Enemy in Sight! (37 page)

Bolitho watched him go, his heart suddenly heavy with concern.

“He'll be safe down there, Captain.”

He turned to find Allday standing behind him, the sword and his best dress coat draped across his arm.

Several men watched him as he slipped out of his faded sea- going coat and thrust his arms into the one with the white lapels and bright gold lace. The coat which Cheney had admired so.

Allday adjusted the swordbelt around his waist and stood back with a critical glance.

Then he said quietly, “It is going to be fierce work before we're done today, Captain. There's many a man who'll be look- ing aft when things get bad.” He nodded, apparently satisfied. “They'll want to see you. To know you're here with them.”

Bolitho lifted the old sword a few inches from its scabbard and touched the blade with his finger. Old, maybe, but the man who had forged it had known a thing or two. It was lighter than most of the modern ones, but the blade was like a razor. He let it drop into the scabbard and thrust his hands beneath his coat.

He said, “If I fall today, see that the boy is safe.”

Allday stood at his back, a heavy cutlass naked in his belt. If you fall it will be because I am already pulped, he thought. Aloud he replied, “Never fear, Captain.” He showed his teeth in a grin. “I'll be an
admiral's
cox'n yet!”

There was a dull bang, and seconds later a thin waterspout rose lazily across the larboard bow. Bolitho watched the smoke being whipped away from the three-decker's forecastle by the wind.

He imagined Lequiller and his captain watching their slow approach and felt his breathing becoming more controlled, even relaxed. The last calm before madness began. The moment when there was no more room for conjecture or regret.

Another ball ploughed through the white-tipped rollers and ricocheted towards the horizon.

He found that he was smiling, his skin tight like a mask. You will have to get closer than that, my friend. Much closer.

Then he drew his sword and laid it flat along the quarter- deck rail.

The waiting was done. The time was now.

19
F
INAL EMBRACE

B
OLITHO
turned his back on the approaching ships and raised his glass to study the
Spartan.
With the little sloop close astern of her she was plunging through steep swells about a mile to wind- ward. He caught a brief glimpse of Farquhar's elegant figure, his face turned towards him, and then lowered the glass again.

“Make a signal to
Spartan
and
Dasher.
” He saw Carlyon's hands shaking as he picked up his slate and pencil.
“Attack and harass the enemy's rear.”

The suddenness of Farquhar's acknowledgement and the instant activity on the frigate's deck and yards told him of the relief his signal had unleashed. Unlike the two-deckers, Farquhar had no need to wait to be pounded blow for blow. As his sails filled to the wind and more canvas billowed from his topgallant yards Bolitho knew he would give of his best. At any other time it would have been sheer lunacy to despatch such frail vessels headlong into the fray, but as Farquhar had observed, the enemy had no frigates left, and feint attacks around the French rear might help to cause some momentary diversion.

Inch whispered, “The
Dasher
too, sir?”

Bolitho glanced at him. “There can be no spectators today.”

There was a sporadic rumble of cannon fire, and he saw the
Tornade'
s upper battery light up in a long ripple of orange tongues. But the
Spartan
was already thrusting past and ahead of
Hyperion'
s larboard bow, her ensign streaming from the gaff as she spread more sail and headed towards the opposite end of the French line. Some of the balls ripped through the water and raised more spray beyond her, but she was a difficult target, and it was obvious that the sudden move was quite unexpected.

Flags soared up the
Tornade'
s yards, and the two rearmost two-deckers began to idle clear of the line, their topsails flapping as they tacked slowly and ponderously towards the oncoming frigate.

Bolitho smiled tightly. The treasure ship meant more to Lequiller than anything. Without her and her cargo of men and wealth this would be a battle of no value, either to him or his country.

Some of the other ships were firing now, the sounds inter- mingled and jarring as their gunners tried to wing the two spray-shrouded vessels before they could sail past.

Bolitho held his breath as the sloop rocked violently, her low hull completely bracketed with leaping columns of water. But she sailed on, her driver and maintopsail punctured in a dozen places. One of those balls from the French line would smash her deli- cate timbers to boxwood, and her commander needed no encouragement to spread more sail and clap on speed.

Bolitho turned away and stared fixedly at the leading enemy ship. They were almost bow to bow now, with the three-decker less than half a cable away and slightly to starboard.

Inch murmured, “
We
have the wind-gage it seems.”

“And the wind is still fresh, Mr Inch.” Bolitho looked up as one more gun fired from the
Tornade'
s lofty forecastle and a ball slapped through the mizzen topsail directly overhead. “But the smoke from our broadsides will be better protection than agility.”

He pressed his palm on the sword's flat blade. “Stand by on the main deck!” He saw the gunners crouching down, their faces tight with concentration as they peered through the open ports, hands like claws on tackles and rammers, as if they would never move again. He heard the word being passed below decks, and tried not to think of the lower battery, the hell it would be soon, and his nephew down there enduring the living nightmare.

The three-decker's yards moved very slightly and he saw her swing away. Lequiller's captain intended to pass exactly par- allel with the English line and not waste a single ball.

Bolitho watched the oncoming giant, her triple row of guns shining dully in the light, the lower battery comprised of massive thirty-two-pounders.

He lifted his left hand very slowly and could almost feel Gossett tensing behind him. He made himself wait until the
Tornade'
s yards had settled again and then shouted, “Larboard your helm!” He heard the spokes creaking frantically and saw the bowsprit beginning to swing slowly until it was pointing straight for the enemy's figurehead. “Steady!” He slapped the rail, his voice harsh but controlled. “
Now,
Mr Gossett! Bring her back on course!” The wheel started squealing again, and along the main deck he saw vague impressions of men hurling themselves at the braces, while overhead the yards creaked and grated in protest. He ran to the nettings and peered at the French flagship. She was turning away, her captain momentarily unnerved by what must have looked like a head-on collision.

He yelled,
“Broadside!”

Stepkyne dropped his sword, his voice cracked with strain.

“Fire!”

Every gun hurled itself inboard, the crashing roar of explo- sions seeming to drive into Bolitho's brain with the force of a musket ball. He watched as the dense smoke billowed away and heard the splintering thunder of his broadside striking home.

The smoke lifted violently as if touched by some other wind, and lit up scarlet and orange, while around and above the
Hyperion'
s quarterdeck the air came alive with screaming metal as the
Tornade'
s gunners recovered their wits and fired back.

Bolitho staggered and seized the rail to stop himself falling as a ball sliced through the bulwark and smashed into a nine-pounder on the opposite side. He heard screams and yells, and more cries as another burst of cannon fire raked the hull from stem to poop.

Above the writhing fog he saw the Frenchman's masts, the speckled flashes from unseen marksmen in her tops, and waited counting seconds as the
Hyperion'
s second broadside blasted the smoke aside and shook the deck beneath him as if striking a reef.

He yelled, “Lively, Mr Roth!” The rest of his words were drowned as the quarterdeck nine-pounders jerked inboard on their tackles, their earsplitting barks adding to the din and confusion about him.

Musket balls thudded into the deck planking, and he saw a marine staggering and reeling like a drunken man, hands pressed to his stomach, his eyes closed as he reached the rail and pitched headlong into the net below.

But the
Tornade'
s topmasts were already passing the starboard quarter, and as the
Hyperion'
s lower battery fired again he saw the balls smashing into the three-decker's tall side, the splinters and lacerated shrouds lifting above the smoking gunports in crazy tor- ment.

And here came the second one, a two-decker with a figure- head of a Roman warrior, her bowchaser firing blindly through the gunsmoke as she endeavoured to keep station on her flagship.

Bolitho cupped his hands, “Fire as you bear, Mr Stepkyne!” He saw the lieutenant crouching inboard of the leading gun, his hand on the captain's shoulder.

More heavy firing came from astern, and Bolitho knew the
Hermes
was engaging the flagship, but when he peered over the nettings he could see nothing but topmasts, all else hidden in the great pall of smoke.

“Fire!”

Gun by gun the main deck battery engaged the second ship, the men cheering and cursing as they threw themselves on the tackles, their naked bodies shining with sweat and blackened from powder smoke, while they sponged out the muzzles and rammed home the next charges.

Bolitho felt the hull quake below his feet, and winced as more balls smashed along the ship's side, hurling splinters into the smoke or ripping through ports to plough into the men beyond. He saw a complete gun hurled bodily on to its side, with one of its crew pinned screaming and writhing beneath it. But his cries were lost in the roar and crash of the next broadside, and Bolitho forgot his agony as he turned to watch the two-decker's foremast begin to slide down into the smoke.

He grabbed Inch's arm so that the lieutenant jumped as if receiving a musket ball. “The carronades!” He did not have to add anything and saw Inch waving his speaking trumpet towards the hunched figures on the forecastle. The throaty roar of a carronade fanned the smoke downwards into the main deck, and he saw the massive ball explode just below the Frenchman's poop. When the wind laid bare the damage he saw that the wheel and helmsmen had vanished and the poop looked as if it had been struck by a landslide.

Crippled, and momentarily not under command, the ship started to swing downwind, her high stern and flapping Tricolour rising above the smoke like an ornate cliff.

The second carronade lurched back on its slide, and Bolitho heard someone cheering as the ball burst inside the stern cabin above her name,
Cato,
and the handful of marksmen who were still trying to shoot at the
Hyperion'
s forecastle as she edged past. He could picture the murderous devastation as the ball sent its contents scything through the crowded gundeck to add to the confusion already apparent on her shattered poop.

Vaguely he could see a marine waving and gesturing from the forecastle, and when he ran to the weather side he saw something dark and covered with green weed sliding past the larboard bow like a grotesque sea monster.

Inch cried hoarsely, “Christ Almighty! The
Dasher!
”

Bolitho pushed past him as the third ship's topmasts and braced yards loomed above the fog of battle. The sloop must have taken a full broadside, or sailed too close to the Spanish treasure ship. Her upturned keel surrounded by bursting air bubbles and flotsam was all that remained.

He snapped, “Ready, lads!” He could feel himself grinning, yet was conscious only of numb, pitiless concentration.

A voice yelled, “Ship on th' weather bow!”

As the smoke swirled abeam he saw the other two-decker across the larboard bow, her sails almost aback as she drifted towards him. She was one of the ships detached to protect the
San Leandro,
and as her upper guns blasted their orange tongues from the ports he knew it would be a double engagement.

He felt the salvo ripping overhead and saw the net bouncing with fallen blocks and full lengths of rigging. A man dropped from the mizzen top and fell hard across the breech of a nine- pounder. Bolitho heard his ribs cracking like a wicker basket trodden underfoot, saw the terrible agony on the man's face as the seamen pulled him clear and rolled his body free of their gun.

“Stand by the larboard battery!” He was hoarse with shout- ing and his throat felt like raw flesh. “Get ready to show them, my lads!” He waved his sword at the waiting gunners and saw more than one of them grinning up at him, their teeth very white through the grime.

“Fire!”

The larboard guns crashed out for the first time, the double- shotted charges blasting into the newcomer's bow and side with the sound of thunder. Bolitho watched coldly as the enemy's fore- mast and main topgallant buckled and curtsied into the drifting smoke, and then shouted, “Mr Stepkyne! All spare hands to the larboard gangway!” He saw Stepkyne, hatless and dazed, staring up at him. “Repel boarders!” He gestured with his sword as the French ship began to sidle slowly towards the larboard bow.

The third ship in the enemy line was abeam now, but had tacked further away than her predecessors. She seemed to lift from the
Hyperion'
s smoke, and then as the grey light touched her figurehead and catted anchor she fired a full broadside, the shockwave of the double line of guns blasting the air apart with the power of a searing wind.

Bolitho fell choking and spitting as the deck bucked and stag- gered beneath him. Men were crying and yelling all around him, and he stared up as Captain Dawson rolled across the splintered planking, blood gushing from his mouth and one eye bouncing grotesquely on his cheek.

When his hearing came back he heard the marines calling to each other, firing and loading, and vying with their comrades in the tops as they tried to pick off the French marksmen with their muskets.

Inch yelled, “The bastards are boarding us!”

Bolitho dragged himself to the rail and felt the ship lurch as the other two-decker came to rest across the forecastle bulwark.

The larboard guns were firing with hardly a break, their balls smashing into the enemy's hull at a few yards range. But across the bows he could see the glint of steel, an occasional flash of a pistol as the boarders and his own men came to grips.

“Get the marines up forrard!” He was almost knocked from his feet as the scarlet coated figures charged past him, their bay- onets shining in the gunflashes as the passing ship fired once more through the smoke.

Inch shouted wildly. “The mizzen topmast! It's coming down!”

Bolitho looked up and then pushed Inch against the nettings as with a splintering crack the topmast, complete with top- gallant and yards came pitching through the smoke to smash across the larboard side. Men were falling and dying, their blood running in great patterns across the deck, while some were still trapped in the severed rigging, their cries lost in the thunder of
Hyperion'
s guns.