Free Absolute Honour by C.C. Humphreys Page B

so, if you please.’
    Jack laid both fuses atop the lock. To his left was a metal plate. He held this in one hand, shoved the glowing cord into
the fuses, placed the plate onto them and retired sharpish.
    He didn’t count elephants. The fuses exploded smartly enough. Stepping up, Jack peered through the smoke. The grating had
been lifted by the explosion. Of the padlock there was no remnant. He called down, ‘Bring your men up, sir.’
    Those who emerged from below did so shakily, as if long deprived of the use of their legs. He could see that each had the
paleness of confinement and several coughed; hardly surprising, for sulphurous smoke from McClune’s grenades yet lingered.
    ‘Briskly now,’ said Jack, his hand on arms pulling them up, ‘there’s weapons a-plenty lying about.’
    The assembly and arming took too long for Jack’s liking. He could hear the fight was still furious above but he knew it could
end in a moment, as it had on the
Eliza’s
deck. Yet he had to wait despite his desire to rush up. One man appearing would not alter the odds. Forty could win the ship.
    At last they were ready. ‘Gentlemen, I am an officer of the King. Will you follow me?’
    ‘Huzzah,’ came the cry, strong enough despite their gaol pallor.
    Jack took the stairs two at a time and, as he emerged into the light, he bellowed, ‘For England!’
    At first all he saw was chaos. Men fought everywhere, in every way; some locked together like old comrades well met,beating at backs with pommels; others stood far apart, sword tips circling like flies in a sunbeam.
    And then, drawn by the roars, the bodies, the red hair and blood, Jack saw his friend. He’d been isolated just before the
Robuste’s
poop deck, the numbers fighting there testifying it was the heart of the French defence. Three men dodged before him and
there must have been more, for bodies lay at his feet. In that brief moment, he could see the Irishman’s left-handed skill
with his sabre. The enemy were finding it hard to attack. He was steering one opponent into another, always to his own right,
guarded side, making their blows awkward. And yet, as he watched, he saw what Red Hugh, preoccupied, could not: a fourth man,
emerging from the aft cabin, a belaying pin raised above that wild red hair.
    Jack’s attack had emerged onto the quarterdeck at the forecastle stair; he knew he was too far away to get there in time.
Unless …
    The fight before him suddenly parted, like the sea before Moses. In a moment, there was passage forward. Half running, half
sliding – for the deck was slick with blood – he got as far as he could before the club reached the height from which Jack
knew it would descend. His sword went into his left hand, his right pulling the tomahawk from his belt. There was no time
to think. He could only do what Até had taught him to do during the long winter in the forest: brace, breathe, look and throw.
    The blade took the man on the shoulder. He reeled away, lost again to the swirl of battle.
    Jack noted then what his Irish comrade must already have seen: the
Robuste’s
resistance centred on that poop deck, where the white flag of the Bourbon flew. It was where the French had gathered in numbers
– and where those numbers were telling against what remained of the
Sweet Eliza’s
boarding party. ‘With me,’ called Jack, his sword lifted high. The
Constantine
’s crew followed him with a shout.
    By the time Jack had cut his way there, Red Hugh’s opponents were down to two. ‘Heh,’ yelled Jack, stepping in, his own blade
circling to lift one of theirs. The man was surprised, stepping back to trip over the body of another with a tomahawk stuck
in his shoulder. Taking advantage, Red Hugh feinted high, cut low and slid the sabre blade across his man’s chest. With a
shriek he too fell backwards, joined the one who’d fallen before Jack, both kicking frantically to drive themselves into the
shelter of the poop