Under false colours

As his men came over the rail they discharged their firearms simultaneously with the enemy. There was a moment of flashes, cracks and buzzing, the cries of wounded men and then the two sides clashed together in hand-to-hand fighting.

The grizzled infantry lieutenant shuffled forward with the cautious confidence of the old warrior. He feinted with his heavy sword and Drinkwater felt the weight of it with a foolish, unnecessary parry. The Frenchman whipped his blade away, cut over Drinkwater's sword and lunged, at the same time slicing the blade of his weapon.

Had Drinkwater not held Hamilton's hanger his recovery would have been too late, but he was cool now, he had passed through the veil of fighting madness that had drawn from him the superfluous parry. He half turned, cannoned into another body, and in the second's respite had shortened his sword arm and jabbed the hanger with all his strength.

The French officer fell against him with a terrible gasp and Drinkwater recoiled, the man's body smell, mixed with the warm reek of blood, filling his nostrils. The French officer's sword clattered to the deck, the man dropped to his knees, then fell full length. Hamilton's hanger blade snapped off and Drinkwater was left stupidly holding the hilt and three inches of the forte.

Somebody lurched into him, he swung, confronted Martin and realized the thing was accomplished. The handful of Frenchmen remaining on their feet threw their muskets on the deck in token of surrender. Five of their fellow infantrymen lay dead or severely wounded, sprawled across the hatch and deck, and although one of their attackers writhed in noisy agony and three lay dead from their first volley, it was the death of their officer which persuaded them that further resistance was useless.

'Where are the crew?' Drinkwater snarled. 'Ou est les matelots Americaines?'' The Frenchmen pointed at the gratings covering the after hatchway.

'Get 'em out, Mr Martin!'

One of the sentries stepped forward and began to speak rapidly. Drinkwater could not understand a word but the meaning of the man's request was clear: to be left on Neuwerk, not taken prisoner.

'Put 'em under guard, Mr Martin!' He turned to the men scrambling out of the 'tween deck. 'Where's the master?'

'He's hostage ashore, sir.'

'God's bones! What about the mate?'

'Here, sir!'

'Get her under way. Cut your cable and make sail, the tide's just on the turn and the Alert cutter is in the offing! Mr Martin, get those prisoners in the boat, then —'

Drinkwater's order was lost in the boom of a cannon and a crash amidships where the ball struck home. Drinkwater ran to the rail, raised his hands and shouted at the adjacent vessel, 'Hannah ahoy! Have you taken the ship?'

'Aye, sir, an' we've eight prisoners!' That was Browne's voice.

'Send 'em over in your boat, d'ye hear?'

A second and third crash came from the battery ashore but Drinkwater doggedly continued his conversation. 'Have you word from the Anne?

'A moment, Cap'n!'

Browne turned away so that Drinkwater could not hear what he said, but a faint call from the farthest ship was, he thought, Frey's voice. It was almost full daylight now and he could see a man standing in the Anne's rigging.

'That you there, sir?' Browne too was visible at the Hannah's rail.

'Aye?'

'She's taken. They've eight men too.'

'Where's McCullock's boat?'

'Here sir, just come from the Anne to confirm Browne's report. We've the three o' them in the bag, sir.'

'Not yet we haven't. I'm not leavin' those Masters ashore. Do you pick up all the prisoners and follow me. All your men load their pieces. I'm going in to parley.' He turned and shouted orders at Martin then, seeing the mate of the Delia had a man hacking at the anchor cable with an axe and had the transport's main topsail in its clewlines he scrambled after Martin down into the longboat. A ball plunged into the water close to Browne's barge into which his prisoners were being forced and which still lay alongside the Hannah.

In the longboat, facing the downcast French guard from the Delia with musket and fixed bayonet, sat a private of the Royal Veterans.

'Be so kind as to lend me your ramrod,' Drinkwater requested, holding out his hand, fishing with the other beneath his own coat-tails. Drawing a white handkerchief from his pocket, Drinkwater knotted it about the private's ramrod.

Having gathered together the three boats loaded with the disarmed French, Drinkwater waved his improvised flag of truce and ordered Martin to pull inshore. From a low breast­work the flash and smoke of cannon fire continued, the scream of the shot passing overhead was followed by the thunder of the discharge rolling across the water. The noise of the shots hitting or falling short came from astern, only to be answered by the crack of Alert's light six-pounders.

Drinkwater turned in alarm. O'Neal had worked his little ship well into the anchorage and already the Anne had escaped past the cutter which was drawing up towards the Hannah and the Delia. Both vessels had hoisted their false, American colours, a shrewd though quite useless attempt to deter the artillerymen ashore. But Drinkwater had observed from the fall of O'Neal's shot that having mistaken their purpose, that zealous officer was directing his own cannon at the three boats pulling quickly towards the island.

'God's bones!' Drinkwater blasphemed, turning to Martin, 'Stand up, man, he might recognize you if he's looking, and wave this damned flag!'

The next moment the three boats were lost amongst a welter of splashes as shot from both sides plunged into the sea around them. An oar was shivered with an explosion of splinters and then, as if comprehension dawned simultaneously upon the opposing gunners, fire ceased and the boats emerged, miraculously unscathed, except for the loss of the single oar.

A few moments later, as with canvas flogging O'Neal tacked the Alert and stood slowly seaward again, Drinkwater's bout led close inshore.

'Here,' he said, seizing the flag of truce from the shaken Martin, 'I'll take that now.'

Drinkwater stood up and braced himself. 'Very well, Mr Martin, that'll do.'

'Oars!' ordered the midshipman. The tired seamen brought their oars horizontal and bent over the looms, leaning on their arms and gasping for breath. The other boats followed suit and the three of them glided closer to the beach. Drinkwater could see the shakoed heads of artillerymen above the island's defences.

'Messieurs,' Drinkwater cried in his appalling French, 'donnez moi les maitres des vaisseaux Americaines. J'ai votre soldats ... voire amis pour ...' he faltered, and added 'exchange!'

A discontented murmur rose momentarily among the pris­oners before Drinkwater snuffed it out with a harsh, 'Silence!' For a minute nothing happened, then an officer scrambled over the low parapet of the breastwork. They watched him walk, ungainly and bowlegged, through the sand of the fore­shore towards the tideline.

Drinkwater nodded at the man who had disclosed the whereabouts of the Delia's crew. 'Vous parlez, m'sieur ...' he commanded.

After a few moments of animated conversation between the two men, in which several other prisoners attempted to intervene until Martin suppressed them, the officer tramped back up the beach, leaning in through an embrasure. A further wait ensued. Looking seawards, Drinkwater saw that O'Neal had brought the Alert round and the cutter's large bowsprit again pointed at Neuwerk as she stood inshore once more.

'I hope Mr O'Neal has a man in the chains, Mr Martin,' Drinkwater observed, indicating the approaching