peered at his little party. Five dead, one obviously wounded. It was not enough.
Allday shouted hoarsely, 'We can manhandle one of the guns to the hold and put a ball through her bottom! If we can hold 'em on the poop while-'
Bolitho shook his head, pointing at the slaves. 'They are held by more than one chain. They would go down with the ship.'
He could feel the fight dying in his surviving men, like fire under heavy rain. Most of them were staring aft, each unwilling to be the first to challenge this new attack.
They did not have long to wait. The poop doors burst open and a group of men charged along the littered deck, their voices yelling wildly in what seemed like a dozen different languages.
Bolitho balanced himself on the balls of his feet, the sword angled across his body.
'Cut the cable! We'll let her drift ashore in the shallows!'
A ball shrieked above his head, and he turned to see one of his men sprawled headlong, blood gushing from his throat. He had been struck by a marksman somewhere in the shrouds.
Allday yelled, 'Stand fast, you bastards!'
But it was useless, the remaining seamen were clambering forward again, dropping their weapons in their frantic haste to get away.
Only Keen remained between him and the beakhead, his arms at his sides, his young body swaying with exhaustion.
Allday said, 'Come on, Captain! It's no use!' He fired a pistol into the advancing shadows, and grunted with satisfaction as a man screamed in agony.
The next seconds were too blurred to understand. One moment Bolitho was astride the bowsprit, and the next he was swimming towards the black wall of trees. He could not remember diving or regaining the surface, although his lungs were raw from shouting, from keeping alive.
Feathers of spray spurted nearby, and he heard feet stampeding along the brigantine's deck as more men climbed from boats or swam out from the shore. Shots whimpered above his head, and there was one short cry as a seaman was hit and disappeared beneath the surface.
'Keep together!'
It was all he could do to speak, and the foul-tasting water was slopping again and again into his mouth.
He saw a white figure splashing down the beach, and when he groped for his sword he stumbled headlong, his feet stubbing against sand and stone beneath him.
But it was Soames, his chest heaving from exertion, his hair wild as he pulled Bolitho to dry land.
Bolitho gasped at the air. They had failed. They had lost several good men. For nothing.
Allday was hauling Keen from the water, and two more figures lay on the sand like corpses, only their fierce breathing telling otherwise. There were no others.
A gun banged out from the brigantine, but the ball went wide, splintering through the trees to a chorus of shrieks from birds and slaves alike.
Soames said harshly, 'I could only capture one boat, sir.. The slaver had a large party ashore.' He sounded angry. Despairing. 'When they fired at that damn Spaniard my lads started to attack. It was too soon. I'm sorry, sir.'
'Not your fault.' Bolitho walked heavily along the water's edge, searching for one more swimmer. 'How many did you lose?'
Soames replied indifferently, 'Seven or eight.' He gestured to several dark shapes along the beach. 'But we took a dozen of the others!' He added with sudden fury, 'We could have taken that damn ship! I know we could!'
'Yes.' Bolitho gave up his search. 'Muster our people and lead me to the boat. We must pick up Mr. Fowlar and his party while it's dark. The slaver will be ready for us by dawn, I'm thinking.'
It was not much of a boat, and leaked badly from a couple of stray musket balls.
One by one the weary seamen clambered into it, hardly looking at each other, or even caring where they were. If they were called on to fight now they would fail completely.
Bolitho watched them anxiously. Vaguely he recalled Herrick's words all those weeks back. Different in peacetime. Perhaps they were.
The wounded men were sobbing quietly, and he pushed Keen towards them. 'See to them.' He saw the youth draw back, knew that he, too, was close to breaking. He reached out and squeezed his shoulder. 'Hold on, Mr. Keen.'
To Soames he said quietly, 'Mr. Fowlar's party can take the oars. They'll be in better shape.'
He turned as a new sound intruded from the trees. Like one huge beast stamping its feet, while a combined chorus of yells echoed and re-echoed around the inlet.
Allday muttered, 'What in the name of God is that?'
'The slaves at the camp.' Soames was standing beside Bolitho as the boat edged away from the land. 'They know something we don't.'
Bolitho swayed as the overloaded craft rocked dangerously in the current. The slaves must realise that, despite the brigantine's presence, and the power of her guns, they would not now be taken as captives to the other side of the world. Not this time anyway. He thought of the native craft Herrick had sighted. They might be here already.
He snapped, 'Easy there! I can see Mr. Fowlar!'
The master's mate peered into the boat with obvious dismay. 'I'll never get my party in, too, sir!' Soames jerked his thumb towards the trees. 'You will if you wish to stay alive!'
Allday took the tiller and checked each man as he climbed into the boat. Somehow they all got in, barely leaving the oarsmen room to pull, and with the hull so low in the water
there was hardly six inches of freeboard. 'Shove off!'
He winced as a gun banged out, the long orange flame of fire darting from the vessel's side like a vicious tongue. The ball hissed astern of the boat and pounded into the sand.
Bolitho called, 'Easy now! Watch the stroke, lads!'
Too many splashes and the gunners would have an aiming mark.
Keen whispered, 'One of them has just died, sir.' He added hoarsely, 'Hodges.'
'Heave him over the side. Watch the trim, lads. Keep her steady.'
Poor Hodges. He would not walk in the marshes again. Never feel the North Sea on his face, or see the ducks in flight. He shook himself angrily. What was the matter with him?
The corpse drifted clear, and another man shifted along the thwart.
Soames observed, 'They've ceased firing. Probably licking their wounds, like us.'
'Most likely.'
Bolitho felt the bitterness rising again. The slaver had lost several men, but had still enough captives to make his visit profitable whether he retrieved the rest from the camp or not. Whereas… He tried not to face the fact that they had failed.
His men had fallen back, probably because they had lost whatever faith they had held in him.
Nervion's attacker was as much a mystery as before. A slaver's crew was usually made up from the sweepings of many ports and many tongues. Perhaps Davy had been right after all, and he should never have attempted to capture the brigantine.
His head was aching to match the bruise on his thigh. He was barely able to think any more.
Fowlar said, 'Mr. Mudge has explained it to me, sir. The ship will have to stand well out tomorrow because of the shoals hereabouts. The slaver's master doubtless knows a better passage, but…' He left the rest unsaid.
'Very well.' Bolitho saw an overhanging clump of trees reaching out across the water like a partly demolished bridge. 'We will make fast here. Rest the men, and share out the last of our water and rations.'
Nobody replied, and some of them appeared to be sleeping where they sat or crouched like so many bundles.
He tried not to think about the brigantine. But for his action she would be in ignorance of Undine's presence. It was obvious they had not seen her, nor had they understood who had attacked and tried to capture their ship. After all, it was not unknown for one slaver to prey upon another for extra profit.
But now, because of his persistence, her master would recognise Undine as soon as he stood out to sea. Undine would be unable to venture too close inshore, and a long chase would prove just as fruitless. So, if he had
