Beating to quarters

"Wait a bit, see how it goes up here." Someone else came running at him, going for his head with an axe and he raised the musket, catching the haft of the axe and deflecting it into the mizzen mast. He ran the man through.

He couldn't see much of the fight, or how it was going, from where he was, but thought the tide had turned Terpsy's way, at least up here. "Send Higgins and Beech down. I think we're getting the upper hand here."

Mister Watts was below with a storming party? Chase cursed - so that was where Taylor and Williams had disappeared to!

"Aye, send them Marines down," he grumbled to himself, hacking down a French marine. "Nearly got 'em beat, boys!" The topman added, raising his voice.

"Close on the cap'n!"

"Higgins! Beech!" Johnson wasted no time barking out the two Marines' names. "Get below and help the bos'un and his boys, quick now!"

And he was near enough to Captain Bolitho now to see that the sea officer was still holding his own. Good man!

Edrington would not like to swear that the musket butt that had struck him in the melee round the mainmast came from a Frenchman.. At first a pain ot a blow, then the blow itself, a serious ache, and now a stiffness which slowed him down. Not completely, though, he thought, as he set his teeth and brought the cutlass up again. At least it was his left arm, he thought.

Billy was about to make a dash from the mainmast aft towards the great cabin. That would be where the captain had been heading, and as captain's coxswain, Billy felt it his duty and pride to fight alongside Bolitho. Plus he would get to inspect his own handiwork where his 24-pounder had destroyed the quarter-gallery. But as he worked his way around to the other side of the mast, he found himself knocked off his feet. He was lying face-down on the deck. How did I get here? In an instant, he realized that he had felt a blow on his back, right under his shoulderblade, and he could sense rather than see that the Frenchman on the other end of the musket was raising it for another blow - bloody hell but that hurt! - just above his waist. And now the Frog would be reversing his musket to use the bayonet and finish him off, and who would look after the captain then? Maybe Spencer. Not Leith - far too agressive at the helm. In his final thoughts of the short instant, Billy wished he had told the captain to pick Spencer as replacement coxswain.

A Frenchman had just clubbed a sailor - Edrington recognized the cheerful lad from earlier. Before the man could reverse it and bayonet the lad, the Colonel ran him through. The cutlass ground on bone and sinew, even as the man fell, half across the sailor. He put his foot on the Frenchman's chest and pulled the sword free, then offered his other hand to the sailor. "Up you come."

Temporarily winded, Billy gasped as he was pulled to his feet, kicking his legs free of the dead Frenchman's body. He stared down at it stupidly for a moment, then turned to give the colonel a breathless nod. Before he could say anything, he grabbed the man's resplendent red coat and pulled him to the side just before an axe lodged itself in the mainmast where the man had been standing. As its owner was attempting to pull it free for another swing, Billy struck him down with his fist.

"All right there, sir?" he asked the colonel with a grin.

"Thank you, I am well," Edrington grinned back, but there was too much going on. No time for polite conversation, or even for fair play. As the man the sailor struck tried to get to his feet, the colonel kicked him hard in the head. If he had any sense - after two blows like that it might be unlikely - he would stay down until the fighting moved on.

The marine corporal had already sent off a couple of the marines to fight below decks, while their Captain engaged an older French officer - probably their Captain - in a fight that could have been staged in a salle d'armes.

"Ha!" Branning put his bayonet through a French marine's chest and kicked the gasping man off the blade so he could move on. He saw that he'd missed a quick bit of action involving the Army colonel and Barrow the coxswain, but it seemed to have turned out well enough.

Here came another French marine, going straight for the colonel. Branning knocked the Frog sprawling with a hearty punch.

"An' they call theirselves Marines!" He scoffed.

The English capitaine was good, Lefevre had to admit. Most of his strikes were successfully parried, though the Englishman's own attacks met with similar counters. It seemed to be devolving more into a contest to see which one would tire first.

"Will you yield?" Lefevre asked, his voice strained, as he tried to take advantage of a wavering in the English capitaine's stance.

"No!" Bolitho snapped, sounding quite breathless, "I shall not yield."

He managed to catch the French captain's thrust and thus saved himself from being knocked off his feet. But he was growing painfully tired, it was becoming increasingly difficult to keep up. Yet he was able to take another hard swipe at the older man, hoping to make him lose his grip on his cutlass.

Of course not. Lefevre had expected as much. Damned English.

He managed to turn the strike aside, but the tip of the Englishman's blade carved a line across his wrist. Hissing, Lefevre drove forward, attempting to push the English capitaine off-balance. Anything for a successful answering blow.

The French captain's quick lunge had forced Bolitho back a few steps, and he fought both to keep steady and to keep defending himself. But his footing wavered suddenly, causing him to trip and thus leave himself completely vulnerable to an attack as he tried to keep himself on his feet.

Ha! Lefevre saw his opening and sought to take full advantage of it. A quick jab to keep the Englishman off-balance and a more purposeful thrust forward at the man's middle.

Bolitho saw the French captain's cutlass coming at him just as he found his footing once more. He thrust his own cutlass forward to deflect the man's strike. The swords met--but only just in time, for Bolitho felt the Frenchman's blade slice into his side, and he winced as he threw another hard thrust at the opposing captain, trying to force him back once more.

"Hoi!" Chase hollered, pointing with his axe. "That blaggard's got the cap'n on a lee shore!"

He elbowed a French sailor in the face and charged forward to his captain's aid.

Quinn stepped forward, ready to spring to Bolitho's defence should the Frenchman try any more tricks like that. You couldn't trust these Frogs, they'd sell their grandmothers for a couple of English shillings. What Captain Bolitho was thinking, fighting the man, Quinn really couldn't say.

He looked from one Captain to the other, waiting for the order to take the Frenchman and his officers below and lock them up somewhere.

His attack was successful, but now there were other Englishmen coming forward to interfere. Lefevre sneered at the interlopers and turned aside the English capitaine's counter-attack.

These damned English had no honour, stepping between a fight between two officers. Especially that one in the ugly red coat. Lefevre passed his sword to his uninjured hand and stepped back, ready to take on this new opponent.

"What's your orders, sir?" Quinn would have no qualms about running the bastard through with his bayonet, of course, but not if Bolitho ordered otherwise.

Interesting how he'd just switched hands with the sword, though. This one would bear watching.

Upon hearing Chase's cries, Bolitho turned and saw that both he and Sergeant Quinn were coming to his aid. He greatly appreciated the assistance, but he appreciated the distraction even more.

"Attack at will, sergeant," Bolitho said, breathing deeply as he gathered his wits and prepared to move in on the Frenchman again.

Leferve had to shake his head. No honour at all! So it would be two of them against him now. The English capitaine was weary and would not be as dangerous, but Lefevre had not seen this red-coat in action yet.

"Come, then," he growled and prepared to defend or attack.

That was exactly the opening Bolitho had wanted. The French captain had turned to face Quinn, leaving himself vulnerable to an attack from the side. Summoning all his remaining strength, and fighting the increasing pain from his wound, Bolitho raised his cutlass and lunged at the Frenchman, thrusting towards his stomach.

A sword, in the hands of a trained man, was a dangerous thing. Quinn himself was armed with a bayonet-tipped musket, and could use either end - bayonet or brass-bound butt - to good effect. He wanted to just stamp his foot forward and run the man through, but did the Captain want him alive?

No honour... the ship was theirs and yet the French had not had their colours hauled down. But this was no longer a brawl, and Quinn did not know that he cared to slam his musket butt into the Frenchman's head while he was distracted by Bolitho.

He could care later; it was still a fight now. He stepped forward, watching the Captain from the corner of his eye.

Lefevre saw the attack coming in time to twist out of the way, but the Englishman's sword slashed through his coat and into skin. He hadn't moved swiftly enough. Grunting, he tried to strike back.

What was Sergeant Quinn doing, just standing there? Useless lump! Chase pushed his way another couple of paces forward and paused, taking in the situation, then he moved. He intercepted the slightly-faltering attack on the haft of his axe and swung his free hand around at the French captain's jaw.

"There now," Chase sneered, pushing the dazed Frog back.