Enemy in Sight! (18 page)

Bolitho yelled, “Stand by, Mr Gossett!” He watched sickened as the moored Frenchman fired a controlled broadside, the paired line of orange tongues licking from her hull as she slammed her double-shotted salvo into the
Indomitable'
s side where the ports still showed shut and useless.

Bolitho raised his hand, his eyes moving swiftly above the crouched gunners, shutting the sounds of splintering timber from his ears, concentrating his full being on the ships ahead of him. No wonder the enemy had waited so patiently and confidently. Instead of receiving a controlled line of ships across their rear they were now faced with something approaching chaos.
Indomitable
was swinging ponderously across the wind, her jib blowing in rib- bons, her fore-topmast and main topgallant dangling amidst her littered rigging like savaged trees. She had still not run out her other guns, and Bolitho could imagine the slaughter of that first broadside. Now the next ship was firing, and the sea around Pelham-Martin's flagship was boiling with white spray and falling wreckage.

A voice cried, “Oh, God,
Abdiel'
s ablaze!”

Bolitho tore his eyes from the
Hermes'
high counter and turned in time to see the frigate broaching to, her sails and forward rig- ging burning like tinder, the blaze leaping from spar to spar, while small, pitiful figures dropped from the rigging like dead fruit to fall alongside or on to the deck itself.

“General signal!” Gascoigne sounded shrill with despair. “Close around the commodore!”

Bolitho snapped, “Do
not
acknowledge!” Then to Gossett, “Now! Helm a'lee!”

Something like a great groan floated over the water, and he guessed that the
Telamon
had collided with the
Indomitable'
s quar- ter. With so much smoke it was hard to see what was happening.

Forward his men were already loosing the headsail sheets, and as the rudder went over, the bowsprit began to swing slowly and then more rapidly across the
Hermes'
stern.

“Off tacks and sheets!” It was amazing that men could think, let alone act, and they moved more from rigid training than with any sense of understanding.

Bolitho looked up, holding his breath as the yards came round, the sails in confusion and disarray as the bows swung across the wind.

“Let go and haul!” Inch was screaming through his trumpet.
“Haul!”

“Get the t'gallants on her, Mr Inch!”

A ball whimpered above the quarterdeck but hardly a man looked up. It was probably a misfire from the embattled
Indomitable,
but all eyes were on the
Hermes
as with extra canvas drawing loudly and the deck canting to the opposite thrust the
Hyperion
surged past her, the seamen coughing as the smoke drifted above them.

Hermes
was firing past her two consorts, both of which were locked together in helpless confusion, the Dutchman's jib boom rammed through the
Indomitable'
s shrouds like a lance. And while men ran with axes to hack away rigging and entangled nets, the French maintained a devastating fire at a range of some fifty yards. Bolitho could see men falling from aloft and others being pared away like so many rags by both grape and canister from the nearest enemy vessels.

As the
Hyperion
sailed on past her three consorts Bolitho thought he saw Pelham-Martin on his quarterdeck, his gold-laced hat glittering in the sunlight as he strode this way and that, arms flailing, his voice lost in the roar of cannon fire.

The smoke was dense and rising as high as the topsail yards, and Bolitho tried to count the minutes while his ship moved steadily along the hidden enemy line, her yards braced round so far that they were almost fore and aft.

It must be time. It
had
to be. Desperately he glanced astern and saw
Indomitable'
s ragged outline surrounded by smoke and flickering gun flashes. Smoke hid the
Hermes
and the snared Dutchman, and the drumming of the enemy's bombardment went on and on without a single break or hesitation.

He yelled, “Stand by to go about!” He saw Inch gripping the rail, his teeth bared as he peered into the smoke.

“Ready ho!”

Bolitho ran to the starboard side. If he had misjudged the distance, or the wind failed him, he would probably drive into the nearest enemy ship and be as helpless as the
Telamon.

“Now!”

As the ship started to swing back again across the wind he cupped his hands and shouted at the main deck gunners. “Starboard battery fire!”

It was like a double roll of thunder, the lower gundeck being caught unprepared for the order. He felt the ship stagger as gun after gun hurled itself back on its tackles, the flashes masked instantly by the choking smoke which came funnelling inboard through the ports to turn day into night.

He heard the smashing impact of some of the balls striking home, but shouted to the larboard gunners, “
Ready,
lads!” He was grinning wildly, and was only half aware of the ship swinging beneath him, the rigging jerking as if to tear from blocks and yards alike.

While the starboard gunners reloaded with feverish haste the
Hyperion
continued to turn, until with the suddenness of magic Bolitho saw the topmasts and yards of an anchored ship swing- ing across the bows barely fifty yards clear.

Then as the wind cleaved the smoke aside he saw the French two-decker clear and stark, some of her guns already firing as the
Hyperion
pushed out of the drifting smoke and started to sail back along the line of ships. It was the leading Frenchman, and when Bolitho leaned across the nettings he saw with cold satisfaction that the next astern was smoking from a dozen holes in her bulwark and gangway where his blind broadside had scored several hits.

“Fire as you bear!” The larboard guns were ready and eager, and as captain after captain jerked his lanyard the smoke came back above the gangway in an unbroken wall.

“Deck there! Her mainmast's goin'!” A cheer rippled along the shrouded deck, voices breaking in coughs and curses as the lower battery fired once more.

A seaman came running aft, whirled round in his tracks and fell dead at Stepkyne's feet. The lieutenant strode on, pausing merely to step over the corpse as he controlled his gunners in their fighting madness.

Bolitho felt someone grip his sleeve and saw it was Gascoigne. He must have been signalling to him, his voice lost in the din.

“Sir! Signal from
Indomitable!
” He gasped as a ball shrieked close overhead and parted a handrail like a cotton thread.

“Well, boy?” Bolitho felt the deck quiver and knew that some of the enemy's shots were hitting home.

“Signal says
‘Discontinue the action',
sir!”

Inch came aft wiping his face. “What's that? Discontinue action?” He seemed dazed.

“Acknowledge.” Bolitho met his despairing stare. “It means
retreat,
Mr Inch.” He turned on his heel and walked to the oppo- site side to watch as the
Hermes'
bows pushed downwind from the tangle of battle, her sternchasers still firing and all masts intact.

The gunfire suddenly ceased as if every man had been ren- dered deaf. And when the wind pushed the smoke aside Bolitho saw that already they had moved well clear of the anchored ships, and while the
Telamon
wallowed round to follow the battered
Indomitable,
the
Hermes
was already clawing about to take station astern of her once more.

The
Indomitable
was a pitiable sight. She had now lost all her topmasts, and her upper deck and starboard side were splintered and gouged from stem to stern.

Then across the water came the exultant cheering mixed with derisive cries and jeers that seemed to beat on the ears of the
Hyperion'
s seamen and marines like some final damnation.

“General signal, sir.” Gascoigne sounded crushed. “Steer south-west.” And that was all.

Bolitho climbed the poop ladder and stared across the lar- board quarter. Beyond the jubilant French ships he could see a few smouldering remains of the
Abdiel
and some thrashing sur- vivors, like so many dying fish in a poisoned stream. Then as the headland crept out to hide their misery he found that he was shiv- ering uncontrollably as if from fever.

Allday climbed up beside him. “Are you sick, Captain?”

Bolitho shook his head, almost afraid to speak. “Not sick, just
angry!
”

He stared unseeingly at the endless panorama of hills and lush green undergrowth above the distant surf. Retreat. It stuck in his mind like a barbed hook.
Retreat.

Inch clattered up the ladder and touched his hat. “Two men killed, sir. None wounded.”

Bolitho looked at him, not seeing Inch's pain as he recoiled from his captain's cold eyes.

“Two men, eh?” He turned away, the words choking in his throat. They had been outwitted and outgunned, but not beaten. They had not even started to be beaten. He looked forward along the silent men restoring the lashings to their guns. They had been made to slink away because of Pelham-Martin's blind, arrogant stupidity!

Inch asked quietly, “What will we do now, sir?”

“Do?”
Bolitho faced him savagely. “Write a bloody report, I shouldn't wonder! Let us hope the
Abdiel'
s people will be satis- fied with it!”

With a sudden impulse he unbuckled his sword and handed it to Allday. “Next time we sight the enemy you had best bring me a white flag instead!”

Then he swung on his heel and strode to the ladder.

Inch looked at Allday. “I have never seen him so angry.”

The coxswain turned the sword over and caught the sunlight on its worn hilt. “Begging your pardon, sir, but it's time someone got angry, if you ask
me!
”

Then holding the sword against his chest he followed his captain.

As the
Hyperion'
s barge pulled swiftly across the choppy wavelets Bolitho sat motionless in the sternsheets, his eyes fixed on the anchored
Indomitable.
For four hours after the collapse of Pelham- Martin's attack the ships had continued south-west, following the curving shoulder of coastline, their speed reduced to a painful crawl as the crippled
Indomitable
endeavoured to maintain her lead.

At a point where the land curved more steeply inshore again and the sea's bottom afforded a temporary anchorage the com- modore had halted his retreat, and now, tugging above their own reflections the ships lay in an extended and uneven line, their bows pointing towards the land which was less than two miles distant.

Bolitho lifted his gaze to explore the full extent of the
Indomitable'
s damage, and knew that his bargemen were watch- ing his face as if to search out their own fate from his tight expression.

Against the two-decker's battered side the
Hyperion'
s barge crew seemed clean and untouched, as from a sharp command they tossed oars and the bowman hooked on to the chains.

Bolitho said, “Stand off and await my call.” He did not look at Allday's concerned face as he reached for the chains. There was enough bitterness aboard his ship without letting the barge crew converse with the
Indomitable'
s people and carry back further gos- sip to demoralise them to an even greater extent.

He was met at the entry port by a lieutenant with one arm in a crude sling. He said, “Could you make your own way aft, sir?” He jerked his head towards the other ships. “Captain Fitzmaurice and Captain Mulder will be coming aboard at any moment.”

Bolitho nodded but did not speak. As he strode towards the quarterdeck ladder he was conscious of the smells of burned wood and charred paintwork, of blistered guns and the sweet, sickly scent of blood.

Since leaving Las Mercedes the
Indomitable'
s hands had been busy, but all around was evidence enough of their plight and their near destruction. Several guns had been upended, and there was blood everywhere, as if some madman had been at work with bucket and brush, while beneath the foremast's trunk the corpses were piled like meat in a slaughterhouse, and as he paused at the top of the ladder more were carried from below to add to the grisly array.

He walked beneath the poop and thrust open the cabin door. Pelham-Martin was leaning with both hands on his table amidst a litter of charts, watched in silence by a captain of marines and a ship's lieutenant who could not have been much more than nineteen years old.