"'Tis not my business to throw troops against yonder entrenchments, Leake," he replied, with a shrug of his shoulders. "Until you can force the enemy's defences my men will remain on board the transports. Those rogues have held out for six weeks, and they can well do so for another month."
"Does it seem so?" demanded Leake, indicating the smoke-enshrouded buildings. "However, you have your orders even as I have, and since you neglect to comply with them I must needs act alone." So saying the gallant sea-captain turned on his heel and made his way to the poop, whence he could command a better view of the scene of hostilities.
It was in April of the year 1689 that the combined French and Irish forces began what seemed to be a comparatively easy task—the reduction of Londonderry. A handful of sturdy Ulstermen—of English and Scottish descent—had bid defiance to the army of the deposed King James, and, in spite of many a hard-pushed assault, had kept the besiegers at bay. Then famine was made to do the work that the sword had failed to accomplish, and in their anxiety the harassed defenders appealed to King William for aid.
Troops were embarked at Liverpool, and the relieving squadron sailed on May 16th, but, strange to relate, the English ships, in spite of their having kept the sea, did not arrive off the mouth of the Foyle until thirty days after.
Perspective glass in hand, Captain Leake made a careful examination of the upper reaches of Loch Foyle. For miles on either side batteries had been thrown up to contest the passage of the ships of the relieving squadron; while to make doubly sure the French engineers had constructed a massive boom from bank to bank at a spot where the river is barely a quarter of a mile wide.
In spite of his redoubtable courage the captain's doubts arose when he perceived the formidable obstruction. Strong baulks of fir, lashed together with thick tarred ropes and secured to either shore by means of twenty 4 in. cables, iron-shod stakes driven into the bed of the river, and equally dangerous obstructions formed by boats filled with stones and sunk in the Channel—all combined to present such a powerful means of defence that at first sight appeared to be absolutely impregnable.
Beyond the enemy's batteries rose the houses of the city, dominated by the square tower of the cathedral, on which cannons had been mounted and were keeping up a desultory fire upon the attacking party. Here and there tall columns of black smoke rose in the still air, showing that the foemen's mortars had set the houses on fire in more places than one; but though the damage done by the bombardment and frequent assaults was apparent, Captain Leake had no visible sign of the presence of a still more dreaded foe—the famine that lurked indiscriminately in both mansion and cottage.
Although the captain knew not of the full extent of this insidious evil, his experience told him that something must be done. Londonderry appealed for aid—she must not appeal in vain.
"Oh, for a strong northerly breeze," he muttered as he closed his glass, then, walking to the head of the poop-ladder, he exclaimed "Pass the word for Dymock to come aft."
In less than a minute Jock Dymock—a tall alert youth of nineteen—stood bareheaded before his chief. The lad was serving aboard the Dartmouth frigate in the capacity of acting third mate, having been chosen for promotion by the gallant Leake himself, who was ever ready to remark any special signs of ability amongst the men of his crew.