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swept over him suddenly and he looked down the long deck of the enemy ship with its piled-up ruin of rigging and bodies, a battlefield of blood and desperation - and knew the warrior's pulsing triumph.
    Around him others had come to a stop, as did the French. Sullen and tense, first one, then the rest of the enemy let their pikes, tomahawks and cutlasses drop to the deck. A strange silence hammered at Kydd's ears after the furious clash of battle. Then the sailors began to move again at the shouts of petty officers as they directed their men to surround the prisoners.
    Renzi appeared, his smoke-grimed figure and apologetic half-smile making Kydd feel guilty that he had not spared time to think of his friend as he had hewn and slashed his way along the enemy decks.
    Beside him Neville staggered then steadied himself against the fallen mizzen. He seemed to be working under some emotional burden. 'Well done, you men. I — I'm proud of you all,' he said huskily. Sheathing his sword clumsily he looked up to where the ensign of the Royal Navy floated free above the French on the stump of the mast. His eyes did not leave the flags; he seemed to sag.
    Worried, Kydd then noticed the deck beneath Neville - bright flowers of scarlet blossomed on the planking. Neville slid down to a sitting position, looking oddly preoccupied. Kydd moved to his side and steadied him, but Neville shrugged off his support irritably. 'S-secure the prisoners,' he ordered no one in particular. His eyes had a glassy look.
    No one moved: they were staring at him. A-and cu' away thi' raffle,' he said, in a pitiable version of his usual crisp delivery. The eyes focused. Abou' y-your duty, m-men!' he ordered, in a querulous tone. Kydd felt at his side - his hand came away steeped in blood. Neville's eyes turned to him, puzzled, then his body seemed to collapse inwards of itself and, with Kydd tenderly supporting, Neville subsided to the deck. He lay still on his back, but his eyes moved, seeking out the ensign, which they fixed and held. For long moments he did not move, then gently, his body relaxed and stilled.
    Kydd waited, but the mantle of death was unmistakable.
    'He's gone,' he murmured, and closed the still open eyes. He felt an upwelling of emotion, which threatened to overwhelm him.
    A voice spoke next to him, a cool, steadying voice. 'As of this moment there is no British officer aboard,' said Renzi. Kydd looked up at him, grateful for the intervention but not sure what he meant.
    'We must find the enemy Captain at once,' Renzi went on. Of course — the capitulation could not be completed until the Captain had yielded his sword. Renzi crossed over to one of the growing numbers of disarmed French sailors. The man looked dazed as he questioned him, then pointed towards a knot of bodies draped around the base of the mainmast.
    The imperatives of war meant that the corpse must be found and deprived of its sword, and Kydd reluctantiy approached the charnel house, where men had been dragged to die. Movement caught his eye. Propped up against the mast was a hideously wounded man with his left hip and part of his back blasted away by a round-shot. The man was doggedly biting and tearing at papers, his eyes rolling in unspeakable pain.
    Kydd knelt down and saw gold lace beneath the clotted blood. He realised that this was the Captain. Overcome with compassion, Kydd reached out to stop the manic activity.
    He was pushed aside by Parry, who grabbed uselessly at the paper fragments. 'Damn him!' he said in disgust. The Frenchman smiled, and passed from the world.
    'The Master believes we shall descry St Catherine's at seven bells,' Renzi said. His tone was guarded, but Kydd could tell he was charged with feeling. They were sitting on the fore-hatch, busy with other seamen on endless coils of shot-riven rope. It was not unpleasant - the morning sun was warm and beneficent, their progress a crawl under the jury driver, an ingenious contraption of spare topmast and