This is something like
what you did in the old `Marlborough,' sir," said Dick to Pearce, so
loud that all might hear him--so many did, and noted the words. Death
was busy around them. While he was passing the lashing the young and
gallant Captain Faulkner fell to the deck--a musket ball had pierced his
heart. That was no time for grieving, even for one well-beloved as the
captain. A hawser was being got up from below to secure the enemy's
ship; but before it could be used she broke adrift, to the
disappointment of the British tars. A cheer, however, burst from their
throats as, directly afterwards, the "Blanche," paying off for want of
after-sail, the "Pique," while attempting to cross her stern, fell once
more aboard her. This time they took good care to secure the bowsprit
to the stump of their mainmast; and now, running before the wind, the
"Blanche" towing her opponent, the fight was continued with greater fury
than ever. In vain the Frenchmen strove to free themselves by cutting
the lashings--each time they made the attempt the marines drove them
back with their musketry. Still it seemed doubtful with whom victory
would side. The "Blanche" had no stern ports through which guns could
be fought; the carpenters were unable to aid them. A bold expedient was
proposed. The guns must make ports for themselves through the transom.
Firemen with buckets were stationed ready to extinguish the fire which
the discharge would create. With a thundering roar the guns sent their
shot through the stem, and, the fire being extinguished, they began to
play with terrific effect into the bows of the French frigate. Her
foremast was immediately shot away; her mizen-mast was seen to fall.
Still her crew, getting their quarter-dock guns trained aft, fought on;
but what were they to the "Blanche's" heavy guns, which mercilessly
raked her, the shot entering her bow and tearing up her deck fore and
aft, sweeping away numbers of her crew at each discharge. "If those
Mounseers are not made of iron, they'll not stand this battering much
longer," cried Dick Rogers, who was working one of the after-guns.
Pearce was standing near him. The space between the decks was filled
with smoke, through which the twinkling light of the lanterns could
scarcely penetrate, the flashes at each, discharge showing the men,
begrimed with powder, with sponge and rammers ready to load, or with
their tackles to run in their guns. A cheer from the deck tol