Black Joke was taking merciless punishment, perhaps already more than she could afford, but they were close now, very close, seconds only left to go.
He could hear the cheering of the clipper's gun crews, the terrified wailing of the slaves who were huddled down in pathetic little heaps upon Huron's decks, he could clearly hear the rumble of the sixteen-pounders run out against the straining tackles, and hear the shouted commands of the gun captains.
The girl at the rail still stood rigidly erect, staring white-faced across at him, and she had seen and recognized him now.
She tried to raise a hand to wave a greeting, but the iron slave cuff on her wrist hampered the movement. As Clinton stepped forward the better to see her, something tugged sharply at the sleeve of his jacket and behind him Ferris gasped.
Clinton looked down at his arm, the sleeve was torn and the white lining showed in the tear, it was only then he realized that it was a musket ball fired from Huron's crosstrees which might have struck him squarely had he not moved, and he turned quickly to Ferris.
The boy was pressing a wadded handkerchief to his chest, standing very upright. You are wounded, Mr. Ferris, said Clinton. 'You may go below. 'Thank you, sir, ' wheezed Ferris. 'But I'd just as soon not miss the kill. ' As he spoke, a droplet of blood formed in the corner of his mouth, and with a chilling little jolt, Clinton realized that the boy was probably mortally struck, blood in the mouth would almost certainly mean a lung hit. Carry on then, Mr. Ferris, he said formally, and turned away. He must not let the doubts assail him now, he must not question whether his decision to board Huron had been correct, or if his execution of the attack had been properly carried out, or if he was responsible for those dismembered corpses that littered Black joke's deck, or for the dying lad who still determinedly kept erect. He must not let his resolve weaken.
Instead he slitted his eyes against the lowering sun that outlined Huron's bare masts with golden haloes, and stared across at her with true hatred. It was then he realized suddenly that at last her bow cannons could no longer bear, the terrible battering of close-range grape shot was abating as they sailed into Huron's stern quadrant. Bring her up two points, he snapped, and the Black joke cut in sharply under Huron's stern . She loomed suddenly high above them and there was no more cannon fire from her while the clipper's tall hull shielded them from the gale. The sudden silence was ghostly, unnerving, as though the cannon fire had damaged his ears and he was rendered deaf.
Clinton shook off the sense of dreamlike unreality, and strode down the length of his deck. Up the jokers! ' he shouted, and his crew rose from where they had been crouching under the fragile bulwark. You've shown you can take it, boys, now let's show those damned Yankees we can hand it outA tiger for Tongs! ' yelled a voice, and suddenly they were all cheering, crowding the gunboat's side, so he had to cup his hands to his mouth to give the order. Helm a lee, let fly all! ' and Black fake spun up sharply under Huron's counter, spilling her wind, while the seamen in her rigging stripped the canvas off her.
The two ships came together with a rending crackling crash, the gnashing of steel plate against timber and the shattering of glass in Huron's stern lights.
A dozen of Black Joke's sailors hurled the three-pronged grappling hooks high over the clipper's gunwale with the lines snaking up after them, and then heaved them up tight and made them fast to the portside cleats, and a swarm of seamen cheering wildly went up Huron, s stern , like a troop of vervet monkeys pursued into the trees by a hunting leopard. Take command, Mr. Denham, ' Clinton shouted above the hubbub. Aye, aye, sir, Denham's lips moved and he saluted as Clinton thrust his cutlass back into his scabbard and headed the next rush of his men, those who had been freed by the heaving-to of her sails.
The two hulls were working against each other as viciously as millstones, grinding and bumping, the gap opening and closing as the wind and the seas tore at them.
At Huron's rail a dozen of her crew were hacking at the grappling lines with axes, the clunking of the blades into her timber blended with the popping of pistols and muskets as their mates blazed down on the swarm of seamen climbing up from the gunboat's deck.
one of Black joke's sailors climbed swiftly hand over hand, pushing off with his feet from the clipper's raked stern like a mountaineer, and he had almost reached the rail when an American sailor appeared above him, an axe held high and then sent thudding down into the woodwork, severing the line at a single blow.
The sailor dropped like a windblown fruit from the bough into the gap between the hulls. He floundered for an instant in the surging water and then the two ships came together again, with the shriek of rending timbers, chewing the man like a pair of monstrous jaws. More lines, Clinton howled, and another grappling hook flew over his head, thrown by a stout British arm, and the line whipped around Clinton's shoulders.
He seized it, heaved once upon it to set the hook and then swung across the gap and his boots thudded on Huron's stern . He had seen his seaman drop on the severed line, so he climbed with the strength and agility of terror and desperation, and only as he swung one leg over Huron's rail did the battle rage seize him, the world changed colour before him, seen through a reddish haze of hatred and fury, hatred for the slave stink that rose to offend his soul and fury for the death and punishment that his ship and his seamen had suffered.
His cutlass sprang from its scabbard with metallic rasp, and there was a man rushing down upon him, and the man naked to the waist with a bulging hairy belly and thick heavily muscled arms. He was brandishing a double bladed axe above his head, and Clinton uncoiled his lanky frame as though it were the 'S' in an Adder's body, straightening as it strikes. He drove the point of the cutlass through the axe man's furry silvered beard and the axe flew from his raised hands and went sliding away across the deck.
Clinton stood over the man he had killed, placed his foot on his chest and yanked the cutlass blade out of his throat. A bright scarlet carotid fountain followed the blade out, splattering Clinton's boot.
Half a dozen of his seamen had reached Huron's deck ahead of Clinton, and without a word of command spoken, they bunched to guard the grappling lines over the stern , holding off Huron's axe men with cutlass and point-blank pistol fire. Behind them, Black joke's men came swarming aboard, unopposed, surging forward, their cheers rising into a triumphant chorus. At 'em the jokers! 'All together, boys, howled Clinton, the madness had taken complete hold of him now. There was no fear, no doubts, not even conscious thought. The madness was infectious, and his men howled with him, hunting as a pack like the wolf or the wild dog they swept across Huron's deck to meet the wave of her own seamen rushing back from Huron's bows.
The two waves of running, screaming men met just below the break of the poop, were transformed into a struggling mass of closely locked humanity, and their cries and curses mingled with the animal howl of terrified slaves. The pistols and muskets had all been discharged and there was no chance to reload. It was steel against steel now.
Black joke's crew were battle-hardened, they had fought together fifty times in the past year, they had stormed glacis and barracoon and withstood fire and steel. They were blooded fighting men and proud of it.
