The action took place on Friday and the ships were headed for Brest, about three days' sail away. At daybreak on Sunday morning, four large boats were sighted astern, and it did not take long to realize that they were coming up pretty fast _and were flying the English colors_.

"Hurray!" shouted Captain Walker. "No French prison for me. Hurray!"

The English squadron gained steadily. The boats grew nearer and nearer, while Walker's hopes soared higher and higher. Finally, the French officer, who was in charge of his own boat--the _Mars_--put his helm up and ran to leeward, hoping to draw one of the British vessels after him. He was successful, for a seventy-gun ship made after him, chased him for several miles, and finally re-captured the English privateer. The other ships kept on and drew closer and closer.

Seeing that an action would soon take place, the French captain politely requested Walker and his officers to go below.

"Messieurs!" said he. "There will soon be a leetle affair in which the b.a.l.l.s will fly. You will be better off in the hold, where they cannot reach you so easily as up here."

"Sir!" replied the English privateer-captain. "I go below with the greatest of pleasure, for I am now certain of my liberty. Au revoir!"

"Do not count your chickens before they hatch!" cried the Frenchman, after his retreating form.

The British vessels were the _Hampton Court_ of seventy guns, and the _Sunderland_ and _Dreadnought_ of sixty each; so, being three to two, they should have had a fairly easy victory over the Frenchmen. But the _Sunderland_ lost a spar overboard, and dropped astern; so it left but two to two: an even affair.

Alas for gallant Captain Walker! Although the Englishmen came near the two French men-of-war, they hung about without firing a shot; allowed the Frenchmen to sail on unmolested, and thus carry their astonishingly rich treasure into Brest, amid wild and enthusiastic cheering of their crews, and groans of disappointment from the English prisoners.

Yet these same prisoners had little cause to complain of their treatment when they arrived at Brest; for they were landed at once, and the captain and officers were liberated on parole. The French also treated them very well and invited the valorous George Walker to many a repast, where they laughed at the narrow shave that he had had from death,--for they had left the _Fleuron_ none too soon.

On the day following the landing, Captain Walker was seated in the office of a counting-house, near the dock-end, and was writing a letter to the captain of the _Fleuron_, requesting him to send him his letter-of-credit, which was in a tin box in a cabin of the French man-of-war, when a terrible _Boom!_ sounded upon his ears.

A sailor came running past the open window.

"The _Fleuron_ has blown up!" he cried. "The _Fleuron_ is a total loss!"

Captain Walker dashed into the street; to the end of the quay; and there a sad spectacle greeted his eager gaze. Strewn about upon the surface of the water were broken spars; pieces of sail; and the debris of a once gallant man-of-war. The remnants of the _Fleuron_ were burning brightly.

The captain of the French ship came running by. "Helas!" he wailed. "A careless gunner has destroyed my gallant vessel. Helas! Helas!"

It was too true. Four or five powder barrels had been left in the magazine for saluting purposes, and quite a little loose powder had been allowed to lie upon the floor. Some careless seamen had gone down into the hold with a decrepit, old lantern. The handle broke, the flame set fire to the loose powder,--and that was the end of the gallant ship _Fleuron_. She burned to the water's edge and then went down to the bottom with a dull, sizzling hiss; while the treasure also disappeared. Later on, divers secured a part of it, but much that was of value was never recovered.

Captain Walker did not long grieve over the loss of his letter-of-credit, left on board the ill-starred _Fleuron_, for he was exchanged, after a few weeks, and was sent back to England with his crew. This was in 1745. He lost no time in reporting to the owners of the _Mars_, and so well did they think of him, that in a short while they sent him upon another privateering venture aboard the _Boscawen_, which, as you remember, had run away from the _Mars_, after she had fallen in with the two French men-of-war. Now occurred his greatest sea-fight.

The _Boscawen_ had been built in France and had been a prize, taken at sea. She mounted twenty-eight guns (nine-pounders), but Walker added two more, and shipped a crew of three hundred and fourteen men.

Without waiting for the _Mars_, the stout sea-dog put out to sea on April 19th, 1745, steering for the sh.o.r.es of France where cruised the prize-laden clipper ships, and the unwelcome men-of-warsmen. The British privateersman cruised about for a whole month without any luck, and, falling in with the privateer _Sheerness_, joined with her in a little run in search of inoffensive merchantmen. At daybreak a cry came from the forward watch,--

"Sails ho! Sails ho! Off the starboard quarter! There're eight o' them an' heading no' east."

Both the privateers started in pursuit, but the _Sheerness_ was left far astern, as the _Boscawen_ was a speedy sailer. The latter drew near the eight scudding sail, which suddenly veered about and formed a line, awaiting an attack. The _Sheerness_ was way astern. Would Captain Walker advance?

It was eight against one, and there was no certainty what was the armament of the vessels now standing in a row, all ready for action.

The faces of the officers on the _Boscawen_ showed anxiety and suspense, but there was no shadow of fear upon the countenance of Captain Walker, who now addressed them in the following words:

"Gentlemen, I hope that you do not think the number of prizes before us too many. Be a.s.sured, my good friends, that by their being armed, they have something on board of them that is worth defending. I take them to be merchantmen with letters of marque (privateers), and homeward bound. Without doubt we shall meet with some opposition, in which I know that you will exhibit your usual courage. We must conquer these superior numbers by superior skill. Be cool. Be careful that you aim correctly, for, as we shall be pressed on all sides, let every man do his best to engage the enemy that he sees before him.

"In a word, Gentlemen, if you will put full confidence in me for leading you on, I will p.a.w.n my life upon the fact that I will bring you off victorious."

"Hurray! Hurray for Walker!" came the rea.s.suring response.

"Then go to your quarters, my hearties! Fight like Britishers of old, and all will be well!" cried the brave mariner.

Like a hornet among a group of snap-dragons, the _Boscawen_ now sailed into the centre of the enemy's line.

"Do not fire until I give the word!" cried Captain Walker, as the salt spray kicked and splashed about the bow of the on-coming _Boscawen_.

"Then hammer away like anvils on a sledge!"

Sixty men were ill on board the stout little English privateer, but all save three crawled on deck in order to render what a.s.sistance they could in pointing and handling the guns.

Now was a glorious fight.

_Bang! Crash! Z-i-i-p!_

The French privateers were hammering away as the Englishman approached and their b.a.l.l.s cut and tore through the rigging, damaging the mizzen topsail, and splitting a topmast. Steering straight for the largest vessel, Walker waited until he was within close range and then gave the order:

"Fire, and hull her if you can."

_Poof! Cr-a-a-sh!_

A blinding broadside rolled from the port of the _Boscawen_, and the solid shot bit and tore the stranger like a terrier mouthing a rat.

The valiant little privateer was now in the midst of the enemy. Two were to right of her; two to the left of her; one across her bow; and one across her stern. Two of the eight decamped, at this juncture; making the odds six, instead of eight, to one.

"_Pow! Pow! Cu-boom!_"

The vessel astern was banging away like a Banshee, but a sudden _crash_ from the stern guns so badly damaged her that she hauled off.

It was now five to one.

"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.