"The ship has sent up these rockets to warn us of our danger," said Mr
Treenail. "What is to be done? Ah, Splinter, we are in a scrape--there
they have brought up field--pieces, don't you hear?"
Splinter had heard it as well as his junior officer. "True enough,
Treenail; so the sooner we make a dash through the opening the better."
"Agreed."
By some impulse peculiar to British sailors, the men were just about
cheering, when their commanding officer's voice controlled them. "Hark,
my brave fellows, silence, as you value your lives."
So away we pulled, the tide being now nearly on the turn, and presently we
were so near the opening that we could see the signal lights in the
rigging of the sloop of war. All was quiet on the dike.
"Thank God, they have retreated after all," said Mr Treenail.
"Whoo--o, whoo--o," shouted a gruff voice from the shore.
"There they are still," said Splinter. "Marines, stand by, don't throw
away a shot; men, pull like fury. So--give way, my lads, a minute of that
strain will shoot us alongside of the old brig--that's it--hurrah!"
"Hurrah!" shouted the men in answer, but his and their exclamations were
cut short by a volley of musketry. The fierce mustaches, pale faces,
glazed shakoes, blue uniforms, and red epaulets, of the French infantry,
glanced for a moment, and then all was dark again.
"Fire!" The marines in the three boats returned the salute, and by the
flashes we saw three pieces of field.
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