He laid the naked blade across his knees and experimentally worked the tiller. Rawson fingered his dirk nervously, but the surgeon lolled back with a bored expression. He had no weapon and, in reply to Kydd’s raised eyebrows, gave a cynical smile.
Waiting for the men to settle their blades safely along the side, Kydd held up his hands for quiet once more. In the breathless silence, a drip of water from oars, the rustle of waves and an occasional creak were deafening. Kydd concentrated with every nerve. Nothing.
He waited a little longer, automatically checking that their heading remained true, then ordered quietly, ‘Oars, give way, together.’ The men swung into it and the bluff-bowed launch got under way again.
In one heart-stopping instant a boat burst into view, headed directly for them. In the same moment Kydd registered that it was hostile, that it was a French chaloupe, and that it had a small swivel gun in its bow.
His instincts took over. ‘Down!’ he yelled, and pulled the tiller hard over. The swivel cracked loudly – Kydd heard two shrieks and felt the wind of a missile before the bow of the enemy boat thumped heavily into their own swinging forepart. French sailors, their faces distorted with hatred, took up their weapons and rose to their feet in a rush to board.
The launch swayed as the British responded, snarls and curses overlaid with challenging bellows as they reached for their own weapons in a tangle of oars and blood. Pistols banged, smoke hung in the still air. One Frenchman collapsed floppily, his face covered with blood and grey matter; another squealed and dropped his pistol as he folded over.
It was the worst form of sea warfare, boat against boat, nothing but rage and butchery until one side faltered.
An arm came out to grasp the French gunwale and pull it alongside. A tomahawk thudded across the fingers, which tumbled obscenely away. ‘Get th’ bastards!’ Kydd roared, waving his sword towards the enemy.
The boats came together, oars splintering and gouging, enemy opponents within reach. The furious clash and bite of steel echoed in the fog. Kydd’s sword faced a red-faced matelot flailing a curved North African weapon. The smash of the blade against his sword numbed Kydd’s wrist, but the man triumphantly swept it up for a final blow, leaving his armpit exposed. Kydd’s lighter steel flashed forward and sank into the soft body. The man dropped with an animal howl.
There was an enraged bellow and a large dark-jowled man shouldered his way into his place, a plain but heavy cutlass in his hand. His face was a rictus of hatred and his first lunge was a venomous stab straight to the eyes. Kydd parried, but the weight of the man’s weapon told, and Kydd took a ringing blow to the side of the head.
The man drew back for another strike. He held his weapon expertly, leaving no opening for Kydd. The next blow came, smashing across, and Kydd’s awkward defence did not stop a bruising hit above his hip. He felt cold fear – the next strike might be mortal.
As the man stepped on to the gunwale he cunningly swept a low straight-arm stab at Kydd’s groin and, at his hasty defence, jerked the blade up for a lethal blow to Kydd’s head. Kydd’s sword flew up to meet it, an anvil-like ringing and brutish force resulting in the weapon’s deflection – and a sudden lightness in his hand.
Kydd looked down. His sword had broken a couple of inches from the hilt. The man gave a roar of triumph and jumped into the launch. Kydd backed away, flinging the useless remnant at him. Jostled by another fighting pair the man stumbled before he could land his final stroke. Kydd cast about in desperation and saw a bloodied cutlass lying in the bottom of the boat.
He wrenched it up, in the process taking a stroke from the Frenchman aimed again at the head, but Kydd’s blade was now a satisfying weight in his hand and he’d kept the blow from landing. Fury building, he swung to face his assailant. The man paused, taken aback by Kydd’s intensity.
Kydd went on to the attack with the familiar weapon. He smashed aside the man’s strikes, landing solid, clanging hits. In the confined space it could not last. As he thrust the broad blade straight for the belly, Kydd brought one foot forward to the other. The man’s cautious defence was what he wanted. As the man readied his own thrust, the spring in Kydd’s heel enabled him to lunge forward inside the man’s own blade, the cutlass drawing a savage line of blood on one side of his head.
The man recoiled, but met the side of the boat and fell against it. Mercilessly Kydd slashed out, his blade slithering along the top of his opponent’s to end on the man’s forearm. The Frenchman’s cutlass fell as he clutched at his bloody wound.
‘Je me rends!’ he shouted hoarsely. Kydd’s blade hovered at the man’s throat, death an instant away. Then he lowered it.