Midshipman Hazlewood walked shakily beside Bolitho, his eyes downcast, fearful of what terrible scene he might witness next. Corpses sprawled in the scuppers who had been caught by the double-shotted six-pounders, and others who had been running to repel boarders when the swivels had scoured the decks with their murderous canister shot.
One jibsail cracked out to the wind and the great ship began to gather way. She appeared to be so loose in stays that she must be fully loaded with her precious cargo, Bolitho thought. What would the fort's battery commander do? Fire on her, or let her steal away under his eyes?
Bolitho saw the second treasure-ship as she appeared to glide towards them. Pin-pricks of light flashed from her tops, but at that range it would need a miracle to hit any of Hyperion's topmen or those around the helm.
Bolitho snapped, 'Hand me the glass!' He saw Hazlewood fumbling with it, his mouth quivering from shock as he stared at the vivid splashes of blood across his breeches. He had been within a hair's breadth of death when Allday's cutlass had hacked the man down.
Bolitho took the glass and levelled it on the other ship. She lay between them and the fort. Once clear of her, every gun on the battery would be brought to bear.
If I were that commander I would shoot. To lose the ship was bad enough. To do nothing to prevent their escape would get little mercy from the Captain-General in Caracas.
There was a ragged cheer and Parris exclaimed, 'Here comes Imrie, by God!'
The Thor had spread every stitch of canvas so that her sails seemed to make one great golden pyramid in the early sunlight. All her snub-nosed carronades were run out like shortened teeth along her buff and black hull, and Bolitho saw the paintwork shine even more brightly as the helm went over and she tacked round towards the two treasure-ships. Compared with the G'M-dad de Sevilla's slow progress, Thor seemed to be moving like a frigate.
It must have taken everyone in the forts and ashore completely by surprise. First the Swedish schooner, and now a man-of-war, running it would appear from inshore, their own heavily-defended territory. Bolitho thought briefly of Captain Price. This would have been his moment.
'Signal Thor to attack the other treasure-ship.' They had discussed this possibility, even when it was originally intended to be a boat attack. Bolitho glanced at the bloodstained deck, the gaping corpses and moaning wounded. But for falling upon the schooner it now seemed unlikely they would have succeeded.
Bolitho trained the glass again and saw tiny figures stampeding along the other ship's gangways, sunlight flashing on pikes and bayonets. They expected Thor to attempt a second boarding, but this rime they were ready. When they realised what Imrie intended it was already too late. A trumpet blared, and across the water Bolitho heard the shrill of whistles and saw the running figures colliding with each other, like a tide on the turn.
Almost delicately, considering her powerful timbers, Thor tacked around the other ship's stern, and then with a deafening, foreshortened roar so typical of the heavy 'smashers', the carro-nades fired a slow broadside, gun by gun as Thor crossed the Spaniard's unprotected stern.
The poop and counter seemed to shower gold as the bright carvings splashed into the sea or were hurled high into the air, and when a down-draft of wind carried the smoke clear, Bolitho saw that the whole stern had been blasted open into a gaping black cave.
The heavy grape would have cut through the decks from stern to bow in an iron avalanche, and anyone still below would have been swept away.
Thor was turning, and even as someone managed to cut the stricken ship's cable, she came about and fired another broadside from her opposite battery.
There was smoke everywhere, and the men trapped below Bolitho's feet must have been expecting to share the same fate. The other ship's mizzen and main had fallen in a tangle alongside, and the rigging trailed along the decks and in the water like obscene weed.
Bolitho cleared his throat. It was like a kiln.
'Get the forecourse on her, Mr Parris.' He gripped the midshipman's shoulder and felt him jump as if he had been shot. 'Signal Thor to close on me.' He retained his grip for a few seconds, adding, 'You did well.' He glanced at the staring eyes of the men at the wheel, their smoke-grimed faces and bare feet, the blood still drying on their naked cutlasses. 'You all did!'
The big foresail boomed out and filled to the wind, so that the deck tilted very slightly, and a corpse rolled over in the scuppers as if it had only feigned death.
He saw Jenour on the mamdeck where two armed seamen were standing guard over an open hatch, although it was impossible to know how many of the enemy were still aboard. Jenour seemed to sense that he was looking at him, and raised his beautiful sword. It was like a salute. Like the thirteen year-old Hazlewood, it was probably his first blooding.
'Tfcor has acknowledged, sir!'
Bolitho made to sheathe his hanger and remembered he had dropped the scabbard before the fight. It was lying in the little schooner which even now was fading in sea-mist, like a memory.
'Steady as she goes, sir! Nor'-east by east!'
The open sea was there, milky-blue in the early light. Men were cheering, dazed, with joy or disbelief.
Bolitho saw Parns grinning broadly, gripping the master's mate's hand and wringing it so hard the man winced.
'She's ours, Mr Skilton! God damn it, we took her from under their noses!'
Skilton grimaced. 'We're not in port yet, sir!'
Bolitho raised the glass yet again; it felt like lead. And yet it had been less than an hour since they had driven into the anchored treasure-ship.
He saw a host of small boats moving out from the land, a brig making sail to join them as they all headed for the shattered treasure-ship. That last broadside must have opened her like a sieve, he thought grimly. Every boat and spare hand would be used to salvage what they could before she keeled over and sank. A worthwhile sacrifice. To try and take two such ships would have meant losing both. The master's mate was right about one thing. They still had a long way to go.
He dropped the hanger to the deck and looked at it. Unused. Like the midshipman's dirk; you never really knew what you could do until called to fight.
He examined his feelings and only glanced up as the main topsail boomed out to the wind.
Death-wish? He had felt no fear. Not for himself. He looked at the sweating seamen as they slid down the backstays and rushed to the next task, where a hundred men should have been ready at halliards and braces.
They trusted him. That was perhaps the greatest victory.
Bolitho picked up a coffee cup and then pushed it away. Empty. Something Ozzard would never allow to happen in these circumstances. Wearily he rubbed his eyes and looked around the ornate cabin, palatial when compared with a man-of-war. He smiled wryly. Even for a vice-admiral.
It was mid-afternoon, and yet he knew that if he had the will to go on deck again and climb to the maintop he would still be able to see the coast of the Main. But in this case speed was as important as distance, and with the wind holding steady from the north-west he intended to use every stitch of canvas the ship would carry. He had had a brief and hostile interview with the ship's captain, an arrogant, bearded man with the face of some ancient conquistador. It was hard to determine which had angered the Spaniard more. To have his ship seized under the guns of the fortress, or to be interrogated by a man who proclaimed himself to be an English flag-officer, yet looked more like a vagrant in his tattered shirt and smoke-blackened breeches. He seemed to regard Bolitho's intention to sail the ship to more friendly waters as absurd. When the reckoning came, he had said in his strangely toneless English, the end would be without mercy. Bolitho had finished the interview right there by saying quietly, 'I would expect none, since you treat your own people like animals.'