Part 51

"Keep it up, boys!" cried Walker, above the roar and rattle of the fray. "You're doing splendidly. You all deserve statues in the temple of fame."

"Huzzah!" shouted his men. "Hurray for the Boscawen. Down with the Frenchmen!"

"Cu-pow! Boom! Boom!" roared the cannon, while the broadsides from the Boscawen were delivered without either confusion or disorder. The five were sparring gamely, but they were lightly armed, with only a few guns to each, so the thirty nine-pounders on board the English privateer were about an equal match for the greater numbers of the foe.

Thus the fight raged for an hour, when, suddenly, the ensign upon the mast of the French flagship was seen to flutter to the deck. Ten minutes later a cry arose from a sailor aboard the Boscawen:

"Look, Captain, she's sinking!"

Sure enough, the accurate fire from the British privateer had so riddled the hull of the Frenchman, that she fast filled with water, and sank, stern first, her men escaping in their small boats.

"That's one less, anyway," mused Captain Walker.

The remaining four continued the fight, but the little privateer was too much for them. Around and around she veered, broadsiding with astonishing accuracy, and knocking the spars about like a foot-ball team kicking a ball. "Pow! Pow!" the guns roared, and the men cried, "Remember the oath of our captain! Let's take 'em all!"

It began to look as if they would do it, too; for, now upon the starboard quarter appeared the white sails of a vessel, and, as she approached, a joyous cheer arose from the deck of the Boscawen, for it was the Sheerness.

"Now we'll get 'em! Now we'll get 'em!" yelled the British sailors, and they plied their guns with renewed activity and care.

Down came the flag upon one of the Frenchmen, and--in a few moments--down came another. Then, as the Sheerness rolled closer, two more ensigns fluttered to the deck. There was but one Frenchman left, and she made off, with the newcomer hot in pursuit.

"Hurray! Hurray! Hurray!" The sailors on board the Boscawen were fairly jumping for joy. "Hurray! Hurray! Hurray!" they yelled.

And well might they cheer, for had they not won one of the pluckiest sea-fights of all history? The enemy is said to have had one hundred and thirteen killed and drowned, while the casualties of the Boscawen amounted to but one killed and seven wounded. "And this," says an old chronicler of the spirited affair, "was due to the fact that the British privateer had a bulwark of elm-planking, man-high, around her deck. It was so fashioned that there was a step on which the marines could mount and fire, and then come down in order to load. Furthermore, this elm-wood did not splinter; but kept out the bullets, and closed up around the holes made by shot."

At any rate, it was a glorious victory, and when--a few hours later--the Sheerness came back with the other French vessel a prize, the total capture amounted to six vessels: homeward bound traders from Martinique, provided with letters of marque, and with about six guns each. Their crews were undoubtedly undisciplined and ill-used to shooting, else how could they have done so badly with the Boscawen?

The prizes were headed for the English coast and arrived at King's Road, Bristol, in a few days, where a swarm of eager sight-seers crowded about the shattered craft.

"My! My!" said many. "This Walker is another Drake. He is a valiant soul!"

And so thought the British Admiralty, for they sent him a letter (upon his reporting to them) which read:

"We cannot too highly congratulate and commend you upon the seamanship and courage which you have displayed in the capture of these French vessels. Your daring and ability should always make your name one to be revered by those Britishers who follow the sea. May your future career upon the ocean but add to the laurels which you have already won!"

And were they not right?

Seldom has such a feat been accomplished, and seldom has one vessel come off victorious against such odds. If you love a game warrior, cheer for George Walker, for he deserves it. If you are an admirer of the fighting quality in a man, give three times three for the privateersman who had the nerve to sail into eight vessels,--and won out.

So much, indeed, did the British owners of the privateer vessels think of Captain Walker, that he was now placed in command of four ships, known as "The Royal Family of Privateers," for each was named after some member of the English royal family. These were the Princess Amelia, of twenty-four guns and one hundred and fifty men: the Prince Frederick of twenty-six guns and two hundred and sixty men: the Duke of twenty guns and two hundred and sixty men; and the King George, of thirty-two guns and three hundred men. This last boat was commanded by Walker, himself; the Duke by Edward Dottin, a staunch sailor; the Prince Frederick by Hugh Bromedge; and the Princess Amelia by Robert Denham. The entire squadron carried nearly a thousand men and one hundred and two guns, so, you see, that it could do quite a little damage to the enemies of Merrie England.

Sailing in May, 1746, the squadron soon met with hard luck, for the Prince Frederick ran upon a rock in Bristol Channel, and had to be left behind; for she was badly punctured below the water-line. The three others sailed for the coast of France, and--a week later--had a startling little adventure.

A heavy fog lay over the sobbing water, and the three English sea-robbers were gliding along within easy gun-shot of each other, when it was evident that they were near some other vessels. Voices came out of the mist, lights flashed (for it was near the close of day), and the wash of water could be heard, as the waves beat against solid oak planking.

"Egad!" whispered Captain Walker to one of his lieutenants. "Listen, my boy, and tell me whether these voices are French, Spanish, or English."

The lieutenant held a speaking-trumpet to his ear.

The swish, swish of water came to the eager senses of the anxious privateersman. That was all!

Captain Walker passed the word around among his men to be absolutely silent, and, as he strained his hearing, in order to catch the faintest sound from the strangers, suddenly he heard the sentence,

"Pressy! Chantez une chanson. Je vais me coucher." (Sing a song, Pressy. I am going to bed.)