'Those fog-banks,' Drinkwater explained, 'lie most densely over the channels of the waterways through this morass. See there,' he pointed, 'how that one leads south, then swings slightly east, bends sharply and runs to ... here, look ...'
Frey bent to stare through the vanes of the pocket compass.
'Runs to intersect with a bearing of south-east a-quarter south ...'
'Got it, sir.'
'Then sketch it!'
Only the scratch of Frey's pencil could be heard. Drinkwater, holding the compass so that Frey could see it, put out his free hand to lean on the mast. Where yesterday the iron-work had burned his hand, it was now cold with condensation.
'Sir...'
'Pray be quiet, Mr Belchambers, and allow ...' Drinkwater broke off and followed Belchambers's pointing hand. He could see the dark shapes detach from the jungle, see the faint white rings along their sides where the Dyaks plied their paddles.
'Ill go, sir!' The topman had reached out for the backstay even before Drinkwater had opened his mouth. Silently he lowered himself hand-over-hand to the deck. Looking down, Drinkwater saw him alert Fraser and the news galvanised the first lieutenant. He saw men radiate outwards to warn the ship, heard the low, urgent voice of the Scotsman and someone below shush another into silence.
'In the event of an alarm I want absolute silence preserved,' Drinkwater had ordered. He wondered how much of his own idle chatter the Dyaks had heard, for sound carried for miles over still water.
As if to echo his thoughts another burst of chattering came from the distant jungle. More Dyaks, or the cries of wakening monkeys?
'Finished, sir ...'
Frey straightened up. Drinkwater shut his compass with an over-loud snap. He pointed at the approaching praus. Frey nodded and Drinkwater jerked his head. Frey swung himself over the edge of the top.
'Good luck, Mr Belchambers,' Drinkwater hissed, and followed Frey.
'Thank you, sir,' replied the boy. He was thinking of Carey slumped forward in the barge and the smooth muscled flesh of the brown arm that had dealt the stealthy blow.
Drinkwater reached the deck and turned. He was almost certain his movements would have been seen and had been conscious, in his descent, that his body offered a target for the deadly sumpitan.
'Here, sir ...'
Mullender held out sword and pistols.
'Thank you,' he muttered; it had been Tregembo's duty. The thought filled him with a fierce desire for action. He joined Fraser by the hammock nettings.
All along the barricade the dull white shapes of men in breeches and shirts told where Mount's marines stood to, their loaded muskets presented. They were to fire the fusillade that gave the signal for fire at will.
'Your privilege, Mount,' Drinkwater hissed.
'Sir ... they seem to be hesitating ...' Mount's head was raised, watching the boats as they stilled and gathered together. Then Drinkwater saw the sudden flurry of energy. White whirled along their sides as, after a brief pause, the Dyaks dug their paddles into the water and their boats seemed to leap forward.
At the same moment there burst forth an ululating chant as each man wailed simultaneously, the sharp exhalation adding power to his effort. In addition to this outburst of noise, shrieks and the crashing reverberations of gongs disturbed the tranquillity of the anchorage. The air was filled too with brief whirring sounds and the clatter of darts as a battery of blow-pipes were employed. Most struck the rigging and fell harmlessly to the deck with a rattle.
'Fire!'
Mount's voice exploded with pent-up force. The spluttering crackle of musketry illuminated the rail. Above their heads the vicious roar of the swivel guns in the tops spat langridge at the attackers and then the wildly aimed, depressed muzzles of Patrician's main batteries trundled out through their ports and added their smoke and fire and iron to the horrendous noise.
The air was filled with the sharp smell of powder and white columns of water rose a short distance off the ship, but Drinkwater was aware that the boats still came on. He could see details clearly now in the swiftly growing light; the red jackets of the warriors, the men at the paddles and the faces of men with blow-pipes to their mouths. Others stood, whirling slings about their heads, and he was assailed by a foul, acrid stench as the stink-pots flew aboard. They were lobbed over the rail and came to rest, giving off choking fumes of dense, sulphureous gases which stung eyes and skin.
The praus were closing in now and the marines were standing, leaning outboard to fire down into them.
'Drop shot into 'em!' roared Drinkwater, hefting heavy carronade balls out of the adjacent garlands and hoping to sink the praus as their occupants sought a foothold on Patrician's side.
Won't press an attack, eh?' Mount called, turning to snap orders at Corporal Grice. A marine fell back with a dart protruding from his throat. The poor man's hand tried to tear it free but its venom acted quickly and he fell, twitching on the deck. 'Don't expose your men, Grice,' Mount bellowed above the shrieks and gongs. 'You too, Blixoe.'
A fire party ran aft attempting to deal with the noxious stink-pots; a second marine fell back, crashing into Drinkwater. He caught the man, then laid him gently on the deck. A short spear protruded from his chest. Drinkwater took up the man's musket and tried, through the smoke, to take stock of the situation.
Below, their cannon now useless, the Patricians stabbed at the Dyaks with boarding pikes, rammers and worms. One by one Quilhampton got his guns inboard and the ports closed. But something was wrong.
'Mr Ballantyne!'
'Sir?'
The master's eyes were wild with excitement, the whites contrasting vividly with his dusky skin.
'We're swinging. They've cut the spring. And look!'
The Dyaks were swarming over the bow, where the ship was easiest to board.
'Reinforce the fo'c's'le!'
'I understand, sir!'
God! Did the man have to be prolix at a moment like this? Drinkwater tugged at Mount's shoulder, but Mount was already swinging some men into line and Fraser had seen them too.
Drinkwater was still holding the dead marine's musket. The thing was unloaded, but its weight and the wickedly gleaming bayonet recommended it. He ran forward.
'Come on!'
The party defending the fo'c's'le had been beaten back. They were in disarray and retiring along the gangways. Drinkwater, Fraser and Mount rushed forward yelling, as though the noise itself formed some counter-attack to the awful hubbub of the Dyaks.
Their enemy were lithe and strong, men with short, powerful limbs and gracefully muscled bodies who swung their terrible parangs to deadly effect. This was no fencing match but a hacking, stabbing game and Drinkwater was grateful for the heavy musket as he leaned forward, stamping his leading foot and lunging.
There was blood on his arm from somewhere and he felt a blow strike his shoulder, but the glimpse of a bared chest received the full power of his driving body and he felt the terrible jar as the bayonet struck bone, scraped downwards and entered the Dyak's belly. Drinkwater wrenched free with the prescribed twist, stamped back, swung half right and thrust again. This time the musket met the heavy weight of a long parang. The sword struck it a second time and forced it down. Drinkwater had a sudden glimpse of the parang withdrawn, pulled back over the assailant's head as the man prepared for a mighty cut, a curving slash ...
Drinkwater slewed to the left, following the fall of the musket. But his right arm straightened, the twisted muscles in his shoulder cracking with the speed and strain of the effort. The butt of the musket rose as its muzzle dropped, the heavy wooden club flying up to catch the Dyak's elbow as he cut, forcing the bent arm into its owner's face and crushing the delicate articulation of the joint. The Dyak retreated a little, and Drinkwater swung, swivelling his body as fast as he could, withdrawing his arms parallel to his right flank and then driving the musket forward again. The bayonet entered' beneath the Dyak's ribs so that it pierced the heart at its junction with the aorta.