“Cast off!” said Hornblower, and a desperate shove with the port side oars got them clear. “Easy all!”
Tiller in hand, Hornblower stared through the darkness from under the stern. It had taken longer to man the brig’s longboat; only now was it beginning to head back to the brig. As it rose on a wave Hornblower caught sight of it silhouetted against the light from the brig’s lanterns. He must wait for several more seconds; if the brig’s crew were to see two boats returning where one had set out the alarm might possibly be given.
It was a bad business that the French boat’s crew had all been dropped into the sea; necessary act of war or not, the French could say they had been murdered. They would give no quarter to any survivors on the brig’s deck if the attack were to fail; this was going to be the most desperate battle of his life — victory or death with no compromise possible.
There was the longboat approaching the brig’s side, clearly visible in the light of the lanterns.
“Give way, port side!” The boat swung round as the oars bit. “Give way, starboard side!”
The boat began to move through the water, and the tiller under Hornblower’s hand came to life. He set his course; there was no need to call upon the oarsmen to pull with all their strength, as they were well aware of the details of the situation. Hornblower had read somewhere a fragment of English history, about a Saxon over‑king who, in token of his pre‑eminence, had been rowed on the river Dee by eight under‑kings. Most of the oars in this boat were being pulled by officers — Bush was pulling bow oar starboard side, seconding the efforts of Wise the boatswain and Wallis the surgeon and two or three master’s mates, and the master and purser and gunner were packed in here and there with a seaman or two. The boat was crammed with men and low in the water, but every fighting man was needed.
She lurched and rolled over the dark water, the brig’s lanterns growing steadily nearer. There was still no sound of trouble from the brig — she was expecting the return of her boat and until it was actually alongside she would suspect nothing. It was too much to expect that Meadows would be granted the opportunity to get comfortably alongside to launch a simultaneous rush, so that the French crew would be confronted in a second by twenty furious enemies where they had looked for half a dozen friends, but it was possible.
There it was. A pistol shot, the sound coming up wind. Further shots. It had been settled that Meadows’ party should use their pistols as soon as they reached the deck. It would be necessary to shock and bewilder the surprised Frenchmen and get them into a panic; the arrival on deck of twenty men firing pistols right and left would be likely a means to bring this about.
“Easy all! Bowman!”
The boat surged alongside the brig, under her forechains, diametrically opposite to where an outburst of yelling and screaming indicated where Meadows was fighting. A dozen hands were reaching for the shrouds, Hornblower’s among them. It was a miracle the boat did not capsize — warrant officers could be as hare‑brained and excitable as young seamen if the occasion were desperate enough.
“Go on!” yelled Hornblower.
To the devil with formality; these were not men who needed leading. The boat lightened as the blackfaced mob sprang up into the chains; Hornblower was not the first, but the fifth or sixth to reach the deck. There was no opposition, even though there were a good many figures hurrying about the dimly lighted deck.
Here they were beside the hatchway and a whitefaced figure was just emerging, waist level with the deck. A blackfaced figure swung an axe and the Frenchman went tumbling down again.
Now a hurrying figure cannoned into him and flung him aside, nearly knocking him off his feet. But there was no immediate danger to him; the hurrying Frenchman was intent only on descending, flinging himself bodily down the hatchway followed by a dozen other panic-stricken figures, a terrified herd pursued by two cutlass-swinging men with black faces. When the rush ended Hornblower leaned over the hatchway and fired his pistol down into the mass below; that was probably the most effective use for the single round which was all he had, for it would scare away from the hatchway those other Frenchmen who were trying to ascend.