Eighteen men counting himself. One man for each of the Scorpion's cannon! It could be worse. Yes—he could be here all alone!
The Scorpion's longboats were close to the end of the landing dock. Master Blythe said, "Crouch down behind the sea-wall, men, and for God's sake be quiet!"
Old Ben brushed past. "What ye gonna do, cap'n? Ambush'em like them Concord fellers done the Redcoats?"
"No! Don't fire!" Master Blythe warned. "Don't pull a trigger unless I give the word!"
The seamen ducked into hiding just as the first of the Scorpion's longboats bumped the dock. A horde of striped shirted jacktars swarmed on the quay. They formed a column of twos under the quick, low voiced commands of their blue-coated officers. The soft glow of the rising moon glinted on their arms.
"A full strength landing party," Master Blythe breathed. "They're going to take the town apart!"
At double-quick the landing party came down the dock and swung briskly into Broadway. Their sea boots rumbled ominously. The officers with drawn swords trotted beside the grim and silent ranks.
Master Blythe hunched lower and pleaded under his breath. "Don't shoot, boys, don't shoot! Hold your fire!" Master Blythe felt a ripple of tension sweep his hidden men, a gathering anger that might send them charging over the low wall.
The landing party smartly jogged abreast of the seawall. Sixty men, Master Blythe counted, and all of them scowling with the fierce joy of fighting men soon to be completely revenged. They came within ten yards of the wall and veered past, deploying a thin skirmish line at the head of Thames Street. They were going to sweep the town.
"What'n hell's wrong with ye, cap'n?" Old Ben growled. "Why didn't you shoot 'em! They're gone now!"
"Good!" Master Blythe said. The last of the landing party disappeared down Thames Street. He jumped to the top of the wall. "Ben, if you hear a shot tell the boys to scatter and run like hell. If you hear me whistle, come arunning! Pass the word along."
Master Blythe was gone then, boldly marching down the dock, his small-sword clanking at his side and the hard heels of his buckled shoes clicking as briskly as any Officer's in His Majesty's Navy! He saw the sentry guarding the longboats swing to meet him.
Master Blythe straightened his shoulders. His hand slipped to the pistol butt inside his blue coat. He was banking on that blue coat. In this moonlight, the sentry could easily mistake him for a ship's officer!
"What's wrong, sir?" the sentry called. He held his musket at ready. Master Blythe quickened his step. He was within thirty paces of the sentry. He whipped out his pistols.
"I'll blow your head off if you move!" Master Blythe barked.
That settled the sentry. He lowered his musket. Master Blythe started to whistle, a cheerful melodious whistle. He walked within a yard of the sentry. "Drop that musket!"
"I'm a pressed-man, sir, the sentry muttered. "I won't raise no cry if you give me a chance to get away! Only don't let them bluecoats lay hands on me! A hunnert lashes. . ."
