Midshipman Hornblower,
of His Britannic Majesty’s frigate,
Indefatigable. Good-day.
This vessel is now a prize of war,
Captain, under my command.
A midshipman?
You have no officer more senior?
Sir, to the British Navy, a schooner
such as
this warrants no more than
a midshipman’s command.
But you are no more than a boy!
You will find, sir, that even a boy
in His Majesty’s Navy
is capable of an easy two-day
run to England.
Put that down, Styles.
At once, do you hear?
And take these men for’ard.
Throw them into the fos’cle.
Come along, you Frenchie.
This way. Come on.
-Right, move!
-I am an officer. I do not go
with the men.
-Sir?
-He goes with the rest.
You, come on!
The prisoners are secure, sir.
Matthews, you’ve the longest service,
I believe.
-Aye sir, 18 years.
-Very well. I’ll rate you
petty officer.
Aye, aye, sir.
Thank-you, sir.
Get to work and clear that raffle
away for-ard
so we can sling the topsail yard in.
-Aye, aye, sir.
-Haul in the fos’cle sheets.
-Aye, aye, sir. Styles, Oldroyd.
-All right, all right!
I’ll be busy aft.
And get that staysail in before
it flogs itself to pieces.
Well, what are you waiting for?
Those were my orders.
Beg ‘pardon sir, but if we’re to
sling that yard again,
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