Artemis(10)

But there was an additional and crucial injury. The shot that had chewed a fatal bite from the mizzen mast had first smashed the ship's wheel. Without helm Citoyenne was out of control. She surged away for a short time but then swung towards Artemis. The angle opened but they were so close that the result was inevitable — the long bowsprit of the French ship speared across the decks of Artemis between the foremast and mainmast and the frigate thumped heavily to a stop, her bow hard up against the midships of her prey.

Kydd watched, appalled. Inertia drove at the French frigate, but her locked fore-end prevented her completing the move: hundreds of tons forced the big bowsprit against Artemis's mainmast. It stopped dead, then strained and creaked noisily under the pressure.

Something had to give - either Artemis's mainmast or Citoyenne's entire bowsprit and forward gear. Both ships seemed to hold their breath. There was a series of thunderclap cracking noises. Then French fir gave best to British oak, and in a deafening, splintering surge the bowsprit broke and the whole fore assembly of Citoyenne gave way. Her bow dissolved into a tangle of spars, rigging and sails, most of which lay draped on Artemis's midships. Relieved of the frenzy of forces, Citoyenne swung into Artemis and came to rest alongside.

'Stand to!' yelled Neville.

This was now the decisive time — no more manoeuvring, no more waiting. The battle had reached its climax. Seamen spread out along the bulwarks, pikes resolutely outward, but they were so pitifully few.

Powlett stood stock still, staring at the Citoyenne.

'Sir?' said Neville.

'There's something wrong aboard the Frenchy,' Powlett muttered. There seemed to be confusion, a turmoil of directionless men. A number had begun swarming up the rigging on some desperate mission, but angry shouts indicated that the order had been countermanded or misunderstood. Some milled about the decks but nowhere were boarders massing for the attack.

'Her captain has fallen,' Powlett said in a low voice. Then louder, savagely, he said, 'And we have our chance, Mr Neville.' He drew his sword. 'Awaaaay, boarders!'

Neville looked thunderstruck - then grinned. 'Aye aye, sir! Boarders away!'

A full-throated cheer roared up from the men. This was better than waiting tamely for the enemy. Pikes were thrown to the deck; men raced to the arms chest and snatched their weapons — a brace of pistols, a cutlass, some took a tomahawk. Kydd stuffed a pair of pistols into his wide belt and also grabbed a cutlass, which he held as naked steel. Tensing nervously, he turned back to Neville. The man seemed strangely serene. His eyes flashed then he turned to his men. 'Boarders to the fore — advance! God save the King!' With his sword stabbing ahead, he plunged forward. The first division of boarders followed him.

Men scrambled on and up to the remains of the bowsprit. It lay across the battered-down bulwarks of Artemis amidships, a perfect bridge into the heart of the enemy. With mad cheering and wild waving of cudasses they were soon on the broad top of the big spar. Slashing at the entangled rigging, Neville forced his way across to the fo'c'sle of the other ship, to the rapidly gathering band of enraged French. Kydd stumbled and charged with the others, his thoughts a mad whirl of the imperative for victory — and survival.

The gundeck cleared of smoke, revealing the wreckage of battle. The occasional cannon crashed out from their foe, but with the ruin of Citoyerwe's fore-rigging there was a pause in the fighting. The after end of Citoyenne completed its swing, and the shot-scarred side of the frigate filled the frame of the gunport. Above them on the upper deck came a roar of British cheering.

Renzi looked at the smoke-begrimed Stirk, who met his gaze with a tired smile. 'Looks like we got ourselves a tartar by th' tail,' he said. The slight relative motion of the vessels brought their gunports into line. With men away repelling boarders the British guns could not be served: they had to stand silent until the tide of battle had turned.

Through the port Renzi could see erratic movements in the other ship. Then he understood. The thumping of feet on the deck above was towards the ship's side — it was they who were boarding! With a breaking wave of emotion he screamed, 'We're boarding! By God, it's us!'

Stirk glared at him — realisation struck and he threw himself at the midships arms chest, and brought out a cutlass. 'Move, you bastards!'

Renzi hurled himself to the chest and snatched up a cutlass for himself, jostled impatiently by others.

With a bull-like roar Stirk lunged into the gaping gunport, through and on to the enemy gundeck. Renzi followed close behind, and jumped into the hostile deck, fetching up next to a dismounted gun. The scene was a crazy impression of bodies, live and dead. The low deckhead left no room for subtleties — the swordsman in Renzi sank to butchery, the robust greased steel of the Sea Service cutlass cleaving and plunging.