Slowly the gig began to make stern-way.
“Heave!”
The gig made another foot. Feet clattered on the slip-head and a voice cried, “Here’s a boat escaping! Halt or I fire!”
“Hea-ve!” Ortho yelled. The gig made another foot and was afloat. There was a spurt of fire from the slip and a bullet went droning overhead. The bowman turned and dodged for safety among the rocks.
“Back water, back!” Anson exhorted.
There were more shouts from the shore, the boy’s voice crowing shrill as a cockerel, a quick succession of flashes and more bullets went wailing by. The pair in the boat dragged at their oars, teeth locked, terrified.
Wind and tide swept them up, darkness engulfed them. In a couple of minutes the shots ceased and they knew they were invisible. They lay on their oars, panting.
“What now?” said Ortho. “Go after the lugger? We can’t go back.”
“Lugger’s miles away, going like a stag,” said Anson. “Best chance it across the bay to Porthleven.”
“Porthleven?”