guns, in company with the Auguste, of equal force, when they fell in, at night, with the English ship Chatham, an old antagonist, which had before escaped them. At daybreak they were on either side of her, blazing away, the English vessel making every effort to escape, while maintaining creditably her part in the fighting, and the three of them ran into the English fleet. Then things became serious for the two French ships: some of the fastest sailers in the fleet were sent after them. The Auguste was a poor sailer, so they agreed to separate. But the English had force enough to pursue them both, and the Auguste was soon disposed of. The Jason held on, and presently was tackled by the Worcester, of 50 guns, which was considerably knocked about, and dropped astern. Other ships came up, however, and, supported by their presence, the Worcester again attacked indecisively. With the dusk, the wind dropped altogether, and there was the Jason, surrounded by foes in the darkness, only waiting for daylight to eat her up.
Naturally, her captain did not find it easy to sleep; and it was characteristic of him that he still planned in his mind some desperate measure. He told his officers that he intended to go straight for the English flagship; that he himself would take the helm and run aboard her, and that he thus hoped to perform a brilliant feat of arms, by carrying this ship, before they succumbed to superior force—and in any case, his flag was not coming down unless the enemy could get there to haul it down themselves.
With this heroic resolve in contemplation, he paced the deck. There was not a breath of wind. The ship rolled a little uneasily, the timbers creaking and blocks rattling aloft, while the few sails that were set slatted against the masts and rigging occasionally in that irritating fashion with which all seamen are familiar. At various distances round him were the enemy's vessels, few of them probably out of gunshot, and some very near.
About an hour before daybreak Du Guay Trouin noticed a dark line above the horizon ahead of his ship; he watched it carefully, and felt convinced that a breeze was coming from that quarter. Calling the crew quietly on deck, he made sail, braced the yards up, and with one or two of the huge oars or "sweeps" provided in those days, he got the ship's head round so as to catch the breeze in a favourable manner in case it should come. And it did come: at first a breath, which barely gave the ship steerage-way; then a little stronger—she steals ahead, two knots, three knots; the Englishmen are all taken aback, with their topsails lowered, their yards braced anyhow. Before they can make and trim sail the Jason is clear of the ruck of them, a good gunshot clear! The Worcester was once more the only one to tackle her, and was soon shaken off—by noon she was fast dropping astern; and, says Du Guay Trouin, "I looked on myself as though risen from the dead."