“Zegen,” he said in his quiet voice, “that is our man.”
The pilot lifted his cap.
“Admiral,” he said calmly, “you shall have him.”
And he steered The Seven Provinces straight for the Duke of York’s flagship.
There was a moment’s pause, of heightened calm it seemed, during which was no sound save the harsh scream of a seagull and the splash of the waves curling over one another.
Then the guns leapt into a roar.
A furious broadside came from the 18-pounders of The Seven Provinces; the shots tore the water into foam and buried themselves in the side of The Royal Prince, who returned an instant cannonade.
A thick smoke, a heavy dun in colour, at once wrapped both vessels; to the right rang a second roar as Van Ghent engaged Lord Sandwich, and to the left the answering boom of the French cannon.
The two flagships were now close-hauled, and the Dutch opened a hot fire of musketry from behind their hammocks. Theirs being the higher vessel, they were able to inflict on the English a galling volley of small shot that raked their exposed decks.