Corridors of the Night by Anne Perry Page A

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