his head on the schooner's bobstay.
There was a sudden bang, followed by a long-drawn-out scream. Bolitho saw and heard it all in a mere second. The flash which seemed to come from the sea itself, the response from the vessel above him, yells and startled movements before more explosions ripped across the water towards the scream.
He jumped to his feet. 'Ready, lads!'
He shut Sparke from his mind. The fool had allowed somebody to load a musket, and it had gone off, hitting one of his men. It was too late now. For any of them.
Bolitho threw up his arm and seized the trailing line as the grapnel thudded into the schooner's bowsprit and slewed the cutter drunkenly around the bows.
'At 'em, lads!'
Then he was struggling with feet and hands, the hanger dangling from his wrist as he fought his way up and around the flared hull.
The other end of the vessel was lit by exploding muskets, and as Bolitho's men clambered over the forecastle and cannoned into unfamiliar pieces of gear, more shots hammered into the deck around them or whined above the rocking cutter like maddened spirits.
He heard Quinn gasping and stumbling beside him, Stockdale's heavy frame striding just a bit ahead, the cutlass moving before him as if to sniff out the enemy.
Something flew out of the darkness and a man fell shrieking, a pike driven through his chest. More cracks, and two more of Bolitho s men dropped.
But they were nearer now. Bolitho gripped his hanger and yelled, 'Surrender in the King's name!'
It brought a chorus of curses and derisive shouts, as he knew it would. But it gave him just the few more seconds he needed to get to grips. He hacked out and knocked a sword from somebody's hand. As the man ran to retrieve it, Bolitho heard Stockdale's cutlass smash into his skull, heard the big man grunt as he wrenched it free.
Then they were chest to chest, blade to blade. Behind him Bolitho heard Balleine yelling and blaspheming, the sporadic bang of muskets as he managed to get off a few shots at the shrouds where sharpshooters were trying to find their targets.
A bearded face loomed through the others, and Bolitho felt his blade grate against the man's sword with a clang of steel as they parried, pushed each other clear to find the space to fight. Around them figures staggered and reeled like crazed drunkards, their cutlasses striking sparks, the voices distorted and wild with hate and fear, Bolitho ducked, slashed the man across the ribs, and as he lurched clear he brought the hanger down on his neck with such force he numbed his wrist.
But they were being pushed back towards the forecastle all the same. Somewhere, a hundred miles away, Bolitho heard a cannon shot, and through his dazed mind he guessed that it was another vessel nearby, trying to show that help was on its way.
His shoes slipped on blood, and a dying sailor, trodden and kicked by the fighting, hacking mass of men above him, tried to seize Bolitho's ankle.
Another man screamed and fell from aloft, dead from a musket ball before he hit the deck. But carried by the desperately fighting seamen he still seemed to cling to life, like a tipsy dancer.
Bolitho saw a pair of white legs against the bulwark and knew it was Quinn. He was being attacked by two men at once, and even as Bolitho slashed one of them across the shoulder and dragged him screaming to one side, Quinn gasped and dropped to his knees, his sword gone, and both hands pressed to his chest.
His attacker was so wild with the lust of battle he did not seem to see Bolitho. He stood above the lieutenant and drew back his arm for the kill. Bolitho caught him by the sleeve, swung him round, using the impetus of the man's sword-thrust to take him off balance. Then he drove the knuckle guard of his hanger into his face, the pain jarring his wrist again like a wound.
The man lurched upright, and seemed to be spitting out teeth as he bore down for another attack.
Then he stopped stock-still, his eyes white in the gloom like pebbles, as he slowly pirouetted around and then fell. Balleine pounced forward and tore his boarding axe from the man's back as he would from a chopping block.
There was a commotion alongside, and moments later the retreating boarders heard Sparks ’s penetrating voice as he shouted, 'To me, Trojans, to me!'
Attacked from both ends of the schooner, and with the obvious possibility of other boats nearby, the fight ended as swiftly as it had begun.
There were not even any curses thrown at the British seamen this time. Trojan's men were too wild and shocked with the hand-to-hand fighting which had left several of their own dead and badly wounded, to accept insults as well. The schooner's crew seemed to sense this, and allowed themselves to be disarmed, searched and then herded into two manageable groups.
Sparke, a pistol in either hand, strode amongst the corpses and whimpering wounded, and when he saw Bolitho snapped, 'Might have been worse.' He could not control his elation. 'Nice little craft. Very nice.' He saw Quinn and leaned over him. 'Is it bad?'
Balleine, who had torn open the lieutenant's shirt and was trying to stem the blood, said, 'Slit his chest like a peach, sir. But if we can get him to.,
But Sparke had already gone elsewhere, bellowing for Frowd, his master's mate, to attend to the business of getting under way at the first breath of a breeze.
Bolitho was on his knees, holding Quinn's hands away from the wound, as Balleine did his best with a makeshift bandage.
'Easy, James.' He saw Quinn's head lolling, his efforts to control his agony. His hands were like ice, and there was blood everywhere. 'You will be all right. I promise.'
Sparke was back again. 'Come, come, Mr Bolitho, there's a lot to do. And I'll wager we'll have company before too long.'
He dropped his voice suddenly, and Bolitho was confronted by a Sparke he had not seen before in the two years he had known him.
'I know how you feel about Quinn. Responsible. But you must not show it. Not now, In front of the people, d'you see? They're feeling the shock, the fight's going out of them. They'll be looking to us. So we'll save our regrets for later, eh?'
He changed back again. 'Now then. Cutters to be warped aft and secured. Check the armament, or lack of it, and see that it is loaded to repel attack, Canister, grape, anything you can lay hands on.' He looked for somebody in the foggy darkness. 'You! Archer! Train a swivel on the prisoners. One sign that they might try to retake the ship and you know what to do!'
Stockdale was wiping his cutlass on a piece of some luckless man's shirt.
He said, 'I'll watch over Mr Quinn, sir.' He rubbed the cutlass again and then thrust it through his belt. 'A good tot would suit him fine, I'm thinking.'
Bolitho nodded. 'Aye, see to it.'
He walked away, the sobs and groans from the darkened deck painting a better picture than any sight could do.
He saw Dunwoody, the miller's son, groping around an inert shape by the bulwark.
The seaman said brokenly, 'It's me mate, sir, Bill Tyler.'
Bolitho said, 'I know. I saw him fall.' He recalled Sparke's advice and added, 'Get that lantern down from aloft directly. We don't want to invite the moths, do we?'
Dunwoody stood up and wiped his face. 'No, sir. I suppose not.' He hurried away, but glanced back at his dead friend as if to tell himself it was not true.
Sparke was everywhere, and when he rejoined Bolitho by the wheel he said briskly, 'She's the Faithful. Owned by the Tracy brothers of Boston. Known privateers, and very efficient at their trade.'
Bolitho waited, feeling his wrists and hands trembling with strain.
Sparke added, 'I have searched the cabin. Quite a haul of information.' He was bubbling with pleasure. 'Captain Tracy was killed just now.' He gestured to the upturned white eyes of the man killed by Balleine's boarding axe. 'That's him. The other one, his brother, commands a fine brig apparently, the Revenge, taken from us last year. She was named Mischief then.'
