or stood motionless like quill pens.
Axes flashed in the smoky sunlight, and more wreckage was hacked free and levered over the side with handspikes.
All the relentless gun and sail drill was showing its worth. When a man fell wounded, or was dragged away to await the surgeon's mates, another was instantly in his place from one of the opposite guns.
Now the marines could join in with their muskets, Sergeant Saxton counting out the time and tapping the deck with his boot as the ramrods rose and fell like one, and then as the muskets rose once more to the nettings he would shout, 'Take aim! Every shot a Don!' The crackle of musketry from the fighting tops showed that more marines were up there trying to mark down the enemy's officers.
Bolitho paced this way and that, his shoe catching a jagged splinter as the other ship's marksmen tried to hit him.
Closer, closer still, and the guns were thundering at almost point-blank range, their crews blinded and deafened as their feet and hands fought to keep control over their massive weapons.
'Cease firing!'
Quantock had to repeat the order before the last gun on the lower deck fell silent. As the enemy did likewise the other sounds broke through the stunned stillness. Men crying out in pain, voices calling for help, orders shouting for men to clear away the wreckage, to release the trapped wounded.
'Hard over!'
As the wheel went down Achates' jib-boom swept through the other ship's foremast shrouds like a battering ram. There was a terrible splintering sound and both hulls rocked together in a deadly embrace.
Men were running forward, leaving the guns to snatch up cutlasses and boarding pikes, axes and anything they favoured for hand-to-hand fighting.
Lieutenant Hallowes, his hat knocked awry, his hanger waving above his head, yelled, 'At 'em, lads!'
With a wild cheer the seamen raced to the point of collision to hack and slash their way across a glistening sliver of water.
Some were impaled by pikes as they clung to the boarding nets, others were shot down by marksmen even before they had left their own ship. But others were through, and as more followed Bolitho saw the fourth lieutenant dashing on to the enemy's larboard gangway, hacking down a shrieking figure with his hanger and slashing aside another before he was overtaken by his whooping, battle-crazed men, their cutlasses already reddened from the first challenge on the forecastle.
The marines were bustling to the side, their faces grim beneath their hats as they fired into the men along the enemy's quarterdeck, reloaded with less precision than usual and fired again.
Captain Dewar drew his sword. 'Forward, Marines!'
The scarlet coats and white cross-belts vanished into the smoke, the boots slipping on blood, the bayonets thrusting away any resistance as they joined the others on the enemy's deck.
Keen had gone forward to encourage his men, and Bolitho heard the seamen cheering, 'Huzza, huzza!' and even though some were falling to the enemy's fire others were already fighting their way on to the quarterdeck.
There was a great cry from Achates' boatswain. 'Fire! She's afire!'
Bolitho said, 'I can see the smoke!'
Tyrrell gripped the rail as he stared at the enemy who were suddenly throwing away their weapons and screaming for quarter as the wild-eyed sailors tore among them.
Bolitho called, 'Mr Hawtayne! Have your bugler sound the retreat! Stand by to cast off!'
A sullen explosion shook both ships and more black smoke gushed from the forecastle. If the ship burst into flames Achates would suffer the same fate.
Keen came back mopping his face, his eyes seeking out his lieutenants and master's mates as the truth made itself felt in another deep explosion.
Dragging their wounded, and fighting off any of the enemy who tried to follow, Achates' boarding party returned to their own ship.
With her wheel either shot away or abandoned, the enemy two-decker began to drift down-wind as soon as the last line was hacked free. Corpses bobbed in the sea between them, and others hung from the rigging where friend and foe alike had been shot down.
'Get the fore-course on her! Reset the flying jib! Hands aloft and loose t'gan's'ls!' Quantock's harsh voice echoed through the confusion like a steadying force.
A great tongue of flame licked through the enemy's gun-deck and started an explosion among some broken charges. Men were running through the corpses and destruction and nobody appeared to be trying to save them or their ship.
As the wheel went over Achates turned slowly aside from her stricken enemy, laying bare the damage, the bloody streaks on the planking, the discarded weapons, and the guns which still smoked as if under their own command.
Another explosion boomed across the water and fragments of burning wood and rigging splashed dangerously close to Achates as she continued to gather way, her punctured and smoke-grimed sails filling to the wind.
More explosions, and this time a gout of fire and sparks spouted from the midships section and began to spread to masts and canvas, until everything was burning fiercely. Rigging and canvas became ashes in seconds, men, some on fire, were leaping into the sea, others splashed about looking for something to keep them afloat as the ship continued to blaze above them.
Bolitho watched the other ship die, but in spite of Sparrowhawk could find little satisfaction. His men were cheering, embracing each other. They had lived through it. One more time, and for some it had been the first battle.
The Spanish frigate, which had remained a silent spectator to the fight, was moving cautiously towards the burning ship. She was going to stand between Achates and her victim, an act which made her just as guilty. Dead men tell no tales.
There was a vivid flash and a boom which stopped all the cheers like an iron door.
The other ship was turning on to her side, her gun-ports alight like a line of angry red eyes.
She was breaking up, her heavy artillery tearing loose to add to the horror and agony of those still trapped below.
Bolitho saw Midshipman Evans watching the other ship's last moment. But there was no joy on his face, just tears, and Bolitho knew why.
He was not seeing the rightful destruction of a callous enemy. It was his Sparrowhawk he was watching.
Bolitho said quietly, 'Attend to Mr Evans, Adam. His storm is about to break.'
Keen joined him and touched his hat.
Bolitho said, 'What is the butcher's bill for all this?'
They both turned as the air shook to a final explosion, and like a gutted whale the enemy rolled on to her side and dipped beneath the surface.
Keen replied quietly, 'That might so easily have been us, sir.'
Bolitho handed his sword to Allday. 'I get your point, Val. Then our bill is not yet fully paid?'
12. The Letter
Napier, Electro's youthful commander, stood exactly in the centre of Bolitho's day cabin while he completed his report.
Contrary to his orders, Napier had brought his brig to escort the battered two-decker for the last two miles of her passage into San Felipe.
Even as he had been piped aboard from his gig, Napier had seemed unable to prevent his eyes from probing around him. The sewn-up corpses awaiting burial, the tired, dirty sailors who barely glanced up from their countless tasks of splicing, stitching and hauling fresh rigging to the topmen on the yards.
Bolitho thought of those last moments. He still did not know the enemy ship's name. But soon he would, just as
