to open his eyes as the smoke billowed across the water. The scars of the cat were still livid on his back, as if the flogging had given Dimmock some kind of authority.
Adam thrust out his arm and heard Julyan yell, 'Ready, sir!'
Perhaps he had not dared to look aft, in case the helm was shot away or manned only by the dead.
'Steady as you go! Meet her! 'The spokes were turning, but Adam was staring up at the masthead pendant, stark and clear again above the thinning smoke. Broken cordage jerking in the wind, and a blackened hole in the topsail, where two shots had missed both mast and yard by a few inches. There was blood too, drying on the canvas. One of the topmen. A face he would have known.
'Let go and haul!'
'Heave, me lads! Heave! 'Guthrie's voice, powerful, unhurried, ready to send or push more hands where they were needed.
Adam heard some one cry out in pain, but he kept his eyes on the yards, still swinging in response to the men at the braces.
He watched the big arrowhead of water changing shape, the Nautilus very bright now in the sun, her gunports empty and with every crew trying to reload and run out again, before…
He shut his mind to it, surprised that he felt neither doubt nor anger. Only hatred.
'Steady as she goes, sir!'
Adam did not hear. He had drawn his sword, and held it lightly across his right shoulder.
He saw a slight movement, sunlight disturbing the pattern as the first gun to reload thrust through its port.
Too late.
He brought the sword down to the rail, and thought he heard some one cheer.
'Fire!'
Every gun fired as one, recoiling from its port and brought under control before the full impact of their combined, doubleshotted broadside exploded against the enemy. They were already sponging out and reloading with fresh charges, shouting and cheering like madmen, and despite the neckerchiefs tied around their ears were too deaf to hear or share the excitement and relief after hours of waiting behind sealed ports while the larboard side had bared its teeth.
Adam covered his mouth and nose as the smoke billowed inboard in a solid cloud. The roar of the full broadside seemed to hang in the air, an echo perhaps of the double-shotted onslaught which had found its target.
Men were coughing and retching, but some were peering around in the smoke for friends. Gun crews were calling to each other, throwing their weight on tackles and handspikes, their world concentrated on the open ports before them.
Adam reached for his telescope, then waved it aside as a hand offered it through the thinning smoke.
He did not need it. The regular drills and the gun crews' patience and trust had done their work today.
Nautilus's proud beauty was broken, disfigured. Her foremast had gone completely, dragging over the forecastle and into the water alongside, the tangled mass of spars and severed rigging already dragging her round like a giant sea anchor. The main topmast was also shot away. He thought of Maddock the gunner, down below the waterline, sealed in his cavern of explosives and instant death. He must have heard it, felt the success of his training and hard work, and been proud.
Somebody exclaimed, 'That'll make ‘em put their bloody heads together an' think again!'
Squire sounded wary, impatient. 'They've got plenty of those, for God's sake!'
Adam walked aft to the wheel, men turning toward him, still too dazed and deafened to grasp the significance of the lieutenant's warning.
Nautilus was not responding to her rudder, and it seemed nothing was being done to cut away the burden of mast and sails which was dragging her further and further downwind.
Squire had seen it. The wind was no longer an ally.
He looked at the smoke, drifting just above the water. The wind was dropping, biding its time. The real enemy.
Napier was beside him, as if he had expected to be called.
'Ask the first lieutenant to lay aft. 'He saw him touch his hat and hurry to the larboard gangway.
He heard musket shots, far-off and ineffectual. Some of the Royal Marines of the afterguard were listening, gripping their muskets, gauging the range.
They would not have long to wait.
The wind had almost dropped, but there was still enough to carry a new sound, more threatening than the infrequent report of a musket.
Voices, hundreds of them, joined together like a muffled roar.
Vincent had reached the quarterdeck, his eyes on the loosely flapping topsails, and then the men at the wheel.
'If the wind returns, I can bring our guns to bear.'
Adam shook his head. 'So might Nautilus. But she'll need a dockyard before she can fight and win under any flag.'
He saw the familiar frown, the old challenge. Then he said quietly, 'They'll try to board us, sir. Their only chance. Fight or die.'
Adam turned the old sword over in his hands.
'And ours, Mark.'
He stared along the upper deck, the men at their guns, others dragging away fallen rigging. There were two bodies lying by the empty boat-tier, already covered. Wasted.
'So be it. Close quarters!'
July an called, 'She's swingin', sir!'
Adam laid the sword on the rail and took his telescope.
Onward was answering the helm again, the quartermaster peering at the compass as a gust of air lifted the big ensign above the poop defiantly, and another volley of musket fire made some of the seamen duck for cover.
Adam stood motionless, the telescope hot against his skin.
Nautilus was turning very slowly, the sun suddenly like a mirror across the quarter, and then more slowly still over the poop itself. He felt something crack against the deck and saw splinters blown aside. More shots, this time from the maintop, some of Gascoigne's marksmen returning fire.
Adam wiped his eye and steadied the glass again. Figures running along Nautilus's gangway, above the entry port, where Marchand had welcomed him aboard. More were already clambering around the cathead, trying to hack away the remaining shrouds which held the fallen mast alongside.
'As you bear! 'He heard Napier, then another voice passing the order to the guns.
More shots, and a louder bang: a swivel gun, he thought. The glass remained steady, but he could feel sweat running down his spine like blood.
It was now. The crash of the first eighteen-pounder seemed sharper, louder, not double-shotted this time. The stern windows were blown aside, pieces of carved 'gingerbread' splashing and resurfacing beneath the counter even as the next gun fired, blasting through Nautilus''?, stern.
Adam picked up the sword, the stench of smoke and charred timber searing his throat and eyes.
He saw a marine reloading his musket, and pausing to fix the bayonet, before running to join his section. He was shouting, but Adam could barely hear over the gunfire.
Julyan shouted, 'You got your wish, sir! 'and turned to say over his shoulder to the quartermaster, 'Watch your helm, Carter! 'Then he stepped over the man's body and added his own weight to the wheel. The quartermaster had been a trusted friend. But there was no time to think about him, even as he was trying to drag himself to his feet.
He shook his fist, swearing as more shots pounded the deck and clanged aside from one of the nine- pounders.
Adam saw the Nautilus looming over the side, and felt the two hulls shudder together. On deck, the gun crews were reloading, some falling, wounded or dying, as grapnels clattered on to the gangway above them.
'Repel boarders! At ‘em, lads! 'The marines ran to obey, bayonets gleaming, as others fired down from the main and mizzen tops. A mob was clambering on to the gangway and reaching for shrouds and ratlines, only to be
