Run Them Ashore by Adrian Goldsworthy

current as they turned and felt it driving against their side. The gunboat was coming on quickly as well, more quickly than he had expected, until the Frenchman turned to bring its bow gun to bear.
    A musket ball struck splinters off the plank of the gig just beside his hand. Another hit an oar, the force throwing the sailor off his stroke so that he caught a crab. For a moment the gig foundered, twisting against the waves and rocking. Men on shore were firing at them. The range was long and they probably had more hope of warning the gunboat than doing real damage. Sofar the Frenchmen seemed oblivious as they concentrated on bringing their cannon to bear.
    ‘Get the stroke, damn your eyes.’ Treadwell spat the words at the sailors, who quickly recovered and pulled hard towards the gunboat. More shots came from the shore, one snatching Mr Prentice’s battered round hat off and knocking it into the sea.
    ‘Bloody sauce!’ he shouted. ‘That cost ten shillings.’ The gunner was grinning.
    ‘You were robbed, sir,’ Dobson said.
    They were close now, but Williams could see that the French boats were even closer to the prize. Men appeared at the rail, and muskets banged as they fired down into the boat, which had bumped alongside, waiting to board.
    ‘Come on, lads!’ Treadwell shouted. Faces turned on the gunboat and saw them coming, mouths opening in shock. Dobson twisted where he sat and aimed quickly. The musket banged and one of the French rowers was flung back. Confusion followed and the gig slammed into the side of the gunboat just as someone pulled the lanyard on the cannon. The flint slammed down, set off the powder in the tube and then the main charge. An instant later, the twenty-four-pounder went off with a great roar, bathing the side of the prize in a flash of red light and then a cloud of smoke. Williams heard the whining rattle of grapeshot peppering the high side of the captured ship. The French gun captain had aimed a little to the side to avoid hitting their boarding party, and the sudden impact of the gig near its stern had twisted the gunboat. Someone on the prize was screaming, but then that was lost in shouts and shots as the French boarded.
    Williams was in the prow of the gig and was crouching ready when they struck. The shock almost knocked him back, but he steadied himself, took a breath and raised his pistol, aiming at the face of the startled French coxswain just a few feet away. He pulled the trigger, felt it jerk in his hand as the charge went off and through the smoke saw the man pitched overboard. Behind him, marines raised their muskets and two fired, the muzzles inches away from his ears. The flames scorched his hair, and thesound exploded so close to his ears that he could no longer hear as smoke billowed around him and his nostrils filled with the rotten-egg odour of gunpowder. He leapt into the chaos, everything happening so fast that there was no time for thought or fear. One of the French rowers was dying, blood jetting from his throat, and another was clutching at his arm. Williams swung the pistol into the wounded man’s face and let it go. His foot caught on a rowing bench and he tripped, falling forward, the axe sinking into a man’s leg instead of his face.
    Marines trampled him as they surged on to the gunboat. He had forgotten to give the orders to fix bayonets, so they clubbed and swung with the heavy firelocks as Williams struggled to get up. He had lost the axe. Someone trod on his fingers, but he was half up and punched a Frenchman in the chest since he had no weapon. The gunboat was still turning, and with so little space the fight was clumsy and brutal. More marines boarded, one barged Williams and the Frenchmen he was grappling hard against the side, and the Frenchman fell overboard, splashing into the water. He clung on to Williams’ coat, dragging him down, until the officer managed to free his own arms and hit the man’s elbows hard. On the second blow the grip