It might take a few more minutes, but one gun firing and reloading without support from the rest of the battery might avoid confusion and over eagerness. Gun crews were used to competing with each other; it was all a part of training and familiarity, not only among gun captains but every member of the teams. A pull here, a turn there, handspikes ready to edge the long barrel around perhaps a mere inch, to get that perfect shot.
Someone growled, 'The bugger's run up the Portuguese flag!'
Another retorted, ''E'll need it to wipe 'is backside with!'
Adam glanced at the main channel. The first brig was still aground. She had boats in the water. To escape, to attempt to kedge her off? One was pointless; the latter would take too much time. Seven Sisters would be there before long. And the other vessel was making good her escape. He pressed his knuckles against his thighs and stared at the brigantine.
'Slack off aft, Mr Partridge. Handsomely, now.' He lifted his hand again and saw Rist turn to watch him. 'Easy, lads!'
He knew Varlo was signalling from the forecastle; Unrivalled was taking up to her cable again; the shoreline was as before, as if they had never moved.
But all he could see were the tan-coloured sails moving slowly from bow to bow, the masthead appearing to brush beneath Unrivalled's jib-boom.
'Run out!' After the squeal of trucks and the rumble of heavy guns being run up to their ports, it was almost gentle. And vet nobody moved, and speech was in whispers.
fllbatroz's master was standing into the narrow channel. There was no turning back. Soon, any second now, and he would see the solitary gun. And he would know. He might run ashore; he could even attempt to kill every slave aboard, but he could not escape. The Portuguese flag was the only thing between him and the rope.
He heard the gun captain's voice, saw him lean over to tap one of his men's shoulders. The seaman even looked up and nodded, his tanned face split into a grin.
Adam felt some of the tension drain away. He had spoken to that same seaman a few days ago, but at this moment he could not recall his name.
Cristie remarked, 'She's got a couple of guns run out.' He looked at his captain. 'They might, if they're desperate enough.'
No one answered him.
Adam straightened his back and felt the trapped sweat run down his spine and between his buttocks. The brigantine was on course now, all sails drawing and filling well, as if Unrivalled were invisible.
And if they did open fire? Unrivalled's guns would offer no quarter.
I le thought suddenly of Avery, and lleighton's father, and his hand moved as if to touch the locket.
It only took one shot.
'Now, as you bear!' He folded his arms and stared at the brigantine's flag, a splash of colour against the hazy backdrop. 'Fire.'
For an instant longer Adam thought it was another overshoot. Then the maintopmast began to dip very slowly, almost wearily towards the deck, and as shrouds and running rigging snapped under the strain the complete mast with driver and trysails fell with sudden urgency, the sound mingling with the echo of the last shot.
Adam wanted to wipe his face, his mouth, but could not move.
Strike, you bastard, strike! His own voice or someone's beside him, he did not know. Another few minutes and they would have to fire again. Ile knew from instinct as much as experience that the gun had already been reloaded and run out. After that Alhatroz, crippled or not, would be beyond their reach.
'Ready, sir!'
It was not his concern. The seizure of any slaver was his duty above and beyond all else. The words of his orders seemed to mock him. But all he could see was the effect of one i8-pounder hall smashing into a hull packed with helpless, terrified humanity.
He lifted his arm, but held it there as Bellairs veiled, 'They're anchoring, sir! The huggers are going to strike!'
Adam breathed out slowly. It sounded like the exhalation of an old man.
Galbraith stood at the foot of the starboard ladder, staring up.
'Permission to hoard, sir?'
Adam looked across at the anchored brigantine. It was not over yet.
And there was always the flag.
The thought made him want to laugh. But, as in the past, he would not be able to stop.
'No, belay that, Mr Galbraith. Is my gig ready?'
He ran lightly down the ladder, for a moment shutting out all the others.
'Take charge here, Leigh. Fire if need be, for by that time it will be your decision.'
Galbraith walked beside him.
'Then take Mr Rist, I pray you, sir. He knows these people. You and I do not.'
There was no sane interlude. He was in the boat, the oars already hacking at the water without, it seemed, moving a limb.
Like some of the nightmares. It was not next week, or tomorrow. It was now.
'Stand by to board!'
Now.
Suddenly, the other vessel was right here. Small compared with Unrivalled and yet she seemed to tower above the gig, as if to overwhelm them.
'Oars!' Jago swung the tiller bar, glancing only briefly at the last few yards, conscious even in this moment of danger of how it must be done, be it for the last time.
Adam was on his feet, feeling the bottom boards creaking under him, intent on keeping his balance when at any second he expected a shot to smash him down. Figures lined the brigantine's bulwarks, and some of them shook their weapons, apparently ready and eager to use them.
'Stand away! Stand of! I warn you now and but once!'
The voice was loud and clear, and Adam guessed he was using a speaking-trumpet.
Rist murmured, 'It's Cousens, sir. He's the one.'
Adam did not even look at him, but recalled Galbraith's last words. He knows these people. You and I do not. And there was another sound, which tension had forced into the back of his mind. A strange groaning, many voices blended into one despairing protest, as if Alhatroz herself was in pain.
As the gig moved into the vessel's shadow he was aware of the stillness, the finality. So unlike the wildness and sometimes the exhilaration of a true sea fight, the triumph and the suffering as an enemy's flag fell into the smoke. He looked up at the faces; even they were motionless now. It only needed one hothead, that brief incentive to kill, but all he could think was that his own voice seemed detached, disembodied, like someone else, an onlooker.
'In the Kings name! Stand down and lower your weapons! I am going to hoard you!'
'And who speaks with such confidence?' Laughter, an unnatural sound, and Adam noticed that the voices from the vessel's hull had fallen silent, as if they all knew and thought they understood. They would be expecting more treachery, no different from that which had beaten them into captivity.
Rist muttered, 'He's bluffing, sir.'
Jago reached out to prevent it; he had heard Rist's remark, like the leadsman's chant. Deeper and deeper into madness…
But Adam looked at him. 'If I fall, get the boat away.' He smiled faintly. 'Luke.'
Then he seized the handropes and felt the heat on his face as his head rose above the bulwark. This was the moment. He thought of the broken watch and the boy who treasured it, of Galbraith's concern, of the church in Penzance…
He jumped down on to the deck. A press of figures seemed to fill it. Seamen: they looked more like pirates. And each man would know that they could hack him down and dispose of the boat's crew with neither risk nor effort.
The burly man in a rough blue coat he assumed was Cousens confronted him, his eyes flitting across the epaulettes and sheathed sword, then coming straight to his face. He said again, 'And who are you, sir?'
'Captain Adam Bolitho. My ship you can see for yourself.' He heard an undercurrent run through the listening,
