The first cutter, commanded by the gunner, now gained upon the launch, and was three boat’s-lengths ahead of her when she came alongside. The brig poured in her broadside—it was well directed, and down went the boat.

“Cutter’s sunk,” exclaimed Gascoigne, “by heavens! Give way, my men.”

“Now, don’t you observe that had we all three been pulling up together, the broadside would have sunk us all?” said Jack, very composedly.

“There’s board in the launch—give way, my men, give way,” said Gascoigne, stamping with impatience.

The reception was evidently warm; by the time that the launch had poured in her men, the second cutter was close under the brig’s quarter—two more strokes and she was alongside; when of a sudden, a tremendous explosion took place on the deck of the vessel, and bodies and fragments were hurled up into the air. So tremendous was the explosion, that the men of the second cutter, as if transfixed, simultaneously stopped pulling, their eyes directed to the volumes of smoke which poured through the ports, and hid the whole of the masts and rigging of the vessel.

“Now’s your time, my lads! give way and alongside,” cried our hero.

The men, reminded by his voice, obeyed—but the impetus already given to the boat was sufficient. Before they could drop their oars in the water they grazed against the vessel’s sides, and, following Jack, were in a few seconds on the quarter-deck of the vessel. A dreadful sight presented itself—the whole deck was black, and corpses lay strewed, their clothes on them still burning, and among the bodies lay fragments of what once were men.

The capstern was unshipped and turned over on its side—the binnacles were in remnants, and many of the ropes ignited. There was not one person left on deck to oppose them.

As they afterwards learnt from some of the men who had saved their lives by remaining below, the French captain had seen the boats before they anchored, and had made every preparation; he had filled a large ammunition chest with cartridges for the guns, that they might not have to hand them up. The conflict between the men of the pinnace and the crew of the vessel was carried on near the capstern, and a pistol fired had accidentally communicated with the powder, which blew up in the very centre of the dense and desperate struggle.

The first object was to draw water and extinguish the flames, which were spreading over the vessel; as soon as that was accomplished, our hero went aft to the taffrail, and looked for the cutter which had been sunk.—“Gascoigne, jump into the boat with four men—I see the cutter floats a quarter of a mile astern: there may be some one alive yet. I think now I see a head or two.”

Gascoigne hastened away, and soon returned with three of the cutter’s men; the rest had sunk, probably killed or wounded by the discharge of the broadside.

“Thank God, there’s three saved!” said Jack, “for we have lost too many. We must now see if any of these poor fellows are yet alive, and clear the decks of the remnants of those who have been blown to pieces. I say, Ned, where should we have been if we had boarded with the pinnace?”

“You always fall upon your feet, Easy,” replied Gascoigne; “but that does not prove that you are right.”

“I see there’s no convincing you, Ned, you are so confoundedly fond of argument. However, I’ve no time to argue now—we must look to these poor fellows; some are still alive.”

Body after body was thrown through the ports, the habiliments, in most cases, enabling them to distinguish whether it was that of a departed friend or foe.