The air was flat, heavy, and humid as the light galleon _L’Aurore_ led the French line. There was the faintest wind from the east, and that is where the English sails were visible on the horizon. *Amiral* Belrose had been tasked with protecting this body of water from English intelligence, and he would do his best if the weather would permit his ships or theirs to move. He had been told the English admiral Morgan was in these waters. One of his lieutenants assured him that this was Morgan’s flagship. He watched the line slowly, slowly come closer. He couldn’t be everywhere, and he saw them reach the first point he was supposed to defend. A blow, but it wouldn’t matter if he could stop them overall. They exchanged desultory cannon fire. He knew they had the weather and he knew the reputation of English gunners at range, but he had given orders to fire with the roll and arc the balls down on them. Nothing was decisive. Most shots just added to the store of iron on the sea floor. ![[jul_03 - 1.jpeg]] He spotted one English ship, a brigantine bringing up the rear of the line, breaking away and running downwind. He signaled to his consort ships, a frégate and a corvette, to deal with it. His galleon could weather the remaining English fire at this range and hold them off. The time wore on and on. The English brigantine took a brutal broadside from the French corvette and eventually struck their colours; he could see the men fleeing for the boats as the brigantine settled lower. So much for that tactic, but it had cost him concentrated fire and the power of a line of battle. ![[jul_03 - 2.jpeg]] And meanwhile the English had closed. They remained on the other side of the shoals. Their shots began to get more accurate and more frequent—English gunners truly could reload as he had heard. Two in quick succession tore through his rigging, leaving the _Aurore_ with no way on her as the frégate came up from astern. Nothing he couldn’t repair, if only he could find time to breathe. A sloop led the English line, and he watched with some ironic detachment as they tried to rake his bows. He ordered the ship to turn by working the tiller and what little force the mizzen could still generate, and was able to deflect the worst of their attempted fire. This also brought Morgan’s flagship neatly into his arc, and a broadside from the *Aurore* damaged Morgan’s foremast. The wreckage trailed in the water, acting like a sea-anchor. The English soon cut it free and got under way again, jury-rigging some headsails on her. ![[jul_03 - 3.jpeg]] The wind picked up for a moment—Belrose was certain he had heard an old hand whistling earlier—and his corvette rapidly rejoined. The frégate had swerved off, as close to the wind as she could go, and Morgan’s flagship raked her bows for her trouble. The English sloop had come around his bows and into his other broadside. And then… Morgan raised some flags and the remaining English ships broke off, set all sail, and went off to the southeast. The smell of powder was heavy in the air, with no breeze to speak of to disperse it. He supposed that they had used more shot than they could afford, and saw no way to board his ships. Not a victory to earn him a place in hallowed halls, but it would have to do. ![[jul_03 - 4.jpeg]]