“I see, mate, how it is!” cried Pringle to him. “Those Frenchmen are fighting to run away. It’s strange not one of our fellows on deck have been hit yet. They’ve aimed all their shot at our spars.”
“Hurrah! lads, then,” answered Will in a high state of excitement, which Pringle could not help remarking. “Fire away, lads. We’ll stop them if we can from running away, at all events.”
As he spoke he applied his match to his gun. At the moment it sent forth its missile of death he tottered back, and before Paul Pringle could catch him had fallen on the deck. Paul stooped down and raised up his head.
“It’s all over with me, Paul,” he said in a low voice; “feel here.”
There was a dreadful wound in his side, which made it appear too probable that his prognostication would prove true. The rest of the men near turned round with glances of sorrow, for he was a general favourite; but they had to attend to the working of their guns.
“Paul,” he continued, “you and the ship’s company will, I know, look after my motherless child. I leave Billy to the care of you all. Bring him up as a sailor—a true British tar, mind. There isn’t a nobler life a man can lead. I would not have him anything else. The Captain’s very kind, and will, I know, do his best for him. But I don’t want him to be an officer—that’s very well for them that’s born to it; but all I’d have liked to have seen him, if I had lived, is an open-hearted, open-handed, honest seaman.” Poor Will was speaking with great difficulty. His words came forth low and slowly.
“Yes, yes, Will,” answered Paul, pressing his friend’s hand. “We’ll look after him. There’s not a man of the Terrible who would not look at little True Blue as his own son; and as to making him a seaman, we none on us would dream of anything else. It would be utterly impossible and unnatural like. Set your mind at rest, mate, about that. But I say, Will, wouldn’t it do your heart good to have a look at the younker?”
“Not up here; a shot might hit him, remember,” answered the poor father. “And if they was to move me, I don’t think that I should ever be got below alive. No, no, Paul; I’ll stay here. It’s the best place for a sailor to die.”
Just then there was a cry that the enemy’s ships were retreating. First the Count de Guichen’s own ship, the huge Couronne, was seen standing out of the action, followed by the Triomphant and Fendant, leaving the Sandwich in so battered a condition that she could not follow. The other ships imitated their leader’s example. One after another, the British ships found themselves without opponents. They endeavoured to make sail and follow; but their running rigging was so cut up that few could set their sails, while the masts of many went over their sides. All they could do, therefore, was to send their shot rapidly after the flying enemy, and give vent to their feelings in loud hurrahs and shouts of contempt. The Frenchmen little thought how well this same running away was teaching the English to beat them, as they did in many a subsequent combat, until, learning to respect each other’s bravery, they became firm friends and allies, and such, it is to be hoped, they may remain till the end of time.
The sound of the shouts seemed to revive poor Will Freeborn.