Beating to quarters

A boarding action was very different from fighting on land. For one thing, they had a much more relaxed attitude to uniforms, and Edrington had to remember that although he and the Marines were easily recognizable in their red coats, blue coats were worn by officers on both sides, and by French marines, while the sailors could be dressed in any fashion. The Sergeant had gone down early on, to be quickly avenged, and Edrington had sidestepped his body and moved on, the cutlass rapidly becoming a familiar weight in his hand. A French marine, aiming a musket at a young midshipman, fell gasping and the boy nodded to the red coat, continuing without pause to shout encouragement to his band of sailors.

And here was Bolitho close by. "There y'are, sir!" cried a sopping wet Billy, grinning at his captain. "Glad you could join us!" He saw a huge old Frog kill one of the boys, and he lunged at him with the cutlass. "Pick on someone your own size, bastard!"

Hearing Barrow's voice, Bolitho turned slightly to see the sailor grinning at him, then moving to attack a large Frenchman.

"Well done Barrow," Bolitho exclaimed, striking out at a nearby French sailor, "Now let's really show them what for!"

He punctuated his reply with another stab at the sailor in his path, then moved on to attack another one after the man collapsed at his feet.

"Get 'em boys!"

Chase picked up an axe from a dead seaman - it looked like Donahue - and headed for the nearest hatchway. "Get to the guns!"

But the French were boarding the Terpsichore too. A man swinging from a grappling hook slid into an unguarded gunport and aimed his pistol at the little officer with the bandaged arm.

Peter had stood watching as Lieutenant Leat led the men through the gun ports onto the Victorieuse's gun deck. The sight of a French seaman, coming the other way seemed all wrong, and for a moment he stood frozen as the man aimed a pistol at him. It was not supposed to end like this. He had his dirk, but that was of no use against a gun. When the shot came, he fully expected to fall dead, but instead, oddly, it was the Frenchman who fell. The ball from the pistol struck the deck overhead, and the Frenchman tumbled at his feet with an cleaver lodged in his spine. Kościuszko, still with flour in his hair, grinned at the boy as he pulled his cleaver out again with a practiced jerk and followed the rest of Leat's party through the gunport.

"Sir, sir!" Samuels cried as he came skidding and sliding across the gun deck to where Yates was still standing. "Are you shot? Are you hit?"

Peter looked round, his mouth open with shock. "It was the cook," he said, remembering the man's kindness to him in the galley, which seemed at odds with the ferocity with which he had wielded the cleaver. "I'm... I'm fine." He tried to swallow, his mouth suddenly dry, and then smiled. "I'm fine. I'll just get his pistol. He's bound to have more powder and shot and I can reload it..."

Samuels laughed with relief and bent down to retrieve the dead man's pistol. "Here you are, sir. Where would his powder be, then?"

The man had a belt slung round his shoulders, with a canvas bag, and Peter pointed to that. "In there. Or in his pockets..." He looked at Samuels with a worried frown, but the sounds from beyond the gunports reminded him that this was not the time to be squeamish. He reached out and took the pistol, as Samuels investigated the bag.

There was a sort of horn... "This it, sir?" he asked, holding it up for the midshipman's inspection. And bullets or balls or shot, whatever the things were.

"That's right," Peter said, holding the pistol between his knees. He had watched his brothers load, and even done it for them on a few occasions. He had almost finished when he glanced up. Three Frenchmen - two armed with swords and one with an axe - were on the gun deck. He quickly completed the task. "Samuels," he said. "Arm yourself." And he pointed the pistol at the foremost one.

Samuels looked up in surprise and dropped the bag, the shot spilling out and rolling at his feet. Someone had dropped a ramrod beside the gun tackle, and he grabbed it and stood, swinging and shouting and running.

Johnson hadn't wasted time carving a path for himself through the press of Frenchmen on deck. He was nearly to the aft companion way before he realised he'd left most of the other boarders behind. Only a handful of Marines and seamen had managed to follow him - dammit. Where was Sergeant Quinn? Or even one of the sea officers?

"Terpsies!" Johnson cried, waving his sword. "Aft, Terpsies! To me!"

It helped, inasmuch as it drew more Frogs his way. Johnson kicked one down the companion way and decided he might be better served by fighting his way back toward the main group of boarders. It was, perhaps,, the one time in his life that he chose wisdom over recklessness.

Samuels - who had been a tailor until recently - was running at the Frenchmen brandishing a ramrod - at a man with a sword. Peter steadied the pistol, and took aim as carefully as he could. Samuels was between him and the men with the sword but the third man was to the side, ignoring the sailor. Peter focused on him, aiming at his head, his tongue protruding slightly in concentration. He pulled the trigger. As the bullet went home he saw the Frenchman's expression change for fury to ... to nothing. The axe skittered across the deck to Peter's feet.

Samuels swung his ramrod against the man's sword. It stopped the blow, but the rod broke in his hands. He jabbed with the jagged end towards the man's face, but it only slowed him for a moment. Samuels felt a strange pain in his arm and realized that the other man had struck him with his sabre.

Mallory had left off firing his gun when the boarding started, seizing his musket. Not all the Marines were small-arms men, even though they had the training for it. They were also trained to fight the cannon. But once the two ships had rammed each other, jerking Mallory off his feet in the process, there was no need for the guns and he was supposed to join the boarders.

Only it seemed that the French were trying to board them.

"Cheeky buggers!" he gasped, seeing the one-sided fight between three Frogs and a one-armed middy and a newly-pressed man. He raised his musket and aimed it at the man with the sabre who was attacking the pressed sailor.

Peter bent to pick up the axe. The sling was in the way, but when he tried to use the arm, he was reminded about why it was bound up. It was heavy, and as he stood up again with the haft dangling from hand, he saw Samuels tackle the man with the sabre, breaking his ramrod, and receiving a heavy blow from the sword.

A Marine who had been down here for the great guns, stood up from behind his cannon and fired at the man with the sword, bringing him down. But the Marine could not fire again until he reloaded, and there would not be enough time for that. It he waited, he would be dead, and all Dr Crozier's advice about not using the arm would be wasted. He took both hands to it, tucked the long haft between his broken arm and his body, and moved forward towards the surviving Frog.

He had pluck, that lad, Mallory would give him that. There was no time to reload so he fixed his bayonet. Charging the Frog would distract him from the young gentleman, which might give the lad a chance to do something, even though Mallory was too far away to be much more use than that.

He stepped round the cannon, musket levelled.

"Pick on someone yer own size, Frog!" he yelled, running forward.

Samuels reeled against the cannon, letting the broken ramrod clatter to the deck as he clutched his arm, but the Frenchman had lost interest in him now that there was a more dangerous target.

Leat turned at the shouts and scuffling coming from Terpsy behind him, and swore. Too many of the lads had followed him over, and several French had slipped through unnoticed to harrass their own gundeck.

"Number Two Guncrew! Number Three Guncrew!" He roared. His voice was hoarse, roughed by the heat and powdersmoke. "Return to Terpsy! The rest - secure the guns! Then up! Up!"

He turned again just in time to parry a blow from a French officer, sliding his own blade up the others and punching the guard into his nose. The officer reeled, then sagged and dropped as Leat's dirk stabbed neatly into his belly - in, out; carry on to the next. He pushed on, making for the companionway, sliding into the gaps carved by the more enthusiastic of the Terpsy's crew. There was a gunner wielding a rammer causing damage - the lieutenant ducked and stabbed his sabre straight through his guts and out again, dirk cutting his windpipe for good measure. A powder monkey came at him with a cutlass far too big; he Leat just kicked aside.

Peter heard the Marine shout, and saw the big, bearded head turn for a second before coming round to look at him, with his foolish axe. A smile split the beard, and Peter, hardly thinking at all, stepped back, and back again, until the butt of the axehaft brushed against the mast he had been standing by. The sailor, still grinning, brushed at the axe with his sword, as at an annoying grass stem, and Peter felt it dragged from his hand. He stepped back again, to put the mast between him and the Frenchman.

"Lerrim 'lone!" Mallory yelled, charging down the deck. Yates had stepped round the mast, dropping the axe he was holding. The Marine had a clear run at the Frenchman, who turned to find himself confronted by a furious Marine armed with a musket tipped with seventeen inches of razor-sharp steel bayonet. Mallory ran him through, twisting the musket to pull the bayonet free and turning to see if there were any other Frogs coming to try to do for Yates or Samuels. "You all right there, sir?" Mallory asked, practically shouting; he'd been deafened by the gunfire and couldn't hear himself think.

"Yes, thank you," said Peter politely. He blinked up at the Marine. He still did not know all of them. "Thank you!" he repeated, looking down at the dead Frenchman. He owed this man his life, and could think of nothing to say to him. Samuels, who had also tried to protect him, was clutching at his cut arm and Peter walked rather unsteadily towards him. He stopped and bent to pick up the scattered balls for the pistol he had taken. They had scattered on being dropped, and for a moment Peter crouched there, with the weight of one in his hand, remembering games of marbles. But he gathered as many as he could, and slipped them into his pocket, before rising and continuing to Samuels.

"How are you?" he asked, but he could see the deep cut on the arm, and the blood dripping between the man's fingers. He was of no use here. He put his good arm round Samuels' waist and said: "We'll get you down to Dr Crozier."

"'S all right, sir," Mallory said, realising Mister Yates was a bit shocked by what had just happened. "Ain't any more o' them buggers around, is there?" But the youngster had crossed to the seaman, who holding his arm, and was enquiring how he was. "Good lad... sir," he said, wondering what to do next. He couldn't see any more of the French, and wondered why.