"Ard t' tell, sir.'
Bolitho heard Gloag breathing heavily, any animosity between him and his youthful captain momentarily forgotten.
Pyke suggested, `Round the point, towards Prah Sands, is my guess, sir.'
The light blinked out twice like a malevolent eye against the black shoreline.
Pyke said with disbelief, `God damn their eyes, they're runnin' a cargo tonight, the buggers!'
Bolitho chilled, imagining the unknown vessel, somewhere ahead of the lightless cutter. If they sighted the Avenger they might sheer off. Then again, they might raise an alarm which in turn would warn the ambush. The attack would be brought forward and there would be no hope of quarter.
`We will shorten sail, Mr Gloag. Mr Truscott, have the guns loaded with grape and canister.' The sharpness in his tone held the gunner motionless. `But do it piece by piece. I don't want to hear a sound!' Hugh peered round for a boatswain's mate. `Pass the word forrard. A flogging for the first man to alert the enemy. A golden guinea for the first man to sight him!'
Bolitho crossed the deck before he knew what he was doing.
`You're not going after her?'
His brother faced him, although his face was hidden in the gloom.
`What did you expect? If I let her slip away we could lose both. This way we might do for all the devils at once!'
He swung away as the hands ran to the braces and halliards.
`I've no choice.'
As the Avenger ploughed her way through each succession of wave crests, Bolitho found it harder to contain his anxiety. The cutter seemed to be making an incredible noise, and although he knew it would not be heard beyond half a cable, he could find no comfort. The sluice of water against the hull, the boom of heavy canvas with the attendant strains and rattles in the rigging, all joined in an ever-changing crescendo.
The topsail had been taken in, as had the jib, but even under fore and mainsail alone Avenger would stand out to any watchful smuggler.
As Gloag had mentioned, it was a fair night. Now that their eyes had become accustomed to it, it seemed even brighter. No clouds, a million glittering stars to reflect on the frothing waves and spume, and when you looked up the sails were like great, quivering wings.
A man craned over a stocky six-pounder and thrust out his arm.
7. A Tragedy
`There, sir! Fine on th' lee bow!'
Figures moved about the decks, as if taking part in a well practised dance. Here and there a telescope squeaked or a man whispered to his companion. Some in speculation, others probably in envy for the man who would receive a golden guinea.
Hugh Bolitho said, `Schooner, showing no lights. Under full sail too.' He shut his glass with a snap. `-Bit of luck. He'll be making more din than we are.' He dispensed with conjecture and added shortly, `Bring her up a point, Mr Gloag. I don't want the devil to slip past us. We'll hold the wind-gage if we can.'
Voices passed hushed orders, and cordage squeaked through the sheaves while overhead the big mainsail shivered violently before filling again to the, alteration of course.
Bolitho glanced at the compass as the helmsman said hoarsely, `East by south, sir.'
`Man the larboard battery.' Hugh sounded completely absorbed. `Open the ports.'
Bolitho watched the port lids being hauled open toreveal the glistening mane of water alongside. Avenger was heeling so far over that spray came leaping inboard over the six-pounders and deadly looking swivels.
Normally Bolitho would have felt like the rest of the men around him. Tense, committed, slightly wild at the prospect of a fight. But he could not lose himself this time, and kept thinking of the waggons, the outnumbered escort, the sudden horror of an ambush.
A Tragedy
A light spurted in the darkness, and for an instant he thought some careless seaman had dropped a lantern on the other vessel. Then he heard a distant crack, like a man breaking a nut in his palms, and knew it was a pistol shot. A warning, a signal. Now it did not matter which.
`Put up your helm, Mr Gloag!' Hugh's voice, loud now that caution was pointless, made the men at the tiller start. `Stand by on deck!'
There were more flashes, doing more to reveal the other vessel's size and sail plan than to harm the crouching seamen.
The distance was rapidly falling away, the big sails sweeping the cutter downwind like a bird of prey, and then they saw the schooner rising through the darkness, her canvas in confusion as she tried to change tack and beat clear.
Bolitho watched his brother as he stood by the weather rail, one foot on a bollard, as if he was watching a race.
`As you bear, Mr Truscott! On the uproll!'
A further pause, and across the choppy water Bolitho heard muffled shouts, a vague rasp of metal.
Then, `Fire!'
At a range of less than seventy yards the larboard battery hurled themselves inboard on their tackles, their long orange tongues as blinding as their ex
plosions were deafening. Unlike the heavy artillery
of a ship of the line, or even a frigate, Avenger's little
six-pounders had voices which scraped the insides of
the brain.
Bolitho pictured the effect of the sweeping hail of grape and close-packed canister as it cut into the other vessel's deck. He heard a spar fall, saw splashes alongside the darkened schooner as rigging and perhaps men dropped from the masts like dead fruit.
`Sponge out! Load!'
Hugh Bolitho had drawn his sword, and in the misty starlight it shone in his hand like a piece of thin ice. The same one he had used to settle a matter of honour. Probably many others too, Bolitho thought despairingly.
`Fire!'
Even as the small broadside crashed out again, shaking the hull like a giant fist, a few cracks and flashes showed that the smugglers were not ready to surrender.
Hugh Bolitho yelled, `Stand by to board!' He did not even look round as a man fell kicking on the deck with a musket ball in his neck.
How many times they must have drilled and practised this, Bolitho thought as he dragged out his hanger. The gun crews left their smoking charges and seized up cutlasses and pikes, axes and dirks, while the remainder of the hands threw themselves on sheets and halliards. At the moment of collision between the two hulls, Avenger's sails seemed to vanish like magic, so that with the way off her heavy, downwind plunge she came alongside the other vessel with one heart-stopping lurch.
But stripping off her sails had lessened the chance of dismasting her, likewise she did not rebound away from her adversary, so that as grapnels soared through the darkness and more shots and cries echoed between the hulls, the first boarders swarmed across the bulwark.
Pyke yelled, `Back, lads!'
Even that was like part of a rehearsed dance. As
the cheering boarders threw themselves inboard
again, two swivels exploded from the forecastle,
scything through a crowd of screaming figures who
seconds earlier had been rushing to repel the attack.
Hugh Bolitho pointed his sword. `Now! At 'em,
lads!'
– Then he was up and over, slashing at a man as
he did so, and catching one of his own as he all but fell between the two grinding hulls.
Bolitho ran to the forecastle, waving his hanger to the last party of boarders.
Yelling and cheering like demons they clambered over the gap. One man fell beside Bolitho without a sound, another threw his hand to his face and screamed, the sound ending with a sharp gasp as a boarding pike came out of the darkness and impaled him.
Shoulder to shoulder Bolitho's men advanced along the schooner's deck, while from the cutter alongside the remaining seamen yelled advice and warnings, accompanied by pistol-fire and a few well aimed missiles.
Bolitho felt his shoes slithering on the remains left by the swivels' murderous onslaught. He shut his mind to all else but the faces which loomed and faded before him, the jarring ache of steel as he kept up his guard and probed for weakness in an opponent's defence.