Conquest pursues, where courage leads the way. 
  GARTH.

The glasses of Captain M –­, and the officers who remained on board of the frigate, were anxiously pointed towards the boats, which in less than half an hour had arrived within gunshot of the privateer.  “There is a gun from her,” cried several of the men at the same moment, as the smoke boomed along the smooth water.  The shot dashed up the spray under the bows of the boats, and ricochetting over them, disappeared in the wave, about half a mile astern.

The boats, which, previously, had been pulling in altogether, and without any particular order, now separated, and formed a line abreast, so that there was less chance of the shot taking effect than where they were before, en masse.

“Very good, Mr Price,” observed the captain, who had his eye fixed on them, through his glass.

The boats continued their advance towards the enemy, who fired her two long guns, both of which she had brought over to her starboard side, but, though well directed, the shot did not strike any of her assailants.

“There’s grape, sir,” said the master, as the sea was torn and ploughed up with it close to the launch, which, with the other boats, was now within a hundred yards of the privateer.

“The launch returns her fire,” observed Captain M –.

“And there’s blaze away from the pinnace and the barge,” cried one of the men, who stood on the rattlings of the main rigging.  “Hurrah, my lads! keep it up,” continued the man, in his feeling of excitement, which, pervading Captain M –­, as well as the rest of the crew, received no check, though not exactly in accordance with the strict routine of the service.

The combat now became warm; gun after gun from the privateer was rapidly fired at the boats, who were taking their stations previous to a simultaneous rush to board.  The pinnace had pulled away towards the bow of the privateer; the barge had taken up a position on the quarter; the launch remained on her beam, firing round and grape from her eighteen-pounder carronade, with a rapidity that almost enabled her to return gun for gun to her superiorly-armed antagonist.  Both the cutters were under her stern, keeping up an incessant fire of musketry, with which they were now close enough to annoy the enemy.

“A gun from the rock close to the barge, sir!” reported the signalman.

“I expected as much,” observed Captain M –­ to the officers standing near him.

“One of the cutters has winded, sir; she’s stretching out for the shore,” cried the master.

“Bravo ­that’s decided ­and without waiting for orders.  Who commands that boat?” inquired Captain M –.

“It’s the first cutter ­Mr Stewart, sir.”

The cutter was on shore before the gun could be reloaded and fired a second time.  The crew, with the officer at their head, were seen to clamber up the rock!  In a minute they returned, and jumping into the boat, pulled off to give their aid to the capture of the vessel.

“He has spiked the gun, I am certain,” observed Captain M –.

Before the cutter could regain her station, the other boats, were summoned by the bugle in the launch, and, with loud cheering, pulled up together to the attack.  The booms, which had been rigged out to prevent them from coming alongside, already shot through by the grape from the launch, offered but little resistance to the impetus with which the boats were forced against them; they either broke in two, or sank under water.

“There’s board ­Hurrah!” cried all the men who remained in the Aspasia, cheering those who heard them not.

But I must transport the reader to the scene of slaughter; for if he remains on board of the Aspasia, he will distinguish nothing but fire and smoke.  Don’t be afraid, ladies, if I take you on board of the schooner ­“these our actors are all air, thin air,” raised by the magic pen for your amusement.  Come, then, fearlessly, with me, and view the scene of mortal strife.  The launch has boarded on the starboard gangway, and it is against her that the crew of the privateer have directed their main efforts.

The boarding nettings cannot be divided, and the men are thrown back wounded or dead, into the boat.  The crew of the pinnace are attempting the bows with indifferent success.  Some have already fallen a sacrifice to their valour ­none have yet succeeded in gaining a footing on deck, while the marines are resisting, with their bayonets, the thrusts of the boarding pikes which are protruded through the ports.  Courtenay has not yet boarded in the barge, for, on pulling up on the quarter, he perceived that, on the larboard side of the vessel, the boarding nettings had either been neglected to be properly triced up, or had been cut away by the fire from the boats.  He has pushed alongside, to take advantage of the opening, and the two cutters have followed him.  They board with little resistance ­the enemy are too busy repelling the attacks on the other side ­and as his men pour upon the privateer’s deck, the crews of the launch and pinnace, tired with their vain endeavours to divide the nettings, and rendered desperate by their loss, have run up the fore and main rigging above the nettings, and thrown themselves down, cutlass in hand into the melee below, careless of the points of the weapons which may meet them in their descent.  Now is the struggle for life or death!

Courtenay, who was daring as man could be, but not of a very athletic frame, reclimbed from the main chains of the vessel, into which he had already once fallen, from one of his own seamen having inadvertently made use of his shoulder as a step to assist his own ascent.  He was overtaken by Robinson, the coxswain of the cutter, who sprang up with all the ardour and activity of an English sailor who “meant mischief,” and, pleased with the energy of his officer (forgetting, at the moment, the respect due to his rank), called out to him, by the sobriquet with which he had been christened by the men, ­“Bravo, Little Bilious! that’s your sort!”

“What’s that, sir?” cried Courtenay, making a spring, so as to stand on the plane-sheer of the vessel at the same moment with the coxswain, and seizing him by the collar, ­“I say, Robinson, what do you mean by calling me `_Little Bilious_?’” continued the lieutenant, wholly regardless of the situation they were placed in.  The coxswain looked at him with surprise, and at the same moment parried off with his cutlass a thrust of a pike at Courtenay, which, in all probability, would otherwise have prevented his asking any more questions; then, without making any answer, sprang down on the deck into the midst of the affray.

“You, Robinson, come back,” cried Courtenay, after him ­“Damned annoying ­Little Bilious, indeed!” continued he, as, following the example of the coxswain, he proceeded to vent his bile, for the present, on the heads of the Frenchmen.

In most instances of boarding, but more especially in boarding small vessels, there is not much opportunity for what is termed hand-to-hand fighting.  It is a rush for the deck; breast to breast, thigh to thigh, foot to foot, man wedged against man, so pressed on by those behind, that there is little possibility of using your cutlass, except by driving your antagonist’s teeth down his throat with the hilt.  Gun-shot wounds, of course, take place throughout the whole of the combat, but those from the sabre and the cutlass are generally given and received before the close, or after the resistance of one party has yielded to the pertinacity and courage of the other.  The crews of the barge and cutters having gained possession of the deck in the rear of the enemy, the affair was decided much sooner than it otherwise would have been, for the French fought with desperation, and were commanded by a most gallant and enterprising captain.  In three minutes, the crew of the privateer were either beaten below, or forced overboard, and the colours hauled down from the mast-heads announced to Captain M –­ and the rest of the Aspasia’s crew, the welcome intelligence that the privateer was in the possession of their gallant shipmates.  The hatches were secured, and the panting Englishmen, for a few minutes, desisted from their exertions, that they might recover their breath; after which Price gave directions for the cables and hawser to be cut, and the boats to go ahead, and tow the vessel out.

“They are firing musketry from the shore; they’ve just hit one of our men,” said the coxswain of the pinnace.

“Then cast off, and bring your gun to bear astern.  If you do not hit them, at least they will not be so steady in their aim.  As soon as we are out of musket-shot, pull out to us.”

The order was executed, whilst the other boats towed the privateer towards the frigate.  In a few minutes they were out of musket-shot; the pinnace returned, and they had leisure to examine into the loss which they had sustained in the conflict.

The launch had suffered most; nine of her crew were either killed or wounded.  Three seamen and four marines had suffered in the other boats.  Twenty-seven of the privateer’s men were stretched on the decks, either dead or unable to rise.  Those who had not been severely hurt had escaped below with the rest of the crew.

Price was standing at the wheel, his sabre not yet sheathed, with Courtenay at his side, when his inveterate habit returned, and he commenced ­

“`I do remember, when the fight was done ­’”

“So do I, and devilish glad that it’s over,” cried Jerry, coming forward from the taffrail with a cutlass in hand, which although he could wield, he could certainly not have done much execution with.

“Why, how came you here, Mr Jerry?” inquired Courtenay.

“Oh!  Stewart brought me in his boat, with the hopes of getting rid of me; but I shall live to plague him yet.”

“You are not hurt, Seymour, I hope?” said Price to our hero, who now joined the party, and whose clothes were stained with blood.

“No,” replied Seymour, smiling.  “It’s not my blood ­it’s Stewart’s.  I have been binding up his head; he has a very deep cut on the forehead, and a musket-ball in his neck; but I think neither of the wounds is of much consequence.”

“Where is he?”

“In the cutter.  I desired them to put the wounded man in her, out of the launch, and to pull on board at once.  Was not I right?”

“Yes, most assuredly.  I should have thought of it myself.”

“Well, Jerry,” said Seymour, laughing, “how many did you ­”

“I did not count them; but if you meet with any chaps with deeper wounds than usual, put them down to me.  Do you know, Mr Price, you are more indebted to me than you may imagine for the success of this affair?”

“How, Mr Jerry?  I should like to know, that I may prove my gratitude; `eleven out of the thirteen’ you paid, I’ve no doubt.”

“It was not altogether that ­I frightened them more than I hurt them; for when they would have returned the blows from this stalwart arm,” said Jerry, holding out the member in question, which was about the thickness of a large carrot, “I immediately turned edgeways to them, and was invisible.  They thought that they had to deal with either a ghost or a magician, and, depend upon it, it unnerved them ­”

“`Approach thou like,’ ­what is it?” resumed Price, “something ­`Hence, horrible shadow, unreal mockery, hence!’”

“Pretty names to be called in reward of my services,” cried Jerry.  “I presume this is a specimen of the gratitude you were talking about.  Well, after all, to take a leaf out of your book, Mr Price, I consider that the better part of valour is discretion.  Now, that fellow, Stewart, he actually gave them his head to play with, and I am not sorry that he has had it broken ­for I calculate that I shall be saved at least a dozen thrashings by some of his hot blood being let out ­`the King’s poor cousin!’”

“By the bye, I quite forgot ­where’s Robinson, the coxswain of the cutter?” demanded Courtenay.

“Between the guns forward seriously hurt, poor fellow, I am afraid,” answered Seymour.

“I’m very sorry for that ­I’ll go and see him ­I wish to speak with him,” replied Courtenay, walking forward.

Robinson was lying near the long brass gun, which was pointed out of the foremost port, his head pillowed upon the body of the French captain, who had fallen by his hand, just before he had received his mortal wound.  A musket-ball had entered his groin, and divided the iliac artery; he was bleeding to death ­nothing could save him.  The cold perspiration on his forehead, and the glassy appearance of his eye, too plainly indicated that he had but a few minutes to live.  Courtenay, shocked at the condition of the poor fellow, who was not only the most humorous, but one of the ablest seamen in the ship, knelt down on one knee beside him, and took his hand.

“How do you feel, Robinson? are you in much pain?”

“None at all, sir, thank ye,” replied the man, faintly; “but the purser may chalk me down D.D. as soon as he pleases.  I suppose he’ll cheat government out of our day’s grub though,” continued the man, with a smile.

Courtenay, aware of the truth of the first observation, thought it no kindness to attempt to deceive a dying man with hopes of recovery in his last moments; he therefore continued ­“Can I be of any service to you, Robinson?  Is there any thing I can do when you are gone?”

“Nothing at all, sir.  I’ve neither chick nor child, nor relation, that I know of.  Yes, there is one thing, sir, but it’s on the bloody side; the key of the mess chest is in my trousers’ pocket ­I wish you’d recollect to have it taken out and given to John Williams; you must wait till I’m dead, for I can’t turn myself just now.”

“It shall be attended to,” replied Courtenay.

“And, Mr Courtenay, remember me to the captain.”

“Is there any thing else?” continued Courtenay, who perceived that the man was sinking rapidly.

“Nothing ­nothing, sir,” replied Robinson, very, faintly.  “Good-bye, God bless you, sir; I’m going fast now.”

“But Robinson,” said Courtenay, in a low soothing voice, bending nearer to him, “tell me, my good fellow ­I am not the least angry ­tell me, why did you call me Little Bilious?”

The man turned his eyes up to him, and a smile played upon his features, as if he was pleased with the idea of disappointing the curiosity of his officer.  He made no answer ­his head fell back, and in a few seconds he had breathed his last.

“Poor fellow ­he is gone!” said Courtenay, with a deep sigh, as he rose up from the body.  “Never answered my question, too ­Well,” continued he, as he walked slowly aft, “now that’s what I consider to be most excessively annoying.”

By this time, the privateer had been towed under the stern of the frigate, and a hawser was sent on board to secure her astern.  Price and the other officers returned on board, where they were well received by Captain M –­, who thanked them for their exertions.  The wounded had been some time under the hands of Macallan, and fresh crews having been ordered into the boats, they returned to the privateer.  The hatches were taken off and the prisoners removed to the frigate.

The name of the prize was the Estelle, of two hundred tons burthen, mounting fourteen guns, and having on board, at the commencement of the attack, her full complement of one hundred and twenty-five men.