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gratings.
    With the tumult above, there was little need for quiet. ‘Pass up the weapons,’ he hissed, leaning down to grab them. Stirk heaved himself up to the opposite side to do likewise. The men scrambled up thankfully and their near waterlogged craft was abandoned to drift away. A quick muster showed all present – seconds counted now – and Kydd hauled himself up and over the fife-rail on to the fo’c’sle deck.
    In a flash he took in the scene: the sweep aft of the open deck below with its guns manned and at the far end the raised quarterdeck, muskets over the taffrail pouring in fire at the boats, figures standing apart, who had to be officers – and all with their attention fixed on their attackers. He took in other things, too: the neat order about the ship that spoke of care and professionalism, the shininess of the ropes from aloft that betrayed their long service at sea and the fact that the guns were manned on one side only: the crew was short-handed, probably for the same reason.
    Stirk appeared beside him, then the others, in each hand boarding pistols and a cutlass to the side. With a lopsided grin, Kydd acknowledged the absurdity of reaching an enemy deck in a boarding and having the luxury of a steadying deep breath before the fight. ‘Ready, gentlemen?’
    Savage growls answered and, stalking to the after edge of the deck, he howled, ‘King George and the
Billy Roarer
!’ then plunged down to the main-deck, making for the nearest gun.
    The crew wheeled round, gaping. He levelled one pistol and shot the gun-captain, who dropped instantly. The other he fired directly at a large seaman who had reared up, snarling. The man fell back and dropped to his knees, clutching his face with both hands, blood running through his fingers. Two of the crew fled but another two stood irresolute. Kydd flung a heavy pistol at the head of one, which sent him spinning down to be jolted violently by a hurtling body from behind.
    Pistols banged about him, men were shrieking, but other gun-crews were recovering and making a rush for them. Kydd wrestled his cutlass free and got inside a red-faced gunner whirling a ramrod, neatly spitting him. Yanking the blade out as the man fell, he was in time to parry a maniacal swing from a boarding axe and in return opened the man’s face in a spurting line of blood. He felt a savage blow to his side and whipped around to see a small cat-like seaman raise an iron gun-crow for a second strike – but he fell as if poleaxed when Pearse, yelling like a banshee, brought his cutlass down with a violent slash and, without stopping, ran on into the mad whirl of fighting.
    Kydd found himself in combat with a dark-complexioned Arab, wielding a curved blade with two hands, the man making almost a ballet of his twisting and slashing, unnerving Kydd. Then his opponent tripped forward and impaled himself on his blade.
    Kydd swivelled around and saw Oakley’s body on the deck, the red hair unmistakable, blood issuing under him from some wound. Above him, the boatswain’s mate was roaring in helpless anger as he swung and clashed with two murderous assailants. On the other side of the deck, Kydd caught sight of Pearse going down under a crowd of maddened gunners.
    A terrible bull-like roar came from behind him. It was Wong, armed with nothing but a capstan bar, insanely whirling it about his head as he lumbered into the fray, the heavy timber crushing, wounding, breaking and bringing the rush to a halt. It was magnificent, but couldn’t last.
    Then, from inland, an invisible army opened fire on the enemy end of the deck, dropping men, the savage whip of bullets creating disorder and panic. Volley after volley came – and any Frenchman who could do so swung in dismay to face the onslaught.
    It was enough. Cheering wildly, the boats made it inside the arc of guns, and seamen were swarming aboard to fall on the defenders.
    It was over very quickly: Frenchmen threw down their weapons and stood