Étienne surveyed the carnage. It would be hours before the British frigate could get on any more sail. She was helpless.

  He noticed Jean. The artist was cowering on the deck, terrified by the noise of the guns.

  ‘Stand up,’ Étienne barked at him. ‘I want you to see every detail of that ship, so you can paint her destruction.’

  Jean did as he was told. He rose, sketchbook in hand, and peered over the side. Then he threw himself back to the deck as a cannonball flew by, inches from his head.

  Étienne started. Somehow, near the Perseus’s stern, one gun was still operating. He could see her crew sponging it out, reloading. Why were they still fighting?

  It was too much. If they did not know when they were beaten, Étienne would teach them. He lunged for the wheel, ripped it out of the helmsman’s hands and spun it hard over. The ship shuddered. The rigging creaked in protest at the sudden change in course, the new strains it put on the ropes and sails. The Rapace’s bow came around towards the British frigate.

  ‘What are you doing, Monsieur?’ asked the first officer in surprise.

  ‘We will board her.’ Étienne glanced up and noticed the striped American flag flapping from the masthead. ‘And take down that rebel rag. We will fight under our true colours today.’

  R

  ob watched the Rapace haul down the rebel flag. The white banner of France embossed with golden fleurs-de-lis rose crisply to her masthead, snapping out defiantly in the breeze.

  ‘Good,’ said Rob. ‘No more false pretences.’

  The two ships were closing quickly. The Perseus was a virtually dismasted hulk; the Rapace strutted with her sails set and only a few scars on her gleaming paintwork to show she had been in battle.

  Yet there seemed to be some confusion on her deck. Her crew were not prepared. They scurried about, fetching weapons and finding their stations. The order to board looked to have taken them by surprise.

  Rob surveyed his own men. Bloody faces, torn clothes, but armed and ready for the final confrontation.

  ‘Sell your lives dearly,’ Rob told them.

  A musket ball struck the deck six inches away from him. The French ship had marines in her tops, peppering them with musket fire. Rob did not flinch. He could not show fear in front of his men. The French muskets were poor weapons. At that range, the shooters would be trusting more to luck than skill.

  The ships were a few yards apart. Rob checked the primings on the pistols Angus had fetched him. He rattled his sword in its scabbard to be sure there was no obstruction. He said a prayer for himself, and asked God to protect his men. He had no illusions about the odds. They were outnumbered and outgunned, their ship almost destroyed. The best he could hope for was to delay the Rapace, and give the convoy time to escape.

  He was not afraid. This was what he had dreamed of all his life: to go into battle with a stout ship beneath him and a sword in his hand, as his ancestors had done since the days of Sir Francis Drake. This was his destiny.

  The ships came alongside each other, barely ten feet apart. Rob had to crouch behind what was left of the gunwale. On the deck of the Rapace, the French crew had gathered their weapons and were turning to the cannons. They meant to deliver a point-blank broadside, then rush the Perseus as soon as the ships touched.

  Rob would not allow them the opportunity. He rose and drew his sword, holding it aloft like a battle flag.

  ‘At ’em, Perseus.’

  His crew rose as one. The gap between the ships was too wide for a man to jump, but they had prepared for that. They had hung ropes from every spar the Perseus still carried, ready to swing across.

  Rob led the way. He jumped on the rail, seized a rope end and kicked off hard, gripping the rope with his legs so that he could keep his sword hand free. For one weightless moment he was over the open water, as the Rapace’s side rushed towards him.

  He let go of the rope before he had cleared her rail, letting his momentum carry him over it and onto her deck. He collided with a man and knocked him backwards, landed like a cat and brought up his sword in time to parry a cutlass coming at him.

  The French crew were a shambles. They had thought the Perseus was already beaten, a prize awaiting the coup de grace. Half of them had not been looking at the British ship. They had been readying their guns for the last broadside, when the Perseus’s men came swinging at them.

  The ships were still closing. Grappling irons sailed over the gap, bit into the gunwale and were hauled in, pulling the ships together. On the Rapace’s deck, the battle had already begun. The French crew had been surprised, but they were armed and not slow to react. Rob found himself surrounded. He barely had room to swing his sword. Instead, he wielded it like a short club, punching and parrying with the hilt.

  A tremor went through the deck as the hulls collided. Rob kept his balance, but several of the men around him were thrown back. Rob drew a pistol and fired it indiscriminately at the mass of men in front of him, then followed with a flurry of sword strokes in the space that had been created. Steel rang on steel.

  Behind him, the rest of the Perseus’s men clambered over the side, emptying her deck. Their momentum pushed the line of battle forwards, driving back the French defenders. Rob was carried into the press of men. It was hand to hand: shoulders, elbows and knees were almost more use than the weapons he carried.

  An axe flashed beside him. Angus had arrived, swinging the outsize boarding axe with devastating abandon. He cut a swathe through the Frenchmen, making space for Rob to use his sword.

  ‘Where is their captain?’ Rob shouted.

  Angus shrugged. Rob glanced towards the stern. On the quarterdeck, a man in a white uniform was duelling expertly with a gold-handled rapier. He ran a man through. One of Rob’s crew – a Cornishman named Comstock – saw his chance for glory. He was behind the captain. He lunged forwards with his cutlass to cut the Frenchman down before he could free his blade.

  Even with battle raging about him, the French captain somehow felt the danger. Faster than thought, he pulled his blade free of the man he had stabbed. In a single movement he pirouetted and brought up his sword to parry the cutlass. The cutlass was a heavy blade, but Étienne struck it so hard that it was knocked from Comstock’s hand. The Cornishman was still gaping when the gold-handled sword sliced through his heart.

  Rob moved towards the quarterdeck ladder. The fighting surged about him. Rob had never seen his crew fight with such ferocity. Battered and bloodied, outnumbered by an enemy that was fresh and ready, they still held their own. To his left, Angus laid into their foes with his boarding axe. On his right, Scipio spun and slashed his cutlass. They moved through the fray, three men fighting as one, carrying all before them.

  Rob reached the foot of the ladder. A man stood above him, jabbing down with a sabre. Rob ducked out of harm’s way, reached up and cut the man’s Achilles tendon. As he crouched in agony, Rob grabbed his ankle and yanked him off the quarterdeck, throwing him down into the melee on the main deck.

  In one bound, Rob was at the top of the ladder. He saw Étienne – and in the same moment, Étienne saw him. His instinct for danger was unerring. With a quick slash, he finished off the man he was fighting and turned to face Rob.

  Space opened. Men seemed to shrink back. Étienne raised his rapier, his eyes examining Rob either side of the blade. In a split second he noted and analysed a hundred different angles: the way Rob stood, the way he moved, the way he held his sword. A smile curled the edge of his lip. This would be easy.

  Quick as a snake, he moved in with a flurry of feints and then a lunge. Rob parried it: not a bad stroke, but against the quicksilver rapier it felt clumsy and slow.

  The smile on Étienne’s face broadened. Another time, he would have enjoyed toying with his opponent. He would have played him like a fish on a line, savouring the look in his eyes as hope turned to defeat. But that was self-indulgence. He needed to win this quickly.

  Rob knew he was running out of time. It was obvious the Frenchman was a better sword fighter. The longer they fought, the more his superior skill would gain the advantage. But Rob’s arms still had the strength he had developed as a topman, muscles honed climbing the rigging in every weather. Étienne had a slim, slight build.

  Étienne advanced, the tip of his sword darting like a dragonfly. Rob took a more direct approach. He struck Étienne’s blade with all his strength, beating it aside, then drove forwards.

  Étienne stepped back, his arm shaking from the force of Rob’s stroke. He had never encountered such ferocious power before, but he was not concerned. Sword fighting was a test of skill, not strength. Like a matador, he would draw the bull on to him and deliver the killing blow.

  Rob was a brave fighter, but he had no guile. Étienne could read what he would do next as easily as if he had run up a signal flag. Étienne adjusted his guard, ready for what would come. In his mind’s eye, he could already see the stroke, and how he would respond. He would dodge to his right, take a half pace forwards and skewer Rob through his throat.

  All he needed was a little more space. He stepped back.

  A boarding pike lay on the deck where a dead man had dropped it. Étienne didn’t notice it until his left heel caught it. He stumbled. He planted his right foot to regain his balance, but the sole of his shoe landed in a pool of blood. His leg skidded from under him and pitched him backwards onto the deck. He threw out his arms to break his fall, letting go of his rapier.

  He lay helpless on the deck. French and British alike paused their fighting to stare at the fallen captain.

  Before Étienne could think of getting up, Rob drew the second pistol from his belt and levelled it at Étienne.

  ‘Strike your ship,’ he said. ‘It is over.’

  Étienne’s face twisted in disbelief. How could this British rabble have taken the finest ship in the French navy? His hand scrabbled for his sword, but Rob planted his foot on the blade.

  ‘You will have to kill me before I surrender my ship,’ Étienne said.

  ‘There is no shame in defeat with honour.’

  ‘Only cowards believe there is such a thing as defeat with honour.’

  ‘Very well,’ said Rob.

  A hush gripped the deck. He could feel eyes staring at him, British and French alike. Another man might have relented under the pressure. Rob’s hand never wavered.

  Étienne had fought without remorse. He would have slaughtered every man aboard the Perseus if he had to. Rob would feel no guilt for killing him.

  ‘No!’

  A woman’s scream cut through the silence, as unexpected and extraordinary as if a mermaid had bobbed up beside the ship.

  Sophie had appeared on deck. Rob did not know how she had arrived unnoticed, but suddenly she was there. Her uncle came behind her, holding her close to him. One arm was locked around her neck, while the other held a pistol against her forehead.

  ‘Drop your sword,’ Bracewell said to Rob. ‘Or I will decorate the ship with my dear niece’s brains.’

  Rob stared at him in astonishment. He took two steps forwards. He wondered if it was a bluff, and if Sophie was complicit. But her eyes were flared open, her blood-red lips wide apart in genuine terror. She could not be acting. Nor was Bracewell, as his finger tightened around the trigger.

  He would do it. Whatever blood ran in their family, it was a strain so cruel Rob could barely comprehend it. Sophie craved power, and Bracewell money: there was nothing else in the world either of them would not sacrifice.

  ‘Please,’ begged Sophie. ‘Save me.’

  Behind Rob, Angus growled, ‘Let him do it. Or save him the bother and you put a bullet in the both of them. After what they’ve done, what she did to Phoebe – they both deserve it.’

  Rob nodded slowly. The pistol in his hand was no good to him. It was pointing at Étienne. He could not fire it at Bracewell without risking hitting Sophie, and the moment he moved Étienne would come at him. What should he do?

  Bracewell was a traitor and a monster. Sophie was not much better. How many slaves had died because of her cruelty? Would she waste one breath pleading for Rob’s life if their positions were reversed? How could you weigh a woman’s life against the lives of Rob’s crew, and all the men who would die and suffer if Étienne and Bracewell gained dominion over the Caribbean.

  Yet could Rob let her die? He would be as guilty as if he had pulled the trigger himself.

  All those thoughts crossed Rob’s mind in an instant. Yet before he reached his decision, he realised he had taken too long. Something touched his throat and he looked down. The shining point of Étienne’s rapier flickered at his collar.

  Étienne was on his feet again, his face shining with triumph. He nodded to Bracewell.

  ‘An excellent ruse, Monsieur. You convinced me entirely.’

  ‘Hah.’ Bracewell’s smirk said it had been no ruse.

  He let Sophie go and she staggered to the rail, bent double as if she wanted to vomit.

  ‘Now,’ said Étienne to Rob. ‘Your sword, please. What was it you said? There is no shame in defeat with honour.’

  Thunder rumbled in the distance. With a sailor’s instinct for any change in the weather, Rob looked up.

  There was not a cloud in the sky. The only thing that marred the perfect blue sky was a puff of white smoke rising off the cliff.

  It had not been thunder. It was cannon fire. Rob realised it a second before the balls smashed into the Rapace. There were only three of them, but the impact they had was like a broadside. Iron tore through the men on deck in a spray of blood and cartwheeling limbs. In an instant, all was bedlam. No one knew who was firing, or where the shots had come from. Men seemed to be dying as if an invisible god was tearing them apart.

  ‘Kojo has got those guns working!’ Rob cried.

  The Maroon king had learned his trade well. The shots had all hit the Rapace amidships, in the narrow space where they would do most damage to the men on deck, and where most of the French crew had gathered.

  ‘Perseus!’ Rob shouted. ‘To me! To me!’

  His men surged onto the attack again. Some of the French crew had been killed, more panicked, and the rest were in such a state of disarray they could barely resist the British sailors.

  But their captain had kept his cool. He stood on the quarterdeck, alone and aloof, and circled towards Rob.

  A

  s standard procedure, the Rapace had lowered her boats before she went into battle and put them out to be towed behind the ship.

  Étienne was near the stern. He could have clambered over the rail and reached the boats without difficulty. But he did not move. He was immobilised by rage and disbelief. His beautiful ship had been overrun by the Englishmen it had been built to kill. He glared at the devastation – the overturned guns and splintered bulwarks, the corpses bleeding out into the scuppers. A vision of his mother appeared in his mind’s eye: her white face and gold hair, her red mouth set with the disapproval he feared more than any blade or bullet. All his life, she had told him he was marked for greatness. He was special. Her favourite son. And he had failed her.

  He should not have attacked the Perseus. He should have left her and pursued the convoy. That was his mission. He had held the outcome of the war in the palm of his hand. And he had thrown it away.

  It was not his fault, he told himself. Three times he had gone into battle, and three times Robert Courtney had defied him. The man must be in league with the Devil. There he was now, wreathed in gunsmoke, striding across the quarterdeck.

  Robert Courtney was the reason for all Étienne’s misfortune. Killing him would make everything right. Étienne would recover his ship. He would capture the convoy. He would not let his mother down.

  Étienne raised his sword. Rob gave a small nod. This time, there were no formalities, no salutes or en garde. Étienne went at Rob, so fast and hard that Rob had to leap away.

  Their swords rang together, blade pressed against blade, faces inches apart.

  ‘I will kill you,’ hissed Étienne.

  He drew back, rolled the blade around in his wrists and feinted to Rob’s left. Rob was no fencer, but he was a good judge of his enemies. He saw the feint for what it was and did not chase it. Instead, he launched an attack of his own at Étienne’s shoulder. Rob was fast, but Étienne recovered in an instant. Before Rob was halfway through his stroke, Étienne was in position and parried it easily. He riposted so quickly he almost overcame Rob’s guard.

  Even in the heat of battle, Rob was aware of the balletic artistry of Étienne’s movements. They were so fluid, he could move from defence to attack in a heartbeat. Rob was on his own. Angus was in the waist of the ship, marshalling the Perseus’s men. Scipio had gone in pursuit of Bracewell.

  Rob wondered if he was outmatched. His arms were weary from fighting, his legs leaden. Étienne was fresh and fired with a fury that made him lightning fast. His feet danced; his sword became an extension of his arm; his eyes burned with a rapturous flame. It was all Rob could do to fend off the non-stop barrage of thrusts and cuts and lunges coming at him. His arm became fractionally slower; Étienne’s blade came closer to hitting its mark.

  Rob was retreating, stepping over the wreckage and corpses on deck. He came up against the side of the ship, where the rail should have been – but the rail was gone. He teetered on the edge of the ship, rocking with its motion as waves surged around the hull below. He looked for a rope to grab, but there was nothing.

  There were no last words. No final insult or crowing. Étienne was in a trance, a place beyond words. He lunged for the kill . . .

  And nearly went over the side as his sword pierced thin air. He stumbled, catching himself on the stump of one of the rail posts. A six-inch splinter pierced his hand but he did not feel it. Where was his enemy? He looked into the foam below. Had the coward jumped into the water?

  He shifted his gaze. Rob had jumped sideways onto the wooden channels that stuck out of the side of the ship to brace the rigging. Now he was running up the ratlines, going higher and higher – away from danger.