loosened, and the man slipped away into the darkness. Williams saw his mouth open in a scream, but could still hear no noise.
More of the gunboat’s crew, some living, some wounded or dead, were flung into the sea. Williams managed to get up, saw the axe and no sign of the man he had struck, and grabbed it. Mr Prentice – the hard-of-hearing, grey-haired Mr Prentice – had somehow forced his way on to the gunboat and was near the great cannon, clubbing again and again at a man who cowered beside its barrel. A marine lifted another French sailor and flung him bodily into the sea. Three more raised their hands until another wild-eyed marine slammed the butt of his musket into the head of one of them, knocking him over the side. The other two jumped.
Williams looked around. His ears were filled with a strange roaring sound. One of the marines was hurt in the arm, bonesperhaps broken for he could not move it, and Mr Prentice had a slash across his cheek, but those were the only injuries. They had caught the gunboat by surprise and its crew had not had time to recover. Two sailors had secured the gig to the other boat, and Treadwell and the remaining rowers kept both under some control as they drifted with the current. The prize was past them now, the other French boat beside it and a fight raging on its deck.
‘Back to the gig!’ Williams could not really hear his own voice and tried to shout even louder to make sure that it carried. ‘We need to help them on board!’ A marine pulled away from him, looking surprised, and the officer guessed that he was yelling. The roaring was fading, and he dimly caught something about ‘… the whole bleedin’ world can hear you …’ as the men started to move. Mr Prentice was at the stern with one of the sailors, and Williams realised that they were unshipping the tiller bar so that they could throw it into the water.
Williams climbed back into the gig, and crouched behind Dobson and Corporal Milne, waiting with loaded muskets in the prow. He faintly heard the veteran sergeant make some crack about not having volunteered for this and then his hearing came back.
‘Nice change for you to see some proper fighting,’ Milne said, and then looked puzzled because the officer seemed so pleased.
Mr Prentice was the last to clamber back aboard and then they cast the gunboat off.
‘Lively now,’ Treadwell called to the rowers as they settled back into rhythm. Tired men somehow found new strength as they pulled on the oars. The prize still had no sails set and was drifting with the current. As they watched, the last few Frenchmen clambered up the side, letting their own boat drift free. Dobson raised his musket to aim, but then lowered it, shaking his head.
‘Come on, catch the rascals.’ Treadwell urged the sailors on. ‘It’s a prize full of gold and jewels!’
One of the marines laughed. ‘How about a boat full of doxies!’
‘Them too, if you like,’ Treadwell agreed. ‘Pull, lads, pull!’
‘Bring us to the far side,’ Williams called to the midshipman, saw confusion on the man’s face and managed to remember the right term. ‘Larboard side, Mr Treadwell, larboard side,’ he said, and was rewarded with a nod. It would take a little longer, but there was a chance they might gain some surprise and they would just have to hope that the Sparrowhawks on board the ship could hold out. There were still shouts from the deck, but he had not seen the flash of a shot for a minute or two.
They came alongside, and Williams saw the steps on the side of the hull and readied himself to jump. A head appeared over the rail, looking down at them, and the head was wearing a flat-topped shako. Dobson’s musket boomed and the head vanished.
Williams jumped on to the side of the ship and began to climb.
6
‘ E n avant! ’ Williams caught the words distinctly, the second one dragged out and turning into a scream of rage. Feet pounded across the deck above him. The shape of a
More of the gunboat’s crew, some living, some wounded or dead, were flung into the sea. Williams managed to get up, saw the axe and no sign of the man he had struck, and grabbed it. Mr Prentice – the hard-of-hearing, grey-haired Mr Prentice – had somehow forced his way on to the gunboat and was near the great cannon, clubbing again and again at a man who cowered beside its barrel. A marine lifted another French sailor and flung him bodily into the sea. Three more raised their hands until another wild-eyed marine slammed the butt of his musket into the head of one of them, knocking him over the side. The other two jumped.
Williams looked around. His ears were filled with a strange roaring sound. One of the marines was hurt in the arm, bonesperhaps broken for he could not move it, and Mr Prentice had a slash across his cheek, but those were the only injuries. They had caught the gunboat by surprise and its crew had not had time to recover. Two sailors had secured the gig to the other boat, and Treadwell and the remaining rowers kept both under some control as they drifted with the current. The prize was past them now, the other French boat beside it and a fight raging on its deck.
‘Back to the gig!’ Williams could not really hear his own voice and tried to shout even louder to make sure that it carried. ‘We need to help them on board!’ A marine pulled away from him, looking surprised, and the officer guessed that he was yelling. The roaring was fading, and he dimly caught something about ‘… the whole bleedin’ world can hear you …’ as the men started to move. Mr Prentice was at the stern with one of the sailors, and Williams realised that they were unshipping the tiller bar so that they could throw it into the water.
Williams climbed back into the gig, and crouched behind Dobson and Corporal Milne, waiting with loaded muskets in the prow. He faintly heard the veteran sergeant make some crack about not having volunteered for this and then his hearing came back.
‘Nice change for you to see some proper fighting,’ Milne said, and then looked puzzled because the officer seemed so pleased.
Mr Prentice was the last to clamber back aboard and then they cast the gunboat off.
‘Lively now,’ Treadwell called to the rowers as they settled back into rhythm. Tired men somehow found new strength as they pulled on the oars. The prize still had no sails set and was drifting with the current. As they watched, the last few Frenchmen clambered up the side, letting their own boat drift free. Dobson raised his musket to aim, but then lowered it, shaking his head.
‘Come on, catch the rascals.’ Treadwell urged the sailors on. ‘It’s a prize full of gold and jewels!’
One of the marines laughed. ‘How about a boat full of doxies!’
‘Them too, if you like,’ Treadwell agreed. ‘Pull, lads, pull!’
‘Bring us to the far side,’ Williams called to the midshipman, saw confusion on the man’s face and managed to remember the right term. ‘Larboard side, Mr Treadwell, larboard side,’ he said, and was rewarded with a nod. It would take a little longer, but there was a chance they might gain some surprise and they would just have to hope that the Sparrowhawks on board the ship could hold out. There were still shouts from the deck, but he had not seen the flash of a shot for a minute or two.
They came alongside, and Williams saw the steps on the side of the hull and readied himself to jump. A head appeared over the rail, looking down at them, and the head was wearing a flat-topped shako. Dobson’s musket boomed and the head vanished.
Williams jumped on to the side of the ship and began to climb.
6
‘ E n avant! ’ Williams caught the words distinctly, the second one dragged out and turning into a scream of rage. Feet pounded across the deck above him. The shape of a
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