ALEXANDER KENT: In Gallant Company

Quinn stared at him, his face like a mask. 'Will we go about then, sir?'

'Aye.' Bolitho stole a quick glance at the masthead pendant. 'The moment he decides to shorten sail and head into the wind, we'll use our chance.' He called to the nearest gun crew, 'Be ready, lads!' He saw an over-eager seaman struggling off his knees and reaching for a slow-match. 'Belay that! Wait for the word!'

The Revenge's captain called, 'We'll heave to. I'll be over to you as soon as -'

He got no further. Like some terrifying creature emerging from a tomb, Captain Jonas Tracy lurched through the forehatch, his eyes bulging from his head with agony and fury.

He carried a pistol which he fired at a seaman who ran to restrain him, the ball smashing the man in the forehead and hurling him on his back in a welter of blood.

And all the time he was bellowing, his voice stronger than most of the men around him.

'Rake the bastard! It's a trick, you damn fool!'

From the other brig came a series of shouts and confused

orders, and then like bewildered hogs the guns began to run

out through the ports along her side.

Another seaman hurried towards the swaying figure by the hatch, only to be clubbed senseless by the pistol. That last effort was more than enough. Blood was spurting through the wad of bandages around his armpit, and his stubbled face seemed to be whitening even as he tried to drag himself to the nearest gun, as if the life was flooding out of him.

Bolitho saw it all as in a wild dream, with events and sequences overlapping, yet totally separate. Gallimore's sudden cries had lured Tracy 's guard from his post. And who could blame him? Tracy 's terrible wound should have been enough to kill almost anyone.

And Revenge's captain's voice calling across to Moffitt must have somehow dragged Tracy from his unconscious state to sudden, violent action.

Whatever had begun it, Bolitho knew there was no chance at all of completing his flimsy plan.

He yelled, 'Run out!'

He watched his men hurling themselves on their tackles, the four guns squeaking to the open ports with desperation matched only by despair.

'Fire!'

As the guns crashed out in a ragged salvo, Bolitho shouted, 'Stockdale! Put the helm down!'

As Stockdale and a helmsman spun the spokes, Bolitho dragged out his hanger, knowing that nothing, nothing on earth could change this moment.

He heard startled shouts from his own men and musket shots from the Revenge as like a wild animal the White Hills responded to the helm and swung up into the wind, sails shaking and convulsing, as the other vessel appeared to charge right across her bowsprit.

There were several isolated shots, his or theirs, Bolitho did not know. He was running forward, his feet slipping on blood as he tore past the dying Tracy towards the point of impact

Like a great tusk the jib boom smashed through Revenge's rigging and stays, the impact shaking the hull and deck with the force of going aground.

And still the wind, and the White Hills' impetus, drove them harder and faster together, until with a tremendous crash, followed by the sounds of spars splintering in half, the two brigs came together in a brutal embrace.

Bolitho's ears were ringing to the sounds of falling rigging and thrashing sails, of Revenge's topmast, complete with topgallant and a mountain of uncontrollable canvas, plunging down through the drifting gunsmoke to add to the destruction.

But he was angry, wildly so, and could not control himself as he waved his hanger and shouted, 'Come on, lads! At 'em!'

He saw the dazed faces change to maddened excitement as they responded. In a small tide they charged towards the bows, while from aft Bolitho could hear Frowd and his collection of cripples firing across the arrowhead of water with every weapon they could lay hands on.

And here was the enemy's deck right beneath his legs. Staring eyes and wild shouts, while others struggled and kicked beneath the severed rigging and splintered woodwork.

A bayonet lunged out and sent a seaman screaming down into the smoke, but Bolitho let himself drop, felt his feet find their balance on the other deck, while on either side of him his boarding party surged forward to the attack. The man with the bayoneted musket swung wildly to face him, but Stockdale seized him and smashed the cutlass-guard in his mouth. As the man toppled away, Stockdale hacked him across the neck and finished it.

The first shocked surprise at seeing the White Hills turn towards them and deliberately force herself into a collision would soon give way to a rage and determination to overwhelm that of the boarders. This, Bolitho knew, but at a distance, as if it were already beyond his reach.

Once, as he ducked beneath a fallen yard to slash a man across the arm who was aiming a pistol at somebody, Bolitho caught a glimpse of his brief command. With her big mainyard sprung in two like a giant's longbow, and with the canvas and rigging piled over her forecastle like so much rubbish, she looked almost a wreck.

Beyond the debris, and licking above the thinning smoke, he saw a patch of scarlet, and realized that despite everything which had happened he had given the order to run up the colours, and yet could remember nothing about it.

'This way, lads!' It was Buller, brandishing a boarding axe and a pistol. 'Fight yer way aft!' Then he fell, his face set in an expression of complete surprise.

Now So Gallant Z83

Bolitho gritted his teehh, Time, which they had won with such care, had run out.

From the Revenge's quarterdeck came the crash of a swivel gun, and Bolitho realized that someone was still firing at the White Hills, Above the din of clashing steel, screams and curses, he heard answering shots, a.d could picture Frowd yelling defiance, and waiting to die.

Somehow they had fought their way to the midships part of the deck, where the piled debris of cordage and broken spars made every move doubly hard, but where, if you hesitated, it was asking to be killed.

He saw Dunwoody rolling over and over on the bloodied deck, struggling with one of the Revenge's seamen, one hand cut to shreds as he tried to hold off the man's dirk while he groped for his fallen cutlass. Another man ran from the smoke, raised a boarding pike and drove it through Dunwoody s neck, pinioning his kicking body to the planking until the dirk stabbed him into stillness.

Bolitho saw it all, and as he struggled over an upended gig he found himself face to face with the Revenge's captain. Beyond him he could see the abandoned wheel and the torn splinters standing up from the quarterdeck like quills, the sprawled bodies and crawling wounded who had fallen to the four doubly loaded six-pounders.

Bolitho ducked as the man's blade sliced above his head, caught his foot in a trailing rope and fell heavily on his side. He watched the blade rise and plunge towards him again, and held up his hanger to take the brunt of the blow. The numbing shock jarred his shoulder like a kick, and he saw the other officer turn and run aft, leaving Bolitho rather than face a sudden rally of the boarding party. Rabbett, his cutlass bloody to the hilt, Carlsson, the Swede, with a bayoneted musket he must have snatched from one of the brig's men, even Borga, the Roman cook, who held a dirk in either hand like one of his ancestors in the gladiators' arena, were still here and ready to fight.

On the far side of the deck he saw Quinn with the rest of the boarders, white-faced and with blood running from his forehead, locked in combat with twice his own number.

Bolitho saw Couzens and yelled hoarsely, `Get back aboard! I told you to stay with Mr Frowd!'

He gasped and ducked as a shadow passed in front of him. Then with a sharp twist of his arm he brought the hanger round to lock with his attacker's cutlass.