To Glory We Steer (36 page)

Like a living creature the
Phalarope
lifted her bows and smashed jubilantly into each succeeding rank of low waves, the spray bursting back over her forecastle in long white streamers.

Herrick reported, “Chain slings rigged, sir.”

“Very well.” It was an effort to speak calmly. “Have the boats swung out for towing astern. If we fight today there will be enough splinters flying without the boats adding to them!”

Okes managed to ask, “The gunfire, sir? What do you make of it?”

Bolitho saw several men pausing to listen to his reply. He said slowly, “Two ships. One much smaller than the other by the sound of the firing. We can be sure of one thing, Mr Okes. They cannot both be enemies!”

Herrick was back again. “What now, sir?”

“I am going down to shave and wash. When I return I will expect to hear that the men have been fed.” He smiled. “After that, we shall have to see!”

But once back in his cabin it was almost more than he could bear to take time to shave and change his clothes. The breakfast which Stockdale hurriedly laid on the cabin table he could not even face. By tonight, or perhaps within the next few hours, he might be dead. Or even worse, screaming for mercy under the surgeon's knife. He shuddered. It was pointless even to think of it. More, it was harmful.

Stockdale said, “I have laid out a fresh shirt, sir.” He looked searchingly at Bolitho. “I think you should wear your best uniform, too.”

“For heaven's sake why, man?” He stared at the coxswain's battered face in surprise.

Stockdale replied gravely, “This is the day, sir. I have the same feeling I had with you once before.” He added stubbornly, “And the men will be looking to you, sir. They'll want to
see
you.” He nodded as if to settle the matter. “After all that's happened they'll need to know you're with them.”

Bolitho stared at him, suddenly moved by the man's halting, broken voice. “If you say so, Stockdale.”

Ten minutes later a voice echoed faintly above the sounds of sea and canvas. “Deck there! Sail on the starboard bow!”

Bolitho made himself wait just a few more seconds as Stockdale buckled on his sword, and then walked to the cabin ladder. The quarterdeck seemed crammed with figures, all pointing and speaking at once. Every voice fell silent as Bolitho walked to the rail to take a telescope from Maynard.

Through the frigate's criss-cross of rigging he could see the distorted patterns of tossing whitecaps beyond her bows. The sky was already clear, but the water seemed to writhe in the grip of a slow-moving sea mist, and for once the new day felt drained of warmth.

Then he saw them. Two ships close together, their hulls hidden in a dense cloud of smoke and mist, their tattered sails hanging disembodied above the hidden battle below.

But the flags were easily visible. One blood red, like that which flew above him. The other clear and white. The flag of France.

He closed the telescope with a snap. “Very well, Mr Okes. Beat to quarters and clear for action!”

His eyes held them a moment longer. “We must give well of ourselves today, gentlemen. If our people see us doing our best, they will be willing enough to do
their
duty!”

He half listened to the distant thunder of gunfire. “Carry on, Mr Okes!”

They all touched their hats and then looked at one another, as if each man realised that for some, maybe for all of them, it would be the last time.

Then the drum began to rattle, and the small moment was past.

17 FORM
L
INE OF BATTLE!

W
ITHIN
ten minutes of the drum's urgent tattoo the
Phalarope
was cleared for action. Decks were sanded and buckets of water stood within reach of every gun. Over the whole ship there had fallen a strange, gripping stillness, broken only by the uneasy slap of canvas and the steady sluice of water around the stem.

Bolitho shaded his eyes and watched the sun's unearthly orange glow as it tried to filter through the unending wall of sea mist. The bang and clatter of gunfire had become more uneven and sporadic with each dragging minute, and now as the distance fell away between the
Phalarope
and the other ships there came new sounds, more vicious, and somehow more personal. Bolitho could hear the sharp cracks of muskets and pistols, the jarring scrape of steel against steel, and above all the mingling cries of men fighting for their lives.

Okes wiped his face with the back of his hand and said quickly, “This damn mist! I can't see what's happening!”

Bolitho glanced at him briefly. “It is a godsend, Mr Okes. They are too busy to see us!” He lifted his hand to the quartermaster. “Starboard a point!” Then he walked to the rail and looked down at Herrick's upturned face.

“Have the guns loaded, but do not run out until I tell you.”

He saw the gunners push the fresh charges down the gaping muzzles, followed by the round, gleaming shot. The more experienced gun-captains took time to fondle each ball, weighing it almost lovingly to make sure that the first salvo would be a perfect one.

He heard Herrick shout, “Double-shotted and grape, lads! Let 'em
feel
it this time!”

A stronger breath of wind rolled aside the mist around the entangled ships, and Bolitho tightened his lips into a thin line. Almost stern on to the
Phalarope
's swift approach was a French frigate, and alongside, listing and battered almost beyond recognition, was the little brig,
Witch of Looe.
One mast was already gone, and the other seemed to be held upright only by the remaining stays. He thought of her commander, the young Lieutenant Dancer he had met aboard the flagship, and marvelled at the man's pluck or wasted courage which had made him match his ship against this powerful opponent. His little pop-guns against the still-smoking twelve-pounders.

Okes said, “They've seen us, sir!” He swallowed hard as something like an animal growl floated across the water. “My God, look at them!”

The
Witch of Looe
's shattered deck seemed to be swamped in French sailors, and as the drifting gunsmoke parted momentarily to allow the sunlight to play across the carnage, Bolitho saw the small knot of defenders, still fighting back from the brig's small quarterdeck. In a few more minutes they would be swamped completely.

The gunports along the French frigate's disengaged side suddenly opened, and to the steady rumble of trucks the guns appeared like a line of bared teeth.

Bolitho shut his ears and mind to the victorious shouts from the French frigate and concentrated his thoughts on the narrowing strip of water between them. Less than a cable's length to go, with neither ship able to fire.
Phalarope
was almost dead in line with the other ship's stern, so that if she held her course her bowsprit would drive straight through the stern windows. On one side of the enemy frigate lay the listing, riddled brig, and on the other the guns waited to claim another victim.

Bolitho called sharply, “Run out the starboard battery!”

He watched as his men threw themselves against the tackle falls, and in a squealing, protesting line the guns trundled up the slight slope of the deck and out through the open ports.

There was a great bellow of noise from the French ship, wild and inhuman. The sound gained from killing and madness.
Phalarope
's own men remained tense and cold, their eyes unblinking as the enemy's pockmarked sails grew higher and higher above the bows.

Bolitho placed his hands on the rail and said slowly, “Now send your men across to the larboard battery, Mr Herrick!” He saw the quick mystified glances and added harshly, “In another minute I am going to turn to starboard and go alongside the
Witch of Looe.
She is low in the water, our broadside should pass right above her!”

Herrick's frown gave way to a look of open admiration. “Aye, aye, sir!”

Bolitho's voice stopped him in his tracks. “Quietly there! I don't want the Frogs to see what we're doing!”

Crouching almost on their knees the gunners scuttled across to the opposite side, their excitement instantly quelled by hoarse threats from the gun-captains.

Nearer and nearer. A few musket balls whined harmlessly overhead, but for the most part the French captain was prepared to wait. He could match gun for gun, and as
Phalarope
's bows and foremast would take the first punishment he could afford to feel confident. His own ship was drifting slowly downwind and his gunners could thank the
Witch of Looe
's weight alongside for a steadier platform beneath their feet. There was a faint ripple of cheering, drowned instantly by a fresh outburst of musket fire.

Proby muttered, “The brig's people are cheering us, sir!”

Bolitho ignored him. One error now and his ship would change into a shambles. Fifty yards, thirty yards. Bolitho lifted his hand. He saw Quintal crouching like a runner, one beefy hand resting on the nearest seaman at the braces.

Bolitho shouted,
“Now!”

At his side Proby added his weight to the wheel, as with a scream of blocks the yards began to swing, the sails flapping in protest, but answering the challenge of wind and rudder.

“Run out!” Bolitho felt ice cold as the larboard battery squealed across the sanded planks. “Fire as your guns bear!”

He pounded the rail, counting each frantic second. For a moment he thought that he had mistimed the change of course, but even as he waited, holding his breath and hardly daring to watch, the bowsprit swung lazily across the French ship's high stern, almost brushing away a small group of sailors which had gathered above the hammock nettings.

Herrick ran from gun to gun, making sure that each successive shot went home. Not that he need have troubled. As the French gunners ran dazedly from the opposite side the first shots went crashing home. The
Phalarope
shuddered as she ground against the little brig, but maintained her way steadily down the ship's side, her guns belching fire and death above the heads of the stunned boarders and the remaining members of the brig's crew.

Bolitho winced as the quarterdeck nine-pounders joined in the din. But still there was no answer from the French ship. Bolitho had guessed correctly that the guns which stared impotently at the
Phalarope
's smashing attack would have been in action right up to the moment of grappling and boarding the little brig.

He watched as great pieces of the frigate's bulwark caved in and fragments of torn planking rose above the smoke as if thrown from an invisible hand. An axe flashed dully, and Bolitho yelled, “He's trying to free himself!” He drew his sword. “Over you go, lads! Boarders away!”

As the
Phalarope
ground to a sluggish halt, her bows locked into the brig's fallen rigging and spars, Bolitho ran down the port gangway and clambered on to the
Witch of Looe
's tilting deck. For a moment nobody followed him and then with a great roar, half cheer and half scream, the waiting seamen swept over the bulwark behind him.

Most of the French sailors, caught between the
Phalarope
's savage gunfire and the revived members of the brig's crew, threw up their hands in surrender, but Bolitho thrust them aside, his sword raised high towards his own men. “Come on, lads! We'll take the frigate!” There would be time enough for the boarders later, he thought vaguely.

Once up the frigate's shot-pitted side the resistance became fierce and deadly. Wild, crazed faces floated around Bolitho as he hacked his way aft towards the poop, and his feet barely supported him in the heel-thick layer of blood which seemed to cover the deck like fresh paint. The enemy's upper-deck had been crammed with men. Some were boarders recalled from the
Witch of Looe,
and others were gunners caught off guard by the
Phalarope
's sudden change of course. This momentarily disorganised mass of men had received the full force of the broadside. All the
Phalarope
's larboard twelve-pounders and the quarterdeck battery as well, each double-shotted and loaded with grape for good measure. It looked as if a maniac had been throwing buckets of blood everywhere. Even the lower edges of the sails were speckled in scarlet, and fragments of men hung from upended guns and splintered bulwarks alike.

A French officer, hatless and bleeding from a scalp wound, leapt in front of Bolitho, his thin sword red to its hilt. Bolitho lifted his own sword, but felt it parried aside, and saw the French officer's expression change from anxiety to sudden exultation. Bolitho tried to draw back, but the struggling press of figures prevented it. He could not lift his sword in time. He saw the man's arm come round, heard the swish of steel, and waited for the shock of the thrust.

Instead the Frenchman's face twisted with alarm as a battle-crazed marine burst through the throng, his fixed bayonet held in front of him like a spear. The sword swung round yet again, but it was too late. The momentum of the marine's charge impaled the officer on the bayonet and threw them both against the poop ladder. The marine screamed with wild delight and stamped his boot on the Frenchman's stomach, at the same moment wrenching out the dripping bayonet. The French officer sank slowly to his knees, his mouth opening and shutting like a dying fish. The marine stared at him as if for the first time and then thrust the bayonet home again.

Bolitho caught his arm. “That's enough! For God's sake, man!” The marine did not seem to hear him, but after a brief startled look at his captain's face he charged off into the battle once more, his expression one of concentration and hatred.

The frigate's captain lay on the poop, his shoulders supported by a young lieutenant. Someone was tying a crude tourniquet around the shattered stump of one leg, and the captain was only just hanging on to his senses as fighting, stabbing seamen reeled and staggered across his body.

Bolitho shouted, “Strike!
Strike,
Captain! While you still have some men left!” He did not recognise his own voice, and his hand around the hilt of his sword was wet with sweat. He thought of the crazed marine and knew that he too was in danger of giving way to the lust of battle.

The French captain gestured faintly, and the lieutenant gasped, “We strike! M'sieu, we strike!”

But even after the white flag had fluttered to the deck and men had been hauled bodily from the work of killing, it took time to make the
Phalarope
's men realise they had won.

The first to congratulate Bolitho was Dancer of the
Witch of Looe.
Bleeding from several wounds, his arm tied across his chest with a piece of codline, he limped over the splintered, bloodstained deck and held out his good hand. “Thank you, sir! I was never more pleased to see any man!”

Bolitho sheathed his sword. “Your own ship is sinking, I fear.” He looked up at the frigate's tattered sails. “But you sold her dearly.”

Dancer swayed and then gripped Bolitho's arm. “I was trying to warn Sir Robert! The French are out, sir!” He squinted his eyes as if to restore his dazed thoughts. “Three days ago de Grasse met up with Rodney's fleet, but after a quick clash at long range, broke off the battle.” He pointed vaguely through the smoke. “I have been trying to shadow the Frogs, and this morning I saw the whole fleet nor'-west of Dominica. He shook his head. “I think Sir George Rodney has managed to engage them again, but I cannot be sure. I was caught by this frigate before I could get back to the squadron.” He smiled ruefully. “Now I have no ship at all!”

Bolitho frowned. “Have you enough men to take this frigate as prize?”

Dancer stared. “But she is
your
prize, sir!”

“We can discuss the share of financial reward at a later and more convenient time, Lieutenant!” Bolitho smiled. “In the meantime I suggest you herd these prisoners below and make as much speed as you can with these rags for some port of safety.” He peered up through the smoke. “The wind has veered slightly to the southeast. It should carry you clear of any impending battle!”

Herrick blundered through the mess and tangle of corpses, his sword dangling from his wrist. He touched his hat. “We have just sighted the
Cassius,
sir!”

“Very well.” Bolitho held Dancer's hand. “Thank you for your news. At least it will justify Sir Robert's leaving his proper station!” He turned on his heel and climbed back across the sinking brig towards his own ship.