Bolitho felt the ship shudder, the urgent clatter of blocks and rigging as Achates responded to the pressure.
Keen stared at him and said, 'What was the damn fool trying to do anyway? What chance will – ' But the rest of his words were lost in the jarring roar of gunfire.
Along the other ship's side the heavy muzzles were jerking back into their ports and suddenly the air above Achates' decks was filled with deadly iron. Several holes appeared in the tightly braced sails, and Bolitho felt the familiar jerk through his shoes as other balls struck hard into the hull.
He watched as Knocker's helmsmen took control and very slowly at first, and then more confidently, the ship pointed her bowsprit towards the land, the wind pushing her over with an invisible hand. The other ship was following suit to take the maximum advantage of the wind.
Had Bolitho ordered Keen to beat up the Mona Passage to take advantage of this same wind on the other side of the islands, it would have taken days to reach San Felipe. The ship which was now almost bows on as she clawed away from the shallows would have beaten them with time to spare. The little Electra would have fought to the finish, but nothing could have stopped the inevitable.
Keen held out his arm. 'Easy, Mr Knocker! Easy now!'
Achates continued to turn, her sails bulging hard on the opposite tack as the seamen on braces and halliards threw their weight against the swing of the yards.
The master grunted over his shoulder and the helmsmen slowed the great spinning spokes of the wheel.
'Steady, sir! West by north!'
Bolitho licked his lips. The enemy's ports were at too extreme an angle to fire. She had made her challenge prematurely. But she was a well-handled ship and was already responding to the wind as she came about.
'Starboard battery!' Keen's sword came out of its scabbard with a hiss. 'On the uproll!'
Down the Achates' side and on the deck below the gun captains would be peering through their ports, trigger lines taut, as they watched their target swim into view.
The bright blade flashed down in the sunlight, and with a drawn-out roll of thunder the eighteen- and twenty- four-pounders of both decks hurled themselves inboard on their tackles.
The smoke billowed towards the bows and Bolitho watched as the enemy's rigging and canvas danced wildly under the onslaught. Tall waterspouts lined the enemy's bilge as other balls slammed hard down alongside, but she returned the fire even as she completed her manoeuvre.
Bolitho felt the deck shake and heard a terrible shriek from one of the hatchways.
Every gun crew was working like madmen, sponges, charges and rammers moving like parts of the men themselves. Finally those shining black balls from the shot-garlands, rammed home with a last tap for good measure. Each crew was racing its neighbour, and as every captain held up his hand Keen shouted hoarsely, 'Broadside! Fire!'
This time there was no mistake, and at a range of barely two cables it was possible to see Achates' weight of iron smashing into the other ship's hull, splintering a gangway and bringing down a tangled heap of rigging from the mizzen.
But the enemy's heavier thirty-two-pounders were already reloaded and poking through their ports like angry snouts. Again the stabbing line of orange tongues, the terrible commotion and crash between decks as many of the balls found their mark.
Bolitho saw a man hurled from his gun, his face a mask of blood. He also saw Midshipman Evans standing stiff and unmoving as he stared at the other ship. If he was afraid of the din of battle he did not show it, but in his pale features Bolitho saw the enemy through the boy's own eyes. He was remembering her as he had last seen her, when his ship had been smashed and set ablaze, when Duncan had died beside him.
Bolitho called, 'Walk about, Mr Evans!' He saw the boy look at him without understanding and added, 'You are small but still a prime target.'
Evans gave what might have been a smile and then went to aid the fallen seaman.
The guns rolled inboard again on their tackles, the air cringed to their explosions and men gasped in the dense smoke and charred fragments which surrounded them.
Hallowes, the fourth lieutenant, strode behind the forward division of guns, his hanger across his shoulder as he peered at his crews.
'Stop your vents!'
'Sponge out!'
Several men ducked as hammocks burst from the nettings and metal screamed against one of the guns on the opposite side. Two men fell, another limped away and crouched below the gangway like a frightened animal.
Load!'
Hallowes pointed at the crouching seaman and shouted, 'Back to your station, now! 'Run out!'
Again the squeaking rumble of trucks as gun by gun the ship presented her full broadside to the enemy. The latter had changed tack slightly and was converging on Achates, her guns firing again and again.
Bolitho watched Keen moving from one side of the quarterdeck to the other. More shots hammered the side, and there was a great chorus from the lower gun-deck and Bolitho knew that a twenty-four-pounder had been upended or, worse still, had broken away from its tackles.
Both ships were evenly matched. Achates mounted more guns, but the enemy's heavier broadside was taking a terrible toll. One lucky shot was all it would take. He stared at Keen's shoulders, as if to will him to act. Close the range, Val. Get to grips before he dismasts you.
More cries and screams echoed through the crash and recoil of cannon, and a marine staggered away from the poop nettings, his hands to his face, his chest punctured by flying wood splinters.
'Jesus, what a mess!' Tyrrell limped between the trailing tackles and pieces of torn rigging which had found their way through the nets overhead.
Bolitho said, 'Get below. You're a civilian.'
Tyrrell winced as a ball shattered on the breech of a quarterdeck nine-pounder and splinters cracked around them and flung two more seamen into a puddle of their own blood.
Keen turned round and glared at Tyrrell. 'What the hell are you doing here?'
Tyrrell showed his teeth. 'Get that bugger alongside, Captain, your people can't keep up this pace!'
Keen looked at Bolitho. 'They'll know it's your flagship, sir!'
So that was it. Bolitho pulled out his old sword. 'Put the helm over. We'll give them a fight,' he raised his voice, 'eh, lads}'
He turned away as they cheered him. Half-naked, blackened by powder smoke, their sweat cutting channels through the grime, they were hardly the romantic heroes portrayed in the fine paintings he had seen in London.
He felt the madness welling up inside him. 'Lively there!'
The yards swung slightly as the helm went over, and within minutes the range had fallen to a cable, then half as much; then as the other ship's sails rose high above the nettings and muskets joined in the deafening onslaught, it was down to fifty yards and still closing.
The other captain had no choice. He could not turn and run. The land which had hidden him was now a deadly enemy, with breakers in plenty to show the lie of the reefs. If he tried to come about he would be all aback for those vital moments when Keen's gun crews would rake him from end to end.
There was a loud, splintering crack and voices yelled, 'Heads below there!' Part of the mizzen cross-jack yard ploughed through the nets, rebounded and crashed down in a welter of rigging, blocks and trailing canvas.
Bolitho felt a blow on the shoulder like an iron fist, then he was face down on the deck. His first thought was near to terror. Another wound. Fatal. Then he cursed into the smoke which had almost blinded him when his presence would be most missed.
He felt Adam holding his arm, his grimy face set in a grim stare, then Allday dragging something away from his back and easing him over on to his knees, then to his feet. A huge block, cut down by a shot through the mizzen rigging but swinging on its cordage like a bludgeon, had laid him low. He was not even cut, and he managed to force a grin as someone gave him his hat and another yelled, 'You'll show them buggers, sir!'
Bolitho faced the enemy, his eyes smarting, his shoulder throbbing from the blow. If it had struck his skull he would be dead at this very instant.
Musket shots punched into and through the packed hammocks, and wooden splinters flew from the quarterdeck
