But he was two to one, and the game seemed with him. No time was wasted.
Phips's ships came to and stood alongside, and the gunners got to work.
The Bridgwater Merchant was high in the water, and her shot at first did
little damage to the Maid of Provence, which, having the advantage of the
wind, came nearer and nearer. The Swallow, with her twenty-odd guns, did
better work, and carried away the foremast of the enemy, killing several
men. But Iberville came on slowly, and, anxious to dispose of the
Swallow first, gave her broadsides between wind and water, so that soon
her decks were spotted with dying men, her bulwarks broken in, and her
mainmast gone. The cannonade was heard in Boston, from which, a few
hours later, two merchantmen set out for the scene of action, each
carrying good guns.
But the wind suddenly sank, and as the Maid of Provence, eager to close
with the Bridgwater Merchant, edged slowly down, a fog came between, and
the firing ceased on both sides. Iberville let his ship drift on her
path, intent on a hand-to-hand fight aboard the Bridgwater Merchant; the
grappling-irons were ready, and as they drifted there was silence.
Every eye was strained. Suddenly a shape sprang out of the grey mist,
and the Maid of Provence struck. There was a crash of timbers as the
bows of the Swallow--it was she--were stove in, and then a wild cry.
Instantly she began to sink.
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