I was as hilarious as they. The Frenchmen were crowding on the
jetty, shouting, cursing, actually screaming to us to come back. I
mounted the bulwarks, and, clinging to the shrouds, took off my hat
(or rather the captain's) and waved it gaily towards Duguay-Trouin,
who, having dismounted, had pushed through his men, and was
evidently angrily demanding an explanation of the extraordinary
scene he had arrived in time to witness. The townsfolk and fishers
were flocking down now in great numbers; the shouting increased to
a veritable pandemonium, and as we scudded away farther and farther
into the growing darkness I heard the scurrying of feet on the
cobble stones and the creaking of blocks as the sails were run up
on the smacks in the harbor.
They were going to pursue us, then! I laughed aloud. With nine good
English tars aboard an English brig I thought I could snap my
fingers at Duguay-Trouin in a smack.
But there was one danger, which, after the flush of jubilation had
died down, I was quick to appreciate. Duguay-Trouin's privateer was
lying off the point a few miles northward, and if, in answer to a
signal, she were to join in the chase, I saw that our chances of
getting away were small enough. Even as the thought struck me, two
musket shots were fired from the harbor. These were doubtless a
signal, but they could scarcely convey any real information: the
capture of the brig at its moorings was too unlikely a thing to
have been provided against.
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