At these rapid and impetuous orders, every eye was fastened on Iberville in stupefied amazement. From the masthead now rang down a sharp cry.
“No signals answered!”
Silence came upon the ship, a dread and terrible silence of horrified incredulity, of dismayed consternation—until a Canadian gave voice to the sharp, yelping war whoop of the Mohawks. Then all beheld tiny flecks of scarlet break out from the three ships bearing down the wind, and the white smoke of a gun jetted from the foremast.
Not Serigny—but the enemy!
“You’ll run out to sea?” Crawford turned to Iberville. The latter smiled grimly, his eyes flitting over the ship, not answering for a moment.
Here mad activity was leaping forth—gunners stripping, boys on the run with powder and shot, ports slamming open, ropes being stretched for hand-hold, guns being unstopped. Spray was forming into ice as it fell. Iberville turned and silently swept his arm in three directions. This threefold gesture included the shore to the north, the long stretches of shallows and reefs to west and south—and to the eastward the open sea where the three English ships foamed down the wind.
“Why run, when one must fight?” said Iberville briefly. “Stand by the helm, my friend, for I’ll have need of your quick eye and hand there! The Pelican goes forward.”
Go forward she did, with the crash of a gun to echo the words.
It meant something that Iberville was a captain in the royal navy, in a day when ensigns commanded brigs, lieutenants sailed frigates, and captains manœuvred fleets. Against him were three ships, each of them alone a fair match for the crippled Pelican, and four veteran commanders of the English company who knew every foot of the uncharted waters.
During three and a half hours Iberville fought them with his seamanship, while his lieutenants fought them with small arms and great, and the guns thundered. The tactics of the English never varied. They had Iberville where they wanted him—far outnumbered, cut off from flight, with treacherous shoals reaching from the land for miles to entrap him. Again and again they tried to force him in upon the shallows; again and again he evaded the trap, tacking back and forth, taking their hurricane of shot as he slipped past, while his own guns roared unceasingly. Ball and grape screamed through his rigging, for their great intent was to dismast and cripple and pound him into submission. As fast as a line was shot away, the seamen were up and repairing it, and ever Iberville kept just out of their reach, kept off the shoals, kept giving back broadside for broadside.