Corridors of the Night (11 page)

With one movement Bathurst was standing beside him, staring at the unbroken line of the deck.

‘Please, sir?’

‘No,’ Monk replied. ‘We need someone to stay with the boat.’

But there was something wrong. Orme should have been at the rail. Monk looked along at Hooper. He saw an arm flailing and Hooper lurch forward. On the water below, Laker looked confused, uncertain what to do. He reached for the bottom of the rope.

Monk grasped the line Orme had left.

‘Stay here,’ he ordered Bathurst. He went up the rope himself as fast as he could, faster than was safe, but he had to know what had happened on the deck. They had come up quietly, without any warning, climbed up in the shadow on the lee side of the ship. It should have been safe.

He was almost at the top. His fingers were chafed, his muscles crying out at holding his weight. He heard a thud and a muffled cry. He stopped with his head just below the vision of anyone on deck.

There was a sound like the clash of steel on metal, and a cry. Laker was almost to the top also. Monk used all his strength to heave himself up and roll over on to the deck. He rose to his feet instantly, hand on his pistol.

Ahead of him on the deck, now clear in the broadening light, Orme was facing a man with a cutlass in his hand. Orme was motionless, his pistol still in his belt.

At the far end of the deck Laker was over the edge and on to the deck, creeping forward, his pistol drawn. If he fired he would save Orme’s life but the noise would bring the rest of the crew up on to the deck, armed. There would be a pistol fight and they might all end up wounded or dead.

Then Monk saw a movement out of the corner of his eye. He turned slightly to see a hand come over the far edge of the deck, and then a head. Suddenly he realised what was happening. The ship was being boarded by a rival gunrunner, from the windward side! How could that happen? Were they wrong in their guess about the rogue Excise man, and it was McNab after all and now he was betraying Monk and his men?

Hooper must have seen the intruder the instant later. He waved an arm and pointed along at the hatch, making a chopping motion in the air.

Monk nodded.

Hooper closed the hatch and locked it shut just as Laker raised his gun to shoot the boarder.

Then Orme moved, lunging forward at the man so suddenly he had no time to react. Orme caught him in the belly with his shoulder and they both went down hard. Monk had a clear shot at the other boarder on the windward side. He ran forward, keeping low, but instead of firing at him, he hit him as hard as he could over the side of the head. He might have killed him with the weight he had put behind the blow, but it was silent, nothing more than a splash in the swift river. No one below could have heard him fall.

Monk had no idea how many more of them there were. Still on his hands and knees he moved to the edge and glanced down. There were two longboats in the water. Perhaps eight men and still leaving room for the guns they must have come to steal. There were four more crawling up the nets hanging over the sides.

He swivelled around to see how Orme was faring with the man who had the cutlass. Monk needed that blade.

It lasted only seconds, but the moment was caught like a photograph image on Monk’s mind: Laker frozen, not certain what to do; Orme on his hands and knees, the man with the cutlass sprawled on the deck, beginning to get up again.

There were shouts and crashes from the deck below as the crew realised someone had battened them in and they were prisoners on their own ship. Would they go for the guns? Presumably they had ammunition as well as the actual weapons in the cargo? How long would it take them to think of that, break open the boxes and come back to shoot their way out of the hold? Then they would mow down everyone on the deck, police and pirates alike. They had the perfect cover to do it. They would kill Monk and all his men, and claim they never saw them. Sink their boats, and possibly their bodies as well. They could blame the gun robbers, leave on the tide, and sell their merchandise elsewhere. There was always a market.

Monk hurled himself across the deck and smashed the butt of his pistol on the wrist of the man with the cutlass. He felt the bone break before the man screamed. He snatched the cutlass and went back to the edge of the deck. The light was strengthening now. It caught the swirls in the current and the dark shapes of flotsam.

The men climbing up on the far side were nearly at the top. Monk lifted the cutlass and brought it down as hard as he could on the ropes, cutting one, two and the third. The whole web fell away, dragged loose by the men’s weight, tying them in it as it crashed into the water, carrying them all down, burying them in the tide.

Hooper was at the other end of the deck. There were different ropes there, a different web. Monk threw the cutlass to him and Hooper caught it just as it touched the deck. He grabbed the hilt and slashed at the ropes as the first man put his hand over. Hooper winced, and then kicked the man in the side of the jaw. He toppled backwards, taking the ropes with him. The second man peeled away and crashed into the water, tangled in the net, his arms and legs thrashing.

Laker was beside Orme, trussing the watchman in ropes, jamming a wad of rags in his mouth.

Monk went back to the side where they had boarded and saw Bathurst, ashen-faced, still obediently in the stern of the boat. He signalled that all was well, and for Bathurst to stay there, and then he went back to the deck.

The first shot came through the wood of the hatch and sending splinters into the air. A second followed straight after.

Monk glanced at his men. They were all motionless, waiting. Hooper had a pistol and the cutlass. Orme and Laker both had pistols.

‘Don’t waste your shot,’ Monk said quietly. He indicated where each man was to stand near the hatch, far enough from it not to get caught by stray bullets.

‘Watch the side, Laker,’ he ordered. ‘If anyone comes up out of the water, or from one of their boats, fire a warning shot, then the next one to kill. If they come up behind us we’re dead.’

‘Yes, sir.’ Laker did not argue. His face was pale in the dawn, his eyes steady. He moved slightly so he had a clear view of the whole east-facing deck.

Another shot came through the hatch, splintering wood.

No one moved.

The butt end of a musket smashed the already weakened centre of the hatch. The next moment a gun barrel came out and fired at a sharp, low angle. The bullet hit no one and went off over the water, passing close to Bathurst.

Monk held up his hand to prevent any of his men from responding.

It was so quiet they could hear the slurp of the water against the hull, and the dull thump of a piece of driftwood hitting the beams.

Then there was another bump, louder, as of a weight brushing against the hull.

Laker stiffened, squaring his shoulders, holding his gun towards the source of the sound.

There was a noise of men moving below the hatch.

Laker fired, the shot sounding like a cannon in the silence.

Someone burst through the shattered hatch, firing blindly. At the same moment, Laker shot at the man boarding up over the side. He fell with a scream. A moment later they heard the smack as he hit the water below, and the splash as the water subsided.

Monk wanted to tell Bathurst to go, get out of the way. He had no idea how many of the gunrunners there were in the hold, or of the pirates boarding from the east. One man alone at the oars would have no chance.

Monk swung around, making for the west side of the deck. His instinct was to shout a warning. Bathurst wouldn’t know the shots were fired at boarders on the far side. But if Monk shouted down to him, he would warn everyone he was there, and leave Bathurst undefended.

He turned back and saw a huge, bearded man scramble out of the hatch and roll sideways on to the deck, a pistol in his hands. Hooper had his back to him, aiming his own gun at another boarder who was climbing hand over hand up the mizzen rigging. If he got high enough, he would have a bird’s-eye view of the entire deck and every man on it.

Hooper shot at him and missed. The wind was rising and the ship rolled just enough to take the man a yard to the left as the mast swayed.

The bearded man on deck raised his pistol and aimed at Hooper.

Laker, a dozen yards forward of them all, raised his gun, fired, and sent the man sprawling back, blood gushing from his throat. It was a brilliant shot, or a lucky one. His gun fell to the deck. Orme lunged forward and kicked it away, far out of his reach.

Without hesitating Hooper adjusted his aim and shot at the man on the rigging. This time he caught the man’s shoulder and for an instant he swung wide, holding on by one arm, then he crashed into the sea, sending up a huge spray of water.

Another man was away up the rigging. He held the ropes with one hand and his gun with the other.

A second man was coming out of the smashed open hatchway, straight at Laker.

Laker saw him and froze.

The second man on the rigging also aimed at him.

Monk lowered his gun because he could not fire at the man in the hatchway without hitting Laker.

The ship was beginning to roll a little with the freshening wind.

The man in the hatch straightened up, lifting the barrel of his gun. The man on the rigging looked at Monk, half-sheltered from him by one of the yards, and turned back to the deck.

Orme seized a coiled rope and flung it across the deck.

It caught Laker in the middle of his body just as the man in the hatchway fired, and the deck erupted in splinters where Laker had been. Hooper took one of the men on the rigging, and Monk took the other. One of them got caught in the ropes and swung grotesquely by one leg. The other crashed to the deck and lay motionless, blood spreading around him.

Laker swung round and fired at the hatch, then stared in horror as the man toppled out of it, gushing blood, but still clinging on to his gun, jerking the trigger again and again, firing randomly.

Laker winced and shot him again.

More men were coming out of the hatch now, armed with rifles. They must have broken open the cargo and loaded at least three of the guns. They had enough ammunition to hold a siege. They emerged three together, facing in different directions.

There were more men coming up over the rails, too. Hooper was picking them off, but taking heavy fire himself. There was a widening patch of blood on his left shoulder.

Monk saw a man climbing the rigging of the mizzen mast, right above the hatch. His view would be perfect. And if Monk could pick him off, he would fall right into the hatch, blocking all of the men there. But he needed the man to be higher, at least another ten feet.

The man stopped, ready to take aim at Hooper.

Monk fired first, below him.

The man shot back, without aiming, and scrambled higher. Another fifteen feet and it would be too late; he would be shrouded by the rigging.

Orme was cornered between the hatch and the gunwale.

There was no time to warn Bathurst. Monk fired below the man on the mast, then as he was about to reach up to the crow’s nest, he took more careful aim and shot him in the chest. The man let go and plummeted down, crashing into the edge of the hatch and scattering the men there, one falling on to the splinters of the broken wood. His scream was short and terrible.

Suddenly there was gunfire everywhere.

Orme was at the gunwale, shouting and waving his arms.

Hooper was on one knee; his gun aimed carefully, the blood on his shoulder widening.

Laker was aiming steadily, picking off the remaining men at the hatch. He was close to them, dangerously close.

Monk shouted at him, but he took no notice.

Hooper was on his knees, watching the gunwale in case any more raiders came up over on to the deck.

There was more gunfire from the water. It seemed to be all around them. It was Orme who charged across the deck and caught Hooper on the chest with his shoulder so they both fell sideways just as the hatch erupted in flames.

‘Over the side!’ Monk yelled at the top of his voice, waving at the gunwale over which they had boarded and, please heaven, Bathurst and the other boat were still waiting. None of them would last long in the filthy water and the swift, treacherous tide. He had no idea how much ammunition the ship was carrying, but if the fire reached it the whole deck would be sprayed with bullets.

Monk scrambled across the few yards of deck to Hooper, who was trying to get to his feet, swaying dangerously. Now his left arm was red with blood and there was more on his leg.

Monk caught hold of him and for a moment felt his weight. Then Hooper made a surprising effort and straightened up just as Laker came to take his other side.

Orme was at the far side, but now he came forward, gun at the ready.

‘Bathurst’s there,’ he shouted over the increasing roar of the flames and the sharp crack of bullets exploding in the hold. He could not see the other boat. The fire had clearly reached the ammunition. If they had gunpowder too it would all go up.

Hooper half turned, looking to the east where the raiders’ boats lay. None of them had any idea how many more of them there were.

‘I’ll hold them!’ Orme shouted, and then swung around to face the boarders, visible now in the strengthening light.

There was no time to argue. Monk and Laker half carried Hooper across the deck. The hatch was burning fiercely now, smoke pouring out of it in grey billows.

At the far side they eased Hooper over, and he clung on to the ropes with his good hand.

Bathurst was yards away, standing well off from the ship, so he could have escaped if one of the raiders had come round from the east side. He was their one connection with help, and he had to know that.

As soon as he saw Monk he grasped both the oars and threw his weight into turning the boat, sending it back to within a yard of the ship’s side. By the time Monk and Laker had lowered Hooper, Bathurst was there to catch him and ease him down.

‘Go,’ Monk ordered Laker.