above and then the planking within a yard of where he had been standing.
It was made worse by the complete silence. He saw Hallowes staggering through the dust and pausing to stare up at the seemingly endless length of mast and broken shrouds which poked through the hole like a battering- ram.
Hallowes saw him and yelled something, his face set in a crazy grin as he waved his blade at Crocker's handiwork.
Adam dragged himself to his feet and leaned on the midshipman's shoulder. His hearing was returning and he realized that the din, if possible, was worse than before.
Hallowes shouted, 'That'll give them something to ponder about!'
Now that he had completely given up the idea of staying alive he seemed beyond fear.
Evans thrust the fifth lieutenant's hanger into Adam's hand and they stared at each other like confused strangers.
Like his hearing, his memory came back with brutal urgency.
He heard himself say sharply, 'Come on then, let's be about it!'
Even that reminded him of his uncle so that he knew instantly what he must do.
Tyrrell yelled, 'Can't hold 'em back any longer!'
He brought his belaying-pin down on the head of a man trying to wriggle over the torn hammock-nettings and struck out at another with his cutlass.
Bolitho did not waste his breath to reply. His lungs were on fire and his sword-arm felt like lead as he drove off another boarder and saw him fall on to the mizzen-chains.
It was hopeless. Had been from the beginning. The whole of the upper gun-deck seemed full of the enemy, while Achates' men rallied again on poop and quarterdeck, their eyes blazing, their chests heaving from their efforts.
He saw Allday raise his cutlass as a French seaman clambered up through the quarterdeck rail, the terror on the man's face giving way to triumph as he realized that for some reason the English coxswain was unable to move.
Bolitho jumped over a wounded marine and drove his blade blindly beneath the rail. He felt the point jar into the man's shoulder-blade and then slide easily into his body before he fell screaming out of sight.
Bolitho thrust his arm around Allday and dragged him away from the rail.
'Easy, man!' He waited for Midshipman Ferrier to run to his aid as he added, 'You've done enough!'
Allday twisted his head to stare at him, his eyes blurred and wretched.
'It's my right to…
A ball ripped through Bolitho's coat and he vaguely saw Langtry, the master-at-arms, cut down the marksman with a boarding axe.
They were all dying. And for what?
A new explosion made both ships roll and groan together, and for an instant Bolitho imagined that a magazine had caught fire, that both ships would be joined in one terrible pyre.
Swords and cutlasses hovered in mid air, marines paused in their desperate efforts to reload their muskets, as like a towering forest giant the Frenchman's mainmast began to topple. It seemed to take an eternity, so that even some of the wounded tried to prop themselves up to watch, or called to their friends to discover what was happening.
Bolitho let his arm fall to his side, the pain tearing at his muscles as if they were exposed.
Knocker yelled hoarsely, 'There it goes, by Jesus!'
Slowly, and then with greater haste, the mast began to drop. Topmast and topgallant, spars and loosely brailed canvas tore apart as shrouds and stays snapped like threads, unable to hold the tremendous weight or restrain its fall. The fighting-top, complete with swivel-guns, barricades and men, split in halves, hurling its occupants to the deck below, or carrying them down with the topmast as it crashed through timber, rigging and guns into the hull beneath.
Even in Achates Bolitho could feel the weight and power of the fallen mast, the way the deck beneath his feet tilted steeply to the new pressure.
A trumpet blared through the rising smoke and some of the boarders retreated into a larger group near the forecastle.
It was the usual sailor's instinct to save his own ship no matter what.
Bolitho cleared his raw throat and shouted, 'To me, Achates!’
It was their only chance, if a precious frail one.
But from forward came a sharp command and then a sparkling line of musket-fire. Bolitho stared, unable to believe it. It was like the moment at San Felipe when Dewar had chosen his moment on the track to the fortress. The neat lines of scarlet, the muskets ready and waiting. But now Dewar lay dead, his face shot away, his body trampled on a dozen times as they had fought back and forth across him. And the marines had not been waiting, gauging the moment. They had been in action since the first shots.
And yet they were doing it. He could see Hawtayne's hat above the smoke, hear his shrill voice as he shouted, 'Rear rank, advance! Present! Fire!'
The shots raked through the packed mass of French boarders.
There would be no time to reload.
Bolitho dashed down one of the quarterdeck ladders, the pain of his wound forgotten as he ran through the litter of bodies and fallen rigging, his eyes fixed on the enemy.
Hawtayne was calling, 'Advance!' The bayonets glittered in the hazy light as the marines moved into the attack.
Bolitho saw a young officer running to meet his challenge. He was about the same age as Adam, with similar dark good looks. The steel clanged against steel and Bolitho was almost blinded by the realization that his nephew was very likely dead.
The young French officer lost his stance as Bolitho parried his blade away. Just for the merest split-second he saw the officer's eyes widen with understanding or acceptance. Then he was down. Bolitho pulled the sword free and felt his men surge past him, their voices strengthened by the sudden change of roles.
Lieutenant Scott waved his sword. 'Boarders away!'
Cheering, cursing, and sometimes dying, a tide of seamen and marines fought their way across to the other ship.
Bolitho hacked another officer to one side but could barely raise his sword now. How long could they hold out?
He was on the gangway, carried part of the way along by his men as they rushed aft to seize the poop.
Small pictures flashed across Bolitho's mind. Adam's face when he had tried to tell him about the girl in Boston. Tyrrell's old pride returning as he had stepped aboard the ship for passage to a country he had never seen. Little Evans, watching the burning Spanish ship, or following him like a small shadow. And Allday, trying to protect him when his own terrible wound was tearing him apart. Pulling him down like a fallen oak.
Shouts and screams exploded across the broad quarterdeck and bodies were flung about in bloody bundles from a murderous blast of canister.
Bolitho wiped the sweat from his eyes with his forearm and stared up at the poop.
He must really be mad. But surely it was Adam and another lieutenant up there with some of Achates' men? The smoking swivel, depressed on to the mass of defending seamen and their officers, had had the same effect as the sight of the marines charging from the smoke with their levelled bayonets.
Lieutenant Scott forgot all his usual self-control and clapped Bolitho hard across the shoulder.
'By God, it's the flag-lieutenant, sir! The young devil's blown the heart out of 'em!'
He ran after his men but paused to look back at his vice-admiral. It was just a glance, but it spoke more than a thousand words.
The enemy still outnumbered Achates' men and at any moment a leader would emerge, one for them to follow, to renew the fight.
Bolitho looked at his gasping, gashed and bruised seamen, the way they leaned on their cutlasses and pikes. They could not take another battle.
Lieutenant Trevenen marched across the deck and touched his hat with the hilt of his sword.
