The pinnace lurched crazily and careened sideways, hurtling around broadside to the longboats.
A sandbar. We've struck a damned sandbar. But we've got to face them with the prow. Otherwise . . .
As though sensing Hawksworth's thoughts, Karim seized
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.