Soon Dymock, standing on the summit of one of the least damaged bastions, saw the topsails of three large vessels rounding Muff Point, while on either side of the river the allies were standing to their guns ready to give the English ships a warm reception.
On and on they came till Dymock could see their black and yellow hulls, as with wind and tide the rescuing vessels sped swiftly up the Foyle.
"There's the Dartmouth," he exclaimed to those nearest him. "But i' faith, I cannot say what the others are."
"They carry no ordnance," muttered one of the defenders gloomily. "Perchance 'tis only a feint after all."
"Nay," replied Dymock, reassuringly. "My captain will never turn back."
Silence fell upon the group of watchers. On and on came the three ships, the frigate exchanged shots with the shore batteries. Splinters flew in showers from the Dartmouth's bulwarks and spars, her canvas was shot through and through, but her well-directed fire, dismounting guns and shelling the stone breastworks with equal ease, drove the Frenchmen from their batteries.
Her two consorts, the Mountjoy and the Phoenix, being unarmed merchantmen, could not reply to the fire that was directed at them, but taking their punishment with fortitude, bore steadily onwards in dignified silence.
And now, under a hard squall, the Mountjoy leapt ahead, as if the elements meant her to accomplish her work. Amid a turmoil of foam-lashed water and a rending of timber, her stout cutwater struck the massive boom. There was a dead-weight of over 300 tons behind the merchantman's stem; the best work of the French engineers was useless to stop her, and with a barely perceptible pause she sheared her way through the formidable obstruction.
The tense silence was broken by a cheer given with the last remaining energy of the famished citizens, but the cheer froze on their lips, for the next moment the Mountjoy stuck hard and fast on the mud.
Instantly the French and Irish troops rushed for their boats that lined the river bank.