Their bold attack was unexpected, and opposition melted as more British seamen poured through the gunports and battered a path towards the cabin spaces aft.
Jumping to the enemy foredeck Kydd nearly impaled himself on a pike shoved at him by a fearfully pale young man. Kydd's cutlass came up and being inside the long pike he turned its length to his advantage - it was easy to force the pike aside, leaving the man at his mercy.
The face sagged in sudden realisation. Kydd's blade slashed forward and with an inhuman shriek the Frenchman crunched and gouted blood. Kydd drew the cutlass back, the grey steel now streaked red.
The man was already at Kydd's feet, a spreading pool of blood under his jerking body. Kydd looked up. A larger seaman with a moustache threw himself towards him, his cutlass ready at point. Kydd clumsily came to an outside half-hanger and felt a violent clash of steel. The cutlass flashed back and Kydd's inside guard was only just in time and instinctive. The assault ended in a deadly slither along his blade to the hilt. It banged against his forehead and he felt the hot burn of a wound.
The man was overbearing, thrusting, slashing — Kydd gave ground. Suddenly his antagonist slipped on the spreading pool of blood, and reflexively threw out his arms. Kydd thrust out and felt his blade jar against bone before sinking deep into softer tissue. The cutlass was jerked from his hands, but it was the man falling to his knees, Kydd's blade jutting from his chest.
Kydd looked around wildly. It was impossible to make sense of the melee, and he caught the flash of movement of a French officer who lunged towards him with a rapier. Horror seized Kydd, but in a frenzied split second he remembered his pistols and drew one from his belt. At the full length of his arm he shoved the heavy weapon straight into the face of the officer and pulled the trigger. The man's face became a mask of blood and bone and he crashed to the deck in front of Kydd.
His first victim still lay sprawled on his side. Kydd stamped his foot on the body of the other seaman and heaved out his cutlass. He looked around. Men were fleeing, general confusion. He heard Neville's shouted orders from ahead, and hurried forward to the scrimmage by the boat-space. It had broken up by the time he reached it, but re-formed further aft.
Abreast the main jeer bitts a wall of the enemy had formed across the deck and was pressing the seamen from Artemis hard. Surrounded by enemy, Neville was in the front, his blade faster than a snake's tongue. Kydd fell back, arms exhausted and burning with fatigue, but there was no retreat. He slashed and parried, swaying forward and back, weariness blunting his skills. Stubbornly he called on his last store of strength, furious that things had to end in this way.
Suddenly, gloriously, there was the sound of wild cheering as Stirk boiled up from the after hatchway in the enemy's rear. He whirled his blade like a lunatic and close behind him were Renzi and the others in a triumphant assault.
The French broke, then ran. Screaming harshly Kydd flailed after them, but they bolted down the hatchway and into the rigging, leaving the British in possession of the deck.
'Follow me!' screamed Neville. Kydd stumbled after him, a huge grin at the sight of Renzi alongside him. They reached the quarterdeck. Neville's sword slashed at the clumsy attempt the French had made to keep the tricolore hoisted high on the stump of the wrecked mizzen mast, and the enemy colours tumbled down. He held them aloft in his hands, an ecstatic expression on his face. Insane cheering broke out, again and again, echoed from Artemis.
Kydd stopped and lowered his stained weapon in a daze. It was victory! A swelling pride swept over him suddenly and he looked down the long deck of the enemy ship with its piled-up ruin of rigging and bodies, a battlefield of blood and desperation - and knew the warrior's pulsing triumph.
Around him others had come to a stop, as did the French. Sullen and tense, first one, then the rest of the enemy let their pikes, tomahawks and cutlasses drop to the deck. A strange silence hammered at Kydd's ears after the furious clash of battle. Then the sailors began to move again at the shouts of petty officers as they directed their men to surround the prisoners.
Renzi appeared, his smoke-grimed figure and apologetic half-smile making Kydd feel guilty that he had not spared time to think of his friend as he had hewn and slashed his way along the enemy decks.
Beside him Neville staggered then steadied himself against the fallen mizzen. He seemed to be working under some emotional burden. 'Well done, you men. I — I'm proud of you all,' he said huskily. Sheathing his sword clumsily he looked up to where the ensign of the Royal Navy floated free above the French on the stump of the mast. His eyes did not leave the flags; he seemed to sag.
Worried, Kydd then noticed the deck beneath Neville - bright flowers of scarlet blossomed on the planking. Neville slid down to a sitting position, looking oddly preoccupied. Kydd moved to his side and steadied him, but Neville shrugged off his support irritably. 'S-secure the prisoners,' he ordered no one in particular. His eyes had a glassy look.