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forward, the colours not yet hoisted. His gaze flicked back to the end of the reach. No boats!
    Apprehension gripped him – had they not seen the signal or was it that they had been intercepted? The island was inexorably being carried down past the moored vessel. Should he go ahead with the boarding or cravenly stay hidden and drift on to safety? Then it would—
    The distant thump of a swivel gun sounded and there – gloriously – was Gilbey’s launch, closely followed by Curzon’s cutter and then the others, spreading out across the river to make a broad approach. The frantic baying of a trumpet sounded aboard the corvette, with harsh, urging shouts. Men boiled up from below, scattering to take position at the guns.
    Now the island’s languid drift was maddeningly slow – it would take for ever to reach
Marie Galante
, which lay with its elegant bowsprit towards them but was still some way off. However, Kydd did see not a single flash of faces looking back; it was working entirely to plan.
    Gilbey had a quarter-mile of relative safety before the guns of the corvette, levered around to bear aft as far as they could, were in a position to open fire. He used the time well, pausing to get off a good aimed shot from his bow-mounted eighteen-pounder carronade. The other boats did likewise and the corvette suffered two hits, both of which brought shrieks and cries.
    The boats, pulling like madmen, were not far from the point of no return where the guns could smash in their deadly grape-shot and canister. Feverishly Kydd willed on their own ungainly craft, only fifty yards or so but—
    ‘Sir!’ It was Stirk, pulling at his ankle. ‘Sir – the barky’s sinkin’!’
    Kydd’s attention jerked back to their island and he twisted round to see. One edge of the island was drooping, bright water among the grass. ‘Clear that side – and keep the damned pistols dry!’ he hissed. He took his own out and laid them on a tussock. A minute later, an entire slab tore away and slowly sank, leaving what remained noticeably lower in the water.
    The Zambezi lapped inches from Kydd’s nose and he felt the coolness of water seeping under his body. There was now every reason to suppose it could tip to one side or even break up, throwing them all to the crocodiles. Should he tell Oakley to pull into the bank now or—
    Kydd’s mind snapped to a ferocious icy calm. If the island sank, that was something he could do nothing about, but if it remained afloat there was work to do. ‘Stand by, the grapnel!’ he said levelly. The order was relayed by Stirk behind him.
    Only yards away the corvette loomed larger and larger but not a soul was visible, all out of sight at the guns on the main-deck. Where should he bring in his crazy craft? The bowsprit reared up from a neat beakhead, revealing a small half-deck within it and a dainty figurehead at its apex. Perfect. They would come in under the shadow of the bow, swing up on the stout boomkin over the headrails to the half-deck, pass up the weapons, then appear on the fo’c’sle deck above the guns.
    There was a sudden lurch and a muffled cry, and the island rotated as it rid itself of another clump. The crackle and sputter of musketry above meant that the boats were close – the guns would very shortly be opening fire to cause slaughter in those who had so gamely trusted him. He must not fail after all this . . . The bowsprit was nearing . . .
    ‘Haul taut!’ he gasped at last.
    The effect was almost instant and Kydd craned round. The boatswain had turns around the sapling and was controlling it in just the same way as a hawser around capstan whelps, his fierce grin a joy to see. The island wallowed and swayed but obediently crabbed sidewise in the current, coming closer and closer – and then, incredibly, they were under the trim bow and among the martingale and bobstays. Kydd thrust up for the boomkin and walked his feet over the carved headrails and rolled on to the half-deck