Now came Sir Sidney’s chance, and quick as arrow from bow he took advantage of it. In less time almost than it takes me to describe it, he had cut across the enemy’s stern, and the well-aimed broadside that raked the Désespéré from aft to fore, almost completely placed her at the mercy of the British frigate. The wheel was shot away, the rudder a wreck, the mainmast went by the board, and both dead and wounded lay upon the decks.
There were still men on board her, however, and brave ones too, to man and fight her guns; and as the Désespéré paid off, seemingly of her own accord, the Pride received her starboard broadside just as she put about to close with her assailant. This broadside was fairly effective: it silenced a gun, killed three men, and wounded five.
The Désespéré had got round far enough to save herself from being raked a second time. Broadsides were given and received; but as soon as the Pride had tacked again, it was evident she meant forcing the fighting in the good old English fashion first introduced by bold Hubert de Burgh.
Down came the Pride. She would not be denied. One wild cheer, one more terrible broadside as her guns almost touched those of the enemy, then grappling irons were thrown, and the vessels literally lashed together.
“Away, boarders!”
“Hurrah, lads!”
The last shout came from bold young Grant Mackenzie, as sword in hand, and followed by the men who had so bravely fought his guns, he sprang nimbly across the bulwarks and leaped down amongst the foe. To describe the mêlée that followed would be impossible—the shouts of victory and shrieks of pain, the cracking of pistols, the clashing of sword and cutlass, the shivering of pikes, the rattle of musketry from the tops. It was all like a terrible dream to every one concerned in it; for each British sailor or marine seemed to fight but for himself. Then there were the final stampede, the hauling down of the flag, and the surrender of the wounded captain to Sir Sidney Salt. All must have passed in seven minutes or less.
The loss on both sides was terrible to contemplate. Twenty of our brave lads would never fight again, thirty more were wounded, while in killed and wounded the enemy’s loss was well-nigh one hundred.
There was no time to lose now, however. The enemy’s consort was but five or six miles off, and coming down hand over hand. So the Frenchmen were speedily disarmed. The dead were left where they lay, the wounded and prisoners hurried on board the Pride. Then a train was laid to the Désespéré’s magazine, and just as all sail was hoisted on board the British frigate, the time fuse was lighted. The Pride must fly now; to fight another ship, lumbered as she was with wounded and prisoners, would have been insanity.
On comes the enemy’s consort. Away flies the Ocean Pride. The men on the British ship still stand to their guns; for if they are overhauled, they mean to fight and fall.