In Gallant Company (36 page)

A bright ripple of flashes again, and this time the balls battered into the lower hull like a fall of rock.

Bolitho saw the flag at the brig's gaff, the one he had been hearing about. Red and white stripes, with a circle of stars on a blue ground. She looked very new, and was being handled by a real professional.

‘We'm makin' water fast, sir!'

Bolitho wiped his face and listened to the creak of the pumps. It was no use. They could never outreach her.

Small, vicious sounds sang past the helm, and he knew they were in musket range.

Somebody screamed, and then he saw Frowd stagger and fall against the bulwark, both hands clutching a shattered knee.

Couzens appeared at the hatch, his back towards the deck as he trained the pistol down the companion ladder.

‘We're sinking, sir! There's water bursting into the hold!'

A ball burst through the mainsail and parted shrouds and stays like an invisible sabre.

Frowd was gasping, ‘Run her ashore! It's our only chance!'

Bolitho shook his head. Once on firm sand, the yawl's cargo, and he had no doubt now that she was loaded with arms for the brig, would still be intact.

With sudden fury he climbed on to the shrouds and shook his fist at the other vessel.

His voice was lost on the wind and the answering crash of cannon-fire, but he found some satisfaction as he yelled, ‘I'll sink her first,
damn you!
'

Stockdale watched him, while beyond the bows and the sea which was being churned by falling shot he saw the headland sliding away.

Please God she'll be there, he thought despairingly. Too late for us, but they'll not live neither.

AS SHE FLOUNDERED
further from the island's shelter and into open water, the yawl rapidly became unmanageable. With so much damage below, and the dead-weight of weapons and iron shot, she was destroying herself on every wave.

The brig had changed tack again, sweeping away sharply to run almost parallel, while her gun crews settled down to pound the smaller craft into submission. There was no thought left of saving anything or anybody, and even the terrified prisoners were falling under the murderous cannon-fire.

Bolitho found time to notice that the brig, obviously new from some master-builder's yard, was not fully armed. Otherwise the fight would have been over long since. Only half her ports were firing, and he guessed the remainder were supposed to have been filled from the yawl's cargo. And this was her master's second attempt. The first had cost many lives, and the loss of the
Spite
. It seemed as if the brig had a charmed life and would escape yet again.

The deck gave a tremendous lurch and the topmast and upper yard fell in a mess of rigging and flapping canvas. Immediately the deck began to lean over, throwing men from their feet and bringing down more severed rigging.

From the open hatch Bolitho heard the violent inrush of water, the cries of the prisoners as the sea pushed through the frail timbers into the hold.

Bolitho clung to the bulwark and shouted, ‘Release those men, Mr Couzens! The rest of you help the wounded!' He stared at Stockdale as he released the useless tiller. ‘Lend a hand.' He winced as more shots whistled low overhead. ‘We must abandon!'

Stockdale threw an unconscious seaman over his shoulder and strode to the side, peering down to make sure the remaining cutter was still afloat.

‘Into the boat! Pass the wounded down.'

Bolitho felt the deck tilt and begin to settle more steeply. She was going by the stern, and the taffrail, with the stump of the after mast, was already awash.

If only the brig would cease firing. It needed just one ball to fall amongst the wounded and they would sink with the cutter. He looked at the swirling water and lively white crests. They would have a poor chance of survival in any case. On the island, which seemed to have moved a mile astern, he could see a few red coats, and guessed that the majority of the marines were running back to man the other boats. But marines were not seamen. By the time they managed to draw near, it would be over.

Couzens staggered towards him and gasped, ‘The bows are out of the water, sir!' He ducked as another shot ripped through the mainsail and tore it away to rags.

Stockdale was trying to climb back on deck, but Bolitho shouted, ‘Stand away! She's going down fast!'

With his face like a mask, Stockdale cast off the painter and allowed the current to carry him clear. Bolitho saw Frowd struggling aft to watch the sinking yawl, his fingers bloody as he waved his sword above his head.

The brig was shortening sail, the forecourse vanishing to reveal the rest of her neat hull.

Will they try to save us or kill us?

Bolitho said, ‘We will swim for it, Mr Couzens.'

The boy nodded jerkily, unable to speak, as he kicked off his shoes and tore frantically at his shirt.

A shadow moved below the open hatch, and for a moment Bolitho imagined a wounded or trapped man was still down there. But it was a corpse, drifting forward as the water pounded between the decks. It was as high as that.

Couzens stared at the water and murmured, ‘I'm not much of a swimmer, s-sir!' His teeth were chattering in spite of the sunlight.

Bolitho looked at him. ‘Why in hell's name didn't you leave
with the cutter then?' He realized the answer just as quickly and said quietly, ‘We will keep together. I see a likely spar yonder . . .'

The brig fired again, the ball skipping over the wave crests, past the swaying cutter and between some floundering swimmers like an attacking swordfish.

So that was why they had shortened sail. To make sure the British force was totally destroyed. So that every officer would think again if in the future he saw a chance of seizing much-needed supplies.

The yawl lurched over, tipping loose gear and corpses into the scuppers.

Bolitho watched the brig. But for Couzens he would have stayed and died here, he knew it. If he had to die anyway, it were better to let them see his face. But Couzens did not deserve such a death. For him there must always seem a chance.

The brig was putting her helm over, her yards in confusion as she swung away from the drifting wreck. He could even see her name on the broad counter,
White Hills
, and a startled face peering at him from the stern windows.

‘He's going about!' Bolitho spoke aloud without knowing it. ‘What is he thinking of? He'll be in irons in a minute!'

The wind was too strong and the brig's sails too few. In no time she was rendered helpless, her sails all aback in flapping, disordered revolt.

There was a muffled bang, and for an instant Bolitho thought she had sprung a mast or large yard. With disbelief he saw a great gaping hole torn in the brig's main-topsail, the wind slashing it to ribbons against the mast even as he watched.

He felt Couzens clutching his arm and shouting, ‘It's
Trojan
, sir! She
is
here!'

Bolitho turned and saw the two-decker, standing as if motionless in the haze, like an extension to the next pair of islets.

Pears must have judged it to the second, biding his time while the same wind which was hampering the brig carried him slowly across the one safe channel of escape.

Two bright tongues stabbed from the forecastle, and Bolitho
could see the gun captains as if he were there with them. Probably Bill Chimmo,
Trojan
's gunner, would personally be supervising each careful shot.

He heard the splintering crash as an eighteen-pound ball blasted its way into the brig.

Then, below his feet the deck started to slide away, and with Couzens clinging to him like a limpet he plunged over the bulwark. But not before he had heard a wild cheer, or before he had seen the bright new flag being hauled down from the brig's gaff.

Even at that range
Trojan
's starboard broadside could have smashed the brig to pieces in minutes, and her master knew it. A bitter moment for him, but many would thank him all the same.

Gasping and spluttering they reached the drifting spar and clung on to it.

Bolitho managed to say, ‘I think you saved
me
.' For, unlike Couzens, he had forgotten to remove his clothes or even his hanger, and he was grateful for the spar's support.

As he tried to hold his head above the choppy wave crests he saw the cutter turning towards him, the oarsmen leaning outboard to pull some of the swimmers to safety, or allow them to hang along either side of the hull. Further beyond them the other boats were coming too, the marines and the small party of seamen left to guard them doing better than Bolitho had expected.

He called, ‘How is the brig?'

Couzens stared across the spar and answered, ‘She's hove to, sir! They're not going to make a run for it!'

Bolitho nodded, unable to say anything more. The
White Hills
had no choice, especially as D'Esterre's boats were being careful not to lay themselves between him and
Trojan
's formidable artillery.

The brig's capture might not make up for all those who had died, but it would show
Trojan
's company what they could do, and give them back some pride.

Trojan
's remaining boats had been lowered and were coming to join in the rescue. Bolitho could see the two jolly boats and even the gig bouncing over the water. It took a full hour before
he and Midshipman Couzens were hauled aboard the gig by a grinning Midshipman Pullen.

Bolitho could well imagine what the delay had done to Stockdale. But Stockdale knew him well enough to stand off with his overloaded boat of wounded and half-drowned men, rather than to show preference for a lieutenant who was to all intents safe and unhurt.

The eventual return aboard the
Trojan
was one of mixed feelings. Sadness that some of the older and more experienced hands had died or suffered wounds, but riding with it a kind of wild jubilation that they had acted alone, and had won.

When the smartly painted brig was put under the command of a boarding party, and the seamen lining the
Trojan
's gangway cheered the returning victors, it felt like the greatest triumph of all time.

Small moments stood out, as they always did.

A seaman shaking his friend to tell him they were alongside their ship again, the stunned disbelief when he discovered he had died.

The cheers giving way to laughter as Couzens, as naked as the day he was born, climbed through the entry port with all the dignity he could manage, while two grinning marines presented arms for his benefit.

And Stockdale striding to meet Bolitho, his slow, lopsided smile of welcome better than any words.

Yet somehow it was Pears who held the day. Tall, massive like his beloved
Trojan
, he stood watching in silence.

As Couzens tried to hide himself Pears called harshly, ‘That is no way for a King's officer to disport himself, sir! ‘Pon my soul, Mr Couzens, I don't know what you are thinking about, and that's the truth!' Then as the boy ran, flushing, for the nearest companionway, he added, ‘Proud of you, all the same.'

Bolitho crossed the quarterdeck, his feet squelching noisily.

Pears eyed him grimly. ‘Lost the yawl, I see? Loaded, was she?'

‘Aye, sir. I believe she was to arm the brig.' He saw his men limping past, tarred hands reaching out to slap their shoulders. He said softly, ‘Our people did well, sir.'

He watched the brig spreading her sails again, the torn one little more than rags. He guessed that Pears had sent a master's mate across, while the marines searched and sorted out the captured crew. Frowd might be made prize-master, it might make up for his badly shattered knee. Whatever Thorndike did for him now, or some hospital later on, he would have a bad limp for the rest of his life. He had reached the rank of lieutenant. Frowd would know better than anyone that his wound would prevent his getting any further.

It was late afternoon by the time both vessels had cleared the islands and had sea-room again. It was no small relief to see the reefs and swirling currents left far astern.

When D'Esterre returned to the
Trojan
he had another interesting find to report.

The
White Hills
' captain was none other than Jonas Tracy, the brother of the man killed when they had seized the schooner
Faithful
. He had had every intention of fighting his way from under
Trojan
's guns, hopeless or not. But the odds had been against him. His company were for the most part new to the trade of a fighting ship, which was the reason for a seasoned privateersman like Tracy being given command in the first place. His reputation, and list of successes against the British, made him an obvious choice. Tracy had ordered his men to put the
White Hills
about, to try and discover another, narrow passage through the islands. His men, already cowed by the
Trojan
's unexpected challenge, were completely beaten when that second, carefully aimed ball had smashed into the brig's side. It had shattered to fragments on the breech of a gun on the opposite bulwark, and one splinter, the size of a block, had taken Tracy's arm off at the shoulder. The sight of their tough, hard-swearing captain cut down before their eyes had been more than enough, and they had hauled down their flag.

Bolitho did not know if Tracy was still alive. It was an ironic twist that he had been firing on the man who was responsible for his brother's death without knowing it.

Bolitho was washing himself in his small cabin when he heard a commotion on deck, the distant cry that a sail was in sight.

The other vessel soon showed herself to be a frigate under
full sail. She bore down on
Trojan
and with little fuss dropped a boat in the water to carry her captain across.

Bolitho threw on his shirt and breeches and ran on deck. The frigate was called
Kittiwake
, and Bolitho knew she was one of those he had seen at Antigua.