It seemed to take all his strength to tug it free. Somehow he had dragged himself up a ladder, where smaller groups of figures were locked in what he knew was the final resistance.
Jago gasped, “I can see smoke, sir! Fire below, by my guess!”
Adam gripped a stanchion and gulped at the air. “Get our wounded across to the ship! Leave nobody! ”
Jago peered at him. How did he know it was over? Men were still fighting, or chasing some of the defenders, hacking them down.
Adam wiped his face with his sleeve and almost laughed. It was his best uniform, the one he had been wearing when he had gone to her room. Madness. A wild dream. He gripped his sword even more tightly, knowing that if he allowed himself to laugh he would be unable to stop it.
He heard someone gasp and swung round to see Napier on one knee, a wood splinter protruding from his thigh like a bloody quill.
“Here, my lad, you’re coming with me!” Then, as he bent to give the boy his arm, he saw Martinez, crouching behind a raised hatch, a pistol in one hand. It had to be him; but how could he be so sure? It was only a glimpse, too quick for him to see the dark eyes widen with shocked disbelief as he had stared first at the slim figure in a post-captain’s soiled coat, and then, instantly, at the old sword. Something like recognition, something he had never forgotten.
And it was too late. Adam could not reach him with his sword, and if Martinez fired now he would surely kill the boy he had lifted from this stained and fought-over planking.
Martinez said thickly, “Bo-lye-tho.” And took careful aim.
But the shot seemed louder, or came from a different bearing. It was the marine corporal Bloxham, Bosanquet’s crack shot. He stepped carefully over a corpse and kicked the unfired pistol across the deck.
He said, “’Ere, sir, I’ll take the lad from you,” and grinned, the strain slipping from his features. “But I’ll just reload old Bess ’ere first, to be on the safe side!”
Adam touched his arm, and walked across to look at the dead man. He heard the sudden wave of frantic cheering. The fight was over.
My men. And they had won the day, because of a trust which few could explain. Until the next time. Now he must go and face these same men, and share it with them before the pain of loss intruded.
He gazed along the disputed deck, with its bloody scars of battle. Soon only the dead and the poor wretches who had fled below would remain.
He saw his own ship angled away from the bows, suddenly clear in the fresh sunlight, her wounds hidden by drifting smoke, and only then did he know what had held him here. He looked down into the dead face, frozen at the instant of impact. As he had sworn to do.
Perhaps he had expected elation, or a sense of revenge. There was nothing.
He heard voices calling out and knew they would come to find him, interrupting this moment which he could share with only one.
He let his sword arm fall to his side and turned once more to look at his ship, and smiled a little, as if he had heard someone speak.
“Thank you, Uncle.”
The Most Coveted Gift.
