Enemy in Sight! (30 page)

It had to be now or never.

Bolitho yelled, “Starboard your helm!”

Drunkenly the
Hyperion
started to edge round, every spar and shroud slamming and creaking in protest. Muffled cries came from below, and he guessed that the impetus of the turn was sweeping the sea through the lower ports.

Round and still further round, until the two ships lay almost level with some two cables between them. It was a difficult range, but with every sail holding the ship over as rigidly as a fortress there would never be another chance.

“Fire as you bear!”

He seized the rail and watched as the ship shook violently to the controlled broadside. The French two-decker was already swinging away, but as the sea came alive with leaping spray the bulk of the
Hyperion'
s metal raked her poop and quarterdeck with the sound of thunder.

Her yards were coming round again, and Bolitho knew that her captain had at last realised his predicament. He should have stayed to fight the pursuing
Hyperion
in the first place. Then there was always a chance of crippling, even destroying her. But now as she wallowed back Bolitho could almost feel the torment within her hull as the sea explored the rents left by that one smashing broadside. Leaning to the press of canvas she had exposed a whole expanse of bilge, into which many of the lower battery's twenty- four-pound balls must have carved a path of devastation which the pumps could never contain under such conditions.

He heard Stepkyne barking, “Run out! Fire as you bear!”

The gunners were whooping with wild excitement as they poured another double salvo at the struggling ship which lay right across their sights. The Frenchman was trying to shoot back, but so great was the confusion and so dense the smoke from the
Hyperion'
s guns that only a few balls came close. Most of them whimpered overhead, and on the poop the marines were cheer- ing and yelling, unable to use their long muskets at such a distance.

The range was closing, nevertheless, until both ships were less than two hundred yards apart. The enemy's sails were pockmarked with shot holes, and above her littered decks the rigging hung like torn creeper as she wilted to one more savage broadside.

Inch shouted, “Look, sir! She's breaking off the action!”

Bolitho shook his head. “We must have smashed her steer- ing.” He watched coldly as the enemy ship began to idle down-wind, her motion becoming more sluggish and haphazard with every nerve-wrenching minute.

Gossett said, “She's done for!” Several turned to stare at him and he added flatly, “The reef! She'll never claw off in time!”

Bolitho nodded. The long line of white breakers which reached out from the headland was overlapping the stricken ship, and nothing but a miracle could save her.

The quarterdeck gunners began to cheer with the jubilant marines, although they had not been able to fire either.

Bolitho crossed to the opposite side and stared for several moments at the
Telamon.
Alone and disabled, she too was in great danger of driving ashore. Yet for those few moments he was unable to move as he watched her plight and the complete destruc- tion she had suffered. Dismasted, but for a stump of her main, with her side broken in countless places, she was almost a total wreck. Other ships of her size might have taken the punishment and lived to fight again. But her old timbers were welded together by time and weather, so that instead of individual planks and beams being broken, whole areas of her hull gaped open to the sea, while from her scuppers the blood ran down into the flotsam alongside as a testament of her sacrifice.

He said, “Tell Mr Tomlin to lay out the towing cable. Secure guns and get every available man aft.”

Some of the gunners on the main deck climbed on to the gangways, realising for the first time what their own victory had cost the Dutch ship and her company.

Then he turned as Pelham-Martin rasped, “The Frenchman has not hauled down his colours!” His eyes were gleaming strangely. “He might still repair the damage!”

Bolitho stared at him. “And the
Telamon?
”

Pelham-Martin gestured fiercely with one hand. “Signal
Hermes
to take her in tow!” His eyes were still fixed on the drift- ing two-decker.
“I want that ship sunk!”

Bolitho looked at Gossett. “Lay a course to weather the reef.” To Inch he continued in the same impassive tone, “One broad- side as we pass. There will be no second chance once we clear the reef.”

He crossed to the commodore's side again. “They'll be hard aground in a moment, sir.” He knew it was pointless even as he spoke. There was something wild about Pelham-Martin's expres- sion, a kind of inhuman eagerness which filled him with disgust.

“Do as I order!” Pelham-Martin clung to the nettings as the ship heeled slightly and Gossett said, “Course sou'-west, sir!”

Far astern Bolitho could hear cheering aboard the
Hermes,
and as he looked over the nettings he saw figures standing on the
Telamon'
s gangways waving and cheering with them. Someone had nailed a new flag to the broken mast, and amidst all the destruction and horror it seemed remote and strangely sad.

But aboard
Hyperion
not a single man called out now. Even the marines watched in silence as the ship bore down towards the dancing breakers along the reef. Here and there Bolitho saw the black tooth of a jagged rock, and found himself praying that the French would strike their colours before it was too late. There was a stiff sea running across the reef, and the survivors would be hard put to get ashore in safety even without this last batter- ing.

But the flag was still there above the poop, and although the hull was low in the water he could see the men at their guns and a few figures standing on her quarterdeck as before.

“Stand by!” Stepkyne's harsh voice cut through the stillness.

Bolitho clenched his fists. Strike, damn you!
Strike!
Even as he willed the other captain to make the final gesture of surren- der he knew that in a similar position he would have acted the same way.

The enemy was drifting almost on end now, so that he could see the great scars in her poop, the trailing rigging above her gilded name,
Le Fortune.
He thought he saw an officer wave his sword towards the
Hyperion
as she bore past, and then with a double roar the enemy fired his last shots from the two stern- chasers below the shattered cabin windows.

Bolitho felt the shuddering crash of a ball slamming against the quarterdeck bulwark and heard the hiss of wood splinters rip- ping past him, but all this was lost as the
Hyperion
rolled back ponderously to the weight of her own broadside.

As the smoke swirled high overhead he saw the enemy's main- mast come crashing down. But it did not vanish in the sea alongside for at that very moment the ship quivered and then struck hard on the reefs. Above the cry of the wind they could all hear the grinding smash of timbers and the immediate inrush of water through her bottom. That last broadside must have killed or wounded most of the seamen on her main deck, for with her torn sails still driving her abeam she lifted again and then lurched once more across the reefs, her foremast toppling amongst the stampeding figures which swarmed helplessly across the fore- castle.

Bolitho turned away, sickened. He could hear the other ves- sel tearing herself apart, and imagined the panic and disaster below decks as the great guns broke loose from their tackles and smashed from side to side, while the trapped seamen struggled amidst the rushing water in a vain effort to escape.

But the Tricolour had gone at last. Not struck, but blasted away in the fury of the
Hyperion'
s gunfire.

He turned slowly. “Orders, sir?”

Then he stared as Pelham-Martin swayed and began to slip to the deck. His coat had blown open in the wind, and from beneath his armpit and spreading quickly across his white waist- coat was a bright patch of blood.

Bolitho shouted, “A hand here! Mr Carlyon, pass the word for the surgeon!” Then he dropped on one knee and slipped his arm around the commodore's shoulders. “Easy, sir!”

Pelham-Martin seemed unable to speak and his expression was more one of amazement than any sort of pain.

“Carry the commodore to his cabin.” Bolitho stood aside as Trudgeon, the surgeon, accompanied by his mates hurried on to the quarterdeck.

Pelham-Martin gasped, “Oh, God! Take care, blast you!”

Inch asked, “Is it bad, sir?”

Bolitho walked to the bulwark and looked at the ragged scar above the nearest gunport. The ball, probably a nine-pounder, had carved away the timbers like the blow from an axe. The gunners beside that port had been standing to watch the other ship. Otherwise they would have acted as a shield for Pelham- Martin.

He replied at length, “Wood splinters make the worst wounds, as you know, I am surprised he did not feel it more.”

Then he crossed to the rail and peered over the starboard quarter to watch the enemy two-decker foundering heavily across the reef. From the angle of her poop deck he guessed she had already broken her back. It was strange to realise that but for Pelham-Martin's insistence on that final attack he would still be unharmed.

Inch said, “The
Hermes
has
Telamon
in tow, sir.”

Gossett walked across the deck and touched the scarred wood- work with astonishment. “What made the Frogs fire that last lot, I wonder?”

Bolitho felt the tiredness sweeping over him. “Wouldn't
you have done so?” He turned to Inch again. “Does
Spartan
have her prize secure?”

“Aye, sir.” Inch watched him worriedly. “She is passing a tow across to her boarding party now.”

“Very well. Get the hands aloft and shorten sail. Then have a signal made to
Hermes
and
Spartan.
” He frowned, trying not to remember the sounds of the ship dying on the reef, the point- lessness of the last gestures. “We will return to St. Kruis. Make all sail conformable with weather and report when ready to pro- ceed.”

He looked round as Trudgeon came beneath the poop wip- ing his hands. “Well?”

The surgeon was a grimfaced, taciturn man who never wasted words. “A splinter, true enough, sir. Pierced his side under the right armpit. In very deep, I'd say.”

“Can you remove it?”

“If he were a common seaman I'd not hesitate, sir.” He shrug- ged. “But the commodore seems unwilling to let me touch him.”

“Stay with him until I am free to come aft.” As Trudgeon made to leave he added coldly, “And if I catch you treating a
com- mon
seaman with less care than one of my officers, I can assure you it will be the last time for you!”

Inch hesitated until the surgeon had departed. “Must we return to St. Kruis, sir?”

“The
Telamon
will never survive unaided.” He thought of the cheers, the destruction and the unquestioning courage of the Dutch sailors. “De Ruyter would have been proud of them,” he added quietly. “And I'll not leave them now!”

He walked to the quarterdeck rail and rested against it, feel- ing the ship trembling through his body as if they were linked together. Below him the seamen were relashing their guns and swabbing the decks free of powder stains, chattering and calling to each other, probably quite unaware their commodore had been wounded. The irony of it was made harder to understand, as he had been their only casualty.

Inch watched the topmen shinning down the backstays and said, “This means that you will command the squadron now, sir.”

Bolitho smiled. “Not while that pendant flies, Mr Inch.”

He thought suddenly of all those who had died or been maimed for life since the ship had sailed from Plymouth Sound. “I doubt that the commodore will be laid low for long. Once we are in more sheltered waters Mr Trudgeon will be better placed to remove the splinter.”

Carlyon said, “Signal from
Hermes,
sir. Both tows secured and ready to proceed.”

“Acknowledged.” Bolitho looked at Inch. “You may wear ship now. Take station to windward of the others. We will be able to keep an eye on them to better advantage.” He glanced up at the set of the sails. “I shall inform the commodore.”

He found Pelham-Martin lying in his cot, his body well cush- ioned and protected against the ship's uneasy movements, and a great wad of dressing wound around his chest and shoulder. His eyes were closed, and in the faint sunshine from the skylight his skin looked like wax.

Trudgeon crossed the cabin and said dourly, “I have exam- ined the wound again, sir.” He shifted beneath Bolitho's gaze. “The fact is, there's so much fat it's hard to tell the depth or extent of the splinter.”