It was now nine o’clock. De Ruyter gave orders for another broadside.
It was replied to by a feeble volley from the English ship, now pitching uselessly; the mainmast swayed, then crashed down, dragging the cordage and remaining canvas with it. Smoke began to belch through her portholes, and to complete her distress one of the 12-pounders blew up, killing several of the crew and firing the side.
“She is finished,” said de Ruyter, standing behind his pilot; and as the Royal Standard fell the hoarse shouts of victory rose from the decks of The Seven Provinces.
The Royal Prince tried now to withdraw, but was prevented by the other vessels of de Ruyter’s squadron; they closed round her and sent out fire-ships to complete her destruction.
The sea was scattered with wreckage, and stained with trails of blood and flecks of foam; the curtain of smoke concealed the rest of the battle, but the continuous sound of the guns and the splashes of flame in the darkness testified to its fierceness.
Michael de Ruyter, on the forecastle, saw a boat put out from The Royal Prince and struggle through the dipping bullets that lashed the water into spray; it lay-to at one of the portholes, and a man in a blue coat stepped out and took his place in the stern sheet.
He carried the standard that had just been disentangled from the bloody deck.
“It is the Duke of York,” said Admiral de Ruyter, narrowing his keen eyes. “Steer away from The Royal Prince, Zegen, for they have abandoned the flagship!”
The little Dutch galiots ran out, crowding all canvas, and trying to reach the cock-boat in which the Lord High Admiral of England was conveying his flag across the firing line.
They could see the English sailors straining at the oars, and the Prince himself ducking under the bullets, one of which flattened itself against the bows of his boat.