"On! On!" yelled the senior midshipman exultingly.
The three camp guards appeared to be the only men in the camp. Flinging their useless pistols away, the two dashed up the sandhill behind the tents and reached the crest almost exhausted. In front of them the dunes dipped in a long ridge to seaward, and at the end of the ridge, jutting into a sea glittering in the first rays of the rising sun, was the rocky point which might mean safety.
There lay the Althea, top-sails were appearing on her yards as she prepared to get under way. And there, just pulling out from her side to head for the rocky point, was a boat. A glance behind them showed the van of the pursuit streaming round the corner, too far behind now to catch them.
"We've done it, Sept" gasped Cocker, turning to grin triumphantly at his companion.
"Not quite," returned Septimus quietly, and pointed down the sandy hill they had just climbed.
A man was mounting rapidly, not a hundred feet below them. And he carried a musket. It was the man Cocker had hit. He saw them, but did not offer to shoot. He had seen their empty pistols and was going to close on them before firing-he was going to make sure. Unarmed, they would have no chance. They turned with one accord and ran on, up and down the undulations of the sandy ridge.
Septimus threw a glance over his shoulder as they approached the rockier part of the ridge. The pursuer, who had not had to chase over dunes for fifteen minutes, was gaining on them fast. He was fifty paces behind. The Althea's boat was still a long way from the point, but the narrowing ridge had sea on both sides now.
They raced on desperately, with loose stones underfoot. Septimus felt he must collapse with bursting lungs at any moment. And then came the loud report of the musket, very close behind him. He heard the bullet sing past-the shot had missed. As he realised this he saw Cocker, a few feet ahead of him, stumble and fall. The bullet had hit him in the left thigh.
"Run, you fool-leave me!" groaned the red-headed boy as Septimus bent over him. "I'm done."
Septimus straightened himself and looked back. Twenty paces away the Frenchman had halted to reload his musket. As he rammed in the charge he looked full at Septimus, grinning savagely.
While the midshipman hesitated a shout floated across the water -''Jump, sir-jump!" It came from the swiftly-approaching boat. He saw that he could plunge from his present position into the water, thence to be picked up and taken to safety. But his decision was already made.
Stooping, he picked up a large and rugged stone. The Frenchman's musket was levelled when Septimus made his desperate rush, but the stone was hurtling through the air as he pulled the trigger.
The midshipman felt the sting of powder-grains on his cheek a second before he hurled his small body at the man.
Half-stunned by the impact of the stone on the side of his head, the man went down before that furious charge. Septimus, gasping for breath, picked himself up and saw that his enemy was lying still. His head had struck against a sharp rock in his fall. Septimus picked up the musket and flung it over the side of the ridge before going to help the wounded Cocker down to the boat and safety.
In the afternoon of the day of the water-party, Lieutenant Gifford came down the companionway into the midshipmen's berth with Midshipman Quinn at his heels. Both had been on duty on the quarterdeck until then. They found Fitzroy Cocker sitting somewhat awkwardly on a chair padded with blankets, his bandaged leg stretched out in front of him, talking to Charles Barry.
"At ease, Mr. Barry," nodded the lieutenant pleasantly as Barry sprang to his feet. "I've looked in to see how our invalid is progressing. "
"With respect, sir," said Mr. Cocker, grinning, "I'm as fit as you are. Demme, what's a flesh-wound in the thigh?"
"A mere nothing, I'm sure, to a Cocker," smiled Mr. Gifford. "You realise, of course," he added, "that but for Mr. Quinn here you might have had something more than a flesh wound."
Fitzroy Cocker looked up with a frown. "Naturally I realise it, sir. And I'm glad you're here to listen to what I'm about to say to him." He turned to Septimus. "Mr. Quinn, I apologise unreservedly for the insult I offered you, and for otherwise behaving like a-well, as I did behave, demme! You saved my life-"
"You saved mine, remember," put in the junior midshipman. "Don't stop me talking, demme! I've more to say. If you would--I mean, if I--that's to say, I'd value your friendship-" His gruff voice ceased. Septimus was holding out his hand. "Pray don't distress yourself, Mr. Cocker," he said in his dignified way. "You have it."
Chapter FIVE
The Knight-Errant
"SAIL-HO!"
The lookout's cry from the crow's-nest produced a bustle of excitement on board His Majesty's frigate Althea. For three weeks she had been cruising on an enemy coast, and each time that cry had sounded there had been an enemy vessel on the horizon. Captain Sainsbury showed no anxiety to send his crew to their action-stations, however. For once, the chances were against that distant sail being a French one.
For some time now the British raider's presence in the North Mediterranean had been known to the French. Her last action--a night landing to burn the shipping in Olonville Harbour—had been so successful that Captain Sainsbury, considering that the enemy might well risk sending out a squadron to sink or capture so impudent a ship, had decided to withdraw to southward for a few days until things had quieted down. This withdrawal had taken him into a latitude where it was very rare for a French vessel to venture, for Nelson was at Toulon and British warships were continually passing between the British Admiral and Gibraltar. Captain Sainsbury believed the strange sail was much more likely to be a British ship than a Frenchman.
And so it proved. Half-an-hour later the frigate had spoken to the Imperious sloop-of-war, carrying dispatches and mail for Toulon. It was a fortunate encounter, for the Imperious had on board a considerable packet of mail for the Althea, whose destination at the end of her mission was Toulon.
There was much rejoicing on board that day. In the midshipmen's berth Charles Barry and Septimus Quinn, who had the watch-below, sat reading their letters. There were several for Barry, but Septimus, who had no relatives except his uncle, had to be content with a long and beautifully written sermon from the Reverend Theophilus Quinn. Even that made pleasant reading, however, reminding him of the cool shade of trees on the Rectory lawn, and bringing the scent of English summer flowers to his nostrils instead of the mingled odours of tar, bilge-water and tallow candles which was the smell of the stuffy cabin.
"I say!" exclaimed Charles suddenly. He looked up from the letter he was reading. "This is from Philippa-my sister, you know, who was in the Portsmouth coach when the highwaymen stopped it. I'd no idea you foiled the toby-man single-handed, my lad!"
"I assure you I did not, Charles," replied Septimus.
"Well, Philippa says you did. She relates the whole story here and seems to regard you as a genuine hero. Girls are like that-romantic. "
He resumed his reading, and Septimus, who had gone rather red, adjusted his spectacles and concentrated his attention on the excellent advice of the Reverend Theophilus. After a moment's silence Barry burst into sudden laughter.