The bright flash of a gun, and an eighteen-pound shot, which came crashing into the side of the prize left that point very little in doubt.
“Man the starboard guns!” cried Mr Calder. “We’ll show the Frenchmen that though we have lost our wings we have still got our beaks.”
With a hearty cheer—though, from the paucity of their numbers, not a very loud one—the men went to the guns.
Could they beat off the enemy? They would try, at all events. Rawson in a moment forgot his forebodings, and was all life and courage. The enemy was seen to be shortening sail, so as not to pass the “Concorde.”
“Fire!” cried Lieutenant Calder. The men obeyed with alacrity, but scarcely had the shot left the mouths of the guns than the enemy replied with a crashing broadside, which shot away several of the stays of the jury-masts, knocked over three or four of the crew, and reduced the frigate almost to the state of wreck in which she had been found when captured.
Rawson was the only officer wounded, but still he cheered on the crew.
“We’ll not give in lads! Old England for ever!” he exclaimed, putting his right hand to a gun-tackle, and hauling away. The other arm had been hit.
In vain were all the efforts of those gallant men.
“Here she comes!” was the cry. “Boarders! repel boarders!”
The enemy gave a sheer to port, and with a loud crash ran alongside the “Concorde.” Grappling-irons were hove aboard her and the next instant the Frenchmen, in overpowering numbers, rushed like a torrent along her decks.