STO'B 33

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There might still be time to confuse the issue, Philip thought as he waited to the fall of the shot. Theoretically, there might be captured British sailors on a French brig, and they would wear their own uniforms, of course. Ideas flitted through his mind, none particularly plausible. He cursed his lieutenant for unwittingly blowing their cover, and himself for not issuing orders prohibiting the wearing of uniforms and hoisting of signals.

A fountain of water splashed up beyond the two English brigs, followed a moment later by an explosion of froth as the French shell detonated underwater, and as the bubbles died away they revealed several fish on the surface, floating on their sides. Far down in the harbor the snow was clearly making her way out to join the two naval brings, while one of the merchant brigs - the green and tan one, which had responded to his signal by shipping her capstan bars - had dropped her maincourse and was catting her anchor.

Philip walked forward to the Badger’s bows, collecting a speaking trumpet from the binnacle as he went. “Lieutenant Grey,” he called over to the Chasseur, as loudly as he dared. The French would be watching very carefully, and though he knew that their telescopes could not amplify sound, he worried that they might do so anyway. He did not want the French to know that the allegedly-captured Badger was actually giving the orders. “Lieutenant Grey, signal the fort,” he said, “and make the private signal again.”

The fort fired again, this time firing short, but not by very much, and the Chasseur fired a leeward and a windward gun. “Mr Grey, lead us in to meet the snow,” said Philip, “but not too fast. We don’t want to spook her. Mr South, follow the Chasseur in, half a cable’s-length astern.” The green and tan brig was coming up into the wind, but the snow did not seem to have recognized the danger, and if he could get nothing else he wanted to be certain of her.

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