Chapter Twenty Two.
The fort of Saint Jacques, in La Haute, looked strong enough to keep almost any squadron at bay; and as the Sirius lay pretty close in, those on board could see the French flag flying upon the solid square citadel, below which, and running out like arms, were outworks which seemed to bristle with cannon beside the low, cunningly-contrived batteries on the rocks near the entrance of the harbour.
“A strong place, Bracy,” said the captain, “and one where they ought to be able to sink any vessels we could bring against them.”
“Yes, sir, if we went at it hammer-and-tongs, shot for shot.”
“Exactly,” said the captain, thoughtfully, as he held his glass to his eye, “and they would have English oak to fire at, while we had to send our shot against stone. Ye–es, a quiet combined attack some night with a few hundred determined men in our boats, and we ought to take the place without firing a shot.”
“That’s it, sir,” said the first lieutenant; “and the only way.”
“But I don’t like that,” said the captain.
“That stone, sir,” replied the first lieutenant, as he looked back at an isolated patch of rock which rose up like the top of a mountain behind them about four miles astern. “That would be an ugly spot for annoying us if they had had the gumption to stick a couple of guns there. It would harass the attack terribly.”
“The wonder is, that they have not fortified the rock as an outwork to their fort.”