“Jesus,” Lawrence said, sounding mortified. “It’s a bloody long row. To anywhere.”

“Better than the alternative: ending up in the stockade with nooses around our necks.”

“Point taken,” Lawrence conceded. “So, what’s it to be? Slow and cautious, or do we go out in a blaze of glory?”

Hawkwood drew back the hammer of Stagg’s pistol.

“Last one up the stairs is first at the oars.”

“Easy for you to say – you’re the only one with a full load. All I’ve got is a bloody club.” Brandishing the empty pistol, Lawrence clicked his tongue and then grinned. “So, after you.”

Hawkwood was half a step from the ladder when the scrape of a boot at the top of the companionway made them both pause.

“Remus?” a rough voice called tentatively. “You down there?”

Not any more, Hawkwood thought. Despite the accepted view that those commanding the high ground inevitably had the advantage, he was confident that the crewman would hold his fire for half a second for fear of shooting his captain.

It helped also that Hawkwood and Lawrence were partly in shadow at the bottom of the companionway, whereas the crewman, in his anxiety to establish who had survived the fight, had allowed himself to be silhouetted against the open hatch.

Half a second was all it took.

Hawkwood’s shot struck home before his target could correct his mistake. Clutching his pistol, the crewman fell back with a cry. By the time he’d released his last breath, Hawkwood and Lawrence were on deck, Hawkwood swapping the dead man’s pistol for his own on the way.

“Don’t!” Lawrence aimed his empty gun at the helmsman’s chest. “Whatever you were thinking of doing – don’t. It would be most unwise.”

The helmsman’s face dropped. Fear moved across his features as his hands hovered on the tiller bar.

“Seeing as there’s only one of you,” Hawkwood said.

“If you don’t believe us,” Lawrence said, “ask yourself how come we’re the only ones on deck holding guns.”

“If you’ve a weapon to hand, tell us,” Hawkwood said. “Now.”

There was a pause as the helmsman considered his options. Then: “Knife. Back of my belt.”

“Toss it over the side,” Hawkwood instructed. “You even think of throwing it anywhere else and Mr Jones here will put a ball through your brain. What’s your name?”

“Walter … Walter Maddox.”

A faint splash sounded beyond the boat’s hull as the knife hit the water.

“All right, Walter,” Lawrence said as Hawkwood moved to the rail. “Both hands on the tiller, there’s a good lad. And make sure you keep them there.”