"Ready on the capstan, Mr Galbraith. Take in the slack from aft." He did not raise his voice. "Impress on the gun captains to aim high, rigging and nothing below it."
"Heave, lads! Ifemve:I"
Adam saw Lieutenant Bellairs urging more men from aft to add their weight to the capstan bars, feet and toes slipping as they matched their strength against the ship and the anchor cable.
Adam watched the land; it was moving, but so slowly. He stared at the three other vessels, spreading out now, with all the room they needed to avoid Unrivalled's challenge. Except for the unmarked channels. Each of the three masters would know all about them, and be ready to choose his escape route to the sea.
If they took no chances, they could do it. Full human cargoes would increase their risk of sharing Paradox's fate. And they had fired on a King's ship, had killed Turnbull's men in the water. Yes, every man aboard would know the penalty of failure now.
Unrivalled was swinging, but not fast enough. It had to be soon. Adam gripped his sword and pressed it against his thigh until the pain steadied him. It was now.
"Open the ports! Run out."
He watched the leading and nearest slaver. It would surprise them if nothing else.
But they would know that Unrivalled could not move. If she weighed now, it would take an eternity to clear the treacherous anchorage and give chase. He had already told Varlo what to do; the gun captains would lay and fire without even the movement of the deck to disturb them.
He realized that Yovell was still on deck, instead of having gone to the orlop, his station when the ship was cleared for action.
The gun captains were peering aft, fists raised, eyes on the bluecoated figure by the rail, surrounded by many but totally alone.
"A prayer today, Mr Yovell, might not come amiss." He raised his arm, and gauged the glittering arrowhead of water which separated them. There was no sound on the quarterdeck; each man was waiting, wondering. Perhaps it was not merely prize-money this time. He thought of Hastilow. Or revenge.
"As you bear!" His arm sliced down. Fire."
The deck jerked violently, the sun-dried wood flinching to every shock as gun by gun along the ship's side each eighteenpounder hurled itself inboard to be restrained by its tackles and crew.
Many of the shots went far too high. One even splashed down alongside the mastless Paradox. Adam found a moment to wonder if Turnbull had survived, at least long enough to see what he had caused.
He heard Rist say, "Got that bugger!" Then he seemed to realise he was beside his captain, and added, "Nice one, sir!"
A lucky shot or a skilled aim, the result was the same. The vessel's topmast had cracked like a carrot, and the rising wind did the rest. The spars and heavy canvas splashed hard down alongside like one huge sea-anchor, dragged her round broadside-on, and Adam could see tiny ant-like figures running about the brig's deck, probably expecting the next broadside to smash directly into them.
Her sails flapped in sudden confusion, as if her master was going to attempt to wear ship, and claw back into the narrows.
Cristie said flatly, "Aground. Hard an' bloody fast, rot him!"
The second vessel was already changing tack. Unrivalled could not fire again without raking the first one.
Adam said, "Number one gun, larboard battery!" He saw Galbraith turn and stare at him. "We might lose the other brig, but not Albatroz, not this time!"
Then he took a telescope from its rack and walked to the larboard side. The brigantine, even fully laden, would still draw less water than the others. That one channel, which had always been avoided by larger craft, was Albatroz's obvious choice. He thought of his uncle's words again. The unexpected…
And there she was, exactly as he had remembered. Well handled, her rig, which Partridge had first described, bracing now to carry the vessel closer inshore, where she would tack again and cross Unrivalled's bows unharmed.
Galbraith had gone forward and was standing with the gun crew, gesturing, and the gun captain was nodding, red neckerchief already tied firmly around his ears.
It might take a few more minutes, but one gun firing and reloading without support from the rest of the battery might avoid confusion and over eagerness. Gun crews were used to competing with each other; it was all a part of training and familiarity, not only among gun captains but every member of the teams. A pull here, a turn there, handspikes ready to edge the long barrel around perhaps a mere inch, to get that perfect shot.
Someone growled, "The bugger's run up the Portuguese flag!"
Another retorted, "'E'll need it to wipe 'is backside with!"
Adam glanced at the main channel. The first brig was still aground. She had boats in the water. To escape, to attempt to kedge her off? One was pointless; the latter would take too much time. Seven Sisters would be there before long. And the other vessel was making good her escape. He pressed his knuckles against his thighs and stared at the brigantine.
"Slack off aft, Mr Partridge. Handsomely, now." He lifted his hand again and saw Rist turn to watch him. "Easy, lads!"
He knew Varlo was signalling from the forecastle; Unrivalled was taking up to her cable again; the shoreline was as before, as if they had never moved.
But all he could see were the tan-coloured sails moving slowly from bow to bow, the masthead appearing to brush beneath Unrivalled's jib-boom.
"Run out!" After the squeal of trucks and the rumble of heavy guns being run up to their ports, it was almost gentle. And vet nobody moved, and speech was in whispers.
fllbatroz's master was standing into the narrow channel. There was no turning back. Soon, any second now, and he would see the solitary gun. And he would know. He might run ashore; he could even attempt to kill every slave aboard, but he could not escape. The Portuguese flag was the only thing between him and the rope.
He heard the gun captain's voice, saw him lean over to tap one of his men's shoulders. The seaman even looked up and nodded, his tanned face split into a grin.
Adam felt some of the tension drain away. He had spoken to that same seaman a few days ago, but at this moment he could not recall his name.
Cristie remarked, "She's got a couple of guns run out." He looked at his captain. "They might, if they're desperate enough."
No one answered him.
Adam straightened his back and felt the trapped sweat run down his spine and between his buttocks. The brigantine was on course now, all sails drawing and filling well, as if Unrivalled were invisible.
And if they did open fire? Unrivalled's guns would offer no quarter.
I le thought suddenly of Avery, and lleighton's father, and his hand moved as if to touch the locket.
It only took one shot.
"Now, as you bear!" He folded his arms and stared at the brigantine's flag, a splash of colour against the hazy backdrop. "Fire."
For an instant longer Adam thought it was another overshoot. Then the maintopmast began to dip very slowly, almost wearily towards the deck, and as shrouds and running rigging snapped under the strain the complete mast with driver and trysails fell with sudden urgency, the sound mingling with the echo of the last shot.
Adam wanted to wipe his face, his mouth, but could not move.
Strike, you bastard, strike! His own voice or someone's beside him, he did not know. Another few minutes and they would have to fire again. Ile knew from instinct as much as experience that the gun had already been reloaded and run out. After that Alhatroz, crippled or not, would be beyond their reach.
"Ready, sir!"
It was not his concern. The seizure of any slaver was his duty above and beyond all else. The words of his orders seemed to mock him. But all he could see was the effect of one i8-pounder hall smashing into a hull packed with helpless, terrified humanity.
He lifted his arm, but held it there as Bellairs veiled, "They're anchoring, sir! The huggers are going to strike!"
Adam breathed out slowly. It sounded like the exhalation of an old man.