Varlo was close by. "Ready, sir!"
Adam barely heard him. "So let's be about it, eh?"
Lieutenant Varlo made another attempt to get to his feet in the swaying jollyboat, but had to find support in the coxswain's shoulder.
It was a hard pull, the small boat veering and dipping in a succession of troughs and broken crests, spray bursting over the oarsmen like rain.
He shouted, "Don't feather, man! Lay back on it!"
Rist sat wedged in the sternsheets with two armed seamen, his eyes slitted against the spray, gauging the flapping sails of the drifting brigantine, waiting for the unexpected.
A part of him was still able to sense the bitterness and resentment in the boat. It was a hand-picked crew; he had chosen each man himself. Good, experienced seamen, every one of them. Not one would crack and run if shooting started, or worse, a burst of grape was fired. It could only take one shot to finish the jollyboat at this range. No matter what Unrivalled did after that, it would not help any of them.
He caught the stroke oarsman's eye, then saw him look away, astern, while he lay back on his loom, probably watching their ship. It was better not to look back once you had started, Rist thought. The ship always seemed so far away. He peered hard at the brigantine again. Pierced for several guns, six maybe, but none run out or manned. Yet.
Varlo called, "We'll go under her lee!"
Rist swallowed hard. He did not know Varlo. Never would, in all likelihood. One thing was clear, he was out of his depth in this sort of trick. He had been some admiral's flag lieutenant, the gossip said. More used to picking out the right people for his lord and master to meet and entertain than doing his stuff as a sea officer.
He said, "She's still swingin' sir. But the chains are the best chance!"
Varlo turned and stared at him, as if searching for criticism or defiance.
"So I can see!" He gripped the coxswain's shoulder again as the hull bounced over.
Then he said, "Suppose they don't speak English?"
Rist almost grinned. "No matter, sir." He touched the hilt of the short fighting sword under his coat. "This'll do the talkin'!"
The brigantine was right over them now, or so it appeared; they could even hear the clamour of loose rigging and flapping canvas above the din of oars and sea.
Rist watched closely, trying to stay unruffled. Like all those other times. Just one stupid mistake. A man loosing off a pistol by mischance. It was all it took.
But seamanship came first.
"Bows!" He held his breath as the bowman boated his oar and changed it for a boathook. Just in time: with this sea running they could have driven straight into the other vessel, splintering oars. Disaster.
He saw the helmsman glance at him, hardly a blink. It was enough. The tiller bar swung over and the boat reeled around toward the brigantine's rounded hull.
"Oars." Varlo had recovered himself. "Boat your oars!"
They were alongside, the trapped water leaping between the vessels while men groped for their weapons, some staring up at the nearest gun port.
Varlo snapped, "With me, Mr Rist!"
Rist stumbled after him, gripping a shoulder here, a steadying hand there. It was all wrong. For both of them to board together was madness. They could be killed as they climbed aboard. Now.
It was then that it hit him. Varlo would never admit it in two centuries, but he needed him.
The next moment they were pulling themselves up and over the bulwark. Figures and peering faces seemed to loom on every side, and Rist felt the menace like something physical.
Through it all a voice boomed, "By what right do you board my ship?"
Varlo had drawn his sword, and set against the brigantine's seamen looked completely out of place in his spray-dappled blue coat. He had somehow managed to retain his hat through the crossing.
His voice was quite unemotional and steady. As if on parade. Or, Rist thought, facing a firing squad. He would be the same in either situation.
"In the King's name!"
The remainder of the boarding party had climbed aboard, peering around, weapons ready. Something they knew and understood from hard experience. A false move now and there would be blood. Rist strode forward. But not our blood. He stared through the shrouds and saw Unrivalled for the first time since they had shoved off.
He had never thought of a ship as being beautiful before. As a trained seaman you saw her in so many different guises. And she was there. Waiting.
fie turned as Varlo finished his little speech about the right to stop and search, and the fact that Albatroz's master should be well aware of the said agreement.
Rist examined the master. Broad and heavy without being overweight, all muscle: a man who could and would know how to use it. About his own age, he thought, but it was hard to tell, the face was so weathered and tanned by sun and sea that he could have been anything. But Rist was certain of one thing: this man was as English as he was. He had a hard but vaguely familiar accent, like Loveday, Unrivalled's cooper. Loveday was a Londoner, and had been a Thames waterman in the Limehouse district for several years before he had volunteered or been pressed by some overeager lieutenant. As a waterman, he would have had the precious protection.
Varlo said sharply, "Post guards!" Ile pointed to one of several swivel guns. "Put a man there!"
The master said, "This is a Portuguese vessel, Lieutenant. We have no part in smuggling or unlawful trading." He shrugged. "You can see my papers."
Rist watched carefully. Very sure of himself. But he must have known Unrivalled was the ship which had been in Funchal, and been ready for this. So why had he tried to run? In the end they would have caught him, blown this vessel out of the water had he fired a single shot. With slaves you had a chance, given time. But to fire on a King's ship was another matter. Piracy. A hanging matter, and briskly done.
His own thought came back at him. Given time.
Varlo was calling to a boatswain's mate, gesturing at him as if he were a new recruit. The vessel would be searched.
Rist glanced at the brigantine's powerful master. He was speaking with another man, probably his mate. Like one of those prizefighters you saw in more doubtful harbours around the Mediterranean, squat, bald and neckless, with bare arms as thick as a youngster's legs. Turkish, maybe. The man looked over at him now; you could almost feel his eyes. Like metal. Merciless.
Varlo strode over to him. "Now we shall see, eh?" He snatched out his handkerchief and dabbed his mouth. He sounded out of breath.
Rist jerked his head towards the two figures by the wheel.
"What about the master, sir?"
Varlo had to drag his mind back. "Him? Name's Cousens. English. This is all he can do, I suppose. It will be up to the captain…" He broke off as two seamen emerged from a hatchway and one called, "Nothin' down there, sir!"
Varlo dabbed his mouth again. "Must be something. He was running away." He stared around at the silent, staring figures. "I can't simply take his word for it!"
Rist waited. That same uncertainty. But never an admission.
He was suddenly angry. Of course this vessel was a slaver. The fresh paint and tarred-down rigging meant nothing. She was empty, probably on passage to one of the countless islets which stretched along the Atlantic shoreline where larger ships waited to bargain and to complete their business for the most valuable cargo in the world.
He had seen it and been a part of it. Shut his eyes and ears to the inhuman treatment, as men, women and sometimes children had been dragged aboard and packed into darkened holds where the conditions had been too foul to believe. And I did it.
Ile tried to contain his anger. Leave it to Lieutenant Varlo. You'll get no praise or recognition for doing his work for him. Nor would he recognise it if'you did
Someone else reported, "Empty, sir."
Lawson, the jollyboat's coxswain, touched his arm. "Reckon the Cap'n'll be spittin' fire by now!" He was enjoying it.