To Glory We Steer (40 page)

Bolitho strained his eyes through the smoke and watched his men changing from defenders to boarders. Whoever had decided to board the
Ondine
had made the right guess, he thought grimly. He heard the axes ringing on the tangle of wreckage behind him and knew it was impossible to free
Phalarope
from its embrace before the
Ondine
's heavy guns were brought back into action.

He crossed the deck and said to Rennie, “We must board her from aft, too!” He saw the marine nod. “Get some men together immediately!”

He heard someone sobbing and saw Neale on his knees below the lee rail. Midshipman Maynard was lying on his back, one hand held upright entangled in a signal lanyard, his eyes wide and unseeing and strangely peaceful. Neale was holding his hand and rocking back and forth, oblivious to the crash of gunfire and the slapping musket balls which had already claimed his friend.

Bolitho reached down and pulled Neale to his feet. The boy's last reserve seemed to collapse, and with a frantic cry he buried his face in Bolitho's coat, his body shaking with convulsions of grief. Bolitho prised him away and lifted his chin with the hilt of his sword. For a moment he stared down at him, then he said gravely, “Take a grip on yourself, Mr Neale!” He saw the stunned look in Neale's eyes and shut his mind to the fact that he was talking with a terrified thirteen-year-old who'd just lost his best friend. “You are a King's officer, Neale!” He softened his voice. “I said earlier, our people are watching you today. Do you think you can help me now?”

Neale brushed his eyes with his sleeve and looked back at Maynard's body by the bulwark. As the halyard jerked in the breeze his arm moved as if he still held on to life. Then Neale turned back to Bolitho and said brokenly, “I'm all right now, sir!”

Bolitho watched him walk back to the shouting gunners, a small figure half hidden in the smoke and flame of this savage battle.

Rennie reappeared, a cut above one eye. “Ready, sir!” He swung his curved sword. “Shall I take 'em across?”

Bolitho looked around the battered quarterdeck. There seemed to be more corpses than live men, he thought wearily. He faltered as a shot crashed against the quarterdeck ladder and tore into the planking like a plough. With disbelief he saw Proby put his hands to his face and watched his fingers clawing at the sudden torrent of blood. The master staggered against the wheel, but as Strachan left the spokes to hold him he fell moaning on to his side and lay still. His hands thudded on the planking, and Bolitho saw that his face had been torn away.

“We must take the
Ondine!
” The words were wrung from his lips. “If the French see their command ship strike, they'll . . .” He faltered and stared again at Proby's body. I've done for the lot of them! He felt the anguish changing to helpless anger. I have sacrificed the ship and every man aboard just for
this!

But Rennie eyed him evenly and said, “It is the right decision, sir!” He straightened his hat and said to his sergeant, “Right, Garwood, do you feel like a little walk?”

Bolitho stared at him. It was as if the marine had been reading his mind. He said, “The
Cassius
will support us.” He looked at the waiting marines. They crouched like animals, wild and beyond fear or even anger. “It's us or them, lads!”

Then, as the men shouted and cheered he jumped on to the
Ondine
's broken mast and began to claw his way across. Once he looked down at the water below him. It was littered with broken woodwork and sodden corpses, French and British alike.

As he reached the
Ondine
's poop he felt the balls whining past him and heard screams at his back as men fell to join the waiting corpses below. Then as he reached the scarred bulwark he hacked away the remains of the French boarding nets and leapt down on to the deck. Dead and dying lay everywhere, but when he glanced quickly across the far side he felt a further sense of shock as he saw the
Cassius.
She was not alongside anymore, but drifting away in the smoke of her own wounds, a mastless hulk, battered beyond recognition. From every scupper he could see long, glistening streams of blood, which poured down the ship's side to colour the water in one unbroken stain. It was as if the ship herself was bleeding to death. But from the stump of her mizzen the ensign, pitted and torn with shot holes, still flapped in defiance, and as Rennie's marines swept across the
Ondine
's poop there was a burst of cheering from the
Cassius
's deck. It was not much of a cheer, for there could not be many left to raise it, but to Bolitho it acted like the stab of a spur.

He ran across the littered deck, cutting down two seamen with hardly a pause, propelled by the cheering and the battle-crazed men at his back. He could see his men on the
Ondine
's forecastle, almost encircled by an overwhelming mass of French seamen, their stubborn resistance faltering as they were forced back towards the rail.

Bolitho yelled, “Hold on Phalaropes!” He saw the Frenchmen falter and turn to face this new threat. “To me, lads! Cut your way through 'em!”

More men were swarming from the frigate now, and he saw Herrick's uniform through the smoke as he waved his men forward.

He turned as Okes slashed a path for himself in the press of figures, his sword gleaming red as he cut down a screaming midshipman and went on towards a man who was reloading a swivel gun beside the quarterdeck. Okes was bleeding from a dozen wounds, and as he reached the ladder the swivel gun exploded with a dull roar. The packed grapeshot lifted Okes like a rag doll and flung him lifeless into the fighting men below the ladder. The gunner fell a second later, cut down by a swinging cutlass.

Then, all at once it was over. The deck clattered with the weapons thrown down by the
Ondine
's seamen, and Bolitho realised that their cries of defiance had changed to pleas for quarter. He knew he could not hold his men back if they wanted to complete the slaughter. It fell to some unknown sailor to break the spell of destruction and killing.

“A cheer for the
Phalarope!
” The voice cracked with relief and jubilation. “An' a cheer for Mad Dick!”

Bolitho climbed down the ladder, past the dazed Frenchmen and the mangled litter of entwined corpses.

“Captain Rennie!” He paused beside the remains of Lieutenant Okes. “Hoist our flag above the French ensign!” He felt his hands shaking. “Let them all see what you have done today.”

Sergeant Garwood said gruffly, “The cap'n is dead, sir!” He unrolled the flag carefully. “But I will do it!”

“Dead?” Bolitho stared after him. “Rennie, too?” He felt Herrick pulling his arm and asked heavily, “What is it?”

“The ship is ours, sir!” Herrick was shaking with excitement. “The gun-deck is like a slaughterhouse! Our carronades did more than . . .” He broke off as he saw Bolitho's face.

“Very well, Mr Herrick. Thank you.” His voice shook. “Thank
all
of you!” He turned away as more cheering echoed round the bloody decks.

Herrick shook his head as if he was beyond understanding. “A two-decker, sir! What a victory!”

Bolitho replied quietly. “We have a tradition of victory, Mr Herrick.” He seemed to be speaking to himself. “Now gather our people and send them back to the ship. They have cut the wreckage away.” He stared dully at the
Phalarope
and let his eyes move slowly along her length. There were great gaping holes in her once-trim hull, and she was well down by the head. It sounded as if the pumps were only just containing the inrush of water. All three top-masts had gone, and the sails flapped in the breeze in long canvas streamers. He could see bodies hanging in the tops, the great patches of scarlet across the smashed and buckled planking below. Intruding for the first time since their battle had begun came the distant thunder of that other great fight. Still far away and impersonal.

Bolitho made another effort to pull himself together. “Lively, Mr Herrick! The battle is still not over!”

If only his men would stop cheering. If only he could get away and be with himself.

Herrick waved his arm. “Clear the ship, lads! We can take this wreck later in our own good time!”

Bolitho walked to the bulwark. Across the gap he could see Neale standing just where he had left him beside the wheel. He said, “Tell my coxswain to take Mr Okes and Captain Rennie over to the ship.” He saw Herrick's sudden anxiety and felt despair closing in again. “Not Stockdale, Mr Herrick?”

Herrick nodded. “He fell as you were fighting on the poop, sir. He was defending your back from the marksmen.” He tried to smile. “I am sure that was what he would have wished!”

Bolitho stared at him. Stockdale dead. And he had not even seen him fall.

Farquhar pushed forward, his features wildly excited. “Captain, sir! The lookouts report that our fleet has broken the enemy's line in two places!” He stared round the stained, watching faces. “Rodney has broken the French line, do you hear?”

Bolitho felt the breeze across his cheek, feeling its way through the battle's stench like an awed stranger. So de Grasse was beaten. He stared at the listing frigate below him, feeling the prick of emotion behind his eyes. Was all this sacrifice for nothing after all?

Herrick took his arm and said thickly, “
Look,
sir! Over yonder!”

As the freshening wind pushed away the curtain of smoke from the embattled and shattered ships, Bolitho saw the tall outline of the big three-decker. Her guns were still run out, and her paint-work was gleaming and unscarred by any cannon. Throughout the fighting she had lain impotent or unwilling to face the holocaust of close combat, and no British blood had been given to her massive armament.

Yet in spite of all these things there was another flag flying above her own. The same that flew on the dismasted
Cassius
and aboard the
Ondine.
The same as the
Phalarope
's own ensign and the victorious
Volcano
which now pushed her way through the last rolling bank of smoke.

Herrick asked soberly, “Do you need more than that, sir? She's struck to
you!
”

Bolitho nodded and then climbed over the bulwark. “We will get the ship under way, Mr Herrick. Though I fear she may never fight again!”

Herrick said quietly, “There'll be other ships, sir.”

Bolitho stepped down on to the
Phalarope
's gangway and walked slowly above the spent and sweating gunners.

“Other ships?” He touched the splintered rail and smiled sadly. “Not like this one, Mr Herrick.” He tilted his head and looked up at the flag.

“Not like the
Phalarope!
”

EPILOGUE

L
IEUTENANT
Thomas Herrick pulled his boatcloak closer around his shoulders and picked up his small travelling bag. The houses around the cobbled square were thickly covered in snow, and the wind which blew strongly inland from Falmouth Bay and seemed to pierce his bones to the marrow, told him that there was more to come. For a moment longer he watched the ostlers guiding the steaming horses into the inn yard, leaving the slush-stained coach which Herrick had just vacated isolated and empty. Through the inn windows he could see a cheerful fire and hear voices raised in laughter and busy conversation.

He was suddenly tempted to go inside and join these unknown people. After the long journey from Plymouth, and four days on the road before that, he felt drained and weary, but as he looked up at the mist-shrouded hump of Pendennis Castle and the bleak hillside beyond he knew he was only deluding himself. He turned his back on the inn and started up the narrow lane from the square. Everything seemed smaller than he remembered it. Even the church with its low wall and the leaning stones within the graveyard appeared to have shrunk since that last and only visit. He stepped sideways into a mound of muddy snow as two shouting children dashed past him dragging a homemade sledge. Neither gave Herrick a glance. That too was different from the last time.

Herrick ducked his head as a strong gust whipped the snow from a low hedgerow and across his face, and when he looked up again he saw the old house, square and grey, facing him like a picture from all those past memories. He quickened his pace, suddenly nervous and unsure of himself.

He heard the bell jangling within the house, and even as he released the heavy iron handle the door swung open, and a neat fair-haired woman in a dark dress and white cap stood aside to greet him.

Herrick said uncertainly, “Good day, ma'am. My name is Herrick. I have just driven from the other side of England.”

She took his cloak and hat and stared at him with a strange, secret smile. “That's a long journey, sir. The master is expecting you.”

At that moment the door at the far side of the hall swung open and Bolitho stepped forward to meet him. For a long moment they both stood still, their hands clasped in an embrace which neither wanted to break.

Then Bolitho said, “Come into the study, Thomas. There is a good fire waiting!”

Herrick allowed himself to be placed in a deep leather chair, and let his eyes stray over the old portraits which lined the panelled walls.

Bolitho watched him gravely. “I am glad you came, Thomas. More glad than I can say.” He seemed nervous and ill at ease.

Herrick said, “How it all comes back to me as I sit here. It is a year and a month since we weighed anchor from Falmouth and sailed for the West Indies together.” He shook his head sadly. “Now it is all finished. The peace is signed at Versailles. It is over.”

Bolitho was staring into the fire, the dancing reflections playing across his dark hair and his grey, steady eyes. He said suddenly, “My father is dead, Thomas.” He paused as Herrick jerked upright in his chair. “And so is Hugh, my brother!”

Herrick did not know what to say. He wanted to find some word of comfort, something to ease the pain from Bolitho's voice. Without effort he could throw his mind back over the months, to the aftermath of the battle when the listing, battered
Phalarope
had limped painfully to Antigua for repairs. Herrick had known that Bolitho was offered an immediate passage home to England, for a better and bigger command. But he had stayed with the frigate. Nursing her through every indignity of the dockyard, and watching over the care and treatment of her sick and wounded men.

October had arrived, and with her refit only half completed the
Phalarope
was ordered home to England. The Battle of the Saintes, as it was soon to be known, was the last great struggle of that unfortunate war. As the frigate dropped her anchor at Spithead, England rejoiced at the sounds of peace. It was an unsatisfactory agreement, but for England the war had been too long on the defensive. And as Pitt had remarked to the House of Commons, “A defensive war can only end in inevitable defeat.”

Bolitho had left the ship at Portsmouth, but only after every man had been properly paid off and letters of credit had been sent to the dependants of her many dead. Then with hardly a word he had left for Falmouth.

As first lieutenant, Herrick had stayed to hand over the ship to the dockyard, then he too had gone to his home in Kent.

Bolitho's letter had arrived within a few days, and Herrick had set off for Cornwall, hardly knowing if the invitation was genuine or just common courtesy.

But as he looked at the big, shadowed room and Bolitho's slim figure before the fire, he began to understand for the first time. Bolitho was now completely alone.

He said quietly, “I am sorry. I had no idea.”

Bolitho said, “My father died three months ago.” He gave a short, bitter smile. “Hugh went a few months after the Saintes battle. He was killed by accident. A runaway horse, I believe.”

Herrick stared at him, “How do you know all this?”

Bolitho opened a cupboard and then laid a sword on the table. In the firelight it gleamed with sudden brightness which hid the tarnished gilt and well-worn scabbard.

Bolitho said quietly, “Hugh sent this to my father. To give it back to me.” He turned back to the fire. “He wrote that he considered it to be mine by right.”

The door opened, and the fair-haired woman entered with a tray of hot punch.

Bolitho smiled. “Thank you, Mrs Ferguson. We will dine directly.”

As the door closed again Bolitho saw the question on Herrick's face. “Yes, that is the wife of Ferguson, my clerk. He works for me, too.”

Herrick nodded and took one of the goblets. “He lost an arm at the Saintes. I remember.”

Bolitho poured himself a drink and held it to the firelight. “His wife did not die after all. And Ferguson is quite a hero in the town!” It seemed to amuse him, and Herrick saw the old smile playing at the corners of his mouth. Bolitho added, “Now the war is done, Thomas. You and I are on the beach. I wonder what lies ahead for those like us?”

Herrick replied thoughtfully, “This peace will not last.” He lifted his goblet. “To old friends, sir!” He paused, seeing the memories all over again. “To the ship, bless her!”

Bolitho drained his drink and gripped his hands behind him. Even that unconscious gesture stabbed Herrick's memory like a knife. The screaming shot, the crash and thunder of battle, with Bolitho pacing the quarterdeck like a man deep in thought.

“And you, sir? What will you do now?”

Bolitho shrugged. “I have the chance to become a landowner, I suppose. And a magistrate like my father.” He looked up at the portraits. “But I can wait. For another ship.”

The door opened, and a man in a green apron asked, “Will you be requiring any more wine from the cellar, Captain?”

Herrick jumped to his feet. “My God! Allday!”

Allday grinned self-consciously. “Aye, Mr Herrick. ' Tis me, right enough!”

Bolitho looked from one to the other. “After Stockdale died, Allday, here, said he wanted to change his mind about leaving the Service.” He smiled sadly. “So if the chance comes we will go back to sea together.”

Bolitho picked up the sword and held it in both hands. Over his shoulder he added quietly, “When that time comes I will want a good first lieutenant, Thomas.” He turned and looked straight into Herrick's eyes.

Herrick felt the warmth flooding back through his body, sweeping away the doubt and the sense of loss. He raised his goblet. “It is not far to Kent, sir. I'll be ready when you give me the word!”

Bolitho turned his face away and watched the snow whipping across the windows. For a while longer he looked at the grey sky and scudding clouds, and imagined he could hear the wind whining through shrouds and taut rigging, with the hiss of thrown spray rising above the lee bulwark.

Then he faced his friend and said firmly, “Come, Thomas, there is much to talk about!”

Allday watched them go into the dining room, and then with a quiet smile he placed the sword carefully back in the cupboard.