Lasseur screamed at his men to steady themselves. The hulls were less than two cannon lengths apart when the first grappling hook curved over the cutter's gunwale. A rain of metal claws followed. With their comrades providing covering fire, the men on the ropes began to haul in. Hawkwood felt Jago's strong hand on his shoulder, held on to a shroud and braced for impact. It wasn't dissimilar to an attack on a breach in a wall, he thought, as the distance between the vessels closed. The principle was the same: people were trying to kill you. So, eyes forward, keep your wits, don't bloody fall over.
"It's possible they'll match us in numbers," Lasseur had told them. "But my men have done this before. Watch your flanks."
Powder flashes lit up the faces lining the cutter's rail. A seaman to Hawkwood's left gave an explosive grunt and fell back, a red orchid blossoming across his front.
The hulls met with a shuddering crash and a groan of timber, and Scorpion's crew, screaming like banshees, leapt over the schooner's side and hurled themselves towards the cutter's deck.
Where they were met head on with ball and steel.
As Hawkwood jumped, he caught a glimpse of grey-green water swirling in the gap below his feet. Then he was over and the deck was rushing up to meet him. He landed hard, slithered in a pool of dark blood, brought the pistol round and fired point-blank at a body coming in, sword held high. He saw a red mist envelop the attacker's skull and then tin- corpse was falling away into the melee. Hawkwood reversed the pistol and drew the tomahawk from his belt. The air rang with the clash of steel and the crack of small-arms fire.
He looked for Morgan but couldn't see either him or Pepper. In the uproar and the noise and with powder smoke roiling across the deck, all he could see was a confused mass of struggling bodies. Hawkwood searched for anyone not wearing a neckcloth on their bicep. He saw Lasseur, fighting with knife and sword, turn his blades towards a blue-jacketed man, his face a mask of fury. A good number of Morgan's men were still wearing their French uniforms. Lasseur had briefed his crew. They were making good use of the information. The blue tunics made easy targets.
A huge figure - one of the cutter's crew, from his lack of an arm band - appeared on Hawkwood's right, in his hands a musketoon designed for close-quarter work. The gun's maw looked about a foot wide. Hawkwood saw death staring at him and then Jago was there, cutlass hacking down through the man's wrist before he could pull the trigger. Hawkwood followed through with the tomahawk, felt the blade bite into muscle, tugged the weapon free and scrambled on.
The battle raged. It was brutal and bloody, and it was becoming increasingly perilous underfoot. Detritus from the vessel's broken rig had turned the deck into a morass of cordage, black rigging, torn sailcloth and broken spars. The bodies of the dead and wounded were adding to the debris.
Then, through a gap in the fighting, Hawkwood saw Pepper. Morgan's lieutenant was at the cutter's stern, hacking a cutlass at a knot of rope wrapped around an arm of the jolly boat hoist. The tiller man lay dead by Pepper's feet.
Bastard's trying to go over the side again, Hawkwood thought. But Pepper wasn't alone. Another man was attempting to free the ropes on the hoist's other arm. Hawkwood didn't recognize Morgan immediately. His black beard was gone, but his shape gave him away. He looked up, saw Hawkwood, swallowed his shock and redoubled his efforts. Like some of his men, he was still wearing the blue tunic and white breeches. Hawkwood saw diagonal stripes low down on the tunic sleeve as Morgan raised his arm and in a moment of clarity heard Lieutenant Burden's voice in his ear describing the broad- shouldered sergeant who had shot Corporal Jefford stone dead in the residency lobby.
His eyes swept the deck, trying to pierce the smoke. He saw
Lasseur, caught the privateer's eye and pointed. Lasseur followed his gaze and his eyes took on a new intensity. Sidestepping over the mess of fallen canvas and ignoring the press about him, the privateer, teeth bared, clambered towards the jolly boat.
Hawkwood saw Pepper look up. Morgan's lieutenant had spotted Lasseur moving towards him. Beneath his beard, Pepper's cheeks hardened. He edged away from the hoist, cutlass in his hand. Behind Pepper's back, Morgan continued to attack the rope. Suddenly the strands parted and the jolly boat's bow dropped. Morgan transferred his energy to the second hoist.
Hawkwood heard Jago bellow. Another of Morgan's men chancing his arm. He turned and whipped the pistol butt into a startled face. Regaining his balance and with the fighting raging about him, he headed for the stern.
Pepper gripped the cutlass and waited for Lasseur's attack. He looked unconcerned, confident. The cutlass was his weapon.
Lasseur ran in, Pepper scythed the cutlass towards Lasseur's sword arm. Lasseur parried, driving the strike away with the side of his blade. As Pepper's weight carried him round, Lasseur went low and ripped his knife through the tendons behind Pepper's right knee. His hamstrings severed, Pepper collapsed on to the deck, his expression one of bewilderment, shock and pain. Head thrown back, his mouth opened, but the scream was cut short as Lasseur rammed his sword point down and through the exposed throat.
Lasseur placed his boot on Pepper's unmoving chest and tugged the blade free.
"Cretin!" he hissed.
Morgan was almost through the last rope when he saw Pepper fall. The sight of Lasseur and the Runner on the bow of the schooner had been shocking enough. Seeing his lieutenant killed so suddenly and with such ruthless efficiency was even worse. One second Cephus was there, guarding his back, the next he was on the deck with a gaping wound in his throat, leaking blood. It didn't seem possible things could happen that quickly.
But they had and Morgan had seen the look in Lasseur's eye and he knew what it meant. So, ignoring the dead tiller man and the pool of blood that was seeping into the deck, he continued with his frantic attempt to free the jolly boat from its cradle, knowing it was futile.
He heard a voice say, "It's over, Morgan," and turned, breathing heavily.
Lasseur and Hawkwood were standing shoulder to shoulder. Beside them stood a stocky, hard-faced man with gun-metal hair, carrying a bloodstained cutlass.
"It's over, Morgan," Hawkwood said again. "You lost. Your men are finished."
Morgan saw that Hawkwood spoke the truth. Those members of his crew that were still standing were laying down their arms in surrender and lowering themselves to the deck, hands on their heads. Lasseur's men were moving among them, collecting weapons. It was clear from the lack of cloth bands on the bodies littering the deck that the cutter's crew had been overwhelmed by sheer force of arms. The Sea Witch's scuppers were slick with blood.
"Reckon this is what they mean when they talk about rats tryin' to leave a sinkin' ship," Jago said.
Morgan let the sword slip from his grasp. His chest rose and fell.
"We're still fifteen miles off the coast," Hawkwood said. "Did you really think you'd make it?"
"The Lord loves an optimist," Lasseur murmured.
"Can't blame a man for trying," Morgan said.
Hawkwood stuck the pistol in his belt, tossed the tomahawk aside and drew the knife from his boot.
A flicker of doubt crossed Morgan's face. His jaw tightened.
The man looked strange without the beard, Hawkwood had decided. His face looked rounder and at least five years younger, and not so aggressive. In fact, Hawkwood thought, there was something else about Morgan that was different. He looked more portly round the chest, which was a bit odd, and his movements looked . . . ponderous.
Before Morgan could react, Hawkwood jabbed the knife point beneath the front hem of Morgan's tunic and with effortless ease sliced the blade towards Morgan's chin like a surgeon opening up a cadaver. The tunic cloth parted like grape skin.