Jeanne flushed. The English were playing with her, treating her ship as a thing unworthy of their cannon-balls. Well, they should see.
Nearer and nearer came the two ships on their converging courses until the frigate was less than a quarter of a mile from her victim. Seen across the narrowing space of blue water, she was a lovely and threatening sight with her black hull and its broad band of white where the open gun-ports yawned, her towering sails, and the thirty-five-foot bowsprit thrusting like a fencer's foil above the froth of white water at her forefoot. Jeanne set her teeth.
"Bear off," she told the helmsman. "Keep her there."
The brig was now running parallel to the frigate.
"Stand by to fire!"
As the girl shouted the preparatory order, Joseph rushed to the larboard guns, waving his arms frenziedly.
"No!" he shrieked. "Louis, Gaston -- I command you not to fire! The Englishman will blow us out of the water!"
"Tais-toit" Jeanne hurled at him. And then, at the top of her voice, "Tirez!"
Louis and his gun's crew did not obey. But Gaston, a tall youth who was Jeanne's devoted admirer, touched his linstock to the touch-hole. The little six-pounder belched smoke and flame.Jeanne, peering above the smoke to see the result, thought she saw white splinters fly from the frigate's side just above the line of gun-ports. But before the smoke had cleared the frigate replied--not the full broadside which Joseph had prophesied, but a single shot as before. This time, however, the ball did not fall ahead of the Blanche. It was aimed high to hit mast or spars, and though it struck neither it served its purpose by severing halyards and rigging on the brig's foremast.
Down came sail and yard with a flap and a crash. The Blanche spun round, heeling madly as the balance of her sails was upset, and came up into the wind to lie helpless. As if copying her action, the frigate spun neatly round, to lie hove-to a cable's length away.
Jeanne had dashed to the weather rail where her father's old dress-sword hung in its sheath of gilt leather.
"All hands stand by to repel boarders!" she cried, drawing the narrow blade and waving it aloft.
She was a gallant if somewhat futile figure, straddling there on the poop with the sunlight flashing from her sword and glinting on the gold earrings that hung below the fringe of the red handkerchief. Only Gaston showed any sign of responding to her order. The rest of the crew abandoned their guns and, shrugging their shoulders, began to gather in the flapping canvas of the dismantled sail. As for Joseph, he ran on to the poop without a glance for Jeanne and slashed through the flag halyards with his knife. The French colours fluttered down to the deck. The Blanche had surrendered.
For a moment it seemed that Jeanne would leap upon Joseph with her sword. She took an angry pace forward, and so furious was her look that the grey-haired mate literally shook at the knees. But the girl controlled herself and spat one word at him.
"Coward!"
Then she turned away to stare despairingly at the English ship. The wind had brought the frigate nearer to her prey. An officer leaped on to her rail, steadying himself by the shrouds, and shouted through a speaking-trumpet. His French was bad but understandable.
"Brig ahoy! We accept your surrender. Give your name, cargo, and destination."
Joseph replied, making a funnel of his hands.
"Brig Blanche, bound for Marseilles with fresh fruit and vegetables! "
Jeanne, who would have stopped him had she been able, bit her lip and clenched her small brown hand on the hilt of the sword. To deny that she had surrendered would be to make a fool of herself. She must accept the fact that her mate and crew were against her, though it was mutiny on their part.
On board the frigate the officer was reporting that reply to his captain. In a few moments he hailed the brig again.
"Brig there! We are sending a prize crew on board."
That was all. Not even a warning to try no tricks on pain of receiving a broadside. That was like the arrogant English, Jeanne told herself bitterly-taking it for granted that their superiority could not be challenged. It was galling to watch the orderly bustle on board the frigate as a boat was swung out from the davits and lowered. Men slid down the ropes into the boat and in a matter of seconds were pulling towards the brig. They were coming to take her ship from her.
Jeanne's dark eyes glittered with something that was not anger. With an impetuous gesture she flung the sword far out across the water in the direction of the approaching boat. It flashed in the sun before it disappeared for ever. If she could not strike a blow, at least she would not give up her sword to the English.
The frigate's boat came neatly alongside, and Jeanne scowled down at the brown faces and tarry pigtails of the English sailors. There was a boy in the sternsheets of the boat, but a hasty glance showed her no officer. However, she would have to receive her conquerors with proper nautical courtesy. She went down from the poop to the head of the ladder which Louis and her men had slung over, and stood waiting with head thrown back and hands clasped behind her.
A cocked hat, topping a grave and somewhat owlish face, appeared above the rail and the boy she had seen in the boat stepped on board. His keen glance passed over the girl and round the little circle of scowling French seamen.
"I wish to speak with the captain of this vessel," he said in careful French.
Jeanne, smiling scornfully, took a pace forward.
"I am the captain of this vessel," she said in English.
She had expected the boy to look surprised, but he merely bowed.
"Your servant, mademoiselle," he said. "I am Midshipman Septimus Quinn, of His Majesty's frigate Althea."
The circumstances which gave Midshipman Quinn his first command were these. The Althea had been making a series of landings to complete her daring survey of the coastal defences west of Toulon. She was to report to Lord Nelson off Toulon on September 30th, and her difficult task was nearly finished. Two of these landings had met with opposition, for it was now common knowledge along the shores of Provence that a British frigate was cruising and raiding on that coast, and in the skirmishing Mr. Haswell, the Third Lieutenant, had been killed by a musket-ball and Mr. Gifford wounded in the leg, though not severely. With Midshipman Cocker acting in place of both second and third lieutenants and Midshipman Barry still unable to use his left arm, the only officer Captain Sainsbury could spare for command of a prize was Septimus Quinn.
The Althea herself was in sore need of fresh greens and fruit, and Nelson's blockading squadrons off Toulon must be in the same plight, so that it was the brig's cargo that had decided Captain Sainsbury to make a prize of her and take her into Toulon.
"Mr. Quinn," he had said in giving the midshipman his orders, "you will take six seamen, make such arrangements on board the brig as seem good to you, and shape a course for Toulon, a course that will take you out of sight of the coast. I shall be taking the Althea closer inshore tonight, and later standing southward, so we shall not sail in company.. But I propose to be off Toulon on the 30th, by which date I shall expect you to have reported to the flagship, disposed of your cargo, and found quarters for your men. Good fortune to you, Mr. Quinn."
And so Septimus had hurriedly collected his gear and his men (among whom was the huge Tod Beamish) and put off for the Blanche. He had seen the sword flung from the brig's poop as the boat approached. He had intended to receive the captain's sword, the customary symbol of surrender, and then to hand it back to him with a graceful bow and a few well-chosen words, for he had admired the courage with which the little ship had fired on the frigate even though it was a hopeless gesture. It annoyed him to be deprived of this courteous act, and--though he had not shown it--he was taken aback to find that the captain was a girl, and a pretty girl as well.