Septimus took one look at those wonderful moustachios and ran at the commandant, cutlass in hand. From behind him came Tod Beamish's gasping shout.
"I'm with you, sir!'
Midshipman Quinn did not check his rapid advance. The French officer whirled to meet him, his own sword raised. As the midshipman's cutlass swept down, the sword deflected it in a glancing parry and Septimus only avoided the quick riposte by a lightning spring to one side.
"Stand clear!" he cried as Beamish, coming up to his assistance, showed signs of tackling the commandant himself.
Again the blades clashed, while Beamish spun round to ward off any interference. But the little duel was not observed by men who were too hard-pressed themselves to spare a thought or a glance for their leader. Septimus had some little knowledge of swordplay, but the Frenchman's lighter weapon was far more rapid in use than his heavy cutlass. All he could do for some moments was to parry the commandant's dangerous thrusts and step back and back as the French officer pressed him. The plump man's eyes were gleaming and he showed his white teeth below that splendid moustache.
"Aha, my little Englishman!" he snarled. "I have you!"
Since he was not an inch taller than Septimus himself, his use of the word "little" annoyed the midshipman exceedingly. And the even-tempered Mr. Quinn was dangerous when roused. Also, he had set his heart on those moustachios.
"Come and get me, then, monsieur!" he retorted, and whirled up his cutlass, leaving his body unguarded.
With a cry of triumph his adversary lunged straight for the midshipman's breast, but Septimus, who had gambled on that immediate thrust and timed his own movement accordingly, swung his middle body to the left in the nick of time. The commandant's blade passed so close to his right side that it pierced his coat. And before it could withdraw, Septimus had brought his sword-arm down like a clamp, pinning the weapon to the Frenchman's side, while his clenched left fist took the enemy hard on the chin. The man reeled backwards, loosing his sword.
"Hold him, Beamish!" panted the midshipman, thrusting his
cutlass into his belt.
The seaman was behind the commandant in an instant and from behind him caught both his arms in a grip of iron. Septimus felt in his pocket and pulled out the scissors.
The commandant screamed as his triumphant adversary, his eyes gleaming, advanced upon him with scissors outstretched.
"Dieu-de-dieuf" he quavered. "Will you take my life with so barbarous a weapon?"
"Pray don't distress yourself, monsieur," returned Septimus. "It is not your life that I require."
And he raised the scissors.
Far out in the blue of the Mediterranean a flutter of coloured bunting ran up to the yardarm of the Althea and was seen by the watchful Mr. Preece, who had been posted by Lieutenant Pyke with a telescope on the seaward ramparts of the captured fort. Mr. Preece read the signal and reported it to the First Lieutenant.
"Relieving force advancing along coast from northward. Retire immediately. "
The work they had come to do had been done. Taken between two forces, and with Salter's Marines arriving to add to their discomfiture, the garrison of the fort had surrendered just as Septimus had disarmed their commandant. The Frenchmen were herded into their barracks and locked in, and the work of demolition began at once. With Tod Beamish's immense strength doing most of the work in spite of a flesh-wound in his arm, small parties of seamen hoisted the smaller cannon on to the ramparts and pushed them over to crash down to the rocks below. Jean Ie Terrible was much too heavy to deal with in this way, but they had unseated the giant gun from its carriage, smashed the lock mechanism, and spiked the touch-hole. It would be many weeks before Terrible Jack could be fired again.
Finally, when the frigate's signal reached them, they lit a long fuse which Mr. Preece had been preparing and marched rapidly away from the fort. Scarcely had they gained the hillside when a mighty explosion shook the ground beneath them and a towering mushroom of black smoke showed that the magazine had been well and truly blown up. The raid on Fort Flambeau had been an unqualified success. Three seamen and a marine had been killed, and a score of men had minor wounds-including Charles Barry, whose shoulder had been roughly bandaged by Mr. Preece. But the French had once again been taught that so long as Britain held command of the seas the ten-to-one man-power of Napoleon Bonaparte could not hold off the daring islanders.
Back over the rough hills filed the raiding force and down the stream-gorge to their boats. Only one man among them was far from cheerful, and that was the French commandant, who was being taken on board the Althea as prisoner.
It was after noon when the four boats sighted the frigate bearing up to southward of them. The weary men cheered as they pulled the last of the distance back to their floating home and a long-delayed meal. Some four hours later Midshipman Septimus Quinn was summoned to the main cabin, the message being brought by a pale and anxious-looking Barry.
"Oh, my shoulder's all right," he answered in reply to his friend's question. "It's you I'm worried about. Pyke's furious, and the captain's looking solemn. Better cram on all sail to the cabin, Sep--and good luck!"
Septimus hastened along the deck, passing the scowling Lieutenant Pyke on the way, and found Captain Sainsbury alone in the cabin, sitting at the table. He looked up with a frown as the junior midshipman stood before him at attention.
"Mr. Quinn," he said severely, "you are making a nuisance of yourself. I hardly know what to do with you. Mr. Pyke has just reported to me that you endangered the success of the assault on Fort Flambeau by using, without permission, some kind of infernal machine. He has requested a Court Martial."
Septimus swallowed hard. This was serious indeed, even though it was unfair. He remained rigid and silent.
"On the other hand," continued the captain, eyeing him sharply, "Mr. Gifford states that the French defence was demoralised by a choking vapour, and Mr. Barry asserts that had it not been for this vapour the third volley from the walls would have prevented the gate from being forced. I gather that four iron shells were flung over the ramparts at your instruction. What were they?"
"A little experiment, sir," replied Septimus deprecatingly. "The shells were stuffed with cotton-waste impregnated with a solution of sulrhur..."
"Mr. Quinn!" snapped the captain. "You will in future make no little experiments in the course of a difficult raid. You understand?"
"Aye aye, sir," murmured the midshipman.
"And there is something more, Mr. Quinn. The French commandant, a gentleman, as he informs me, of high family, claims that he was grossly insulted and maltreated by you. He asserts—er--in short, you—ah--removed his—er--moustachios."
The captain seemed to have some difficulty in getting the words out. Septimus, his face reddening, looked at the deck.
"Well, sir?" demanded his superior sharply. "Did you or did you not disarm this officer in single combat and then cut off his moustache?"
"I did, sir." The midshipman felt in his pocket and produced a folded sheet of paper. "I have the moustaches here, sir."
Captain Sainsbury passed a hand swiftly across the lower part of his face before leaning forward to inspect the two curling lengths of black hair.