top of page

PAUL WESTON

Author

Books

He turned and saw Julia in her pantaloons leave the cabin and walk past the men at the wheel. Shocked, he realised her white shirt was patterned with blood and that she carried a cutlass with a stained blade. He grabbed her shoulders, but she shrugged him off, her eyes bright with excitement.
“Julia, what has happened?”
“I’ve been fighting a Moor, Commandant, like a Corsican.”
“A Moor?”
“The one that came in through the cabin window. He is still there, though his roving days are over. And the ship, she is secure?”
“I believe so, Julia. They had no chance really.”
Snowden felt a puff of wind, turned and saw Poore nearby, sighting along his pistol at the departing galleys. He shouted, “CEASE FIRE!” And then to Poore, “Put that thing down, Mr Poore.”
“Aye, Sir.”
“Kennedy, get the rags on her.”

Lieutenant Snowden and his fast schooner Oleander are sent to Corsica to support a delicate and dangerous operation which could be of considerable assistance in defeating Bonaparte.

Snowden heard himself shout, almost scream “Come on lads, after me,” and then he was over Waterwitch’s bulwark, climbing into the shattered cabin of Demoiselle, slashing with his cutlass at a face that appeared in front of him, and running, running with his men behind him through the choking smoke into the ship, passing smashed and bleeding bodies and groaning, wounded men, and up the companionway onto the quarterdeck, yelling, screaming, firing his pistols and swinging his cutlass, and then over to the mizzen mast, slashing at the halyards until the tricolour was at his feet.

He saw a French officer, one arm hanging limply, move towards him, and he raised his cutlass to strike at him when he felt a strong grip about him, pinioning his arms roughly into his side, forcing him to drop his cutlass to the deck with a clang.

“She’s struck, sir,” said the man holding him, a large marine in a tattered red coat. “It’s over. Go and take his sword.” And indeed, Snowden noticed for the first time that the French officer was holding out his sword, his eyes defeated, ashamed.

To win the war, Napoléon must invade England, but his Armée d’Angleterre is trapped in Boulogne. Frustrated by British sea power, he turns to an alternative scheme.

When I next looked the other ship was so close that I could make out her shape, a rakish cutter of fifty tons or so, built for speed and heavily canvassed. She was heeled over, and I could see the foaming bow wave and her sails straining at the sheets. The lights in the rigging were extinguished as I watched, and on her deck I could make out indistinct figures moving around. From that moment things happened very quickly. I heard a shouted order and the crash and thunder of the cutter’s sails, and saw her gybe and surge up alongside us, heeling wildly. It was an amazing display of seamanship, but not one I could appreciate, for with sudden insight I realised the full horror of what was happening. We were about to be boarded.

The merchant ship Cicely is captured by the brilliant and ruthless Captain Morlaix of the French Navy. Apprentice Jack Stone's life is changed forever. Can he survive?

bottom of page