And he managed it at last by a series of tacks which cost us many men and
more spars. Then, throwing prudence to the winds, he drove straight for the
Frenchman to board him at any cost. It was our only chance, for his heavier
guns would have let him plug us from a distance, till every man on board
was down.

We gave a wild cheer as we recognised the success of John Ozanne's
manoeuvring, and every man gripped his steel and ground his teeth for a
fight to the death.

But it was not to be. Death was there, but no fight. For, as we plunged
straight for the Frenchman, following every twist he made, and eager only
for the leap at his throat, our little ship began to roll in a sickly
fashion as she had never done before, and men looked into one another's
faces with fears in their eyes beyond any all the Frenchmen in the world
could put there. And the carpenter, who had been on deck with the rest,
bursting for the fight, tumbled hastily below, and came up in a moment with
a face like putty.

"She's going!" he cried, and it was his last word. One of those devilish
six feet of whirling bars scattered him and three others into fragments and
then shore its way through the bulwarks behind. And the winged _Swallow_
began to roll under our feet in the way that makes a seaman's heart grow
sick.

The Frenchman never ceased firing on us. No matter. It was only a choice of
deaths. Not a man among us would have asked his life from him, even if the
chance had been given, and it was not.

My last look at the Frenchman showed him coming straight for us. I saw the