The Only Victor (29 page)

“Fire!”

The ship staggered to the thunder and recoil of the guns, while the pale smoke billowed downwind towards the enemy.

It was like grinding over a reef or running into a sandbar, so that for a long moment men seemed to stare at one another as the enemy's broadside crashed into the hull or screamed through the canvas and rigging overhead. The spread nets jumped with fallen cordage and blocks, and a scarlet-coated marine dropped from the maintop before lying spreadeagled above one of the gun crews.

Bolitho coughed out smoke and thought briefly of Inskip down in the reeling gloom of the orlop. The first wounded would already be on their way there. He looked at the marine's corpse on the nets. It was a marvel nothing vital had been shot away.

He saw Jenour wiping his eyes with his forearm, dazed by the onslaught.

“Captain Poland, prepare to alter course, if you please. We will steer due west!” But when he looked through the thinning smoke he saw that Poland was down, one leg doubled under him, his fingers clutching his throat as if to stem the blood which flooded over his coat like paint. Bolitho dropped on his knee beside him. “Take him to the surgeon!” But Poland shook his head so violently that Bolitho saw the gaping hole in his neck where a fragment of iron had cut him down. He was dying, choking on his own blood as he tried to speak.

Lieutenant Munro joined him, his tanned face as pale as death.

Very slowly, Bolitho stood up and looked towards the enemy. “Your captain is dead, Mr Munro. Pass the word to the others.” He glanced down at Poland's contorted features. Even in death his eyes were somehow angry and disapproving. It was terrible to see him die with a curse on his lips, although he guessed that he had been the only one close enough to hear it.

His last words on earth had been,
“God's damnation on Varian, the cowardly bastard!”

Bolitho saw Williams staring aft towards him, his hat gone but the sword still gripped in his hand.

Bolitho watched a seaman cover Poland's body with some canvas, then he walked up to the quarterdeck rail as he had done so many times in the past.

He thought of Poland's despairing curse and said aloud, “And
my
damnation too!” Then he dropped his hand and felt the ship's anger erupt in another savage broadside.

Jenour called huskily, “The corvette's closing, sir!”

“I see her. Warn the starboard battery, then pass the word to the marines in the tops.
Nobody will board this ship!
” He stared at Jenour and knew he was speaking wildly.
“Nobody!”

Jenour tore his eyes away and called to a boatswain's mate. But just for a few seconds he had seen a Bolitho he had not known before. Like a man who faced destiny and accepted it. A man without fear; without hate and maybe without hope either. He saw Bolitho turn away from the drifting smoke and look towards his coxswain. The glance excluded everyone, so that the death and danger seemed almost incidental for that one precious moment. They smiled at each other, and before the guns opened fire once again Jenour tried to recall what he had seen in Bolitho's expression as he had glanced at his friend. If it was anything, it was like an apology, he decided.

Bolitho had seen Jenour's desperate gaze but forgot him as the guns thundered again and recoiled on their tackles. Like demons the crews flung themselves to their tasks of sponging out the smoking muzzles, before ramming home fresh charges and finally the black, evil-looking shot. Their naked backs were begrimed from powder smoke, sweat cutting pale lines through it in spite of the bitter wind and floating droplets of spray.

There was blood on the deck too, while here and there great blackened scores cut across the usually immaculate planking, where French balls had come smashing inboard. One of the larboard eighteen-pounders had been upended and a man lay dying beneath its massive weight, his skin burning under the overheated barrel. Others had been pulled aside to keep the deck clear for the small powder monkeys who scurried from gun to gun, not daring to look up as they dropped their charges and ran back for more.

Two corpses, so mutilated by flying metal that they were barely recognisable, were lifted momentarily above the nettings before being cast into the sea. Burial when it came was as ruthless as the death which had marked them down.

Bolitho took a telescope from its rack and stared at the other frigate until his eye throbbed. Like
Truculent,
she had been hit many times and her sails were shot through, some ripping apart to the pressure of the wind. Rigging, severed and untended, swayed from the yards like creeper, but her guns were still firing from every port, and Bolitho could feel some of the iron hitting the lower hull. In the rare pauses, while men fell about their work like demented souls in hell, he could hear the tell-tale sound of pumps, and almost expected to hear Poland's incisive tones urging one of his lieutenants to bid them work all the harder.

The glass settled on the other frigate's poop and he saw her captain staring back at him through his own telescope. He shifted it slightly and saw dead and dying men around the wheel, and knew that some of Williams' double-shotted guns had reaped a terrible harvest.

But they must hurt her, slow her down before her guns could find some weakness in
Truculent
's defences.

He lowered the glass and yelled to Williams, “Point your guns abaft her mainmast and fire on the uproll!”

His words were lost in another ragged barrage, but a petty officer heard them, and knuckled his forehead as he dashed through the smoke to tell the first lieutenant.

He saw Williams peer aft and nod, his teeth very white in his bronzed face. Did he see his real chance of promotion now Poland was dead, as his captain had once done? Or did he only see the nearness of death?

Pieces of gangway burst from the side and scattered ripped and singed hammocks across the deck like faceless puppets. Metal clanged from one of the guns and men fell kicking and writhing as its splinters pitched them down in their own blood. One, the young midshipman named Brown whom Bolitho had seen joking with the first lieutenant, was hurled almost to the opposite side, most of his face shot away.

Bolitho thought wildly of Falmouth. He had seen enough stones there. This young fourteen-year-old midshipman would probably have one too when the news reached England.
Who died for the Honour of his King and Country.
What would his loved ones think if they had seen the “honour” of his death?

“Again, on the uproll!”
Bolitho reeled back from the rail while the guns roared out. Some spars fell from the Frenchman's mizzen, and one of her topsails was reduced to floating ribbons. But the flag still flew, and the guns had not lost their fury.

Munro shouted, “She's closing the range, Sir Richard!”

Bolitho nodded, and winced as a ball slammed through an open port and cut a marine in half while he stood guarding the mainhatch. He saw Midshipman Fellowes stuffing his fist into his mouth to prevent himself from retching or screaming at the sight—he could be blamed for neither.

Munro lowered his glass. “T'other frigate is still adrift, Sir Richard, but they're cutting the wreckage clear.”

“Yes. If she rejoins the fight before we can cripple the—”

There was a loud crack behind him and he heard more splinters whine through the air and thud into woodwork. He felt something strike his left epaulette, and rip it away to toss it to the deck like a contemptuous challenge. A foot lower, and the iron splinter would have cut through his heart. He reached out as Munro reeled against the side, his hand under his coat. He was gasping as if he had been punched in the stomach, and when Bolitho tore his hand away he saw the bright red blood running from his white waistcoat and breeches, even as Allday caught him and lowered him to the deck.

Bolitho said, “Easy, I'll have the surgeon attend you.”

The lieutenant stared up at the empty blue sky, his eyes very wide as if he could not believe what had happened.

He gasped, “No, sir!
Please, no
—” He gasped again as the pain increased and blood ran from one corner of his mouth. “I—I want to stay where I can see . . .”

Allday stood up and said gruffly, “Done for, Sir Richard. He's shot through.”

Someone was calling for assistance, another screaming with pain as more shot hammered into the side and through the rigging. But Bolitho felt unable to move.
It was all happening again. Hyperion
and her last battle, even to holding the hand of a dying seaman who had asked
“Why me?”
as death had claimed him. Almost defiantly he stooped down and took Munro's bloodied hand, and squeezed it until his eyes turned up to his. “Very well, Mr Munro. You stay with me.”

Allday sighed deeply. Munro's eyes, which watched Bolitho so intently, were still and without understanding.
Always the pain.

Hull, the sailing-master who had fought his own battle with wind and rudder throughout the fight, yelled hoarsely, “Corvette's takin' t'other frigate in tow, sir!”

Bolitho swung round and noticed that Jenour was still staring down at the dead lieutenant. Seeing himself perhaps?
Or all of us?

“Why so?” He trained the glass, and wanted to cry out aloud as the roar of another disjointed broadside probed his brain like hot irons.

He found the two ships through the pall of drifting smoke and saw the boats in the water as a towline was passed across. There were flags on the corvette's yards, and when Bolitho turned the glass towards the attacking ship he saw a signal still flying above the flash of her armament. She showed no sign of disengaging, so why was the other ship under tow? His reeling mind would make no sense of it. It refused to answer, even to function.

He heard Williams' voice. “Ready to larboard! Easy, my lads!” It reminded him of Keen with his men in
Hyperion,
quietening them as will a rider with a nervous horse.

Bolitho saw the Frenchman's yards begin to move, while more sails appeared above and below the punctured rags as if by magic.

Jenour cried with disbelief, “He's going about!”

Bolitho cupped his hands. “Mr Williams! Rake his stern as he tacks!”

Allday sounded dazed. “He's breaking off the fight. But why? He's only got to hang on!”

There was a sudden stillness, broken only by the hoarse orders of the gun-captains and the thud of the pumps. From somewhere aloft, from lookout or marine in the fighting tops, nobody knew.

“Deck below! Sail on th' weather bow!”

The Frenchman was gathering way as she continued to turn until the pale sunlight lit up her shattered stern windows, where Williams' carronade had scored the first strike for the price of a midshipman's two guineas; and beneath, across her scarlet counter her name,
L'Intrépide,
was clear to see for the first time.

Bolitho said, “Aloft, Mr Lancer, as fast as you can. I want to know more of this newcomer!”

The lieutenant bobbed his head and dashed wild-eyed for the shrouds. He faltered only when Williams' guns fired again and then he was up and climbing through the smoke as if the devil was at his heels.

Allday exclaimed, “By God, the bugger's making more sail!”

Men stood back from their smoking guns, too stunned or crazed to know what was happening. Some of the wounded crawled about the torn decks, their cracked voices demanding answers when there were none to offer.

Bolitho shouted, “
Stand to!
She's run out her stern chasers!” As he had watched his powerful enemy standing away, he had seen two ports in her mauled stern open to reveal the unfired muzzles pointing straight at
Truculent
even as the range began to open.

Williams yelled, “Ready on deck!”

As if he was totally unaware of the danger and the battle beneath him, Lieutenant Lancer shouted down in the sudden silence, “She's making her number, sir!”

Allday whispered harshly, “
Zest,
by God—but too bloody late.”

But he was wrong. Even Lancer, struggling with his telescope and signal book from his precarious perch aloft, sounded confused.

“She's
Anemone,
thirty-eight.” His voice seemed to shake.
“Captain Bolitho.”

At that very moment
L'Intrépide
fired first one stern chaser then the other. A ball crashed into the quarterdeck and cut down two of the helmsmen, covering Hull with their blood before scything through the taffrail. The last ball struck the mizzen top and brought down a mass of broken woodwork and several blocks. It was a miracle that Lancer had not been hurled down to the deck.

Bolitho was more aware of falling than of feeling any pain. His mind was still grappling with Lancer's report, hanging on although it was getting harder every second.

Hands were holding him with both anxiety and tenderness. He heard Allday rasp, “Easy, Cap'n!” What he had called him in the past. “A block struck you—”