the enemy’s ships had suffered injury and one was quite disabled and in tow.  ’Twas all in vain.  The most of them concurred with Captain Kirkby’s opinion, that it was undesirable to continue the fight, nor could any reasoning turn them.  And then they put their names to a paper, formally giving their opinion, and (though I did not know this till afterwards) Captain Fogg and my own old commander, Captain Vincent, signed with the rest.

After this there was no more to be done.  If the admiral had been unwounded I believe he would have stood out against them all and fought the enemy single-handed:  but he had no assurance of being in a fit state to direct the battle; ’twas clear the captains had no mind to fight; and rather than imperil the whole squadron and let the French boast of a victory he resolved to venture no further.  And so we let the enemy depart unmolested, and returned to Jamaica.

On the way I had the privilege of some talk with the admiral.  Deeply mortified as he was at his own ill success, his personal grief was outweighed by his sense of the national disappointment which must attend the frustration of his design.

“And ’tis my last fight, Bold,” he said to me.  “I shall not live to meet the French again, and ’tis a sore trial to me to go out of the world a failure.”

“You are not a failure, sir,” I said. “’Tis those rascally captains who have failed and are disgraced forever; and be sure our people will do you justice.”

“You think so?” he said, with a pleased look. “’Twas King William that called me ‘honest Benbow,’ and if I keep that name with the country I am content.  I may die before we make Port Royal; if I do, you will take my love to Nelly, my lad?”

“I will indeed, sir, but I hope for better things,” I said.  “There be good surgeons in Spanish Town, who will use all of their skill to preserve a life so valuable to the country.”

“We shall see,” he replied.  “This plaguey leg will have to come off; maybe I shall return home with a wooden leg and stump about as port admiral somewhere!

“At any rate, I hope I shall live long enough to see you a captain.  You have done well, my lad, and there will be a few vacancies, I warrant you, when the court martial has done with those villains.”

Before we reached Port Royal a French boat overtook us with a letter to the admiral from Monsieur du Casse, who, being a brave man, felt for the distress of his brave foe.

“Sir” (he wrote), “I had little hope on Monday last but to have supped in your cabin, but it pleased God to order it otherwise; I am thankful for it.  As for those cowardly captains who deserted you, hang them up, for by God, they deserve it.”

Our return to harbor was a melancholy affair.  There was universal rage against the unworthy captains, and universal grief at the plight of the admiral.  His broken leg was taken off, an operation which he bore with wonderful fortitude, and being of a robust constitution, he gave the surgeons at first good hopes of recovery.  From his sick bed he issued a commission to Rear Admiral Whetstone to hold a court martial for the trial of the four captains whom he accused of cowardice, breach of order, and neglect of duty; and of Captains Fogg and Vincent on the minor charge of signing the paper against engaging the French.