The fire blazed from end to end of the river, slowly approaching the ships of the British fleet. Yellow flames rose from an orange base, l*****g higher as they crept closer, with the reek of smoke sending the sentinels into racking coughs.
“That’s not fireships,” Cattanach said.
“They’ve set the river on fire,” Cumming stared. “I’ve never seen anything like it before.”
As the flames rose ever higher, the awed British had a better picture of what was happening.
“They’re fire rafts,” Chisholm said.
The French had built a hundred rafts, loaded them with timber and anything else that could burn, roped them together and floated them downriver.
“The Navy will tow them away like they did last time.” Chisholm spoke with confidence.
MacKim nodded. “I hope you’re right, James.”
Cumming shook
