Halfhyde called, “Ready?”
“All ready, sir.” This was the Tacoma’s bosun, who spat on his hands in anticipation.
“Jump!” Halfhyde roared.
There was something like a six-foot gap, with water slapping up as the hulls of the ships surged together. As the men cleared the gap, Graves took the Tacoma clear. Halfhyde was in the fight the moment he landed lightly on the deck. Bullock made a rush for him but hadn’t reckoned on Finney. The old ex-naval seaman knew well enough where his loyalties lay. He moved swiftly, stuck out a foot. Bullock crashed headlong on the deck, face first, his revolver spinning away into the scuppers. He got up, chin streaming blood from a nasty graze, and came back to the attack.
He checked himself when he saw Halfhyde’s revolver. He stared around, looking for his own gun. Halfhyde said, “Leave it, Bullock. Hands above your head. Any other movement and I’ll fire.”
“You…bastard!”
Halfhyde grinned. The fighting was going on all around him, and it was about evens so far. A number of men were down on the deck and unconscious from fists and the swipe of belaying-pins. Halfhyde kept his revolver aimed at Bullock, moving closer to the First Mate, whose face was sheer murder now. He said, “Aft, Bullock. Aft to the poop. Move!” Bullock stayed where he was; Halfhyde’s long jaw came forward, and he fired at the deck at Bullock’s feet, his eyes like ice. Bullock yelped and moved fast. He climbed to the poop with Halfhyde close behind.
“Now,” Halfhyde said, swinging the First Mate round. “Where’s Sergeant Cantlow, Bullock?”
“Cantlow? I’ve never—”
“Cut the lies, Bullock. We both know the identity of your passenger. We also know what he’s involved in—don’t we? I advise you not to make matters worse for yourself. Where is he?”
Bullock’s expression altered. Halfhyde recognized the purport too late. He was on the turn when from behind him a voice said, “Here.” Halfhyde felt the pressure of metal in his spine. The voice said, “Drop your revolver, friend. On the deck, behind you.”
Halfhyde looked back to meet Cantlow’s eyes. “A renegade sergeant of dragoons. Is there anything lower a man can do, than desert? Unless, of course, it’s to commit murder. I suggest you think very carefully as to your next step, Sergeant Cantlow.”
Cantlow spoke over Halfhyde’s shoulder to Bullock. “Who is this man?”
“Halfhyde. I told you about him.”
“Yes, you did. Ex-Royal Navy, eh—”
“Not ex,” Halfhyde said. “I am a lieutenant of Her Majesty’s fleet still, though on the half-pay list. I am still the holder of Her Majesty’s commission. It would be unwise to extend your felonies too far, Sergeant!”
Cantlow grinned; Halfhyde smelled whisky on his breath. “I think you’re in no position to give orders now, Lieutenant Halfhyde.”
“You think not?” Halfhyde lifted an arm and pointed across the water towards the Tacoma, now lying off at a safe distance. “You see my ship. Take a good look, Sergeant Cantlow…and then tell me whether or not she wears the White Ensign of a Queen’s ship!”
There was a pause. Behind Halfhyde, Cantlow swore viciously. He said, “I’ll be damned!”
“Exactly,” Halfhyde said. “You’d do better to throw down your own revolver, Sergeant, than to interfere with mine.”
“Like hell. That ship…there’s nothing she can do.” Once again Cantlow paused, then asked, “What orders did you leave with her, before you boarded?”
Halfhyde shrugged. A bizarre idea was taking shape in his mind as a possibility, an audacious one that stood a fair chance, in his view, of paying off. Meanwhile, it would be as well if Cantlow was left with the possibility of action by Graves. He said, “You must use your imagination as to my orders, Sergeant—”
“No. You’ll tell me, or it’ll go the worse for you. In the meantime, you’re going below to the saloon.” As Bullock picked up a belaying-pin Cantlow pressed with his gun. “Down the hatch, Lieutenant Halfhyde, and make it fast, or my temper may get the better of me. And hand me your revolver. Butt first.”
Halfhyde gave a shrug, passed the revolver over and turned for the hatch; for now, the physical odds were against him. Before reaching the hatch, he looked for’ard along the deck. The fo’c’sle hands of the Aysgarth Falls appeared to have won the day. The men from the Tacoma were mostly lying in pools of blood, and Captain McRafferty was being frog-marched aft towards the door into the saloon alleyway and looking the worse for wear. Matters were not good; and Halfhyde’s request to Graves had been to take the Tacoma clear, to remain in company but not on any account to hazard his ship or the rest of his crew by making any further attempt to put a party aboard. The show was Halfhyde’s, and it seemed now as though he might have been too confident. With no certain support arranged from the Tacoma,
