`Man the larboard battery.' Hugh sounded completely absorbed. `Open the ports.'
Bolitho watched the port lids being hauled open toreveal the glistening mane of water alongside. Avenger was heeling so far over that spray came leaping inboard over the six-pounders and deadly looking swivels.
Normally Bolitho would have felt like the rest of the men around him. Tense, committed, slightly wild at the prospect of a fight. But he could not lose himself this time, and kept thinking of the waggons, the outnumbered escort, the sudden horror of an ambush.
A Tragedy
A light spurted in the darkness, and for an instant he thought some careless seaman had dropped a lantern on the other vessel. Then he heard a distant crack, like a man breaking a nut in his palms, and knew it was a pistol shot. A warning, a signal. Now it did not matter which.
`Put up your helm, Mr Gloag!' Hugh's voice, loud now that caution was pointless, made the men at the tiller start. `Stand by on deck!'
There were more flashes, doing more to reveal the other vessel's size and sail plan than to harm the crouching seamen.
The distance was rapidly falling away, the big sails sweeping the cutter downwind like a bird of prey, and then they saw the schooner rising through the darkness, her canvas in confusion as she tried to change tack and beat clear.
Bolitho watched his brother as he stood by the weather rail, one foot on a bollard, as if he was watching a race.
`As you bear, Mr Truscott! On the uproll!'
A further pause, and across the choppy water Bolitho heard muffled shouts, a vague rasp of metal.
Then, `Fire!'
At a range of less than seventy yards the larboard battery hurled themselves inboard on their tackles, their long orange tongues as blinding as their ex
plosions were deafening. Unlike the heavy artillery
of a ship of the line, or even a frigate, Avenger's little
six-pounders had voices which scraped the insides of
the brain.
Bolitho pictured the effect of the sweeping hail of grape and close-packed canister as it cut into the other vessel's deck. He heard a spar fall, saw splashes alongside the darkened schooner as rigging and perhaps men dropped from the masts like dead fruit.
`Sponge out! Load!'
Hugh Bolitho had drawn his sword, and in the misty starlight it shone in his hand like a piece of thin ice. The same one he had used to settle a matter of honour. Probably many others too, Bolitho thought despairingly.
`Fire!'
Even as the small broadside crashed out again, shaking the hull like a giant fist, a few cracks and flashes showed that the smugglers were not ready to surrender.
Hugh Bolitho yelled, `Stand by to board!' He did not even look round as a man fell kicking on the deck with a musket ball in his neck.
How many times they must have drilled and practised this, Bolitho thought as he dragged out his hanger. The gun crews left their smoking charges and seized up cutlasses and pikes, axes and dirks, while the remainder of the hands threw themselves on sheets and halliards. At the moment of collision between the two hulls, Avenger's sails seemed to vanish like magic, so that with the way off her heavy, downwind plunge she came alongside the other vessel with one heart-stopping lurch.
But stripping off her sails had lessened the chance of dismasting her, likewise she did not rebound away from her adversary, so that as grapnels soared through the darkness and more shots and cries echoed between the hulls, the first boarders swarmed across the bulwark.
Pyke yelled, `Back, lads!'
Even that was like part of a rehearsed dance. As
the cheering boarders threw themselves inboard
again, two swivels exploded from the forecastle,
scything through a crowd of screaming figures who
seconds earlier had been rushing to repel the attack.
Hugh Bolitho pointed his sword. `Now! At 'em,
lads!'
– Then he was up and over, slashing at a man as
he did so, and catching one of his own as he all but fell between the two grinding hulls.
Bolitho ran to the forecastle, waving his hanger to the last party of boarders.
Yelling and cheering like demons they clambered over the gap. One man fell beside Bolitho without a sound, another threw his hand to his face and screamed, the sound ending with a sharp gasp as a boarding pike came out of the darkness and impaled him.
Shoulder to shoulder Bolitho's men advanced along the schooner's deck, while from the cutter alongside the remaining seamen yelled advice and warnings, accompanied by pistol-fire and a few well aimed missiles.
Bolitho felt his shoes slithering on the remains left by the swivels' murderous onslaught. He shut his mind to all else but the faces which loomed and faded before him, the jarring ache of steel as he kept up his guard and probed for weakness in an opponent's defence.
Across the heads and shoulders of the yelling, cursing men he saw his brother's white lapels, heard
his voice as he urged his party forward, separating and dividing the defenders into smaller and smaller groups.
Someone yelled, `That's for Jackie Trillo, you bugger!' A cutlass swung like 'a scythe, almost cutting a man's head from his shoulders.
`Strike! Throw down your arms!'
But a few more were to fall before the cutlasses and pikes clattered on the planking amongst the corpses and groaning wounded.
Then Bolitho saw his brother point his sword at a man by the untended wheel.
`Have your people anchor. If you desist or try to scuttle, I will have you seized up and flogged.' He sheathed his sword. `Then hanged.'
Bolitho hurried to his side. `The whole of Cornwall will have heard this!'
Hugh did not seem to be listening. `Not Frenchies as I suspected. They sound like Colonists.' He turned abruptly and nodded. `Yes, I agree. We will leave the prize anchored here, under guard. Have two swivels hoisted across and trained on the prisoners. Then put a petty officer in charge. He'll know how to deal with them. He'd rather die than face me after letting them escape!'
Bolitho followed him, his mind awhirl as he watched his brother's progress. Passing orders, answering questions, his hands moving to emphasize a point or to indicate what he wanted done.
Pyke shouted, `Anchor's down, sir!'
`Good.' Hugh Bolitho strode to the side. `The rest of you, come with me. Mr Gloag! Cast off and get the ship under way, if you please!'
Blocks squeaked, and like rearing spectres the sails rose above the listing, pock-marked schooner.
Reluctantly at first, and then with gathering speed, the Avenger jerked and bumped her way free of the other vessel's side, the sails filling immediately to carry her clear.
`Where to, sir?' Gloag was peering at the sails. `It's a mite more dangerous 'ere.'
`Put a good leadsman in the chains, please. Sounding all the way. We'll anchor in four fathoms
and sway out the boats.' He looked at his brother.
`We'll head inland in two groups and cut the road.'
`Aye, aye, sir.'
Surprisingly, Hugh clapped him on the arm.
`Cheer up, man! A fine prize, full of smuggled booty, I shouldn't wonder, and no more than a few men killed! We can only take one step at a time!'
As the cutter groped her way closer and closer to
