an oar and began to pole the pinnace's stern off the bar. Slowly it
eased around, coming about to face the approaching longboats. No sooner
had the pinnace righted itself than the first longboat glanced off the
side of the bow, and a grapple caught their gunwale.
Then the first Portuguese soldier leaped aboard--and doubled in a flame
of sparks as Mackintosh shoved a musket into his belly and pulled the
trigger. As the other English muskets spoke out in a spray of pistol
shot, several Portuguese in the longboat pitched forward, writhing.
Mackintosh began to bark commands for reloading.
"Half-cock your muskets. Wipe your pans. Handle your primers. Cast
about to charge . . ."
But time had run out. Two more longboats bracketed each side of the
bow. And now Portuguese were piling aboard.
"Damn the muskets," Hawksworth yelled. "Take your swords."
The night air came alive with the sound of steel against steel, while
each side taunted the other with unintelligible obscenities. The
English were outnumbered many to one, and slowly they found themselves
being driven to the stern of the pinnace. Still more Portuguese poured
aboard now, as the pinnace groaned against the sand.
Hawksworth kept to the front of his men, matching the poorly trained
Portuguese infantry easily. Thank God there's no more foot room, he
thought, we can almost stand them man for man . . .
At that moment two Portuguese pinned Hawksworth's sword against the
mast, allowing a third to gain footing and lunge. As Hawksworth swerved
to avoid the thrust, his foot crashed through the thin planking
covering the keel, bringing him down. Mackintosh yelled a warning and
leaped forward, slashing the first soldier through the waist and
sending him to the bottom of the pinnace, moaning. Then the
quartermaster seized the other man by the throat and, lunging like a
bull, whipped him against the mast, snapping his neck.
Hawksworth groped blindly for his sword and watched as the third
soldier poised for a mortal sweep. Where is it?
Good God, he'll cut me in half.
Suddenly he felt a cold metal object pressed against his hand, and
above the din he caught Humphrey Spencer's high-pitched voice, urging.
It was a pocket pistol.
Did he prime it? Does he know how?
As the Portuguese soldier began his swing, Hawksworth raised the pistol
and squeezed. There was a dull snap, a hiss, and then a blaze that
melted the soldier's face into red.
He flung the pistol aside and seized the dying Portuguese's sword. He
was armed again, but there was little advantage left. Slowly the
English were crowded into a huddle of the stern. Cornered, abaft the
mast, they no longer had room to parry. Hawksworth watched in horror as
a burly Portuguese, his silver helmet askew, braced himself against the
mast and drew back his sword to send a swath through the English.
Hawksworth tried to set a parry, but his arms were pinned.
He'll kill half the men. The bastard will . . .
A bemused expression unexpectedly illuminated the soldier's face, a
smile with no mirth. In an instant it transmuted to disbelief, while
his raised sword clattered to the planking. As Hawksworth watched, the
Portuguese's hand began to work mechanically at his chest. Then his
helmet tumbled away, and he slumped forward, motionless but still
erect. He stood limp, head cocked sideways, as though distracted during
prayer.
Why doesn't he move? Was this all some bizarre, senseless jest?
Then Hawksworth saw the arrows. A neat row of thin bamboo shafts had
pierced the soldier's Portuguese armor, riveting him to the mast.
A low-pitched hum swallowed the sudden silence, as volleys of bamboo
arrows sang from the darkness of the shore. Measured, deadly.
Hawksworth watched in disbelief as one by one the Portuguese soldiers
around them crumpled, a few firing wildly into the night. In what
seemed only moments it was over, the air a cacophony of screams and
moaning death.
Hawksworth turned to Karim, noting fright in the pilot's eyes for the
very first time.
"The arrows." He finally found his voice. "Whose are they?"
"I can probably tell you." The pilot stepped forward and deftly broke
away the feathered tip on one of the shafts still holding the
Portuguese to the mast. As he did so, the other arrows snapped and the
Portuguese slumped against the gunwale, then slipped over the side and
into the dark water. Karim watched him disappear, then raised the arrow
to the moonlight. For an instant Hawksworth thought he saw a quizzical
look enter the pilot's eyes.
Before he could speak, lines of fire shot across the surface of the
water, as fire arrows came, slamming into the longboats as they drifted
away on the tide. Streak after streak found the hulls and in moments
they were torches. In the flickering light, Hawksworth could make out
what seemed to be grapples, flashing from the shore, pulling the
floating bodies of the dead and dying to anonymity. He watched
spellbound for a moment, then turned again toward the stern.
"Karim, I asked whose arrows . . ."
The pilot was gone. Only the English seamen remained, dazed and
uncomprehending.
Then the night fell suddenly silent once more, save for the slap of the
running tide against the hull.