Alexander Kent - COLOURS ALOFT!

"Now! Hard over!"

Keen swung away. It was pointless to try to protest or explain. Jobert's company would overwhelm them. They would have no chance. But they never had from the beginning.

He shouted, "Man the braces! Put up your helm, Mr Fallowfield!"

But the master's mate had taken charge. Fallowfield lay near the wheel where he had died, his ear to the deck as if he were listening for something.

"Mr Paget! Prepare to ram!"

Paget stared up at him and then ran towards the forecastle, his hanger already drawn as, with ponderous intent, Argonaute turned towards her enemy, her jib-boom like a lance, her sails so torn and holed that even the jubilant wind, a cruel spectator to the fight, could barely offer steerage-way.

Despatch was alongside another ship, her guns still firing even though her muzzles were grinding against those of her enemy.

Jobert had now realized Bolitho's intention but could do little about it. By changing tack directly towards the convoy he had the wind abeam. He could neither turn towards Argonaute, nor could he allow the wind to carry him away without exposing his stern to a murderous broadside.

Oblivious to the din, Bolitho watched the shrieking balls as Jobert's guns tried to traverse onto the slow-moving ship with the huge Jack at her foremast.

French sailors were already running along the gangway, firing towards Argonaute, some falling or pitching overboard as they came under fire from Bouteiller's marksmen. A swivel blasted out from somewhere, and Bolitho saw one of the scarlet coats fall. It was Lieutenant Orde, his sword still in his hand as he stared up at the sky.

Keen gripped the rail, watching transfixed as the big three-decker, once so aloof and distant, loomed above them. Men were firing down, and he felt the planks jerk by his feet. A heavy ball hit Stayt's body so that it convulsed as if he were only shamming death. The Frenchmen were running to the point of impact, and the chorus of their cries and curses was like one tremendous voice which even the battle could not quench.

Keen turned as Bolitho touched his sleeve. "Are the guns ready?"

Keen nodded. "At this range, sir?" The jib-boom thrust slowly through Leopard's foremast shrouds. It looked such a gentle motion but Keen knew the whole weight of his command was behind it. He waved his sword to the lieutenant at the larboard battery. The seconds seemed like hours and Keen had time to consider several things at once. The great chorus of voices and then, in that fragment of time before the trigger-lines were jerked taut, he heard Bolitho say, "Fine words do not a broadside make, Val."

Then the space between the hulls vanished in a frothing torment of flame and smoke. Burning wads floated towards the torn sails, and the crash of metal against the enemy's hull was like a thunderclap.

The mass of French seamen and marines were gone, and Leopard's side below the gangway was running bright red, so that the ship herself seemed to be bleeding to death.

Then like a last convulsion the two vessels ground together, the shrouds and spars entangled, guns, men and wind all suddenly silent. As if their world had ended.

Bolitho was almost knocked over by the marines from the poop as they charged towards the forecastle, some hatless and wild-eyed, their bayonets glittering in the smoky sunshine. The ships rolled more heavily together and, through the dangling creepers of rigging and strips of blackened canvas, Bolitho saw the stab of musket fire and the gleam of steel as the two sides came together.

From above the smoke the marksmen kept up their fire, and Bolitho saw Phipps, the fifth lieutenant, clutch his face as a ball smashed into his forehead. He had been one of Achates' midshipmen. In the twinkling of an eye he had become nothing.

The ships were being carried slowly and heavily downwind and away from the convoy. It would give Herrick a chance, but no more than that unless-Bolitho saw several seamen cut down by a blast of swivel, the canister shot raking them into bloody ribbons while they screamed and kicked out their lives.

Bolitho shouted, "Take the ship, Val! Hold her!" He saw the shocked understanding on Keen's face and repeated, "No matter what!" Then with his sword in his hand he ran along the starboard gangway with Allday and Bankart behind him. He found time to wonder what was keeping Bankart from hiding below, how long it would be before it all ended, as it had for too many already.

Allday rasped, "God, they're aboard us!"

Bolitho saw Paget by the foremast and shouted, "Clear the lower battery! Every man on deck!"

Then he found himself by the starboard cathead, and already the place was littered with corpses. Seamen and marines, friends and enemies, clawed for handholds on the beak-head, and slid down stays and torn sails to get at each other. Bayonets thrust; others hacked at the boarders with anything they could find, cutlasses and axes; one man was even using a rammer like a club until a ball brought him down and he tumbled outboard between the grinding hulls.

From the quarterdeck Keen watched despairingly as more enemy uniforms appeared through the smoke, some already on the larboard gangway. They would swamp his company. He stared round and saw Hogg, his coxswain, fall to the deck, one hand reaching for help even as the light died in his eyes.

They were all dying, and for two ships full of bloody gold.

He yelled, "Open fire with the nine-pounders, Mr Valancey! Mark down their poop!"

It was almost impossible to speak or breathe as the smoke billowed over the decks and men slipped and hacked at each other, stamping on the corpses of their companions.

There was a cracked cheer and Keen saw more men swarming up from the lower gun deck, Chaytor, the second lieutenant, waving them forward with his hanger.

The nine-pounders lurched inboard on their tackles and blasted grape into the smoke, some of which might find a target on the enemy's stern and amongst her officers.

Keen saw a seaman running towards him and his startled mind made him realize it was one of the enemy, a single seaman suddenly cut off from the rest of the boarders.

He lunged forward, seeing the stranger through a mist of combined pain and fury. Hogg was dead, Bolitho would soon be killed or captured as he led his own counter-attack.

The French seaman aimed a pistol but a mocking click from the hammer made him stare wildly before flinging the useless weapon away. He raised his heavy cutlass and kept his eyes on Keen's face.

He was young and nimble-footed, but the madness of battle blinded him to Keen's skill.

Keen parried the heavy blade, the weight and power of the man's thrust carrying his attacker almost past him. Then Keen slashed him across the neck and, as he fell, shrieking, hacked him once again across the face.

He turned away, the anger giving him an unnatural strength; he did not even look round as more shots whimpered past him or slammed into the deck.

Then he stared towards the forecastle. It was the most terrible scene of all.

Captain Inch, naked but for his breeches, was hurrying to the larboard ladder, his raw stump jerking violently as he waved his sword and yelled, "Stand fast, Helicons!" The words were torn from him, the agony of his wound making it pitiful. He shouted again, his voice rising above the clash of steel and the screams of the dying, "To me, Helicons! Repel boarders, my lads!"

Keen wiped his eyes with his sleeve.

"In God's name, he thinks he's in his own ship again!"

It could not last. The packed, stamping figures were being forced back, and there were some French boarders already fighting amongst the fallen cordage and bodies on the main deck.

A midshipman, unarmed, driven beyond reason, ran for a hatchway, his ears covered with his hands as he tried to escape.