Midshipman Quinn

— 3 —

"I tell you, Charles, it's our duty," whispered Septimus urgently.

"I won't do it — we must get away at once," Charles Barry returned, trying to pull his arm from the other's grasp.

"You must see that this prisoner's not much use. He knows nothing about the garrisons. He says there's a sergeant in command of these patrols of dragoons, and that's the man we want. Quick, Charles — it depends on you."

Septimus had dragged his friend a short distance away from the others to pour into his ear a brief outline of the plan he proposed. Charles was required to play a leading part in this plan, for he alone could speak French well enough to sound like a Frenchman. He had refused vehemently, but the young midshipman could tell that it was only fear of losing his nerve that was keeping Charles Barry from taking a chance.

At any moment the sound of hoofbeats on the road from Perpignan might tell them that it was too late. Septimus played his last card.

"If you're coward enough to refuse, Charles," he said between his teeth, "pray stand aside. I'll do it for you."

"You can't!" gasped Barry in dismay. "They'll know you're English the moment you say a word!"

"I don't care. I shall do it."

"See here, Sep — this is mutiny," muttered Barry. "If I report you—"

"Report me, then. It will be worth it. Stand aside, please!"

Barry drew a long breath.

"All right," he said desperately. "I'll try it. But—"

"Good," snapped Midshipman Quinn briefly. "I'll see to the placing of the men. Remember — straight under the bridge when we've got him."

He raced back to the others without waiting for Barry's reply. The dawn light was growing now, and he could see that the gag was back in their first prisoner's mouth and his ankles tied together. The Frenchman would have to be left there — no doubt someone would find him next day.

"Mr. Barry's party!" he said briskly. "All of you except — who's the tallest? — Pierce, into the thicket west of the road, twenty paces north of this bridge. Wait there until you hear me screech at the top of my voice — I've a good screech — and then rush out and lay on with your cutlasses. Use the flats, and hit all the horses you can. I want real confusion, but no shouting, mind. When you hear me screech a second time, make westward into these thickets with as much noise as you can. To your action-stations, now!"

As the three seamen crept across the road and disappeared into the shadowy bushes, he turned to his own four men.

"Beamish, you and Pierce will come with me. The rest of you heard what I told Mr. Barry's party? Good. You'll hide in the bushes opposite them. Do exactly as they do. Garraway, take charge of the diversion party and bring every man to the beach when the action's over. Carry on!"

With Pierce and Beamish at his heels, he hurried to where Barry was standing irresolutely at the roadside. Already, he noticed, it was light enough to see the dead whiteness of Charles's face.

"All's ready, Mr. Barry," he reported formally.

Charles grasped the midshipman's arm with a shaking hand. "Sep!" he whispered hoarsely. "I can't—"

" Listen!"

In the silence that followed the tense exclamation the distant clatter of approaching hoofbeats came clearly to their ears. A troop of horsemen were cantering towards them from the direction of Perpignan.

"Here they come," remarked Septimus calmly. His hand closed on Charles's shoulder for a second. "We all depend on you, Mr. Barry. "

With that, he stepped from the roadway into the cover of a clump of leaty bushes. Beamish and Pierce joined him there. From their shelter they could see the road's pale glimmer under the paling sky, and Charles Barry's solitary figure standing motionless. And the hoofbeats came nearer.

Mr. Midshipman Quinn, it must be admitted, felt a certain nervousness himself as he waited there in the dim twilight of early morning. He knew quite well that his plan was a daring one, and that if Barry failed them the plan would fail. He, Septimus Quinn, would be responsible for its failure then. He might be killed or taken prisoner. If he escaped, he would have to report that he had forced a senior officer to adopt a futile scheme against his will — and that might mean a Court Martial and disgrace. But if Barry played his part there was, he thought, a good chance of the plan succeeding. And more would be gained than a valuable prisoner. Charles Barry would have been cured of cowardice.

The horsemen were so close now that he could hear the jingle of accoutrements. He looked at Barry's shadowy figure again. It had not moved. One English midshipman had to nerve himself to face twenty French dragoons, to risk discovery and almost certain death. Barry had only to step back into the bushes, letting the oncoming troop sweep past, to escape the test. Would he stand firm? Could he carry it through?

Septimus in his anxiety was squeezing the sand-filled canvas sleeve he carried. Between the leaves of his bush he saw the massed horsemen coming, the growing light gleaming dully on their polished helmets. They were almost at the bridge-their hoofbeats drummed upon it. And then Midshipman the Honourable Charles Barry did the bravest thing of his life. He stepped out into the roadway.

"Halte-la!"

His voice rang loudly and with authority. The leader of the dragoon patrol shouted at his men and they reined in their horses. Barry took a step forward.

"I have orders for the sergeant-in-charge," he said in French, haughtily.

The leader of the troop edged his horse a little forward.

"I am he, monsieur," he answered gruffly. "May I ask what authority you have for stopping—"

Septimus waited no longer. He raised his voice in an earsplitting screech, and dashed out of cover with the two tall seamen close behind him. Simultaneously, pandemonium broke loose on the dark road.

Out from the bushes behind the dragoons broke half-a-dozen seamen, to rush in among the horses smiting left and right with the flattened blades of their cutlasses. Frightened horses squealed and reared, men roared French oaths, the twenty dragoons became a milling mob of horsemen cannoning into each other and trying to control their mounts. Not a man of them had time to notice what was happening to their sergeant.

Septimus's rush had brought him to the bridle of the leader's horse. Charles dashed to seize it from the other side. The gigantic Beamish, aided by the equally tall Pierce, flung himself at the rider and plucked him from his saddle like a ripe fruit. Before the dragoons had realised that there were armed enemies among them, the hapless sergeant was hauled down the bank and under the bridge. His one shout for help was drowned in the general uproar, and a second later Midshipman Quinn's loaded sandbag had descended on the back of his head. The sergeant lay still. Then, piercing as ever but sounding oddly far away, that eldritch screech rose again.

Under the bridge crouched the four sailors with their unconscious victim. This was the dangerous moment, as Septimus knew. If anyone had seen their silent rush to cover, if anyone had realised that the second screech had come from under the bridge, they were doomed. He heard above the tumult of plunging horses a new sound-a hoarse yelling and crashing in the thickets west of the road, going further away. And he heard the furious shouts of the dragoons. One of them was shouting to his comrades to follow-that the cursed bandits had run into the bushes. The cry was taken up. The dragoons were spurring their horses in pursuit, screaming for vengeance as they rode. Garraway and his men had done their work well.

Septimus waited until the last horseman had left the road and then peered over the parapet of the bridge. The coast was clear. Beamish slung the unconscious sergeant over his shoulders like a sack of meal and the four sped across the road and down the sandy lane to the beach. The long line of the sea was clear-cut against the glorious colours of the dawn sky, and there, creeping inshore to meet them, was their waiting boat.

It was nearly ten minutes-an anxious ten minutes-before Garraway and his men came stumbling down the shingle. They were all breathless, and black with mud to the thighs.

"The dragoons aren't following?" demanded Septimus sharply.

"N-not they, sir," panted Garraway. He and the others were grinning widely despite their tired state. "There was a bog t' other side them thickets, sir — we led ' em into that, and I doubt if they'll ever get out."

Septimus turned to Barry. "A very successful venture, Mr. Barry," he remarked.

Charles Barry drew himself erect. There was a new light in his eye and a new tone in his voice.

"It succeeded because every man here did his duty," he said clearly. "We mustn't be caught now, men. Into the launch, and back to the old Althea for breakfast."