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