outa that theer 'ole.
''Boy,' sez that theer 'ead. 'Would ye liketa make yeself rich?'
'O'course I do, master, right? So I sez aye right off. So 'e tells me as 'ow 'e an' some shipmates bin caught up, like, an' 'e wants me to tell 'is capting.
'Wull, ain't no way a lad like me 'ull get to see no capting, so I ups an' tells the 'ead to gimme sumpin' to show I ain't hon. An' 'e t'rows down that shiv you showed me. An' Jom York took it off me, an' 'e sold it to you, and w'ere be Mikey Pollock but left out inna col' oncet agin.' Mikey sniffled and wiped his nose with a filthy, ragged sleeve.
A plan took instant shape in Hoare's mind.
'Can you draw me a picture of where the hole is, Mikey?' he asked.
'Aye.'
'Here, then.' Hoare handed him a piece of paper-the back of one of his printed message slips, actually — and a pencil.
'Won't.' Mikey's lower lip stuck out stubbornly.
'I'll go wit' yez, though.'
More quickly than he'd believed possible, due to the mudlark's handiness, Hoare had his own Devastation under way, back to Hebe. Once aboard the frigate again, he explained his plan to her captain. like most frigate captains, Davison was always ready for a good venture; the prospect of getting his mids back aboard and the wrathful dignitaries out of the admiral's hair made him all the happier to help.
'My armorer has some smoke bombs,' he offered. 'You're welcome to 'em. Now as to your boarders…'
'I must remind you, sir, that Serene has little space aboard, so…'
'Serene?' Captain Davison sounded puzzled, so Hoare hastened to explain.
'There can hardly be two Devastations in this action, sir, especially not on opposing sides. So I took advantage of the short trip to switch my Devastation's trail boards. She's now Serene, if you have no objection.'
'None at all, sir,' Davison said. 'How convenient. An even more legitimate ruse de guerre, I suppose, than flying a neutral nation's colors until your enemy is under your guns. And we all do that.'
When word spread of Hoare's plan, he was besieged by three times more volunteers than Serene could carry.
Mr. Steptoe, the sole remaining mid, vowed that unless he were taken along he would swim in chase until he drowned, so he had to come. Besides, he was small and lithe. Hoare felt he would need those qualities before the night was over.
Millar the coxswain felt a degree of guilt for letting the mids go adrift, so he too had a claim.
Finally, Hoare picked Galloway the marine and two of his toughest men. Lobsters might be stupid, but hard fighting was their business.
With Hoare himself and the mudlark Mikey, they were seven- enough, with their personal weapons, to make Hoare anxious. Carrying a weight like that, Serene would roll her cockpit under in any kind of sea at all, and that would be the end of her.
A list, however, would be all to the good, and a general logy quality, so that in the dark she would appear to be abandoned.
To catch the flood tide in the mouth of the Hamble, they must move smartly. Hoare let his men waste no time in farewells but loaded them aboard and bundled all but himself and Millar below, where he packed them in, head to tail, like sardines. He made sure that the yacht's two sweeps were ready to ship and assigned Millar and the less lubberly marine to man them in case of need. Hoare must make the mouth of the Hamble while the tide was still flooding so his expedition could drift casually up to the hulk.
Almost as far as the entrance to Southampton Water the beam wind favored them. Then they had to resort to the sweeps. Hoare used the time to detail his plan with the help of the mudlark-who, after all, was the only member of the party with any real local knowledge.
The tide, bless it, was still on the flood when they struck the Hamble's mouth. There was no moon, so Serene, her sails furled except for a handkerchief of trysail to give her steerage way and her bare mast barely visible even to her crew, slipped invisibly up the estuary.
'There she be,' Mikey whispered at last. Sure enough, the hulk loomed in the murk, not a cable off. There were lights in her cabin. As they drew closer, a loud conversation carried across the water. A meeting of the Committee, perhaps.
Now they were under the hulk's tumble-home, and now just under her high-pitched quarterdeck. The cabin lights were bright, the conversation louder. Yes, it was surely an Irish meeting. There was an Irish pennant handy, too, a line dangling sloppily from the hulk's deck; Millar caught it and let it slip through his great paws until Serene brought to alongside the hulk's weed-covered rudder, under its cabin windows and adjoining a ship's boat lying astern.
The two boys tiptoed up from below. Each took in hand a grapnel attached to a sufficient length of land line knotted at intervals for easy climbing, even by lobsters.
Swinging the grapnels to make ready, they eyed Hoare, waiting for his signal.
Galloway and his marines appeared, each with his bayoneted musket slung across his back and carrying a lit smoke bomb that sputtered softly in the blackness.
Millar poised a sweep. Every man wore a black kerchief across his face.
To begin the ball, Hoare gave his heart-stopping whistle; the party swung into action like a single man. Within the same seconds, Millar shattered the hulk's stern windows; the boys hurled their grapnels; the lobsters threw their bombs and swarmed up the land lines, roaring, followed by Hoare himself and Millar, cutlasses in their teeth like a pirate crew.
In the smoke-filled cabin of the Devastation hulk, chaos reigned. 'Fire!' someone shouted. The three lobsters ran amok through the choking smoke, jab-jab-jabbing with bayonets and sword at any figure without a black kerchief. Hoare and Millar wrestled their way through the ruck, bringing up at the cabin door, where they took their stand in the wreaths of reek, ready to repel any fugitive.
Right on time two small figures appeared, edged weapons drawn.
'Leave the killing to us, lads,' Hoare grated as loudly as he could. 'Go find your mates, Steptoe; show him the way, Mikey.'
Despite the battle roar, the boys must have understood him, for they disappeared through the cabin door at a dead run.
From outside the shattered cabin window came a splash; one of the marines groped through the fog, leaned across the broken sash, leveled his musket, and fired. He'd never in the world hit his target, Hoare told himself, but it would be enough to keep other Committee members from trying to follow suit out the window.
As the smoke of battle finally cleared away, the boy boarders returned, exultant, followed by the three missing mids. Hoare counted five prisoners.
'How many Irish were aboard here?' Hoare asked the oldest of the mids.
'Seven, I think, sir.'
There came a view-halloo from the other two ex-captive mids, who grabbed another man just as he was slipping out the cabin door and dragged him bodily across the deck. A scrawny man in a black suit, he glared at his captors in utter contempt. This would be the author of the real ransom note, Hoare concluded-'Brian Boru.' Well, they'd see what his real name was soon enough, before he hanged.
Brian Boru made six prisoners. With the man who had dived away, that made seven. A clean sweep-down fore and aft, Hoare said to himself.
'Come along, men,' he whispered. 'Back to the yacht with you. Bring our prisoners. Let's be off on the ebb.' He hoped the escapee had not managed to make away with that other boat; he could use it as a prison ship and tow it back to Portsmouth.
'Oh, and Mr. Harcourt!' he whispered as loudly as he could.
'Sir?' said one of the missing mids, a mischievous-looking, slender boy with lank blond hair.
'You're out of uniform, sir,' Hoare said.
'Sir?'
