Gibbering and cursing, M. de Rivarol stood there and watched this action, so presumptuously undertaken by Blood on his own responsibility.  The officers of the Victorieuse crowded round him, but it was not until M. de Cussy came to join the group that he opened the sluices of his rage.  And M. de Cussy himself invited the deluge that now caught him.  He had come up rubbing his hands and taking a proper satisfaction in the energy of the men whom he had enlisted.

“Aha, M. de Rivarol!” he laughed.  “He understands his business, eh, this Captain Blood.  He’ll plant the Lilies of France on that fort before breakfast.”

The Baron swung upon him snarling.  “He understands his business, eh?  His business, let me tell you, M. de Cussy, is to obey my orders, and I have not ordered this.  Par la Mordieu!  When this is over I’ll deal with him for his damned insubordination.”

“Surely, M. le Baron, he will have justified it if he succeeds.”

“Justified it!  Ah, parbleu!  Can a soldier ever justify acting without orders?” He raved on furiously, his officers supporting him out of their detestation of Captain Blood.

Meanwhile the fight went merrily on.  The fort was suffering badly.  Yet for all their manoeuvring the buccaneers were not escaping punishment.  The starboard gunwale of the Atropos had been hammered into splinters, and a shot had caught her astern in the coach.  The Elizabeth was badly battered about the forecastle, and the Arabella’s maintop had been shot away, whilst’ towards the end of that engagement the Lachesis came reeling out of the fight with a shattered rudder, steering herself by sweeps.

The absurd Baron’s fierce eyes positively gleamed with satisfaction.

“I pray Heaven they may sink all his infernal ships!” he cried in his frenzy.

But Heaven didn’t hear him.  Scarcely had he spoken than there was a terrific explosion, and half the fort went up in fragments.  A lucky shot from the buccaneers had found the powder magazine.

It may have been a couple of hours later, when Captain Blood, as spruce and cool as if he had just come from a levee, stepped upon the quarter-deck of the Victoriense, to confront M. de Rivarol, still in bedgown and nightcap.

“I have to report, M. le Baron, that we are in possession of the fort on Boca Chica.  The standard of France is flying from what remains of its tower, and the way into the outer harbour is open to your fleet.”

M. de Rivarol was compelled to swallow his fury, though it choked him.  The jubilation among his officers had been such that he could not continue as he had begun.  Yet his eyes were malevolent, his face pale with anger.

“You are fortunate, M. Blood, that you succeeded,” he said.  “It would have gone very ill with you had you failed.  Another time be so good as to await my orders, lest you should afterwards lack the justification which your good fortune has procured you this morning.”