O'Neill's red head could be discerned high above the deck where he was perched on the truck of the mast as lookout. Wallace and Eccles, their paint and feminine draperies removed, were squatting under the weather bulwarks constructing the British colours out of some strips of signal bunting--neither they nor Midshipman Quinn would feel happy until those colours could be hoisted on their prize. Dobbs and Beamish were bending over one of the six twelve-pounder guns the sloop carried, getting to know the slight differences between its elevating system and the system used on British sea cannon. Dobbs had been a gunlayer on board the Althea, and had already spent some hours that morning training his shipmates in running-out and laying the French guns. Like O'Neill and Frith, Seaman Dobbs still wore the motley costume of tights and ribbons in which he had made his escape. And as for the gigantic Beamish, he was still wearing the leopard-skin of the Strong Man. Only two of his men, reflected Septimus, looked like British seamen. He doubted whether so fantastic a crew had ever appeared on the deck of a warship, French or English.
After exchanging a word with Frith at the helm, the midshipman was about to walk for'ard and talk to Beamish when Sous-Officier Cartier, French prisoner on parole, crossed the deck to intercept him.
"A friendly wind for you, Monsieur Quinn," he said with his ingratiating smile. "I wish you good fortune in rejoining your own ship at an early date."
"For the moment, Monsieur Cartier," retorted Septimus, "this is my ship."
He passed on, leaving Cartier to return with a shrug to his lounging-place by the lee-rail. Septimus did not like Cartier, who showed himself too eager to make friends with his captors. He much preferred the sullen Brunel. Though Cartier had given his parole, and had readily answered all the questions put to him, the midshipman did not trust the man and had given orders to Dobbs to keep an unobtrusive eye on his movements.
Tod Beamish straightened himself and knuckled his forehead as Midshipman Quinn approached.
"Guns all ready, Mr. Beamish?"
"Ready and trim, sir," replied the big seaman, grinning as Septimus used the "Mister" that indicated that Beamish was second-in-command—temporarily--of a warship. "Me and Dobbs, we've got these here trunnions sorted out now. We'll not be able to fire a broadside of more 'n two guns, though, sir--not with a crew of six all told."
"But the Chasseur can show a clean pair of heels to anything near her size," nodded Septimus thoughtfully. "Can she outpace the Vengeur, do you think?"
Beamish shook his thatch of tow-coloured hair. "I doubt it, sir. That Monseer Cartier, he says Vengeur's very fast for a ship-rigged vessel. "
"Then we'll fight for it if we meet her." Mr. Quinn looked his second-in-command in the eye. "We've no chance, of course-but I don't want to see the inside of a French prison again."
"And so say all of us, sir," responded the big seaman heartily. "Once we've got them colours hoisted, we don't strike 'em, not if twenty Vengeurs lay us board-and-board!"
Septimus chuckled. "That sounds as Irish as O'Neill," he remarked. "But I'm glad you feel like that. Have you looked through the sloop's armoury?"
"I have, sir--and I've took the liberty of having a dozen pistols ready loaded. The twelve-pounder balls is laid ready in the nettings aside of each gun, there's powder ready to bring on deck, and I've got water-buckets charged and standing by, sir."
"Very good, Mr. Beamish. You locked the powder-magazine, I trust?"
"Yessir. Here's the keys."
Beamish handed them over and Septimus dropped them into his pocket.
"So far as I can find out, these are the only set," he said in a low voice. "All the same, you'll keep an eye lifting for any treachery on the part of the French gentleman, Mr. Beamish."
"Aye aye, sir--but I reckon the Monseer's too fond of his life to try and blow us all up."
"None the less, you'll watch him, Mr. Beamish. And if we sight a strange sail he must be taken below and locked in his cabin. Did you find any swords or cutlasses?"
"Cutlasses, sir--a round score of 'em," answered the seaman. "In the rack at the bottom of the companionway. They're a various lot, as you might say--all sizes and some of ' em not too sharp."
"Choose six of the sharpest," ordered the midshipman, "and issue one to every man. He's to keep it handy or in his belt. If we go into action I want every man at his station at once, without having to go looking for weapons. And, Mr. Beamish, pray choose a light one for me. My wrists aren't steel engines like yours."
"Aye aye, sir!" grinned Beamish, and hurried below to obey. Septimus went aft again, and Seaman Eccles came trotting up to him.
"Colours ready for 'oistin', sir!" he reported. " 'Tain't much of a job, but it's the best we can do."
"So long as they don't look like the Tricolour they'll do," nodded Mr. Quinn. "Have them bent on to the halliards."
As soon as Beamish returned to the deck the five men of the sloop's crew (Frith being at the helm) formed rank and stood to attention while the makeshift British flag was hoisted to the peak of the Chasseur's mainyard. Then the colours were lowered again and the Tricolour bent on ready for hoisting. It might yet be necessary to sail under false colours in order to have a chance of evading recapture.
The sloop swooped onward over the blue like a seabird, her forefoot slicing into the curling seas as she headed ever eastward towards the station of Nelson's blockading fleet. Septimus took a short spell at the helm, relieving Frith so that the seaman could arm himself. He had learned the rudiments of handling a sailingboat during the few days the Althea had spent at Gibraltar, but he grasped the big tiller of this large vessel with some nervousness. Under full sail, however, the Chasseur was so perfectly trimmed that she answered to the slightest pressure on the helm, and for a few moments he experienced the real delight of being in full control of a sailing-ship. In a later year, when circumstances placed him in command of a British sloop and "Quinn of the Fury" made himself famous, he was to experience this elation again. On this occasion it was not to last long.
Down in the gloom of a cabin beneath Midshipman Quinn's feet, Lieutenant-de- Vaisseau Brunel was sitting up in his bunk and massaging the wrists of his freed hands. His labours had been rewarded. The cord had parted at last. A light of fanatical determination gleamed in his dark eyes as he leaned forward to wrestle with the cords that bound his feet.
Six bells in the forenoon watch-eleven o'clock by landsmen's time-was just past when O'Neill's hail came from the masthead.
"Deck there! Smoke on the horizon, right ahead!"
Septimus shouted an acknowledgment, and then paused to consider. Smoke might mean a burning ship, and that might be the work of the Althea. It was safest to steer clear of the smoke. But on the other hand, if the frigate was somewhere near, was it not his duty to rejoin her as soon as possible?
He decided not to alter course for the present. The sloop sped on towards the faint smear of smoke, which was soon visible from the deck. Beamish, at his elbow, suddenly cocked an ear.
"By your leave, sir-aye, there it is again! That's gunfire, sir, sure as I'm a seaman!"
A moment later a slight lull in the following wind enabled the sound to be heard more clearly. Septimus heard it himself this time, the dull pounding of ships' cannon, broadside after broadside.