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‘Can’t leave you here, sir,’ Laker replied stolidly, and although his voice shook on the last word, his eyes were steady.
‘You’ll do as you’re damn well told to!’ Monk shouted back at him. ‘Bathurst can’t outrun that lot alone, and Hooper’s not fit to.’
‘Then you go, sir,’ Laker replied, ‘and I’ll cover Orme.’
Monk hesitated an instant, and then knew what he should do. He nodded at Laker, then climbed over the gunwale and dropped down into the boat. He was sick to leave Orme behind, but he knew he had to go. But after this Orme would only be filling in time until his notice was finished. He had seen and done enough. He had stayed on only to see Monk master his job.
‘Shore,’ Monk told Bathurst. ‘Get Hooper to a doctor.’
Hooper tried to protest. ‘We can wait—’ he began.
‘For what?’ Monk asked him. ‘The rest of the raiders to come round from the other side and cut us off? If Orme and Laker can hold out till we get ashore, we’ll send enough boats out to finish that lot off and arrest any still living. Now be still.’ He moved awkwardly past Hooper and took the other oar. He had by now learned to row expertly, swiftly, and in perfect unison with anyone else.
They reached the nearest steps in minutes and were met by eager hands half lifting Hooper out of the boat. He protested but no one listened.
‘More men coming, sir,’ one of the constables told Monk. ‘Armed. Some gone already round the far side, in your other boat.’
Monk looked around. He could see no one. Out in the water the schooner was still burning. From the shore it looked like only a few flames, but already other ships were pulling up anchor and raising sail to move clear of her. She might not even be armed, but no one was taking the risk.
With amazement Monk realised that the whole boarding and fight had taken less than fifteen minutes. So quickly did victory or loss take place, and everything was changed.
‘Another boat!’ he called out. ‘Anything you can get out into the river! Our men will be in the water in minutes, if they’re still alive. Hurry!’
A ferryman came forward, his face pale and grim.
‘I’ll ’elp yer. Got no gun, like . . .’
‘Thank you,’ Monk accepted. ‘Take Bathurst here and go and pick up our men if they’re in the water. He’ll know them.’ He glared at Bathurst, daring him to argue. He looked at one of the constables. ‘You’re taking Hooper’s gun and you’re coming with me. Right!’
He watched the ferryman, followed reluctantly by Bathurst, go down the steps and pull away. The dawn was clear now and everything had a cold, watery light. Smoke was billowing up from the schooner and the fire seemed to be dying. Possibly it was just less visible against the broadening light and the silver reflection off the water. If there was gunpowder it could still blow any second.
Silently the other men obeyed. His own men knew Monk well enough not to waste time in a pointless argument. The constable either knew him by repute, or understood well enough what he saw.
They went down the steps to the boat Monk had just left. They each took an oar. The constable was accustomed to the system of rowing one man in front of the other, each with an oar. It took only two or three strokes for them to catch the rhythm and begin to pull away back towards the burning schooner, but this time around the far side. The constable was not armed usually, just as no other police were, but he understood his role as an officer of the law, and he expected to fight if the occasion demanded it. Hooper’s gun lay on the floorboards beside his feet. He was ready for action at close quarters, if need be.
When they rounded the stern of the schooner, to windward of the smoke still pouring out of her, Monk saw three boats in the water, one listing badly, and apparently abandoned. The other two were close to the hull and there were four men clambering down the sides of the schooner, carrying what arms they could salvage from the cargo. Each boat had only one man in it, keeping it close and steady. Any minute they would be ready for a battle Monk and the constable could not win.
Monk had no idea if either Laker or Orme were still alive and whether they were on the schooner or in the water. He shipped the oar and told the constable to do the same. They had only moments.
The constable bent and picked up Hooper’s gun. He had no idea how much ammunition was left in it.
Monk aimed carefully at the man nearest the boat. He would be the first to be able to fire back. He felt relief, then a wave of nausea as his bullet hit its mark and the man fell like a stone into the water.
One of the men standing in the boats whirled around, his face a mask of horror. The other, with more presence of mind, raised his pistol.
Steady-handed, the constable fired Hooper’s gun. The man swayed for a moment, then collapsed into the bottom of the boat, setting it rocking so violently that the man hanging on the rope and ready to drop in, had to wait. It was long enough for Monk to fire at him also.
Now more police boats were coming from the shore. The battle was over. Monk was suddenly tired, his body aching from the tension, the climbing up and down ropes, and most of all from the anxiety over his men.
As soon as he was certain that those in the new boats had taken over the salvaging of what was left, he turned to row back to the lee side of the schooner, going wide around it, since there was still a danger that it would explode.
As they turned, both he and the constable saw nothing to break the surface of the slightly choppy water except a few tangled knots of debris that could have been anything. There was no one struggling to stay afloat, no bodies.
Please God, Orme and Laker were not still up on the deck! He did not want to risk the constable’s life by going up into the burning ship, but he could not get either man down by himself, let alone both. It really needed three men: one to stay in the boat and two to board. But there was no time.
Monk turned on the oar without noticing that he had not told the constable what he intended. He saw the shock in the man’s face for an instant, and then he realised, and turned the other oar as well.
Where the hell were Bathurst and the ferryman? Still searching the water? Following the current searching for anyone swept away in it? Or had they been shot from the deck, and the boat gone with the tide? The thought made him feel sick. He dug the oar in hard and sent water splaying across the surface.
