He glimpsed Phoebe in her yellow headdress taking her place with the others. She looked up at the ship and caught Rob’s eye. He turned away hurriedly.

  More lines were attached from the boats to the stern. The boats fanned out like a team of horses trying to pull a dead weight. The rowers leaned on their oars. Their dark skins shone with sweat, the muscles honed by years of back-breaking toil. A woman in the bows started a song: a low chant in a language Rob could not understand. The others joined in, pulling together as they sang the response. Even in their rags, there was majesty in the sight.

  A gust of wind blew off the mainland. The Perseus’s sails, already taut, bulged tighter. At the end of the hawser, the sloop strained like a dog on a leash. The men and women in the boats dug their oars into the water.

  Rob felt the deck tremble beneath his feet.

  The Perseus had moved.

  The cannon fired, but the ball flew overhead. In their haste to fire, the American gunners had misjudged their elevation, though their aim was true. The ball struck the end of the mainsail yardarm and snapped it off. A sailor who had been working there, a man named Rudston, fell screaming into the water.

  ‘Heave!’ Rob shouted to the crews in the boats.

  Freed slaves and sailors alike bent their backs to the oars. There was a splash from the side as another cannon went overboard. For a moment, it seemed it still might not be enough.

  With another gust of wind, he heard the keel rasp against the mud as the ship slid back. This time, she did not stop. Water gurgled under her hull. The tide had turned, giving her the crucial inches of clearance she needed. The wind and the sweat of the rowers kept dragging her back, further and further. Rob thanked God and the Admiralty for the copper sheathing, which smoothed her hull and let her glide more easily over the bottom.

  The song from the boats sounded louder. The sailors had joined in the slave chant. They did not know what the words meant, but they sang out lustily. The Perseus gathered pace.

  The Americans were determined they would not let her get away. Two more cannons fired from the shore. One ball went wide, but the other smashed through the gunwales. Men ran to cut away the wreckage.

  ‘What is this?’

  Bracewell had come on deck. Rob noted neither he nor Crow had lifted a finger to help, though both men were stronger than most of the freed slaves in the boats. Bracewell did not look pleased at their deliverance. His face was almost purple with rage.

  ‘Who sent my people into the boats?’

  ‘They went of their own free will,’ said Rob. ‘If they had not, we would still be beached on that sandbar.’

  The deck rocked as the ship came free and moved into clear water. No one cheered. They were not out of danger yet. The rebels were reloading.

  ‘Bring them back this instant!’ screeched Bracewell. ‘You do not know what they are capable of. They will use those boats to escape.’

  ‘What if they do? They are free men and women.’

  ‘They are my property. And if you abet their escape, you are complicit in an act of theft.’

  ‘Can property steal itself?’ Rob asked.

  If Bracewell answered, his reply was drowned by the report of another cannon from shore. Every man instinctively ducked, but there was no danger. The gunners had not managed to adjust their aim for the Perseus’s movement.

  And now she had reached deep enough water that she no longer needed to be pulled. Her bow came around, and the sails were set on a course out of the bay. Rob called in the boats. The freed slaves scrambled aboard, their clothes soaked with sweat but their faces radiant with success.

  Then they saw Bracewell and Crow. A murmur ran through them; their heads dropped. Many drew back, cowering as if they expected to be beaten.

  ‘Get below,’ hissed Bracewell.

  Scipio stepped forwards.

  ‘No,’ he said firmly. ‘We free now.’

  ‘If you say that again, I will have Crow whip the hide off you,’ said Bracewell. ‘Get down, the lot of you.’

  Scipio unfolded his certificate. ‘We free,’ he said again.

  Bracewell snatched it from his hands. ‘What is this nonsense? Who gave you this?’

  ‘I did,’ said Tew. ‘The governor signed them himself.’

  ‘And I have told you already that I have a dispensation, from the President of the Board of Trade and Foreign Plantations.’ Crow opened the strongbox that Coyningham had brought from the plantation house. Bracewell pulled out a large piece of paper, with a wax seal hanging from the bottom. ‘The governor’s proclamation does not apply to me. That is the law.’

  The two men faced each other: the owner and the captain, with Scipio between them. A gun fired from shore again; Rob heard the tinkle of glass as it broke the stern cabin windows, but no one seemed to notice.

  ‘I promised them they would go free,’ Rob murmured – more to himself than to anyone else, but the words seemed to have a galvanising effect on Tew. He put his hand on the hilt of his sword.

  ‘These people are aboard my ship,’ he said. ‘I am the final arbiter of the law here, and I say they are free.’

  ‘You are making a mistake,’ Bracewell warned Tew.

  Coyningham looked appalled. ‘Is it worth your reputation for these darkies, sir?’

  ‘It is worth it for these men and women,’ said Tew evenly.

  ‘The moment we reach port, any court will affirm that the slaves are my property,’ Bracewell insisted.

  ‘Not if we dock in London. The courts have determined that as soon as a slave sets foot on English ground, he is free.’

  The rebels fired again. One ball went wide, the other struck near the transom. The crew ran to attend to the damage, but Bracewell, Tew and Rob hardly noticed it. They were locked in their own battle of wills.

  ‘Will you sail these wretches halfway around the world just so they can call themselves free? Will they be better off dumped on the docks of London like so much cargo, homeless and impoverished and with no means of supporting themselves? Is this what you call mercy?’ Bracewell leaned in close. ‘That property is worth a great deal of money to me. I would be willing to make a certain contribution to ensure their safe return.’

  ‘Is that so?’ said Tew.

  ‘To you personally, you understand. In recognition of the great hazards you braved to rescue the property, I would be willing to offer, say . . . two hundred pounds.’

  Rob gasped. That was as much as a captain would earn in a year. Even Tew looked impressed.

  ‘That is a tidy sum.’

  ‘And another hundred pounds to be shared among the brave tars of this ship who rescued my property from the rebellion.’ Bracewell had raised his voice so that the men on deck could hear. ‘That will buy you a fair few tumbles when you go ashore.’

  A murmur went around the deck. The crew looked to their captain. From the other side of the ship, the freed slaves whose destiny was being decided watched anxiously. Tew bowed his head. Rob wondered that he didn’t break under the weight of the decision.

  ‘No,’ he said. ‘It is not enough.’

  The thunder of guns rumbled around the bay. A spout of water rose astern where the ball landed. With the wind filling her sails, the Perseus was outrunning the rebel cannons.

  ‘Three hundred pounds, then,’ said Bracewell. ‘And I assure you, that is almost as much as those rascals are worth.’

  ‘You mistake me,’ said Tew. ‘What I meant is that there is no sum that will buy a human life. Keep your money, tainted as it is with the blood of the men and women who earn it for you. I would not take a penny of it.’

  A few of the crew looked angry, but more were nodding in approval of their captain. Bracewell had turned so red Rob thought he would explode with fury.

  ‘I will write to London,’ spluttered Bracewell. ‘I will see you cashiered and drummed out of the navy. By the time I have finished dragging you through the mud, your own mother will not admit to knowing you. I will destroy you.’

  Crow’s hand went to the pistol he kept inside his coat. Tew saw the motion, as did Rob. He snatched a pike from the rack on the mast and levelled it at Crow’s throat.

  ‘If you touch your firearm, I will run you through,’ he warned.

  Crow went still. Tew sought out one of the boatswain’s mates among the crowd.

  ‘Mr Leake,’ he called, ‘escort Mr Crow and Mr Bracewell below. They should not be on deck in the midst of battle.’

  The burly boatswain’s mate hesitated to approach Bracewell in his rage. Bracewell did not wait: he stormed towards the companionway. Crow followed.

  ‘I will make you pay,’ Bracewell warned at the top of the ladder.

  The moment he had disappeared below, Rob felt the mood on deck lift. The freed slaves broke out in laughter and excited chatter. Even Scipio could not keep a smile from his stern face.

  ‘Thank you,’ he said simply.

  Tew looked embarrassed. ‘You do not need to thank me. You should never have been deprived of your freedom in the first place.’

  They were approaching the mouth of the bay. Behind them, low bangs and puffs of smoke told that the gunners on the beach had not given up, but it was more from frustration than hope. The Perseus was out of range.

  But the rebels would not quit. They added more powder to the guns, to increase their range, and fired one last salvo. A shot struck the gunwale, throwing up a cloud of splinters. The ball bounced across the deck and came to rest near the foot of the mast.

  ‘With your permission, sir,’ Rob said to Tew, ‘I will go aboard the sloop with Scipio and lead the way. There may be more uncharted shallows to avoid before we get out of the bay.’

  Tew didn’t answer. Rob turned. The captain was not where he had stood a moment ago.

  He lay on the deck, his blood-soaked hands clutching his face. A foot-long splinter had impaled his right eye. The hands gripped the splinter, but there was no life in them. The splinter had gone into his brain and killed him instantly. The movement must have been instinct, the last reflexive jerk of his body before he died.

  Rob kneeled beside his captain, his heart pounding. He tugged the splinter free, though it made no difference. He folded Tew’s hands over his breast, and closed his one remaining eye. He cradled the captain in his lap. Hot tears ran down his cheek, but he was not ashamed. Most of the men around him were weeping, too.

  A shadow fell over Tew’s body as Coyningham stepped forwards. Rob looked up, and felt his grief harden to anger as he saw the gleam of triumph that the first lieutenant could hardly contain.

  ‘Take him to the sick berth until we are ready to bury him,’ said Coyningham. He sought out the boatswain’s mate. ‘Mr Leake. Take Mr Bracewell’s property below and lock them in the hold.’ He considered the freed slaves: some cowering, others balling their fists ready to fight. ‘Bind them with whatever you can find. I do not know that we will have enough manacles for all of them.’

  Over his shoulder, Rob saw that Bracewell and Crow had reappeared from the companionway, drawn to the calamity like vultures to a carcass. Crow bit off a piece of sugar and chewed it, like a spectator at a hanging. Bracewell’s eyes narrowed at his unexpected advantage.

  Rob could not bear the sight of them.

  ‘No!’ he cried. ‘The Negroes are free.’

  ‘They are Mr Bracewell’s property,’ said Coyningham.

  Rob stood. ‘The last thing Captain Tew did was to set them free. Will you undo his order while his body is still warm?’

  ‘Enough!’ barked Coyningham.

  The mood on deck was ugly. Surrounded by the wreckage of battle, their captain’s body laid out on the planking, the crew did not know how to react. When the boatswain’s men approached Scipio, he threw them off. Angry muttering sounded among the crew.

  Coyningham knew he was in danger of losing the ship. He drew a pistol from his belt and cocked the hammer.

  ‘I am in command!’ he shouted. ‘Any man who defies me, I will hang as a mutineer this very afternoon.’ He jerked the pistol towards Rob. ‘That includes you, Mr Courtney.’ The pistol swung towards Scipio. ‘As for you, you black filth, I will throw you overboard – women and children all – if you resist.’

  Afterwards, Rob wondered what would have happened if he had acted that instant. Between the sailors loyal to him, and Scipio’s men, he might have deposed Coyningham, seized the ship and secured the slaves’ freedom. For an instant, their fates hung in the balance.

  But the habits of naval discipline were too deeply ingrained. The men were in shock from the loss of their captain, exhausted from saving the ship, and reluctant to throw away their lives for a group of dark-skinned strangers.

  As for the freed slaves, there were too many women and children among them. If they made a fight of it, there would be a massacre.

  Scipio let the boatswain’s mate clap on a heavy pair of manacles and lead him to the ladder. Crow spat in his face as he passed, but Scipio did not flinch. One by one the others followed, heads bowed.

  Coyningham still had the pistol in his hand. He swung it lazily back towards Rob.

  ‘Is there anything you wish to say, Lieutenant Courtney?’ His voice was dangerous, his finger curling around the trigger. He knew how close he had come to losing the crew.

  Rob fought the urge to punch him. Coyningham would shoot him dead without a second thought: Rob could see the bloodlust in the man’s eyes. He had to stay alive and out of Coyningham’s clutches. It was the only way he would be able to help the crew, Scipio, Phoebe and all the souls who were now at the mercy of Coyningham’s whims.

  ‘I will see Captain Tew is taken below,’ he said tightly.

  ‘Mr Tew,’ Coyningham corrected him. ‘I am the captain now.’

  É

  tienne de Bercheny watched the British frigate sail away in company with the sloop. Anger boiled up inside him. He slammed his fist on the rail, so hard that the battered wood snapped under the blow.

  ‘This is your fault!’ he shouted at Cal. ‘If you had brought your guns to the beach in time, we would have destroyed the frigate.’

  ‘If you had attacked right away, and not dallied out at sea, you could have done it yourself,’ Cal answered.

  A boat had brought him out to the Rapace as soon as the British ships had cleared the headland. He had a bandage wrapped around his head, and a deep gash on his arm from the battle at the house, but he barely noticed them.

  ‘Do you accuse me of cowardice?’

  ‘Do you accuse me of dereliction of duty?’

  Each man was as furious as the other. Battle-weary, exhausted, and their pride dented. They had not been defeated, but letting their adversary escape made their hearts boil.

  ‘If you insult me,’ said Étienne, ‘I will have no choice but to demand satisfaction.’.

  He wanted to fight someone, and he did not care who it was. He let himself imagine how good it would be to feel his rapier point slide through the American’s guts after the frustration of the battle.

  Cal knew he was strong, but he was not a trained swordsman. Étienne had studied with the greatest fencing masters Paris had to offer. The Frenchman would bait him like a bull and turn him inside out. That would be a poor way to pay his debt to Aidan.

  ‘Duelling among ourselves benefits only our enemies,’ he said, with all the self-control he could manage.

  Étienne’s hand was already on his sword. He paused, surprised and disappointed.

  Reluctantly he let go of his sword and offered Cal his hand.

  ‘We could not have destroyed her,’ Cal reminded him. ‘That was not our mission. We had to let her go.’

  Étienne grimaced. What Cal said was true, but it still pricked his honour. Where was the glory in allowing a ship to escape?

  ‘Even so, we should have done more damage.’

  ‘We will have another opportunity,’ Cal consoled Étienne. ‘And next time, there will be no escape for her.’

  ‘Vraiment,’ said Étienne. In his current mood, he would have pursued the British ship to the mouth of Hell if he could. But even he could not take his ship to sea with half its gun-deck shot away. ‘Now we must make repairs. We will anchor in the bay. Your guns will shelter us while we mend the damage.’

  As they sailed back into the bay, something in the water caught Cal’s eye – a piece of the Perseus’s gunwale that had been shot away. But there was movement. A man, half-submerged, was clinging to the wreckage. He must have fallen overboard from the British frigate in the heat of the battle. He was kicking out, trying to steer the makeshift raft towards land, but he was no match for the tide. Soon he would be swept out to sea. From his frantic splashing, Cal guessed he couldn’t swim.

  Cal found a coiled rope amid the carnage on the Rapace’s deck. He tied a bowline in one end, whirled it over his head and let it fly towards the man in the water. It was a trick he had practised often, roping livestock on his father’s farm. The line flew true, landing so close to its target it almost looped over the man’s shoulders.

  The sailor took it gratefully. A choice between being a prisoner of war and drowning at sea was no choice at all. Cal hauled on the rope, pulling the man to the ship until he could grab the ladder.

  The crew paused in their work as the castaway came aboard. They were in no mood to be forgiving. The prisoner eyed them fearfully. As he took in their vicious looks, it began to cross his mind that there might be worse fates than drowning.

  ‘What is your name?’ Cal asked.

  ‘Rudston.’

  ‘And your ship, the Perseus. Who is her commander?’

  ‘Captain Tew,’ said Rudston, unaware that Tew was dead. He had gone overboard before the final cannonball hit the vessel.

  ‘I would like to meet Captain Tew,’ said Étienne. ‘Twice now he has fought off my ship. The third time will be to the death.’