Sword of Honour

14. The Edge of Darkness

Lieutenant George Avery spread the chart across the cabin table and watched as his admiral examined some notes, before leaning over it in the fading light.

In the afternoon the wind had backed again, and had risen unexpectedly. Tyacke had discussed it with Bolitho and they had decided to reef Frobisher's bulging topsails. Men had fought their way out along the treacherous yards, the wind hot across their bodies as if it were from the desert itself.

Now, looking at the well-used chart with its bearings and the hourly calculations of their progress from Malta, Avery saw that the nearest land was about eighty miles away. The little brig Black Swan had taken up her station for the night, and Avery had last seen her through a telescope, tossing about under minimum canvas like a gull in distress. A lively command at the best of times, and Avery had wondered what her youthful captain thought of his present position, under the very eyes of the flagship.

He knew that Bolitho was troubled by the lack of contact and knowledge of his various captains. He had heard him speaking to Tyacke about Norton Sackville of the Black Swan. Only recently promoted from lieutenant and highly recommended by his previous flag officer, he was in his early twenties, and eager for a chance to distinguish himself. Tyacke had replied to a question, "Sackville is clever enough, to all accounts." He had tapped his forehead. "But a little lacking in wisdom."

The ship felt quieter now under reefed topsails, but she yawed occasionally to broken water; so different from the days of calm seas and limp canvas.

Bolitho was aware of Avery's scrutiny, and thought he was probably questioning why it was necessary to divide the squadron on the strength of an idea, a rumour.

Perhaps I am driving myself for the wrong reasons?

He felt the deck shiver, the heavy rudder taking the brunt of sea and wind.

Two days and ten hours to reach this position: the port of Bona was lying to the south of them. To tack any nearer overnight would be inviting disaster; a lee shore would offer no hope if they misjudged the final approach.

He had been thinking, too, of Black Swan, and had tried to put himself in her captain's place. Sackville's lookouts would be the vital link, would make the first landfall, and Sackville himself might have to decide on a course of action.

He half-listened to the sounds around and above him, the creak of straining rigging and the rebellious crack of loose canvas. Voices too; the thud of hard, bare feet overhead. Allday was on deck, Ozzard was in his pantry. The ship carried them all.

He glanced across the table and winced as the lantern's light swung across his eyes. Surely it was no worse? Or was it another attempt to delude himself?

He remarked, "I have asked the surgeon to come aft, George."

So calmly said. Like a man chatting to his second before a duel.

Avery secured the chart, and did not look up. "He seems a steady enough fellow, Sir Richard. Not like some we've seen."

They were both thinking of Minchin and his bloody apron.

Avery ventured, "Does it trouble you much, sir?"

Months ago he would have turned on anyone, no matter how close, who might have suggested a weakness. He would have regretted it instantly, but even that eluded him now.

Almost distantly, he said, "You have not been what Allday would term a North Sea sailor, George. It has been like that. A mist on the sea's face when the light is too strong, but gone soon afterwards. At other times, I can see things so clearly I find myself searching for reasons, solutions." He shrugged. "But I cannot accept it. Not now, not yet."

He heard the bell chime out, the responding pound of feet as the watch on deck was relieved. He had observed it, and done it so many times that he could see it, as if he were up there with them. Only the ship was different.

Avery was troubled by his mood. Resisting, but already resigned… He said suddenly, "After this is over, sir '

Bolitho looked at him and smiled suddenly, the doubts and the strain falling away.

"Then what shall we do, George? What shall we become?" He paused, as if he had heard something.

"You have been a good and loyal friend to us, George. Neither of us will forget."

He did not need to explain us, and Avery was moved by his intensity.

The sentry tapped his musket and called, "Surgeon, sir}'

He said, "I shall be in my cabin, sir." Their eyes met. "You will not be disturbed." He opened the door for the surgeon and passed him without a glance. Like strangers, even though they shared the same wardroom.

Paul Lefroy, Frobisher's surgeon, was round, even cherubic, more like a country parson than a man used to the grim sights of the orlop deck. He was completely bald but for a narrow garland of grey hair, and his skull was the colour of polished mahogany.

He waited until Bolitho was seated in his high-backed chair and then began the examination, his fingers probing around the injured eye like instruments rather than skin and bone.

Lefroy said, "I had occasion to meet a young colleague who once served under you. You sponsored him, I believe, to the College of Surgeons in London."

Bolitho stared at the light until his vision blurred. "Philip Beauclerk. Yes, he was in Indomitable with me. A fine and promising surgeon." But all he could remember was Beauclerk's eyes, the palest he had ever seen.

Lefroy wiped his hands on a cloth. "We spoke of you, Sir Richard, as doctors will." He beamed, the parson again. "Must, if we are to improve the lot of our people. He spoke, too, of the great man, Sir Piers Blachford."

Another memory. Blachford and the rum-sodden Minchin, working as one while Hyperion gave up the fight and was starting to sink under them.

Bolitho said, quietly, "He thinks nothing more can be done."

Lefroy nodded slowly, his round figure tilted, untroubled by the angle of the deck.

"For someone in a position of retirement, free of the demands, to say nothing of the risks which beset every sailor, this damage might be contained for years." He gazed around the cabin, the heavy guns straining at their breeching ropes while the ship heeled over. "This is no such position, Sir Richard, and I think you know it well."

Ozzard had appeared and murmured, "Captain Tyacke is here. Sir Richard." He shot a wary glance at the surgeon.

Tell the captain I am ready."

Lefroy was closing his battered bag. "I am sorry, Sir Richard. You could attend another surgeon, much better qualified, were you not at sea."

As he reached the door he paused and said, The drops you are using are excellent in their way, but……" He bowed himself out, his baldness shining in the swinging lanterns.

His last word lingered like an echo in the air. As if someone had just slammed a great door. Like something final.

Tyacke strode in, his head bent to avoid the curving deck head beams. He had seen the surgeon, but they had not spoken.

He did not ask Bolitho about it. He had seen enough of pain to read it now in the grey eyes watching him.

He recalled the words. Now we are truly of one company.

He said. "Now, concerning tomorrow, Sir Richard……"

Bolitho leaned over the chart. The lifeline. The rest could wait.

Allday stood quite still, his razor reflecting the lantern light. Bolitho was leaning forward in the chair, his head on one side as if he had heard some new sound. But there was nothing, only a few muffled noises, and a sense of heavy stillness.

The wind?"

Allday nodded. "Aye, it's left us. Like the last time, an' the times afore that."

He was talking to give himself time; he had no need to remind Bolitho of the moods and the madness of the weather. He knew them all, as he could feel the ship around him, her strength and her weakness. It was his life.

It was none of those things now. Bolitho had suddenly gripped the arms of the chair and dragged himself upright, his mind wholly intent upon the ship, and the wind which had deserted them.

Allday glanced at the razor; he had been moving it downwards for the first stroke of the morning shave. He had barely a second to twist it away from Bolitho's face before its well-stropped edge laid open his cheek to the bone. Bolitho had not seen it.

Allday tried to relax the relentless grip of dread in his stomach. He had not been able to see it.

Bolitho was looking keenly into his face, his eyes clear in the light from the lantern.

"What is it, old friend? The pain?"

Allday waited for him to lie back again, unable to look at him.

"It comes an' goes, Sir Richard."

He began to shave him with great care. A close thing.

There were voices now, loud and angry. Bolitho recognised Tyacke's, the other was Pennington, the second lieutenant. Then there was silence again, the ship holding her breath, creaking and clattering as she began to drift, her sails flat against the stays.

Tyacke hesitated by the door. "I am sorry to disturb you, Sir Richard."

Allday was mopping the shaved skin, relieved at the captain's interruption.

"The wind, James is that it? We were warned we might expect it."

Tyacke moved into the light. His shirt was torn, and streaked with tar.

He said, "No, sir. We've lost Black Swan." He was unable to contain his anger. "I should have known! I ought to have picked the morning watch lookouts myself."

Bolitho said, "You command, James. You cannot carry every man's burden all of the time."

Tyacke stared down at him. "Black Swan knows full well that she must be in company with the Flag at first light. A lookout with half an eye should have seen that she had gone from her station at the first hint of dawn it should have been clear enough." He waved curtly toward the stern windows, now grey- blue in the strengthening light. "Gone! And the fool only just reported it!"

Bolitho stood up, and felt the listless movement of the deck. Tyacke must have gone aloft himself to be certain, and vented his anger on Pennington when he had found the horizon empty, just as he was now blaming himself for another's carelessness.

He said, "The wind will return, perhaps sooner than we think. Closer inshore, there could still be enough for the brig."

He knew what Tyacke believed. That Black Swan's eager commander had used the darkness to tack nearer to the land, to be the first to discover any shipping there and still return in time to resume his position for making and receiving signals. The dying wind had changed that dramatically. Black Swan was now without support, and Frobisher would be unable to see her, even if she required help.

The sentry's voice broke into their thoughts.

"First lieutenant, sir]'

Kellett stepped into the cabin, his face composed, probably prepared for this by the humiliated Pennington.

"Sir?"

Tyacke spoke instead to his admiral. "I thought we should put down the boats and take the ship in tow, keep her head round, and cut the drift as much as possible."

Bolitho said, "I agree. God knows I've done it often enough myself."

He saw Kellett relax slightly as Tyacke said, "Detail the boats' crews yourself, Mr. Kellett. Two-hour spells at the oars, more than enough when the sun finds them. Put the spare hands aloft to dampen the sails. I don't want to lose a cupful of wind." As Kellett turned away, he added, "It was not your fault. Sometimes we all expect too much."

Kellett's mild eyes widened very slightly. "I shall inform the second lieutenant, sir."

Bolitho waved Ozzard aside and loosened his shirt. "Not yet."

He heard the trill of calls and the boatswain's harsh voice as he urged more men to the boat-hoisting tackles. Sam Gilpin was a boatswain of the old school, quick with an oath or one of his fists, but he rarely took a man aft for punishment if either of the options would suffice.

"Visibility?"

Tyacke dragged his mind back to the present. "Heavy mist inshore, sir. We are no more than ten miles out, but we're useless like this." He glared around, as if the cabin were restricting him like a cage. "I just hope young Sackville keeps his lust for glory on the leash!" Then he seemed to relent. "That was unfair. I scarce know the fellow."

Avery had arrived, stifling a huge yawn as he listened to what was being said, and to the urgent noises overhead.

He glanced quickly at Allday. Trouble?"

Allday shrugged. "The wind's gone, so has Black Swan." He wondered if he should tell him what had nearly happened with the razor, and decided against it.

Tyacke left the cabin and was heard calling out instructions to his lieutenants, and there was a responding creak of tackles as the first boats were hoisted up and over the gangways, ready to be lowered alongside. Avery imagined them all, all the faces he was coming to know, and the qualities behind them. Tregidgo the sailing master, the true professional, waiting with his mates by the unmoving helm, ready for the first hint of steerage way. Sam Gilpin the boatswain, whose voice was never silent for long: another old Jack, every finger a marlin spike as he had heard Allday describe him. Kellett, always outwardly calm and unruffled; he would make a good captain if he ever got the chance. And all the midshipmen; Frobisher carried nine of them, with the usual contrast between the first-voyage squeakers, aged about twelve, to the more serious-minded ones who fretted on the threshold of that first, unimaginable step, to the rank of lieutenant. A step so vast, from cramped berth to wardroom, that it was almost impossible to imagine, except for those with influence or favour.

A ship's company, then, no better or worse than most; but this was a flagship, and the man whose flag flew from the main truck was a legend.

That made the true difference.

He heard men calling from the upper yards and could see them, too, in his mind, hauling up bucket after bucket of sea water to pour over each limp sail. The salt would harden the canvas, so that when the wind found them again they would not lose even what Tyacke had called a cupful. He had seen the marine sentry grinning to himself at that, enjoying what he heard. He was not involved.

Ozzard had brought coffee, resigned, Avery thought, to his admiral's refusal to allow him to fetch his dress coat and hat.

Avery sipped the coffee. It was strong, and very good. One would never know Ozzard in a thousand years, but he could spirit food and drink out of thin air like a wizard.

He glanced at the discarded dress coat. Perhaps Bolitho needed, or wanted, to remain the ordinary man for a moment longer. He smiled privately. He could never be ordinary, no matter what he tried… Bolitho was waiting for Ozzard to refill his cup, unconsciously touching the locket against his skin, beneath the open shirt. Avery saw it, and was moved by what he saw. So far apart, and yet so close. It made him think of Susanna. It was hopeless, and yet he knew that if she merely crooked her finger, he would be her willing slave.

Bolitho said, "I shall go on deck. A walk, George, before we begin to earn our keep?"

Ozzard almost ran for the admiral's coat, but let it fall again as Bolitho strode past him to the screen door.

He muttered quietly, "What's the use?"

Allday looked over at the old sword on its rack. "Use, matey? Only God knows that, an' he won't tell it to any poor Jack!"

He thought Ozzard unusually troubled. "But how does he know, John? How can he know?"

Allday touched the sword. It was so unlike Ozzard to ask an opinion, let alone call him by name, that he was uneasy.

"I've never known him to be wrong." He forced a grin. "Cept in his choice of servants, that is!"

Ozzard snapped something and hurried away, pausing only to look back yet again at the discarded coat.

On the broad quarterdeck the air was almost unmoving; the seamen's bodies shone with sweat, and the salt water dripping from the limp sails pattered over them like tropical rain.

Bolitho walked back and forth, his feet avoiding the various ring bolts and gun tackles without conscious effort. How many times? How many places? Lieutenants touched their hats when they realised it was their admiral amongst them, and a nervous midshipman almost turned the half-hour glass a fraction too soon, until a scowl from a master's mate checked him.

Bolitho took a telescope from the signals midshipman, and, as he trained it along the ship and beyond the bows, he said casually, "It will soon be time for your examination for lieutenant, Mr. Singleton. I trust you are well acquainted with the signals procedure of our new allies?"

He did not see the youth's pleasure at being noticed and spoken to, and barely heard his stammered reply.

The boats were standing ahead of the ship, the tow lines rising at regular intervals to the pull of the oars. They were the launch and two cutters; any more would have caused unnecessary confusion. He saw a lieutenant in the leading boat, midshipmen in the others. Some might use a starter on their oarsmen to get better results, but he guessed that Tyacke's influence had made itself felt even in that.

And there was the shore. Africa, solid and hostile; no landsmen would recognise it on the chart.

"I can see the headland, Mr. Tregidgo. A fair landfall, despite all else, eh?"

He heard the master's calm agreement. A far cry from being a Cousin Jack, but Cornwall was still clear in his voice. A fragment of home. He moved the glass slowly, careful to avoid the reflections from the sea. The haze or mist still shrouded the division between land and water; you could hide a fleet in it. Frobisher had probably been sighted, and her becalmed impotence noted with satisfaction. If, indeed, there was anybody to care.

He felt a nerve jump as a raucous squawk shattered the silence and expanded into a drawn-out crowing.

It was the ship's cockerel, penned in its coop. He heard Kellett saying something to Tyacke. and when he turned Bolitho saw the first lieutenant staring at the sea with obvious bewilderment. Tregidgo was actually grinning. He looked over at Bolitho and called, "Old Jonas is never wrong, zur! Always crows when 'e 'ears a wind comin'!"

They all looked up as a voice shouted, "Deck there! Gunfire to the south'rd!"

Bolitho strode to the nettings and stared at the empty sea. Like polished glass. No wind, then: Jonas had been mistaken.

Then he heard it. Sharp and irregular, with an occasional echo of a larger gun.

Avery was saying. 'i don't see how they can manoeuvre and fight without wind!"

Bolitho handed the telescope to the signals midshipman. He recognised the sound of Black Swan's small guns; the other was something much heavier, able to lie off and make every shot tell.

He said, "Chebecks, George. Magnificent sailers properly handled, they can outrun anything but a fast frigate." He knew the others had fallen silent, and were pressing closer to hear his words. "And when there is little wind they can use their sweeps to work around an enemy until they have discovered a blind spot." A loud bang echoed across the water again. "Like that."

Kellett exclaimed, "And here comes the wind, by God!"

It crossed the sea, ruffling it like silk, and then, as it found the ship, Bolitho felt the sails come alive again, heard the attendant clatter of blocks and rigging, and men calling to one another as the helm gave a shiver and then had to be restrained.

Tyacke said sharply, "Recall the boats, Mr. Kellett!" He saw Bolitho, and paused. "Sir?"

"Recover the crews. James. We can tow the boats. It might give us time."

He did not explain, but Avery saw in Tyacke's eyes that he understood, and was sharing each move with Bolitho, each thought, as if they were one.

Bolitho said. Take your glass, Mr. Singleton, and go aloft." He restrained the midshipman, gripping his shoulder. He felt the wind pressing his damp shirt against his skin. "Tell me what you see, Mr. Singleton, not what I might wish to hear." He squeezed the young shoulder. "You are my eyes today."

Frobisher had reached her boats, and men were already swarming up the tumble home to help warp them aft, to be secured astern.

Bolitho said, "When you are ready, Captain Tyacke." It was abrupt, and strangely formal. "You may beat to quarters and clear for action. Have the gunner open the arms chests. I want each man ready!"

Tyacke touched his hat, equally formal. "Aye, aye, sir!"

Bolitho felt the deck tilt very slightly, and heard the topsails and topgallants bang noisily until they were filled like breastplates.

"Sou'east by east, sir! Full an' bye!"

The master looked at Bolitho, the question unspoken.

Bolitho said, "Hold her as she is. As close as we dare. There may be no time to wear ship!"

The rest was lost in the staccato rattle of drums and the immediate rush of feet as seamen and marines stampeded to their stations, to clear the ship from bow to stern. To make her a floating battery, a fortress under sail.

"Ozzard's here, sir."

Bolitho held out his arms and slipped into the heavy coat with its epaulettes and bright stars. How she had laughed when he had forgotten to tell her of the promotion. My admiral of England… He tugged on his hat, hoping it would shade the damaged eye.

"You may go below, Ozzard."

Ozzard pouted stubbornly. "Because of those pirates?" He sounded outraged that he should hide from such rabble.

Bolitho glanced up as the midshipman yelled, "Six vessels on starboard bow, sir!" A slight hesitation, perhaps remembering his admiral's words. "Black Swan is all but dismasted!"

Tyacke swore softly. "Stood no chance!" Thinking of his own Larne, how it might have been.

Bolitho snatched another glass. The mist had almost gone and the chebecks were clearly silhouetted against the dull land mass beyond. The same raked hulls he remembered, but more powerful now, with a square-rigged mainmast to give them additional power and speed; he could see the banks of oars churning at the water, the din and confusion quite silent in the lens. They were on a lee shore, and would need their long sweeps to regain sea room. One was still firing her heavy cannon, and Bolitho watched, his heart cold as more wreckage exploded from the helpless brig.

He said, "Chain shot, Captain Tyacke." He saw him nod, could sense his anguish as he urged his ship through the water.

"Get the royals on her, Mr. Kellett! Put more hands aloft!"

Tyacke must have been right about Black Swan's young commander. Using the darkness to break free for a moment from the flagship's apron strings, to see and act for himself. It was common enough. I did it myself in Sparrow, a lifetime ago. He lowered the glass as more smoke and sparks burst from the embattled brig. Sackville was paying for it now. But here and there a gun still fired, and splashes fell amongst the chebecks, when before they had been unable to bear.

He felt the sudden fury rising inside him. Captain Martinez must have been well aware of these Algerine pirates and what they were doing. Like the two frigates they had seen from the citadel; they knew. But, for him, it was like being in the dark.

Tyacke said, "I can open fire in half an hour, sir. Extreme range, but any longer and I think we'll lose them."

"Very well, James. If we cannot take Black Swan in tow, we'll lift off her people in our boats." He glanced aft, and saw them still towing astern.

Kellett shouted, Two of the chebecks are coming for us, sir," incredulous that such frail-looking craft would dare to challenge a powerful two-decker.

There was a dull report, and then a loud slap as a ball punched a brown-rimmed hole in the foretopsail.

Bolitho said quietly, They can still bite, Mr. Kellett."

"Stand by to alter course to larboard!" Tyacke sounded very calm, totally absorbed. "Alter course three points. That should do it." He looked at Kellett. "Pass the word to the starboard battery, and see that the lower gundeck understands what we are about!"

The helmsmen leaned back on their spokes and watched the driver flapping slightly, spilling wind while Frobisher answered the rudder.

"East-south-east, sir! Steady she goes!"

The two chebecks changed bearing as Frobisher edged around, every gun on the starboard side run out and ready. To most of Frobisher's men, it would seem sheer madness to challenge a ship of seventy-four guns, and some of the crews were leaning through the open ports to jeer.

But the chebecks were moving faster now, and were using their square and lateen rigged sails to stand closer into the wind than any other vessel.

Tyacke had realised the danger; perhaps he had faced it before, when dealing with Arab slavers. If they could work around Frobisher and attack her from astern, any lucky shot could leave her rudderless.

He shouted, "Full elevation, Mr. Kellett! We can't wait any longer!"

His eyes found Bolitho across the crouching crews. He could have spoken it aloud. We dare not.

As if to give an edge to his words, another ball slammed into the lower hull. Through the telescope Bolitho saw several robed figures leaping up and down on the nearest chebeck's ram like beak head in what appeared to be a wild dance, beyond fear and beyond doubt. There was silence on the gundeck now, and only a handspike moving here and there to adjust the elevation or the training of each weapon.

"A.v you bear!" The pause seemed endless, each gun captain bent behind his port, trigger-line taut, his crew waiting to sponge and reload with the chain shot, hated almost as much by those who used it as by those who were its target.

The two chebecks were almost bows-on, and another flash of gunfire came from one of them, the ball smashing through the hammocks in the nettings and hurling two seamen to the deck, their blood like tar on the pale planking.

"Fire!"

Even the sound of the broadside was different, and as each gun threw itself inboard on its tackles it was possible to hear the chain shot, moaning and screaming like the fury of a hurricane. Bolitho imagined he could see its passage over the water, the sea's face torn into sharp fins as the whirling shot blasted above it.

The nearest chebeck seemed to stagger, as if it had struck a reef. The brightly-coloured sails were ripped away in the wind, spars, bulwarks, and men were smashed down in one bloody tangle. But a few figures still leapt about by the big cannon, and even when the chebeck began to heel over they were still there, waving their weapons and screaming defiance at their destroyer.

Tyacke lowered his glass. The others are coming about, sir! They intend to attack from the opposite side!" He gestured to Kellett. "Larboard battery, run out. Those bastards are closely bunched. We'll give them a tune to dance to!"

But Bolitho was watching the first chebeck; somehow it had survived the broadside, and if anything had increased speed, even as her consort was torn apart.

Avery cleared his throat. "Straight for us, sir! It's madness!"

Bolitho touched the old sword at his hip; he had not recalled Allday clipping it into place.

"They don't think so, George."

"Fire!" The hull shook violently as the two larboard gun decks fired almost simultaneously. The range was down to half a mile. Not what British sailors had become used to, with an enemy hard alongside, and ships pounding one another into submission until one of the flags was cut down.

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.