man loomed over the rail, and another musket fired, flinging the soldier’s head back. He tottered, and Williams pressed himself against the side of the ship, feet as deeply into the steps as he could manage, afraid that the man would fall on to him. Instead he staggered backwards and the officer dragged himself up, feeling someone climbing up behind, urging him on. Two soldiers lay on the planking and he slipped in a pool of blood as he came on board. There were more bodies scattered around the deck, and shouts and screams, and he could see a bitter struggle towards the bows. A knot of men were surrounded and he guessed these must be the Sparrowhawks .
A soldier stamped on his front foot as he jabbed a bayonet at the red-coated officer. Williams used his free hand to ward off the attack, grabbing the muzzle of the man’s musket, glad that he was wearing gloves because it was hot from firing. He twisted towards the man, trying to push him off balance, and swung the boarding axe to chop into the soldier’s arm near his shoulder. The man screamed, dropping his musket, and Williams pushed him aside. Someone raised a pistol at his face and fired, but the flint sparked on the pan and nothing happened. Williams flung the axe at him and it spun in the air as it went so that the blunt haft hit the French sailor in the face. Drawing his sword, he pressed on, slashed twice at the man, brutal, unskilled blows because there was no time for anything more, and then he was down.
Milne was beside him, bayonet fixed, Dobson and the marines spilling on to the deck. Frenchmen were all around them, recovering from the initial shock and now stepping forward with determination. A pistol fired, the flame vivid in the darkness, and a marine grunted as he was hit in the chest. The French sailor sprang forward to step into his place, then screamed as Dobson’s bayonet caught him low in the belly, to be twisted and dragged free by the veteran. A man with epaulettes on his shoulders came at Williams, sword point moving quickly in carefully judged thrusts. He blocked the first, but the man was so quick that he was immediately lunging again, and the tip of his sword slashed open his sleeve, drawing blood. Williams stepped forward, hoping to surprise the man, but the Frenchman’s blade was already back up, fending off his own jab. The sailor with the boarding pike stabbed it forward over the officer’s shoulders and forced the Frenchman back a pace.
One of the marines must still have been loaded because he drove his bayonet into a French soldier’s stomach so far that its point came out of his back, then fired the musket, ripping a ghastly hole in the soldier’s body. The marine seemed shocked, and then a cutlass slashed down across his face and he screamed, letting go of the firelock, its blade still in his victim, and went down on his knees, hands pressed over his eyes. The cutlass came down again, half cutting through his wrist, and the man sank to the ground, curling up protectively. Corporal Milne swung up his musket and slammed the butt into the French sailor’s chin. Williams just managed to parry another lunge by the man with epaulettes, and only the sailor’s boarding pike kept the Frenchman from closing while his guard was down. There were half a dozen of them on deck, still in a tight half-circle, and they were making no headway.
Treadwell saved them. The midshipman had let the gig fall back and then led the remaining sailors in a scramble up the prize’s stern, coming over the rail behind the Frenchmen pressing around Williams’ little group.
‘ Sparrowhawk! ’ Treadwell yelled, and then shot a French sailorthrough the body, cutting at another with his dirk. More shots followed as the sailors with him fired pistols or muskets into the press. Another Frenchman was down, the rest recoiling, and Williams’ men surged forward without any need for an order. Milne clubbed another man down, Dobson jabbed with his bayonet, and
A soldier stamped on his front foot as he jabbed a bayonet at the red-coated officer. Williams used his free hand to ward off the attack, grabbing the muzzle of the man’s musket, glad that he was wearing gloves because it was hot from firing. He twisted towards the man, trying to push him off balance, and swung the boarding axe to chop into the soldier’s arm near his shoulder. The man screamed, dropping his musket, and Williams pushed him aside. Someone raised a pistol at his face and fired, but the flint sparked on the pan and nothing happened. Williams flung the axe at him and it spun in the air as it went so that the blunt haft hit the French sailor in the face. Drawing his sword, he pressed on, slashed twice at the man, brutal, unskilled blows because there was no time for anything more, and then he was down.
Milne was beside him, bayonet fixed, Dobson and the marines spilling on to the deck. Frenchmen were all around them, recovering from the initial shock and now stepping forward with determination. A pistol fired, the flame vivid in the darkness, and a marine grunted as he was hit in the chest. The French sailor sprang forward to step into his place, then screamed as Dobson’s bayonet caught him low in the belly, to be twisted and dragged free by the veteran. A man with epaulettes on his shoulders came at Williams, sword point moving quickly in carefully judged thrusts. He blocked the first, but the man was so quick that he was immediately lunging again, and the tip of his sword slashed open his sleeve, drawing blood. Williams stepped forward, hoping to surprise the man, but the Frenchman’s blade was already back up, fending off his own jab. The sailor with the boarding pike stabbed it forward over the officer’s shoulders and forced the Frenchman back a pace.
One of the marines must still have been loaded because he drove his bayonet into a French soldier’s stomach so far that its point came out of his back, then fired the musket, ripping a ghastly hole in the soldier’s body. The marine seemed shocked, and then a cutlass slashed down across his face and he screamed, letting go of the firelock, its blade still in his victim, and went down on his knees, hands pressed over his eyes. The cutlass came down again, half cutting through his wrist, and the man sank to the ground, curling up protectively. Corporal Milne swung up his musket and slammed the butt into the French sailor’s chin. Williams just managed to parry another lunge by the man with epaulettes, and only the sailor’s boarding pike kept the Frenchman from closing while his guard was down. There were half a dozen of them on deck, still in a tight half-circle, and they were making no headway.
Treadwell saved them. The midshipman had let the gig fall back and then led the remaining sailors in a scramble up the prize’s stern, coming over the rail behind the Frenchmen pressing around Williams’ little group.
‘ Sparrowhawk! ’ Treadwell yelled, and then shot a French sailorthrough the body, cutting at another with his dirk. More shots followed as the sailors with him fired pistols or muskets into the press. Another Frenchman was down, the rest recoiling, and Williams’ men surged forward without any need for an order. Milne clubbed another man down, Dobson jabbed with his bayonet, and
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