"Listen to this," he said, waving his sister's letter. "When I parted from Philippa I told her-jokingly, you know-that I'd fight the French as her knight-errant and send her an account of my victories. This is what she writes. 'A real knight-errant would send me something more than letters-a Frenchman's moustache, for instance.''' He broke off to laugh again. "Be thankful you haven't any sisters, Sep. A Frenchman's moustache! What next?"
"Are you going to get one for her?" inquired Midshipman Quinn.
Barry glanced sharply at him, but the spectacled midshipman appeared to be serious.
"Oh, I'll send her the coloured pebble I picked up last time we landed on French soil," he said carelessly. "I daresay that'll please her. Hullo, Fitz! What's new on deck?"
Midshipman Fitzroy Cocker came down the companionway, ducking his red head under the deck-beams, and flung himself down beside them.
"We're still heading a shade east of north," he said, "and there's a spanking westerly breeze carrying us towards Boney's Empire again. "
"That's not news-we've been on that course since we spoke to Imperious," retorted Charles. "Isn't there any buzz about our next raid?"
"Well, demme! There's a rumour, if you can call it news," Cocker replied. "Preece swears he had it from the Third Officer. Mr. Preece was right last time about our destination," put in Septimus.
"So he was, Sep. Well, I hope he's right again, because"--Cocker's blue eyes sparkled--"there'll be a rare scrap if he is. You remember the French engineer we captured during the Olonville raid, and the yarn he spun?"
"About the giant gun and the new fort?" nodded Barry. "Yes-a very tall story, I thought. Might have been one of yours."
Cocker threw his hat at him. "It's been conflrmed, it seems," he said. "The Imperious confirmed it. A spy brought the story to Gibraltar and the captain of the Imperious was told about it by the port admiral. The French have pretty well completed a new fort on the point five miles south of Marseilles--Fort Flambeau they call it--and they've got the gun there."
"What! Not this monster cannon?"
"So they say, or so the spy says. It can hurl a ball twice as far as our guns, according to report. The name they've got for it is Jean Ie Terrible."
"Terrible Jack, eh?" grinned Barry. "But come to the rumour, Fitz. How does the Althea come in?"
"Demme, how d'you think? We're going to have a look at Fort Flambeau, and I'll wager my head Captain Sainsbury will do more than look at it. Maybe we'll dodge the shots from Terrible Jack and go in to bombard the fort."
Septimus removed his spectacles and wiped them thoughtfully. "I hardly think he will do that," he remarked.
A week ago Fitzroy Cocker would have told him to hold his tongue or given him a cuff on the ear. Like Charles Barry, however, he had come to respect Midshipman Quinn's sayings and doings, having learned that both were always to the point.
"What's your idea, Sep?" he asked.
"It depends on the lie of the land," said the junior midshipman slowly, "but as a provisional scheme I would land a party to attack the fort in the rear, if that were possible. You see, gentlemen, the fort has clearly been built to resist attack from the sea. With this huge gun far out-ranging any ship's guns, it would be folly to close the fort from seaward-except by way of a feint attack."
"There's something in that, demme!" agreed Cocker. "Though mark you," he added, "I don't like the idea of creeping on the Frogs from behind. Fight 'em face to face, say I!"
"Pray allow me to disagree, Fitz," Septimus protested. "A surprise attack is perfectly fair in war."
"Hear, hear! came from Barry.
"I maintain," continued Septimus earnestly, "that any weapon or form of attack is fair against the French. For instance, if they invent a gun called Terrible Jack, which can throw a cannon-ball twice as far as our largest ship cannon, why should we not answer them by inventing some other sort of weapon? This war isn't a game. It's a life-and-death struggle between Napoleon and the only nation that is left to stand against him. It's merely reasonable-"
"All right, all right--I surrender!" broke in Cocker, waving his hands. "I grant you it's reasonable, Sep, but you reduce war to the level of a business. You'd never make a knight-errant, demme!"
"I suppose I wouldn't," responded Mr. Midshipman Quinn, looking suddenly very thoughtful.
Further debate was cut short by the arrival of a messenger requesting Midshipmen Barry and Cocker to report on the quarterdeck with their sextants. Septimus, whose rapid proficiency in navigation caused him to be excused from this exercise, took a home-made apron from a hook on the cabin bulkhead and went to look for Mr. Preece, the Welsh gunner's mate, with whom he had business. As he went he continued to ponder Fitzroy Cocker's last remark.
The sound of the frigate's many voices increased with every foot of his descent, for he was going down into the very bowels of the ship. The timbers and crossbeams creaked with the slight roll, the planking groaned as she curtseyed on the waves, the thousand-and-one articles that hung or were secured in various places about the huge framework of wood that was the Althea added their small tappings or scrapings to swell the noise. Down in the narrowed bottom of the frigate these noises became less again. Here was the cable-locker where the great ropes were coiled like sleeping snakes, the paint locker, and the carpenter's store. Mr. Preece had commandeered a corner here for his workshop, being of a handy turn with tools. The place had just about enough elbow-room for one man to use a plane, and when two persons were in it, it was overcrowded. However, Septimus was small for his fifteen years and Mr. Preece, who was sixty, was not a large man, so they were able to work side by side.
As Septimus had expected, the old Welshman was spending part of his watch-below in his "cubby", as he called it.
"Come you in here, now, Mr. Quinn," was his greeting. "I'm working on that casing we were talking about, for Little Jim."
Septimus, edging his way into the narrow space where a small oil-lamp burned in a safety container devised by Mr. Preece knew that "Little Jim" was the Welshman's nickname for a certain experiment on which they were engaged. None else--not even Charles Barry--had been told about Little Jim. It was an idea that had come to Midshipman Quinn during the starlit hours of an uneventful Middle Watch, and he had enlisted Mr. Preece to help him put it into material form.
"Very thin, that iron casing is, yess indeed," continued Mr. Preece, holding up a round shell slightly larger than a cricketball. "Here's the hole for the slow-match, see."
"Where did you get this?" asked Septimus, taking the shell to examine it.
"Tod Beamish made it for me, sir. He's taken Phillips's berth."
Phillips, the ship's blacksmith, had been killed in the last encounter with an enemy ship.
"He asked no questions, and he won't split on us," added the gunner's mate with schoolboyish glee. "Will it do, Mr. Quinn, sir?"
"It will do very well. It should stand the force of the expanding gases. We must have about eight very small holes drilled in this, Mr. Preece, distributed all over the surface. And we must have four of them."
Mr. Preece nodded his grey head, and then pointed to some bottles and packages that stood in a rack above his narrow bench.
"Is there enough flllings for four Little Jims, now, sir?"
"Just about. Pray tell me, Mr. Preece-do you think we shall attack Fort Flambeau?"
"I do reckon so, sir. This gun--Terrible Jack--will be a proper danger to our shipping if any comes within range, d'ye see, and Captain Sainsbury, he's not the man to sail past without a try. Our course is set for Fort Flambeau at this very moment, yess indeed."