“One!—every man on board will be sorry they ever met us!” said the captain. He knew that the officer who spoke was not one likely to flinch from the work to be done.
We were standing directly for the enemy, whose ships were pretty close in with the land. Notwithstanding the apparently overwhelming numbers of the foe, the ship, with the greatest alacrity, was cleared for action.
“Shall we really fight them?” asked a youngster of Peter, who was a great favourite with all the midshipmen.
“Ay—that we shall, sir,” he answered. “The captain only wishes that there were twice as many ships to fight.”
“That’s all right!” exclaimed the young midshipman. “I was afraid that some trick was intended, and that we should soon have to up stick, and run for it.”
“No, no; no fear of that! I don’t think our captain is the man to run from anything.”
It was now about eight o’clock in the evening, and the French ships, having formed in line, seemed to have no intention of avoiding us. A feeling of pride and confidence animated the bosoms of all our crew as we stood round the short heavy guns with which our ship was armed, while advancing towards an enemy of a force apparently so overwhelming. One French frigate, the Brutus, was a razéed 64-gun ship, and now carried 46 guns. Then there were the Incorruptible, of 32 guns; the Magicienne, of 36; the Républicain, of 28; and the two corvettes, of 22 guns each.
On we stood. Whatever the enemy did, we were not to fire till we got close up to them. There were to be no long shots with us. It had become almost dark before we arrived abreast of the three sternmost ships. “Take care that not a gun is fired till I give the order,” cried the captain. “Steer for that big fellow there.” This was the Brutus, the second from the van. We were within thirty yards of this ship. “Strike to His Britannic Majesty’s ship Glutton!” cried the captain, waving to the Frenchman. This order the Frenchmen were not likely to obey. Up went the French colours at the peaks of all the ships, and immediately they began firing as they could bring their guns to bear. We glided on a few yards nearer the opponent our captain had singled out. “Now, give it them, my lads!” he shouted; and immediately we poured our whole broadside into the hull of our enemy. The effects were as terrific as unexpected—she seemed literally to reel with the force of the concussion. Meantime, the leading ship stood past us to windward, with the intention of cutting us up with her shot; but she got more than she bargained for, in the shape of our larboard-broadside. The heavy shot, nearly every one of which told, shattered her hull, tore open her decks, and damaged her spars. Meantime we were standing on the larboard-tack, with the French commodore to leeward of us, with whom we were exchanging a hot fire—rather hotter than he liked, indeed.
The pilot had been anxiously watching the coast—not indeed relishing, probably, the sort of work going on. He now hurried up to the captain: “We shall be on shore to a certainty, sir, if we stand on in this course.”
“Never fear,” answered Captain Trollope. “When the Frenchman takes the ground, do you go about.”