A single chebeck had survived the devastating broadside, and, like the first, showed no intention of retreating, or pausing to rescue the survivors who floundered amongst the flotsam and the drifting carnage.
"Marines, stand too."
Tyacke turned toward Bolitho, his scarred face strangely calm. "No time to reload, sir." He drew his sword, and then raised his voice, so that men who were snatching up cutlasses and boarding axes faltered and stared at him. "They intend to board us, lads! If one man, just one man, can get below, it will bring disaster!" He saw the uncertainty, and the doubt, especially on the more seasoned faces. This will be their last fight. Let it not be yours." He looked at the dark blood where the two wounded seamen had been dragged away. "So stand together!"
The marines were already crouching at the nettings, muskets trained, bayonets like ice in the sunlight. A seaman stood in the shrouds and took aim with his musket. Then he fell, his mouth wide in a final cry as he hit the water.
Frobisher's seamen abandoned their guns and clambered up to repel boarders.
Bolitho saw it all with an immense detachment, as if he were someone else, an onlooker, untouched by the sudden bang of muskets, and a deep baying chorus as the first chebeck surged alongside, sweeps splintering in the impact, men falling and yelling as the marines fired down amongst them at a few yards' range. They had no chance, but, as that onlooker, Bolitho felt no surprise when figures swarmed up and over the gangway, hacking with their curved swords, some still firing muskets and pistols while they clung to the chains and then the shrouds, driven onward by something even the stabbing bayonets could not repulse.
Avery drew his sword, and Allday moved closer to Bolitho, his cutlass resting on his shoulder, his eyes on the surging, swaying mass. But the squads of scarlet-coated marines were gaining the upper hand, their boots stamping in unison as, with bayonets parrying and pointing, they formed a barrier between the Algerines and the quarterdeck.
One marine slipped on the bloody deck and lost his balance. As though it were a scene in a nightmare, Bolitho saw a bearded giant whose robes were already soaked in blood swing his blade like a scythe, and heard the cries of outrage and horror as the marine's head rolled down amongst the litter of dead and wounded.
Lieutenant Pennington, a deep cut on his forehead, lunged at the giant but had his sword torn from his hand, and would have shared the marine's hideous death but for the diversion his admiral provided.
The giant, feet apart, raised his sword and held it in both hands, his eyes fixed on Bolitho, as if nothing and no one else existed. He must have been wounded several times; there was blood pouring unheeded down his thigh. His teeth were bared, in hatred or agony it was impossible to tell, but to Bolitho he appeared to be grinning, his teeth like fangs against his black beard.
Allday rasped, "Leave it, Sir Richard!" and bounded forward, but the great sword swung again. Sparks flew from the steel as the two blades clanged together, and Allday reeled across one of the guns.
Voices came from far away. "Kill that bastard, Sergeant BazelyT
The crack of the musket was deafening, and Bolitho felt the sting of powder in his eyes as the marine fired, even as the sword rose again above his attacker's head.
When he looked again, the bearded giant had fallen among the others, a bayonet putting an end to his last, incredible strength. Weapons were being thrown down, but not many of the Algerines had survived, or perhaps they had been given no chance to surrender.
Tyacke was beside him, his hat gone, his sword still gripped in his hand. There was blood on its blade. He did not speak immediately, allowing the fury and the madness of the fight to release him.
"We lost a dozen men, Sir Richard, maybe a couple more. They're taking the wounded below… we'll know about them soon enough, I daresay."
Bolitho stared up at the sails: unmoving again. Becalmed, with the remaining chebecks drifting alongside, crewed only by the dead.
Tyacke was still speaking. "I've sent the boats for Black Swan's people. We're safe enough here." Then, with sudden venom, "I'll be glad to see the last of this hellish place!"
Avery had joined them, and was gazing at the dead pirate as if he expected to see that inhuman strength rise up again.
He said, "It was you he came for, Sir Richard."
"I doubt that, George." He turned suddenly. "Sergeant Bazely saved me just now. He must have been the only one left with a loaded musket!" He touched his sword, without knowing why. "Where is he? I would like to thank him."
Bazely exclaimed, "I'm here. Sir Richard. With you." He was grinning. "Where a good Royal Marine belongs!"
Bolitho turned once more, and then covered his undamaged eye with his hand. There was no image, sharp or misty. There was nothing, only darkness.
15. The Next Horizon
Catherine Somervell gripped a vibrating stay and felt her cloak lift around her legs in the gusty wind. She had become used to ships and had always respected the sea, even before she had learned so much about its moods and hidden cruelties from the man she loved.
Grace and Bryan Ferguson had been openly despairing about her decision to take passage to Malta, and even Nancy, with the sea in her blood, had been concerned.
Catherine had travelled in all kinds of vessel, from humble merchantman to the ill-fated Golden Plover. None could compare with the East India Company's lordly and powerful Saladin. Even in the unreliable waters of the Bay of Biscay, Saladin, as large and imposing as any naval three-decker, had made the voyage more of an adventure than a discomfort.
She pulled the cloak tighter around her; it was the faded boat cloak of Richard's which she used for her cliff walks, doubly welcome now, like an old friend.
It was strange that she had hardly seen or spoken with Sillitoe since they had departed from Plymouth five days ago. There were a dozen other passengers, mostly merchants and their wives, privileged to be in this ship which was sailing to Naples to restore the severed links between Britain and the Neapolitan government after the escape of Naples from French rule, and the bloody recriminations which had followed it.
Strange, too, that Sillitoe should hold the same important role as her late husband, Viscount Somervell. although his appointment had been by the King when he had been in the early stages of madness. Whatever else the Prince Regent might appear to the public, he was genuinely determined to recoup the losses in trade brought about by the years of war with France.
She heard some sailors laughing together as they ran to deal with some rebellious cordage. Richard had told her a great deal about "John Company' and its ships. Carrying trade to the ends of the earth, and when their flag was hoisted, it rarely came down. Well-manned and armed to full capacity, the company's ships were a match for any pirate or privateer, and had won several battles with enemy men-of-war. Richard had spoken of them with a kind of wistfulness, if not envy.
"Their men are well-paid and cared for, and carry a protection against impressment. They are true seamen, not held against their will. Perhaps when all this is over, Adam will be in a position to see those conditions in his navy. Think of that
Sillitoe had touched only briefly upon his actual business in Naples, except to confirm that he was going to sign a new treaty and an agreement on trade. Nelson was still remembered there for his part in crushing the rebels and their French protectors, although Sillitoe had referred to the Neapolitans as 'fiddlers, poets, whores and scoundrels'. He had smiled at her surprise, and had added gently. "Nelson's appraisal, not mine."
She watched the gulls cutting back and forth across the ship's high stern and thought of the open boat, and their survival. Tonight those gulls will sleep in Africa. And the day after tomorrow, Saladin would anchor at Gibraltar. There might even be news of Richard and his ships.