Free Absolute Honour by C.C. Humphreys

the railing, at last had time to draw his sword there. The deck filled with swirling,
yelling men. Pistols flashed, blades clashed and spears were thrust, some driving into flesh, some turned aside by axe or
sword. He had no time towatch the scene, though, for the man whose blow he’d dodged before came for him again, the cutlass raised high; yet it was
the other hand that concerned Jack first. It held a pistol and at five paces the Frenchman screamed, raised and fired. Jack
could do no more than duck, felt heat and a sting in his left ear. There was no time to check any injury, not with the man
running at him, and Jack’s attention switched to the sword, his own rising before him. Strangely, it was the pistol that was
thrust at him first and Jack, swinging his right leg back, his sword paralleling it, brought his left hand across to push
the now harmless pistol aside.
    Except it wasn’t harmless, Jack realized as the bayonet blade on the pistol’s muzzle sliced across the palm of his thrusting
hand. ‘Ayee,’ he yelled, agonized, his opponent now bringing the cutlass over in a sweep to finish what his boarding pistol
had started. But thrusting with such a short weapon had brought him close to Jack, closer than he should have been. Despite
the sudden pain, he smashed the guard of his sword into the Frenchman’s mouth.
    The man staggered back, into the heart of the fray, stumbling, falling, causing one of his comrades to trip, and allowing
McRae to finish him with a cutlass. Jack looked down at his palm. It was gouting blood, the cut deep and wide. Cursing, checking
that no one was leaving the mêlée to seek him out, he whipped off the stock that tamed his hair, wrapped it around the
hand and drew his tomahawk to hold it in place. With both weapons before him, he turned back to battle.
    ‘Come on, then!’ he screamed, charging in.
    No doubt it was the number of French bodies upon the deck, and the relatively few British among them, but no sooner had he
re-joined the fight than it suddenly ceased, the enemy seeming to give up as one, those who could running for their own ship’s
prow where it overhung the
Sweet Eliza.
    ‘They flee!’ cried Captain Link. ‘By God, we’ve won, boys.’
    As the cheer faded, an Irish voice rose above it. ‘They flee to fight again. We must follow or they’ll stand off and blow
us from the water. Look, lads!’ Red Hugh was waving at the deck of the
Robuste.
All could see that those few who were helping their comrades back aboard were outnumbered by those backing their sails, trying
to catch the wind and haul their ship clear while others were hacking at the grapplings that bound the two vessels together.
More had picked up muskets, gone to the swivel guns that had yet to come into play. Instantly, Jack could see what was going
to happen. Greed had lured the Frenchmen in, but once clear they would be able to do what they should have done in the beginning:
reduce the ship and its crew to skeletons before boarding again to pick clean the bones.
    Looking down, Jack saw that the
Eliza’s
first broadside had blasted a hole in the
Robuste’s
gundeck two portholes wide, and that some of the fleeing Frenchmen were scrambling through it three abreast.
    ‘There, Red Hugh,’ Jack yelled, seizing the man’s arm, turning him. ‘There lies our way.’
    ‘You are in the right, lad. Are you sure you’ve not fought on a ship before?’ A brief smile then the Irishman turned. ‘Can
you keep us snug to her, Captain?’
    ‘I can.’ Link’s florid face was further coloured with powder and blood. ‘I will.’
    ‘Then,’ he turned to the crew, ‘Larbollians! You’ve fought for the
Sweet Eliza,
now fight for the prize. With me!’ And thus leaving the starboard watch aboard to shoot and handle the ship, Red Hugh led
twenty drinking companions and one Jack Absolute to board the enemy frigate.
    The coat-tail of the last of the enemy had only just vanished but already