“Prayer is the soul’s sincere desire,
Uttered or unexpressed;
The motion of a hidden fire
That trembles in the breast.”
good ship Ocean Pride was a twenty-gun frigate, with a crew of nearly three hundred as brave fellows as ever waved cutlass or pulled lanyard for the honour and defence of their native land. In January 1793, when the great war broke out between Britain and France, she was homeward bound from the West Indies and South America, where she had been cruising, and had hardly reached Portsmouth ere she received orders to take in additional stores and proceed forthwith to sea again. No leave was granted to men or officers. The sick were simply bundled on shore, additional men shipped, and she was off again within eight-and-forty hours of her arrival in port.
For the Ocean Pride was a crack cruiser for those brave days, in which seamen were sailors and seamanship a fine art.
Sir Sidney Salt was not only brave, but daring almost to a fault. He believed most thoroughly and completely in the supremacy of British seamen to French; but discipline and drill he looked upon as his mainstays, fore and aft. His success had proved that he was correct in system, not once but often during the past twelve months; for more than one of the enemy’s ships, larger even than his own, had been destroyed or taken by the Ocean Pride and her gallant crew. Boat actions had been fought also: she had been engaged with batteries; her men had cut out prizes from under the very guns of these; and they had fought on shore too, side by side with marines and soldiers.
“It would be but the fortune of war,” said Sir Sidney to his commander as they stood together on the quarter-deck, “were this frigate, that is now bearing down so boldly on us, to destroy us.”
The commander grasped his sword with his left hand, and his features were grimly set as he made reply,—
“True, sir, true. It would be but the fortune of war. Well, she may destroy us; she shall never take us.”
“Boldly spoken, Miller. It would indeed be a disgrace to lower our flag to a ship of about our own size, and that ship a Frenchman. But see how boldly she carries herself. Top-gallant sails down; all trim fore and aft; guns run out; and hark! was that a cheer?”
“Yes, sir; a French one.”