The seamen were all so busy at the oars, or peering fearfully astern, that hardly any of them saw the real threat until it was almost too late.
Bolitho yelled, 'Get forrard, Mr. Fowlar! Fire when you can!'
He stared fixedly at the canoes which had suddenly swept around the green hump of land, spreading out like a fan as they surged towards him. A dozen at least, all filled with whooping, screaming savages. The first shot made them falter, but only for minutes. Then they came on again, the canoes cutting through the inshore swell like sword-blades.
Some of the seamen were whimpering and pulling haphazardly at their oars, others tried to stand up, while a few began to gather fallen stones to defend themselves.
Fowlar yelled, 'That is my last ball, sir!' He cursed as a heavy stone, hurled at extreme range by a sling, glanced off the gunwale and cut open the back of his hand.
The leading canoe was drawing very near, the din of chanting and the drum almost deafening.
Bolitho drew his sword and shouted, 'Ready, lads!' He looked at his cowering men. 'Close quarters!'
But it was not to be. Instead, another volley of stones clattered over the boat, striking one seaman so badly that he fell overboard. The man with the musket fired and brought down two savages with one shot. The canoe swung away, some of the paddles being dropped so that the floundering seaman could be hauled up into their midst.
Bolitho watched, sickened, as they dragged the man to his feet, pinioning his arms and holding him so that he faced -the slow-moving longboat. He could see the blood on his neck where the stone had hit him, imagine his screams which were drowned by the yelling figures who held him. One, with a high head-dress, waved a knife above his head, back and forth, back and forth, so that the captured seamen followed it with his eyes as if watching a snake, his mouth like a black hole as he continued to scream.
The knife came down very slowly, the blood shining in the sunlight and making several of the seamen retch and groan with horror.
Allday said tightly, 'Jesus Christ, they're skinning him alive!'
Bolitho seized the marksman's shoulder, feeling him jump as if he was dying with the man in the canoe.
'Do what you can.' He had to force the words out.
When he looked astern again he saw that the man was still alive, writhing like a soul in hell as the knife did its work.
The musket bucked against the sailor's shoulder, and Bolitho turned away, fighting back the nausea.
Soames said thickly, 'The only way, sir. I'd not let a dog suffer like that.'
Fowlar shouted, 'Brigantine's away, sir!'
The slaver had slipped into deeper water almost without anyone noticing her. Boats hoisted inboard, and already her foresail set and drawing well as she rode clear of the protecting land.
The canoes were forming into two arrowheads again, the drums getting wilder as they manoeuvred for the final attack.
Bolitho held his sword towards the hazy horizon. 'Pull, lads! We'll not go under without a fight!'
It was an empty speech, but it was better than merely standing and watching them overwhelmed, tortured and killed without lifting a finger.
Allday whispered, 'Here they come.' He held the tiller between his legs and drew his cutlass. 'Keep close, Captain. We'll show the bastards.'
Bolitho looked at him. They were outnumbered ten to one, and his men were already fit to drop, the fight gone out of them.
He said simply, 'We will, Allday.' He touched his thick forearm. 'And thank you.'
A great yell made him turn, and as the boat swayed dangerously to the sudden shift of bodies he saw the crisp topsails and jib, the figurehead shining in the milky glare like pure gold, as Undine tacked around the headland, her starboard battery run out in a line of black teeth.
Soames bellowed, 'Sit down! You'll have us in the sea otherwise!'
Allday said hoarsely, 'Now, there is a sight, Captain.'
Fowlar called, 'She's going about, sir! In God's name, she's a'comin' through the shoals!'
Bolitho could barely breathe as he watched Undine's graceful outline shortening, her sails in momentary disarray until the yards had been trimmed again. If she struck now she would share Nervion's fate, and worse, when the survivors were taken by the war canoes.
But she showed no hesitation, and he could see the bloodred coats of the marines along the quarterdeck nettings, and even imagined he could discern Herrick and Mudge beside the wheel as the frigate heeled heavily to the wind, her gunports almost awash.
Keen was yelling, 'Huh.Za! Huh.Za, lads!' He was cheering and weeping, waving his shirt above his head, the closeness of danger forgotten.
The brigantine had already changed tack, clawing clear of a dark smudge below the surface while she set more sail to carry her to the south.
Fowlar said with disbelief, 'She's goin' after the slaver! They must be mad!'
Bolitho,did not speak. Just watching his ship was enough. It told him what Herrick was thinking and doing, as if he had shouted it aloud. Herrick knew he could not engage all the canoes in time to save Bolitho and his small party. He was going to stop the brigantine and so distract the war canoes in the only way he knew.
As the realisation came to him, Undine opened fire. It was a slow, carefully-aimed broadside, the guns belching smoke and flame at regulated intervals while the frigate swept further and further amongst the hidden shoals.
Someone gave a cracked cheer as the brigantine's foretopmast shuddered and then curtsied down into the sea alongside in a tangle of rigging and canvas. The effect was immediate, and within seconds she was paying off to the wind, her hull broadside on as another volley crashed and ricocheted all around her. One twelve-pound ball struck the sea near her quarter and shattered into fragments, so near was the shoal to the surface.
'She's struck!'
Everyone was yelling and screaming like a madman, hugging each other and sobbing with disbelief.
Bolitho dragged his gaze from the brigantine which had slewed round either on a shoal or a sandspit, her canvas in pandemonium while she continued to drive ashore.
He held his breath as Undine shortened sail, the tiny figures on her yards like ants, her copper glinting brightly as she thrust round again on the opposite tack. Another half a cable, and she would have been aground.
Allday shouted, 'She's hove-to, Captain, an' there's a boat being dropped!'
Bolitho nodded, unable to answer.
The canoes were paddling furiously towards the helpless brigantine, and more canoes had appeared around the headland, the latter very careful to stay clear of Undine's bared guns. The frigate's big launch was speeding across the choppy water, and when one of the canoes turned towards it the crash of its swivel gun was enough to make the yelling natives join their companions elsewhere.
Davy stood in the sternsheets, very erect and proper. Even his oarsmen seemed totally unreal against the tattered, cheering remnants of Bolitho's landing party.
The captured longboat was already sinking, more planks having been stove open by stones, and Bolitho doubted if they could have lasted another half-hour even without the attacking canoes.
As the launch. grappled alongside, and hands dragged the gasping survivors to safety, he turned to watch the listing brigantine. Even at this distance it was possible to hear the muskets, the baying chorus from the canoes as they surrounded her for the final attack. Revenge or justice, the slaver's end would be terrible indeed.
Davy took his wrist and helped him into the other boat. 'Good to see you again, sir.' He looked at Soames and grinned. 'And you, of course.'
Bolitho sat down and felt his limbs beginning to quiver uncontrollably. He kept his eyes on the ship as she grew and towered above him, very conscious of his own feelings for her, and those who had risked their lives for him.
Herrick was waiting to greet him, his anxiety matched only by his relief as he took Bolitho's hands and said, 'Thank God you're safe!'