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ball hit home with an ugly splintering. In an instant it knocked the heavy gun over, then bounced up to take Mr Clay’s head clean off his shoulders. As his lifeless body fell on its knees, I shut my eyes tight with horror, and swallowed hard to rid my mouth of the bile that had risen to the back of my throat.
    The direct hit brought a cheer from the French ship, and then a further volley of musket and pistol shots. When I looked again I could see the two other men inour gun crew shrieking and writhing in agony, one crushed by the weight of the gun, the other peppered with splinters.
    Just at that moment the sun came out. Almost immediately I heard a shot tear through the rigging of the mainmast behind me. I looked round and saw sunlight falling directly on the sails, silhouetting a shipmate named William Elliot, who was hidden behind the main topsail. Another shot rang out from the
Isabelle
. William screamed and fell. He hit the deck with a dull crump, dead twice over. Then a bullet punched a small hole in the sail next to my head, and I realised with skin-prickling horror that I must be just as conspicuous. Should I jump into the sea while I still had a chance? Or should I wait for the bullet that would surely knock me off my perch and have me fall to my death?
    As stifling panic began to grip, I became aware of a voice shouting up to me. It was Captain Rushford.
    â€˜Sam! Sam! Come down quickly before you are shot!’
    I didn’t need telling twice and leaped at once for the rigging that would take me down to the deck. As I climbed down, shots whistled through the canvas but were all wide of their mark. When I reached the deck I realised I would have to stand and fight here. The
Isabelle
was now so close, any of us who raised a head above the rail risked a bullet in the brain. I croucheddown on the deck behind the ship’s cutter, next to the Captain, waiting to rush out at the oncoming boarders. I fumbled clumsily for my cutlass, but in my haste I brushed the sharp blade across the back of my hand, drawing blood.
    The shadow of the French ship moved over us like a huge bird of prey. Shots were landing almost vertically on the planks close to our feet, as men high in the
Isabelle
’s masts fired straight down on to the deck. ‘To the last, lad,’ Rushford said to me, gripping my shoulder. Perhaps I should have been terrified, but now I was so fired up I felt like a coiled spring ready to tangle with anyone who came at me. There we waited, for the grinding jolt of ship crashing against ship, and the clang of grappling hooks curling over to embed themselves on our deck.
    Instead we heard a desperate cry. ‘Ennemi vaisseau, tribord!’ I looked at Rushford, who understood immediately what was being said.
    â€˜It’s a Navy ship!’ he cackled, his face lighting up with relief. ‘It’s the Royal Navy come to rescue us. Keep down, Sam. We’re not done yet,’ he said quickly. He filled his lungs and shouted out, ‘Hold fast, men. Stay under cover.’ The shadow of the
Isabelle
moved away from us. Only after a couple of minutes did we feel safe enough to peer out from our sheltered positions. Sure enough, the
Isabelle
was now stern on to us. Sailingtowards us from the coast was a handsome Navy warship, its white ensign fluttering fiercely in the breeze.
    The Captain’s eyes sparkled with delight. ‘Ship of the Line. Must be a 74. She’ll be able to chase off the Frenchman.’
    Elated, I rushed below deck to tell George we were safe. But he turned away, his eyes refusing to meet mine. I suppose he felt he’d lost face in front of me when he had been wounded, and I was saddened because I had come to think of him as a friend.
    The joy I felt on surviving the attack drained away like air from a balloon. Wearily I returned to the deck, to join the crew in the melancholy task of gathering together the dead. I had seen dead people before – the tiny,