Explosions maybe, but there was nothing untoward immediately obvious, except for the appearance of the Swedish schooner which was, reasonably, running for shelter. No enemy fleet, no cutting-out raid, and in any case the other fortresses would have taken care of such daring stupidity.
Bolitho watched the jib-boom swinging round until it seemed to impale the treasure-ship's forecastle, although she still stood a cable away. The guardboat was pulling towards them unhurriedly, an officer rising now to peer towards the smoke and haze.
Bolitho said, 'Pass the word. The guardboat will stand between us. Make it appear we are shortening sail.'
Jenour stared at him. 'Will we, Sir Richard?'
Bolitho smiled. 'I think not.'
A sudden gust filled the topsail and a line parted high above the deck like a pistol shot.
Dacie, the formidable boatswain's mate, jabbed a seaman with his fist. 'Aloft with ye, boy! See to it!'
It took just a second and yet as Dacie peered aloft, the Swedish master sprang forward and seized a musket from one of the crouching sailors. He pointed it above the bulwark and fired towards the guardboat. Bolitho saw the musket smoke fan away even as the master hit the deck, felled by one of the boarding party.
The guardboat was frantically backing water, her blades churning the sea into a mass of foam. There was no time left.
Bolitho shouted, 'Run her down! Lively!' He forgot the shouts, even the crack of a solitary musket as the schooner tacked round and drove into the guardboat like a Trojan galley.
It felt like hitting a rock, and Bolitho saw oars and pieces of planking surging alongside, men floundering, their cries lost in the rising wind and the boom of canvas.
The treasure-ship seemed to tower above them, individual figures which moments earlier had been staring transfixed towards the explosions, running along the gangways, others pointing and gesticulating as the schooner charged towards them.
'Stand by to board!' Bolitho gripped the hanger and tightened the lanyard around his wrist. He had forgotten the danger, even the fear of his eye's treachery, as the last half-cable fell away.
'Down helm! Take in the tops'l!'
Shots whimpered overhead and one gouged a tall splinter from the deck like a clerk's quill.
'Hold your fire!' Parris strode forward, his eyes narrowed against the glare while he watched his men, as they hunched down close to the point of impact.
Bolitho saw the sagging boarding nets, faces peering through them at the schooner, one solitary figure reloading a musket, his leg wrapped around the foremast shrouds.
Halfway down the Spaniard's side a port-lid rose like an awakened man opening one eye.
Then he saw the gun muzzle lumber into view, and seconds later the livid orange tongue, followed by the savage bang of an explosion. It was a wild gesture and nothing more; the ball eventually hit open water like an enraged "dolphin.
As the last of the sails were freed to the wind, the Spica's jib-boom plunged through the Spaniard's larboard rigging and shivered to splinters. Broken cordage and blocks showered down on the forecastle before both ships jarred finally together with a terrible crash. Spica's foretopmast fell like a severed branch, but men ran amongst torn canvas and snakes of useless rigging, oblivious to everything but the need to board the enemy.
'Swivels!' Bolitho dragged the midshipman aside as the nearest swivel jerked back on its mounting and blasted the packed canister across the other ship's beakhead. Men fell kicking into the sea, their screams lost as Parris signalled the six-pounders to add their weight to the attack.
Allday ran, panting at Bolitho's side as he leapt on to the bulwark, the hanger dangling from his wrist. To board her from aft would have been impossible; her high stern, a mass of gilded arving, rose above her reflection like an ornate cliff.
The forecastle was different. Men clambered across the beak-head, hacking aside resistance, while others slashed and cut their way through the nets.
A pike darted through a net like a serpent's tongue and one of Parns's men fell back, clutching his stomach, his eyes horrified as he dropped into the water below.
Another turned to stare after him then gurgled as a pike thrust into him, withdrew and struck again, the point taking him in the throat and reappearing through his neck.
But Dacie and some of the seamen were on deck, pausing to fire into the defenders before slashing aside the remaining nets. Boh-tho felt someone seize his wrist and haul him through a hole in the netting. Another toppled against him, his eyes glazing as a ball smashed into his chest like the blow of a hammer.
'To me, Hyperions!' Parns waved his hanger and Bolitho saw it was running with blood. 'Starboard gangway1'
Shots banged and whimpered over their heads, and two more men fell writhing and gasping, their agony marked by the stains across the planking.
Bolitho stared round wildly as some swivels blasted the Spaniard's high poop, cutting down a handful of men who had appeared there as if by magic. Mere seconds, and yet his mind recorded that they were only partly dressed or stark naked; probably some of the ship's officers roused from their sleep by the sudden attack.
Parns's men were on the starboard gangway, where another swivel was seized and depressed towards an open hatch as more faces peered up at them.
The remainder of Parns's boarders were already leaving the little schooner, and Bolitho heard the thud of axes as the Swedes took the opportunity to hack their vessel clear of the treasure-ship, complete with Hyperion's longboats.
Dacie brandished his boarding axe. 'At 'em, you buggers!'
Every man Jack would know now that there was no retreat. It was victory or death. They would receive no quarter from the Spaniards after what they had done.
Bolitho paused on the gangway, his eyes watering from drifting smoke as the scrambling seamen spread out into purposeful patterns. Two to the big double-wheel below the poop, others already swarming aloft to loose the topsails while Dacie rushed forward to cut the huge anchor cable.
Shots cracked from hatchways to be answered instantly by reloaded swivels, the packed canister smashing into the men crammed on the companion ladders and turning them into flailing, bloody gruel One Spaniard appeared from nowhere, his sword cutting down a seaman who crouched on all fours, already badly wounded from the first encounter.
Bolitho saw the little midshipman, Hazlewood, staring at the wild-eyed sailor, his dirk gripped in one hand while the Spaniard charged towards him.
Allday stepped between Bolitho and the enemy and shouted hoarsely, 'Over here, matey1' He could have been calling a pet dog. The Spaniard hesitated, his blade wavering, then saw his danger too late
Allday's heavy cutlass struck him across the collar-bone with such force it seemed it might sever the head from his body. The man swung round, his sword clattering to the deck below as Allday struck him again.
Allday muttered, 'Get yerself a proper blade, Mr Hazlewood! That bodkin couldn't kill a rat1'
Bolitho hurried aft to the wheel, and watched as the bows appeared to swing towards the nearest fort with the cry, 'Cable's cut''.
'Loose tops'ls' Lively, you scum1' Dacie was peering aloft, his single eye gleaming like a bead in the sunlight.
Parns wiped his mouth with a tattered sleeve. 'We're under way1 Put your helm down1'
There were unexplained splashes alongside, then Bolitho saw some Spanish seamen swimming away from the hull, or floundering in the current like exhausted fish. They must have clambered from the gun-ports to escape, anything rather than face the onslaught they had heard on deck.