But he was unarmed. Rob had needed both hands to make his leap. The sword lay on the deck where he had dropped it.

  Rage seized Étienne. Without thinking, he kicked off his shoes, ran to the shrouds and began to climb. Rob was as nimble as a wild monkey. He reached the mizzen top, scorning the lubber’s hole, and carried on up to the topmast. Étienne followed. Rob had the advantage of height, but he could not climb forever.

  At the crosstrees Rob ran out on the mizzen topsail yard, balanced on the thin timber like a leopard on a branch. The spar shook as Étienne stepped onto it.

  The two men faced each other, swaying to keep their balance. A warm breeze blew around them. On deck, both crews watched their two captains. There was no question of surrender with honour now. Whoever lost would fall to the main deck and break his neck.

  Both men took a moment to draw breath. Rob had more experience aloft, but Étienne had the poise of a dancer. And Rob was unarmed.

  Étienne advanced, cutting the sword through the air. Rob was forced back. He was nearly at the end of the yardarm now, where the thin spar tapered to little more than a rope’s thickness. He wobbled, thrusting out his arms for balance. Étienne gave a cold, mirthless smile. This would be too easy.

  ‘Will you jump to your death,’ he taunted Rob, ‘or will you die like a man with a blade in your heart?’

  ‘Will you kill an unarmed man?’

  ‘Oui.’ Étienne sliced the sword just in front of Rob’s face, enjoying the way he flinched back. Another inch and he would have fallen off the end. The wind raced around them. ‘Consider it justice for all the times you have defied me.’

  He drew back his sword for the final strike.

  A movement flashed in the corner of his vision. Probably just a scrap of canvas or a loose rope, but again his instinct warned him of danger. He glanced back.

  A boy had appeared at the masthead, clinging to the rigging. His eyes were screwed almost shut, his face pale: he looked terrified. He must have climbed all the way up one-handed. His other hand held a bloodstained sword.

  ‘Thomas!’ Rob cried.

  The boy grinned. ‘Keep your eyes on the horizon,’ he called.

  He threw the sword – a perfect throw. Before Étienne could react, it sailed past him. Rob snatched it out of the air one-handed.

  Now he could defend himself – but the movement had left him open. Étienne saw his opportunity. He lunged.

  But he had underestimated Rob. With a topman’s agility, Rob had regained his balance almost before Étienne started to move. His sword came into line. He parried Étienne’s thrust with a dead hit, such an impact it nearly knocked both men off the beam.

  Étienne retreated, steadying himself, adjusting to this new reality. The drop yawned on both sides. For all the thousands of hours Étienne had practised, nothing in the fencing salons of Paris had prepared him for this.

  He blocked the thought from his mind and went on the attack again. Extend, parry, riposte. Keep on the balls of the feet, knees bent, back straight. Use the wrists. It was classical perfection.

  Rob kept his eyes locked on Étienne’s, reading his movements as best he could. Étienne gazed back with a supercilious hauteur. There was no emotion in those eyes, no passion or admiration for a worthy opponent. Only a cold certainty that he would win, because he was the better man.

  Something erupted inside Rob. Instead of Étienne, he saw all the men he had learned to hate since he left Nativity Bay. Men like Lyall and Coyningham and Spinkley and Bracewell, with their fine breeding and empty hearts. Men who valued gold over friendship, ambition over loyalty, acquisition over kindness. Men who felt the world owed them everything, whatever the cost in human life.

  The blades locked together again. Rob’s heavy sword began to bend the slim rapier. Étienne had to spring back, almost losing his footing. His feet scrabbled for grip on the curved sides of the boom.

  In that moment, Rob struck.

  Forgetting everything he knew of swordplay, he gripped the weapon two-handed and swung it in a flat arc, just as he’d wielded the axe back at Nativity Bay felling timber. The move was not in any fencing manual. No true gentleman would ever have considered using it. But Rob was not a gentleman. He neither knew nor cared what the books or experts prescribed. He was a fighter, confronted with an enemy, and he knew by instinct what he had to do.

  Étienne had not anticipated the move. He had never seen anything like it. Belatedly, he realised what Rob meant to do. He started bringing up the blade of his rapier to block it. It was a clumsy move, with none of the fluid elegance that he prided himself on. But his reflexes did not let him down. His blade came into position a fraction of a second before Rob’s stroke would have reached his neck.

  It made no difference. Rob’s heavy sword hit the rapier with every ounce of his strength and dashed it out of Étienne’s hand. He barely felt it give way. There was so much power in his stroke, it met as little resistance as if he had cut through paper. His sword never deviated. It carried through its arc, like a compass needle turning inexorably to north.

  In the heightened awareness of battle, where a man feels every second as an eternity, Étienne saw his rapier falling away towards the deck. His mouth began to open, his hands began to move. Then Rob’s sword struck.

  It cut through Étienne’s neck in a single, razor-sharp stroke. It split his vertebrae, severed his windpipe and his carotid artery. It continued its unyielding course, clean through the other side of the neck.

  The cut was so precise, for a moment Étienne’s head stayed in place. A thread of blood across his throat was the only sign of what had happened. His eyes widened, his mouth opened in a silent scream. The wind lifted his golden curls.

  Then his head toppled off his shoulders and fell. The body followed after it with almost exaggerated slowness, raining blood over the men below. Étienne’s body hit the deck. His head rolled away and came to a halt beside a shattered cannon. Blood pooled around it, staining the golden hair a sickly dark red.

  Suddenly, all the strength left Rob. His legs buckled. He dropped to his knees, clinging on like a drowning man in a wreck. He was empty. The yard seemed a mile long, but somehow he found the strength to crawl back to the crosstrees. A halyard slapped against the mast, tugged by the fluttering of the huge white battle flag that streamed from the masthead.

  Rob chopped through the halyard with his sword. The wind snagged the flag and carried it away. It soared for a moment, then drifted feather-light and settled on the waves. The last Rob saw of it was the golden fleurs-de-lis glimmering in a shaft of sunlight as the flag sank into the depths.

  The men on deck cheered. The battle was won. But at the stern of the ship, there were still two men who had not given up the fight. Rob could see them almost directly below him. One was Scipio, bare-chested and bleeding but still holding his cutlass. The other was Bracewell.

  He stood by the rail. Rob guessed he had been trying to escape to one of the boats trailing behind the frigate so he could reach the shore and his planter friends. In the confusion after the battle, it would have been easy to slip away unnoticed. But Scipio must have been waiting.

  Rob saw what Scipio meant to do. He grabbed one of the stays and slid towards the deck.

  ‘Stop!’ he called.

  He knew Scipio would ignore him. Scipio heard Rob, looked up and frowned. Before Rob was halfway to the deck, Scipio had grabbed Bracewell’s shirt front. Bracewell shivered; his jowls trembled. He stared at Scipio’s hand, at the colour of his skin, with something approaching horror.

  ‘Let go of me, you black son-of-a-whore.’

  ‘Wait,’ said Rob as he landed on the planking. ‘We will take him back to England to face justice.’

  ‘This is justice.’

  For a moment, Scipio held Bracewell’s terrified gaze. Then he rammed the cutlass point-first into Bracewell’s stomach.

  The cutlass was an edged weapon, meant for hacking and slicing, not stabbing. But with Scipio’s strength behind it, the blunt point punctured the skin. It sank through the vast fat of Bracewell’s belly, deep into his guts.

  Bracewell screamed. Blood poured over the blade. Scipio did not relax his grip. He twisted the sword around, opening a gaping hole in the belly, then jerked the blade upwards. Bracewell was slit open like a fish. His guts spilled out. He clutched his stomach to try and hold in his intestines, but Scipio grabbed them, pulled them out and threw them over the side.

  Sharks had been circling, drawn by the blood running out of the frigate’s scuppers. They surged eagerly towards the offal in the water, dark shapes snapping and twisting below the surface.

  Bracewell was still alive. He screamed, staring at his bloodied hands. Scipio could have ended it with a stroke of his cutlass, but he did not. He stood, hands on his hips, watching Bracewell’s torment.

  There was only one way for Bracewell to end his agony. With a howl like his soul being torn out, a visceral cry of anguish and despair, he staggered backwards and threw himself over the side. Rob did not look. Once off Nativity Bay he had seen sharks stripping blubber from the carcass of a dead whale. This would be no different.

  A breeze caught the sails, heeling the ship to starboard. A spent cannonball rolled across the deck from where it had come to rest. Without thinking, Rob put out his foot and stopped it. He picked it up, the smooth iron so heavy for its size.

  It made him think of another cannonball, another ocean and another battle won. When he found the cannonball in Nativity Bay, all those months ago, it had felt like a relic of a lost, heroic age. Now he had written his own chapter in the history of the Courtneys. And when he returned to Nativity Bay, he would not feel overawed by his ancestors.

  But the story was not yet finished. There was work to do. He tossed the cannonball over the side and sought out Hargrave.

  ‘Are there any cannon left intact?’

  Hargrave nodded. His head was bandaged, but it had not wounded his ready smile.

  ‘A few, sir.’

  ‘Then fire a salute to the shore battery. They have earned our thanks today.’

  B

  y the time Cal reached the foot of the cliff, the longboat had pushed off. Not far: she was heavy laden, low in the water, and the panicked French gunners could barely manage her. But they were too far off for Cal to reach.

  ‘Come back for me, damn you!’ he cried.

  A couple of the Frenchmen in the boat’s stern heard him. They shot back furtive glances, then returned to their oars. The boat did not change direction. If anything, it started to move more purposefully as the men began to row in some semblance of unison.

  Cal crawled to the water’s edge and into the sea. Waves broke against his face and filled his throat with brine. They picked him up and flung him back down again, knocking his broken leg against the rocks on the seabed. He screamed, letting more salt water into his lungs.

  He swam to deeper water, where he could float more freely. He splashed out, milling his one good arm and one good leg in a frenzied dog paddle. It was not enough. The longboat had reached the entrance to the bay and pulled out around the headland.

  Treading water, Cal saw armed Negroes running down the cliff path behind. Some had muskets, but they did not fire at him. Perhaps they thought he was out of range. Perhaps they wanted to watch him drown.

  Cal would not give them the satisfaction. He would not give up. If there was no way back, he would keep moving forwards. He swam on, teeth gritted with pain and determination. He would swim to Cuba if he had to. He was a survivor.

  But he was not alone in the water.

  Most of the sharks were feasting near the frigates, but not all. One had stayed closer to shore. Perhaps he liked the warmer waters, or had an ancient instinct for quarry. It was a bull shark, its grey body sleek and agile, searching for prey. Now, he smelled blood. His nostrils could detect it from half a mile away, and he was considerably closer to the floundering body than that. With a flick of his mighty tail, he turned towards Cal, following the scent to its source.

  Cal had left the shelter of the bay. The waves were higher, while the current that flowed around the point made it almost impossible for his shattered body to gain any headway. Still he fought on. He imagined he saw Aidan before him, standing on the water, beckoning him on. I will make you proud.

  Then he saw the dorsal fin.

  With his first glimpse he wasn’t sure. Perhaps it was a piece of flotsam, or a shadow on the water. The second time, he knew it for what it was. Sailing from South Carolina, he had watched the sharks that followed the ship. He had seen them swim alongside when one of the pigs on board had been butchered. Once, for the crew’s amusement, Étienne had thrown a live chicken overboard. A shark had swallowed it whole.

  Being captured by the Maroons would be better than the fate that was about to devour him. Cal turned around in the water, splashing frantically towards the shore. He forgot his pain, windmilling his wounded arm and kicking his broken leg as hard as he could. It made no difference. The current swept him on, so that however much he tried he never seemed to move. The bay was far away.

  Long before he reached shore, the shark overtook him.

  R

  ob learned many lessons that day. The one he remembered most was what came after the fight. In his grandfather’s tales, sea battles had always ended with the victory, with the villain defeated and the hero triumphant. In reality, the hardest part came afterwards. There were the wounded to tend, repairs to be made – and only a battered, exhausted crew to carry them out. The thrill of battle quickly dissipated. Grief for fallen shipmates would come later. For now, it was endless chores.

  Rob went below with Angus and Scipio to inspect his prize. The Rapace had suffered far less damage than the Perseus. Her hull was intact below the waterline, and she still had most of her canvas.

  ‘At last you managed to take a ship and keep her,’ said Angus.

  ‘There were times I had my doubts,’ Rob admitted.

  Scipio bared his teeth in a smile. ‘I, too.’

  They made their way aft to the great cabin. The windows were shattered, and the walls bore marks of fresh repairs from when Rob had put cannonballs through it at Seabrook Bay. Étienne had been a man of sparse tastes. There was nothing extravagant or luxurious in his cabin. The only decoration on the wall was a cameo of an elegant woman, her golden hair piled up high and her dress cut low. Rob could not help staring at it for a moment. There was something bewitching in that face.

  The floor creaked behind the dressing screen. Instantly, Scipio’s knife was in his hand. Angus crossed to the screen and ripped it down. It fell to the ground with a crash as loud as a musket shot, and a high-pitched scream.

  The three men stared. Sophie Bracewell appeared, wearing nothing but her corset and petticoats. Her long dark hair hung loose over her bare shoulders. With a cry, she flew at Rob and wrapped her arms around him.

  ‘Thank God you are here,’ she sobbed. ‘I was terrified those sailors would find me and do unspeakable things.’

  ‘Get away.’ Rob tried to push her back, but she clung on. ‘I love you, Rob,’ she breathed. ‘I know I did wrong. But all those things, I did them because my uncle forced me. He was a brute. You saw how he treated me on the quarterdeck.’

  Rob hesitated. He remembered Bracewell holding the pistol to his niece’s temple. He looked uncertainly into those imploring blue eyes. It would be easy to believe their innocence.

  ‘I’m sorry, Sophie,’ he said, ‘but your uncle is dead.’

  Sophie kept her poise; she didn’t move an eyelid. Was there a tear forming in her eye? Was she grief-stricken inside but exercising supreme self-control, or was her heart made of stone? Rob couldn’t fathom this extraordinary woman. She scared and excited him in equal measure.

  But those eyes had not flinched when she watched Angus take four dozen lashes, nor when the Perseus’s officers raped the slave girls at Thebes Plantation. They had held his gaze while she tormented Phoebe at supper. A face as sweet as sugar – and steeped in blood and cruelty.

  He tore her hands off him.

  ‘Lock her in one of the officers’ cabins,’ he told Angus. ‘See that no harm comes to her. We will put her ashore at Port Royal.’

  ‘But what will become of me?’ she cried. ‘I will be destitute and alone. I have no friends in Port Royal.’

  ‘I think you will make friends easily enough,’ Rob told her. ‘You have a talent for it.’

  Angus dragged her away. Before they reached the door, Rob noticed she had a bag in her hand. She had picked it up unobtrusively, as stealthy as a Limehouse pickpocket. She held it wrapped in her skirts, but it was too large to hide completely. An oilskin packet of papers.

  ‘Give me that,’ Rob said.

  Sophie clutched it closer, hugging it to her chest.

  ‘Even you would not be so ungallant as to deprive me of this. These are only a few personal letters. All the property I have left in the world.’

  With many other thoughts crowding his mind, and two ships to command, Rob might have believed her. But the word ‘property’ was like a Roman candle lighting up in his brain. He knew what people like Bracewell and Sophie meant when they talked of ownership. And he knew what was in that packet.

  ‘Give it to me,’ he said again. Without waiting, he ripped it from her hands. ‘If there is anything of a personal nature here, you may have it later.’

  Sophie’s face contorted in a mask of rage, and suddenly she was not beautiful at all.

  ‘You have ruined me!’ she screamed. ‘I am left with nothing.’

  ‘I daresay you will inherit your uncle’s estate,’ said Rob. ‘Unless a traitor’s property is forfeit.’

  ‘Without slaves to work it, the plantation is useless.’

  ‘Then you will perhaps have to get your hands dirty yourself.’ Sophie looked aghast. ‘You will still have your freedom. That is more than you ever gave anyone else.’

  Before she could argue, Angus bundled her out of the door. Rob heard her shouting curses as she disappeared down the passage.