And it only needed one. Under full sail, standing dangerously into the wind to beat away from 'Avenger's invisible ally, the sloop seemed to quiver, as if striking a sand-bar. Then, slowly at first, then with terrifying speed, the complete array of canvas began to stagger aft. The topgallant mast, the fore-topmast and yards, driven with all the speed of wind and strain, collapsed along the deck, changing the Virago from a thoroughbred to a shambles in seconds.
Hugh Bolitho snatched up a speaking trumpet, his eyes never leaving -the other vessel as he shouted, `Stand by to shorten sail! Mr Pyke, prepare to board!'
Then there was a new sound, rumbling and spreading as if from the Avenger herself. But it was her company whose voices mingled in something like a growl, as snatching up their weapons they ran to their stations for boarding.
Dancer said, `There'll be more of them than us, sir!'
Hugh Bolitho pointed his sword and looked along the blade as if sighting a pistol.
`They'll not fight.'
He watched the range falling away, the sloop spreading out on either bow as if to snare them.
`Now, Mr Gloag.'
The sails were already being taken in, and as the tiller went over again the Avenger's bowsprit came up and into the wind, while between the two hulls the sea was lost in their shadows.
The tiny figures on the Virago's deck had become men, and the faces had sharpened into individuals, some of whom Bolitho recognized, a few he had even seen in Falmouth.
Hugh Bolitho stood at the bulwark, his voice sharp through the trumpet.
`Surrender! In the king's name!' His sword swung like a pointer towards the levelled swivel guns. `Or we fire V
With a lurch the two vessels came together, bringing down more broken rigging and spars to add to the confusion. But despite a few defiant shouts not a shot was fired, not a sword was raised.
Hugh Bolitho walked slowly between his men towards the place where he would board. Taking his time, looking for some last spark of,defiance.
Bolitho followed him with Dancer, hangers drawn, conscious of the oppressive silence which had even quietened the wounded.
These were not disciplined sailors. They had no flag, no cause to guide or inspire them. At this moment of truth they knew they would not escape, so that personal safety had become all important. To lay evidence against a man they had once called a friend, to face prison rather than a gibbet. Some would even now be hoping to be freed altogether by using lies with no less skill than their cruelty.
Bolitho stood at his brother's shoulder on the Virago's deck, watching the cowed faces, feeling their fury giving way to fear, like the blood that had faded away in the blown spray.
Sir Henry Vyvyan would probably be able to plead for some special privilege even now, he thought. But Hugh's victory was complete all the same. The ship, her cargo and enough prisoners to make Mounts Bay safe for years to come.
'Where is Sir Henry?'
A small man in a gilt-buttoned coat, obviously the sloop's master, pushed towards them, his forehead badly cut by flying wood splinters.
'Worn't my fault, sir!'
He reached out to touch Hugh Bolitho's arm but the sword darted -between them like a watchful snake.
So he backed away, while Bolitho and the others followed him towards the poop, which had taken the full brunt of the falling mast.
Sir Henry Vyvyan was pinned underneath one massive spar, his face screwed into a mask of agony. But he was still breathing, and as the sailors stood over him he opened his one eye and said thickly, `Too late, Hugh. You'll not have the pleasure of seein' me dance on a rope.'
Hugh Bolitho lowered his sword for the first time, so that its tip rested on the deck within inches of Vyvyan's cheek.
He replied quietly, `I had intended a more fitting end for you, Sir Henry.'
Vyvyan's eye moved towards the glittering blade and he said, `I would have preferred it.'
Then with a great groan he died.
The sword vanished into its scabbard, the movement final, convincing.
`Cut this wreckage away.' Hugh Bolitho sounded almost untouched by the events and the sights around him. `Pass the word to Mr Gloag. We will require a tow until a jury-rig can be arranged.'
Only then did he look at his brother and Dancer.
`That was well done.' He glanced at the flag which was being run up to the Virago's peak, the same one which, although torn ragged by wind and gunfire, still flew above his own command. `The best Christmas gift I have ever been given!'
Dancer grinned. `And maybe there will still be something left at Falmouth to celebrate with, eh, Dick?'
As they made their way back to their own vessel, Bolitho paused and looked aft towards the great heap of wreckage.
His brother was still standing beside the trapped body in the long green coat.
Perhaps, even now, he was thinking that Sir Henry Vyvyan had beaten him?