Colours Aloft! (12 page)

The seaman's name was Moore. He had a soft Kentish dialect. Like Thomas Herrick, Bolitho thought desperately.

“Keep together.”

Sheaffe asked, “But why must we stay out there?”

Bolitho wanted to tear the bandages from his face. It was a nightmare, and he felt the urge to scream as the pain probed his eyes again.

“What can you see?” Bolitho moved towards the bulwark and grated his knee against a gun truck.

Stayt touched his left shoulder. “The headland's that way, sir. Then as you turn slowly right there's the bluff on the other side of the bay, where the frigate first appeared.”

“Yes, yes.” Bolitho gripped a belaying-pin rack. He could see it, he remembered it. Just those last moments before he had been cut down.

“The French will come around the headland.” He moved his face. “What say you, Mr Okes?”

Okes replied, “Most like, sir. They'll be closer to their bloody— beg pardon, sir—to their friends ashore.”

“My thought exactly.” He touched the midshipman's bare back. The flesh felt icy, like a corpse.

“Off you go. Take care, both of you.” As they moved away Bolitho said, “No heroics. When you see boats on the move, yell out.” He heard them splash down the side and he half expected a shot to follow.

“Is it very dark?” He felt so helpless. Like a child in the night.

“Aye, sir. No moon as yet.

“When they reach the first boat,” he had almost said
if,
“be ready. We shall see nothing, but if Sheaffe can see the French coming we shall open fire.”

Hallowes asked, “Shoot blind, sir?” He stammered, “I'm sorry, sir. That was stupid of me.”

Bolitho reached out again and touched his coat. “No. But that is exactly what we shall do.”

Stayt said in a low voice, “The Frogs will follow the coastline and expect to get between us and the beach. Once alongside they could overwhelm us.”

“It's what
I
would do.” Bolitho gripped his sword and let it fall into its scabbard again. Even that seemed to mock his helplessness. How could he tell Belinda? He could not face being a prisoner-of-war again. He would die first.

Hallowes asked, “If they board us—”

Bolitho said quietly, “Fire the ship.” He felt his words rip into the young lieutenant like canister. He added, “There is no easy way, Lieutenant. The enemy must not take your
Supreme
as a prize.” He pulled him closer so that the others were excluded. “Strike if you must to save the people. But sink the ship.” He let his words sink in.

When Hallowes spoke again his voice was changed. Firm, determined. “I'll not let you down, sir.”

Bolitho turned away to hide his agony. “I knew that when I recommended your appointment.”

Oh, Belinda, the foolish things I said and wrote. Now it is all too late.

He thought of Keen and knew he would command the squadron in his own way. He would fly an admiral's flag one day. Bolitho gasped. So God help him!

A man murmured, “I 'eard somethin'!”

Another said, “An oar in a boat.”

Hallowes said, “They've got one of the boats, sir.”

Bolitho thought of Sheaffe's unsmiling features. His father would be proud of him. Or would he? Did he even envy his son as he did leaders like Nelson.

Bolitho rested his head in his hands.
He'll not have to envy me any more.

The cry came across the water and seemed to hang above the gently swaying deck like an echo.

“Sheaffe's seen 'em!”

There was a single shot, and someone jeered, “Couldn't hit a bloody barn door!”

Stayt said, “By God, that fool with the musket has marked down their position well enough, sir.” He sounded excited, ready to kill, as Keen had described him aboard the convict ship.

“They're still coming.” Stayt must be crouching down, eyes level with the bulwark to seek out the dark shapes on the water.

“Three boats at least, sir.”

Voices murmured along the deck and Okes rumbled, “Not a bloody squeak out of any mother's son, right?”

Bolitho heard the metallic clink of a swivel gun being depressed, and here and there a handspike squeak as a fourpounder was made snug against the side, each little muzzle pointing blindly into the darkness.

Bolitho said, “Bankart, come here.” He felt the young seaman beside him. As Allday would have been.

“I shall use you as my eyes.” To Stayt he added, “Go forrard and take charge of the foc's'le. Be ready to cut the cable if need be.” He heard Stayt move away and felt suddenly lost without him.

He thought of the girl Keen had brought to the flagship, the look in his eyes whenever he mentioned her name. If
Argonaute
was called on to fight, she might still be aboard.

The pain pricked his eyes again as, like an additional torment, another memory came to him.

Called on to fight. Cheney had been aboard his ship when the decks had thundered to the roar of broadsides.
Cheney.

“Ready, lads!” Hallowes was drawing his sword, his face hidden in the darkness as was his despair.

“As you bear!”

Bolitho leaned forward; he had heard the splash of oars.

“Fire!”

The night exploded.

7
S
URRENDER OR DIE

T
HE WHIPLASH
bangs of
Supreme
's four-pounders were deafening. Hemmed in by the land, the explosions echoed from every side, as if two ships were engaged in battle.

Bolitho gripped Bankart's arm. “Tell me!”

Bankart winced as the packed charges of grape and canister smashed into the leading boat like an iron flail. It was just possible to see the leaping feathers of white spray, the sudden glare of an exploding lantern before the darkness shut down again.

Hallowes yelled, “Easy lads! Sponge out and reload!”

Bolitho cocked his head and heard someone screaming, others shouting and thrashing in the water. It had been a lucky broadside, and must have completely destroyed one of the boats.

A solitary voice was shouting commands, and Bankart whispered, “Th' boats is splittin' up, sir.”

Okes growled, “Pity they don't try to rescue their mates. We'd 'ave got them too in the next broadside!” He meant it.

“All loaded, sir!”

“Fire!”
Gun by gun the shots crashed out and men retched and coughed as the smoke funnelled inboard.

Bolitho clutched his bandage. He had seen some flashes through it. Not much. Like lightning through a curtain. It was something.

A few musket shots whined overhead and one hit the hull. Half dazzled by the guns, the officers and lookouts were now finding it hard to locate the enemy's boats.

Bolitho said, “What do you see?”

Bankart replied, “One o' th' boats is 'ead on, sir. Comin' straight for us, starboard bow.”

Bolitho grasped his fingers around his sword until the pain steadied him. Around him he heard men whispering to one another, the hiss of steel as cutlasses were drawn, boarding pikes handed to the gun crews.

“Fire as you bear!”

Again and again the four-pounders blasted the night apart, the grape ripping across the water like lethal hail. But none found a mark.

Bankart said excitedly, “I saw th' Frogs' boat in the flashes, sir!”

Bolitho twisted his head. Where were the others?

“Repel boarders!”

Hallowes cheered like a madman, like the time when he and Adam had boarded the
Argonaute.

“At 'em, Supremes!”

Bolitho heard the thud of grapnels, screams rising seemingly at his feet, the rasp of steel and several shots, from friends or enemies he could not tell.

A man cannoned into him and Bankart dragged at Bolitho's arm.

“Back, sir! That one's done for!”

A voice yelled, “Port quarter, lads!”

Bolitho gritted his teeth as more shots clanged around him. As he had expected, he heard a boat crash into the stern, the yells and curses of boarders and defenders alike as they came to grips with blades, axes and pikes—there was not time to reload. He was pushed aside and two figures fought one another with Bolitho pressed against the bulwark. At any second he expected to feel the slashing agony of a blade or the thrust of one into his body. A man screamed almost in his face; he could feel his terror, his pain, before a sickening thud silenced him. How often had Allday protected him like that, had driven his cutlass into a man's head like an axe into a log.

He exclaimed, “Thank you, Bankart!”

Stayt said between gasps, “It's me, sir. Thought you looked surrounded, so to speak.” A pistol exploded at waist-height and Stayt said savagely, “Take that, you bugger.”

“They're falling back!”

Someone raised a cracked cheer, and Bolitho heard men tumbling into a boat, others hurling themselves into the water to escape the maddened English seamen.

Okes bellowed, “Stand aside, you booby! Let me at that swivel!”

Bolitho heard the thrash of oars; he knew that if he could see he would be looking down on one of the French boats right alongside.

Stayt pulled his arm. “Here we go!”

The swivel gun gave a tremendous crack. For a split second beforehand Bolitho thought he heard someone scream, pleading perhaps as he realized what Okes intended.

Stayt said quietly, “There can't be a man left alive there.”

Bolitho could barely hear him, his ears still cringing from the last explosion.

A whistle shrilled and he heard Hallowes shout, “Cease firing!” Then, with a break in his voice, “Well done, my Supremes!”

Stayt said, “We've lost a few. Not too many though.”

“Silence on deck!”

The sudden quiet was almost worse. Bolitho heard some of the wounded gasping and sobbing. How would they manage without a surgeon?

Then he heard the distant splash of oars—so there had been another boat, maybe several. But for Sheaffe's warning they would have swamped the cutter's defences no matter what it cost them.

Unable to contain themselves the seamen cheered and cheered again. Bolitho felt the pain returning and wanted to lay his head in his hands. But somehow he knew Stayt was watching him.

“Get Lieutenant Hallowes for me.” He fought back the need to cry out and asked between gasps, “Where's Bankart?”

Over his shoulder Stayt said casually, “Gone somewhere, sir.” It was all he said.

Hallowes arrived and knelt beside Bolitho. “I am here, sir.

Bolitho felt for his shoulder. “That was bravely done.”

Hallowes said huskily, “But for my men—”

Bolitho shook him gently. “Because they respect you. You led, they responded in the only way they know.”

Hallowes did not speak for several seconds and Bolitho could guess why. In victory and defeat he had known emotion more than many. Hallowes was just discovering the pride as well as the pain of command.

Hallowes said, “They'll be back.”

“Not tonight. Too costly. Thanks to Sheaffe.”

Hallowes sounded as if he was grinning. “Your idea, sir, with respect.”

Bolitho shook his shoulder. He seemed to need a physical contact. Without it he felt completely cut off, a burden.

“Call him alongside. We may need that boat.”

He heard the insane bellow of
Supreme
's copper foghorn and wondered what Sheaffe and his companion had thought as the fight had exploded on board the cutter.

Stayt came back and helped Bolitho to seat himself with his back against a small companion-way. Everyone was talking, friends seeking out friends, others sitting in silence, remembering a messmate who had been killed or badly wounded.

Bolitho knew they would not survive in daylight when the frigate came for them. After their bloody repulse, the French would be out for revenge and give no quarter.

He felt the other officers standing or squatting near him. Hallowes was in command. What would he do?

Hallowes asked, “What would you advise, sir?”

Bolitho held his eyes again, hating the spectacle he must present to these men.

“We must try to break out.”

Hallowes sounded relieved. “I was going to suggest that, sir. Strangely enough, in that brief angry fight during which he had not even been a spectator, Bolitho had lost all sense of direction. The headland, the bluff at the end of the bay, even the rocks seemed all jumbled together.

“Mr Okes?”

Okes belched and Bolitho smelled rum. He had been having a well-earned wet as Allday would call it.

The thought touched off Stayt's words. What
had
happened to Bankart? He was close by now; he had heard him several times. Was it fear? Everyone was afraid in a fight, but he thought of Allday and tried to shut it from his mind, like something foul and unclean.

Okes rambled on, unperturbed by his murderous attack with the swivel. “With the Cap'n's permission, I'll send the boat for t'other one. We could warp
Supreme
clear. I think the wind 'as backed, not greatly, but this beauty don't need
that
much.”

Hallowes said, “See to it, Mr Okes. And thank you.”

Okes strode off and Bolitho pictured his thick legs in their white stockings when he had shot down the running Frenchman.

He said, “That man is worth a pot of gold.”

Stayt said, “The others have gone, sir.”

Bolitho laid back and tried to ignore the pain, to think of something which might distract him. But it was hopeless. If anything it was getting worse and Stayt knew it.

The flag-lieutenant said quietly, “We could parley with the French, sir. Their surgeon might be able to help.”

Bolitho shook his head vehemently until Stayt said, “I felt I should speak out, sir. I'll not mention it again.”

He stood up and leaned over the bulwark to stare at the blacker mass of land.

It was spoiled now. The smell of blood and gunpowder was too strong.

He considered Bolitho's driving, almost fanatical determination. If only he could sleep and escape from his pain.

A voice called, “The two boats are comin', sir!”

Bolitho stirred and exclaimed, “Your hand, get me up!”

Stayt sighed. Perhaps the strength which was holding Bolitho together was what they all clung to.

They would soon know.

There was something unreal about the way
Supreme
's weary company set to and prepared to weigh anchor.

Bolitho remained by the companion-way and tried to picture the cutter's deck as, with barely a word of command, the seamen went to their stations. Below the long bowsprit the two boats were already in position with extra hands to throw their weight on the oars if the cutter looked about to go aground.

Leadsmen whispered together on the forecastle, and behind his back Bolitho heard Okes rumbling to the helmsmen at the tiller bar while Hallowes attended to the shaken-out sails. Bolitho heard someone cursing that a French ball had ripped a hole through the topsail big enough for two men.

He tried to remain calm as he felt figures brush past him as if he barely existed.

A petty officer called in a hushed voice, “Anchor's hove short, sir!”

Bolitho shivered as a warm breeze rattled the loose rigging and made the deck tilt, as if
Supreme
was eager to get away.

Hallowes had told him that the nearest beach was about half a cable away. The French were bound to have left men there. They would soon know what Hallowes was trying to do.

Okes said, “Stand by!”

Hallowes called, “Ready! Two more men on the larboard braces!”

“Anchor's aweigh, sir.”

Bolitho craned forward and tried to put a picture to every new sound. The anchor being winched home and made fast to its cathead, loose or severed lines being flung aside to leave the deck clear, almost the whole company was now employed either in the boats or in the business of making sail when required.

If they had to fight, they would be lucky if they could loose off a single gun in time.

Okes hissed, “Helm down, boy!” The tiller creaked, and Bolitho heard a sail slap impatiently as the wind plucked at it.

A man cried out with shrill urgency, but his voice was muffled, far away, and Bolitho knew he was one of the badly wounded who had been carried below to die. The cry rose to a higher pitch, and Bolitho heard a seaman hauling on a halliard nearby utter a terrible curse, urging this unknown sailor to die and get it over with. The cry stopped, as if the man had heard the curse. For him at least it was over.

“Let 'er pay off!” Okes raised his voice as the cutter gathered way, and the oars of the two boats ahead of her thrashed the sea like wings. The lines would be lifting from the water as the gig and jolly-boat took the strain of the two. They had steerage way, not much, but Okes sounded breathless, confident, “Good. Warmly done, lads!”

Hallowes said, “We have to use whatever passage we can, sir.”

Bolitho had not heard him approach.

Hallowes continued, “I've a party by the anchor to let go if we get into trouble.” He seemed to chuckle. “
More
trouble, that is.”

Stayt asked, “How long?”

Hallowes said, “As long as it takes!” Bolitho pictured him looking everywhere as his command edged painfully ahead at a walking pace. The pumps thudded and creaked and Bolitho guessed that
Supreme
had been badly damaged and was taking a lot of water.

The leadsman called, “By th' mark five!”

Bolitho recalled when he had been about twelve and in his first ship. Like little Duncannon, he thought. Too young to die. But he remembered watching the leadsmen sounding their way through a sea mist off Land's End, while the upper yards and wet sails of the big eighty-gun
Manxman
had been out of sight from the deck. Skilled seamen, like those who were sounding now, their hard fingers feeling the marks on their lines or guessing the depths in between.