Beating to quarters

It was strange to be staring into the French captain's cabin through the open gunports, and to see the French gun crews up so close, working like mad. Billy took no time to dwell on it, but shouted at his gun crew to reload and run out, hopping with impatience. He heard a ball whistle past his shoulder and saw that the French were firing small arms through the aftmost gunports where their long guns could not be brought to bear.

"We've hit!"

Chase staggered back to the cannon's muzzle and hauled his sponge-rod out. Hit or not, he wasn't about to leave the work of reloading half-done. Toby Flint came up with a fresh charge and had it stuffed down the barrel in an instant.

"Ready!" Chase barked when the ball and wadding had been rammed home and the gun run out again. Dunnett, the gun captain, nodded once and, sparing a moment to sight down the barrel, jerked the lanyard. Both Chase and Flint glanced out the gun port to see where the shot had landed and cheered when they saw the ball strike home against one of the Frog ship's gun ports.

They were just starting to reload when Mister Kinsella reappeared on the gun deck.

"Small arms, lads! Prepare to board!"

Boarding parties. Chase tossed his sponge-rod back overhead onto its hooks and joined the rush of seamen hurrying toward the small-arms barrels. Nearly every man was grinning. They'd show the Frog the mistake of trying to get the better of Terpsichore.

Johnson glanced once over at Sergeant Quinn, to see if the other Marine was at least still standing. Just once. Then the corporal's eyes and attention were back on his musket as he finished ramming a cartridge home down the barrel.

"Over the side, lads. At 'em!" Johnson spared himself a few seconds to fire that one last round, then he was leaping up and over the mashed-together rails. It was fortunate for his purposes that the two ships had collided.

Quinn gaped at the Corporal for a moment, and then pulled himself together.

"Marines! Board them!" he bellowed over the sounds of battle, following the Corporal. Bayonet fixed, he was over the side himself, swinging his musket to give himself a clear area of deck to land on.

The other Marines were quick to follow; Vining's powder-blackened face split by a fierce grin as he stabbed at a Frenchman who tried to stop them.

They were still calling for boarding volunteers. "Tanner Joe, take the gun!" Billy cried. "I'm goin' to France!" He swarmed towards the companionway close behind Chase and grabbed a pistol and an axe. "Hurry it up, Cob! Don't want to miss the party!"

"I ain't gonna miss no party!" Chase brandished his cutlass and bounded up the ladder. "But we better hurry, else them red-coats'll have all the fun first!"

Edrington fired the shot he had loaded into the musket before they had run aboard the French ship, and dropped it to the deck. At this almost point-blank range he could not miss his target and he saw the man fall, the red already spreading across his face.

The Marines were fixing bayonets, but he drew the cutlass he had on his sword belt, and moved to where the ships were locked together, yardarm literally to yard arm.

Billy almost collided with the redcoat colonel in the rush to move forward. "Sorry there, sir!"

"Mind yer footin', sir!" Branning spared a moment to look back over his shoulder for the Army officer. Just why the man wanted to charge and board the Frog ship with the Marines was quite beyond him. He was about to turn away to join the fight when he remembered the officer mentioning Thompson. Where had he gone to, that he wasn't with them topside?

"Hey, sir," Branning asked, almost conversationally as he clouted a Frenchman over the head with his musket butt. "D'ya know where Thompson's gone?"

Edrington hesitated, one hand on the rail. "Isn't he up there in the tops?" he asked, then ducked, grabbing at the other man's jacket, as a furious Frenchman flailed at them with something that looked like an axe on the end of a pole. It almost hit the seaman who had just apogized to him.

"Give over!" Billy grumbled, parrying with his axe against the Frenchman. So they were trying to board, too. "Not - on - our - Terpsy!"

"Oof." Branning caught a bellyful of his own musket butt when the officer pulled him backwards. Surprised and mildly winded, the Marine nearly dropped his firelock when Barrow shoved past him to get at the Frenchman.

His hesitation was over in an instant, though. "Sorry fer him if he is aloft!" Branning cried and lunged forward at the Frog with his bayonet. Even if Thompson was in the tops, he wouldn't waste too much time up there if these damned Frogs managed somehow to sneak boarding parties of their own across.

Over to his side, a seaman with a boarding axe was trying to hold off a Frenchman. Quinn ran the Frog through with his bayonet and turned to deal with another one running towards them from the other side.

His Marines no longer needed to be told what to do and were throwing themselves into the fight, cutting, stabbing and even using the butts of their muskets where necessary.

The marine sergeant had killed Billy's own Frenchman! That wasn't fair. He swung his axe against the head of the man that Sergeant Quinn was fighting. There, tit for tat.

Sergeant Quinn appeared out of nowhere, it seemed, and cut down the Frenchman. Just as well. Branning shrugged and slashed at another Frog.

"All right there, sir?" He called, remembering the Army officer was still behind him - just before he waded off to join his fellows.

Seeing his men starting to swarm onto the French ship, Bolitho knew they would be wanting him to join them in the attack. Bush was nearby, keeping watch and shouting orders to the guncrews. Bolitho quickly called out to the first lieutenant, putting him in charge of the ship. Then he drew his cutlass and made his way to the rail, where the sailors and Marines were valiantly fighting their way onto the opposing frigate.

"Come on then, lads!" he cried, "Our prize is waiting! Let's take her!"

Hearing the Captain's voice behind him, Quinn turned a little to see what was going on. More sailors were pouring onto the deck of the French ship and the fighting was growing fierce.

The distraction was all someone needed; a musket butt swung into the side of Quinn's head, knocking his hat off and crumpling him to the deck. Feet passed in front of him in a blur and he closed his eyes, surrendering to the darkness.

"Sneaky bastard!" Higgins rolled through the press of fighting men, seized the Frog who'd clouted Sergeant Quinn in the head, and tossed the man straight over the side.

Branning turned back, nearly all else forgotten when Higgins shouted to him. Ah, damn. Sergeant Quinn had gone down. Ignoring Higgins, the Army officer, and the swarms of French sailors, Branning knelt down and grabbed Quinn's coat by its facings. Getting the sergeant up over his shoulders wasn't easy even for Branning, but he managed. Quinn was no lightweight.

"Gotta drop some weight, Sarn't," Branning grunted to himself and lurched back toward Terpsichore's deck.

Billy had just swung his axe when the momentum carried him too far, and as he balanced himself in the chains of the Victorieuse, a French seaman was knocked overboard, taking Billy with him. In the brief moment before he hit the water, Billy felt cheated that he hadn't had the chance to fire off his one precious pistol shot. He had been saving it!

"Billy!"

Chase buried a borrowed axe in a Frog sailor's midriff and left it there, and went dashing toward the rail. He dropped his cutlass to the deck just before clambering onto the rail. There was nothing readily at hand to throw as a life-rope... or maybe there was. Standing with his feet braced on either side of the deck-rail, Chase pulled a grappling hook and its rope free, then tossed the heavy iron hook down toward Barrow.

"Grab for it. Ain't no time fer swimmin'!"

Leat drew his sabre and pointed to the gunports alongside.

"Over, boys! Over!"

Then with a scream he led the crews over through the ports onto the Victorieuse. A space was knocked aside for him by one of the lads with a rammer, and then he was aboard amongst the French guncrews. A man came for him and received a pistol ball in his privates, and another was thumped over the head with the reversed butt of the weapon. It was close, animal fighting, and it was the kind Leat was best at. He may not have been strong; but give him a sword and a dirk and he was deadly.

Billy surfaced, sputtering, and indignantly shoved the Frenchie back under the water. He was dismayed to realize that he had lost his axe as well as his pistol. The hook made a splash very close to his shoulder, and he shot a glare up at Chase. That hook could have cut his arm off! Chase could have left it hooked over the rail and dropped the rope end. "I'm not a fish!" he grumbled as he clambered up the side of the frigate.

"Sure 'bout that?" Chase grinned. He picked up his cutlass and offered it to Barrow, hilt-first.

"I jes' seen Mister Leat come over t'join us, better go an' help him!"

By the sounds of it the parties above were having a whale of a time; though the fact was not consciously registered. A boarding through the ports was never unexpected, but it seemed that the French captain had been more in the thought of resisting a boarding from above than below, and so Leat and the men that had followed him had far fewer French to deal with than the usual number manning the guns - though all that could change very quickly if the French realised the new threat from below and sent reinforcements.

"Disable the guns!" That was the main thing. Then they could try and force their way up; hopefully pushing the French between the two British parties.

As Bolitho forced his way over the rail, he saw several of the frigate's crew coming towards him. Lashing out with his cutlass, he caught one in the chest and another in the leg, shoving them both out of his way. Allowed only a brief second's respite, he quickly glanced back to see many of the Terpsichore's crew coming over as well. Satisfied that his men were doing well, he turned back to face the onslaught of French sailors.

He took another man down with a slash across the neck, then drew his pistol and shot yet another in the stomach. Bolitho was quickly losing himself to the rush of battle now, a trait he found difficult to control no matter how hard he tried. The desire to strike out at every Frenchman within range was propelling him onward, and he took down yet another sailor as he pushed farther onto the deck of the frigate.