Tom Cringles Log | Page 7

the Elbe or no.
Hark!"
We all pricked up our ears, and strained our eyes, while a bright,
spitting sparkling fire of musketry opened at the gap, but there was no
ping pinging of the shot overhead.
"They cannot be firing at us, sir," said the coxswain; "none of them
bullets are telling hereaway."
Presently a smart fire was returned in three distinct clusters from the

water, and whereas the firing at first had only lit up the dark figures of
the French soldiery, and the black outline of the bank on which they
were posted, the flashes that answered them shewed us three armed
boats attempting to force the passage. In a minute the firing ceased; the
measured splash of oars was heard, as boats approached us.
"Who's there?" sung out the lieutenant.
"Torches," was the answer.
"All's well, Torches," rejoined Mr Treenail; and presently the jollyboat,
and launch, and cutter of the Torch, with twenty marines, and thirtysix
seamen, all armed, were alongside.
"What cheer, Treenail, my boy?" quoth Mr Splinter.
"Why, not much; the French, who we were told had left the Elbe
entirely, are still here, as well as at Cuxhaven, not in force certainly,
just sufficiently strong to pepper us very decently in the outgoing?"
"What, are any of the people hurt?"
"No," said the garrulous emissary. "No, not hurt, but some of us
frightened leetle piece--ah, very mosh, je vous assure."
"Speak for yourself, Master Plenippo," said Treenail. "But, Splinter, my
man, now since the enemy have occupied the dike in front, how the
deuce shall we get back into the river, tell me that?"
"Why," said the senior lieutenant, "we must go as we came."
And here the groans from two poor fellows who had been hit were
heard from the bottom of the launch. The cutter was by this time close
to us, on the larboard side, commanded by Mr Julius Caesar Tip, the
senior midshipman, vulgarly called in the ship Bathos, from his rather
unromantic name. Here also a low moaning evinced the precision of the
Frenchmen's fire.
"Lord, Mr Treenail, a sharp brush that was."
"Hush!" quoth Treenail. At this moment three rockets hissed up into the
dark sky, and for an instant the hull and rigging of the sloop of war at
anchor in the river glanced in the blue--white glare, and vanished again,
like a spectre, leaving us in more thick darkness than before.
"Gemini! what is that now?" quoth Tip again, as we distinctly heard the
commixed rumbling and rattling sound of artillery scampering along
the dike.
"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. Artillery in the very act of being
unlimbered. We could distinctly hear the clash of the mounted
artillerymen's sabres against their horses' flanks as they rode to the rear,
their burnished accoutrements glancing at every sparkle of the
musketry.
We pulled like fiends, and being the fastest boat, soon headed the
launch and cutter, who were returning the enemy's fire brilliantly, when
crack--a six--pound shot drove our boat into staves, and all hands were
the next moment squattering in the water. I sank a good bit, I suppose,
for when I rose to the surface, half drowned and giddy and confused,
and striking out at random, the first thing I recollected was a hard hand
being wrung into my