With All Despatch (32 page)

Paice wanted to lick his lips but knew some of the seamen were watching him. Gun by gun, booming across the water.

He clenched his fingers into fists. He wanted to yell up to the masthead lookout, but knew the man needed no persuading. Triscott had chosen him specially. He would be the first to hail the deck when he could see something.

Paice heard the boatswain's mate murmur, “Could be either, I suppose.”

He thrust his hands beneath his coat-tails to hide them from view.

The regular explosions boomed across the sea's face once again, and he said, “Whoever it is, they're facing the enemy's iron
this
day!”

Spray burst over
Wakeful'
s weather side and flooded down the steeply sloping deck. Even the most experienced hands aboard had to cling to something as the hull laid hard over until to any novice it would seem she must turn turtle.

Queely yelled, “She's close as she'll answer, sir!” His salt-reddened eyes peered at the huge mainsail, then at the foresail and jib. Each one was sheeted hard-in until they were laid almost fore-and-aft down the cutter's centre line, forcing her into the wind, every other piece of canvas lashed into submission.

Bolitho did not have time to consult the compass but guessed that Queely had swung
Wakeful
some five points into the wind; the lee gunports were awash, and the water seemed to boil as she plunged across the lively crests. When he looked for the brigantine she already seemed a long way astern, her sails retrimmed while she bore away on the opposite tack.

As he had been hauled aboard Bolitho had said, “We must stand between
La Revanche
and the Frenchman. The brigantine is fast enough, and given time she might reach safety, or at least lie beneath a coastal battery until help can be sent.”

He had seen Queely's quick understanding. No talk of victory, no empty promise of survival. They were to save the brigantine, and they would pay the price.

Bolitho stared up at the masthead as the lookout yelled, “Corvette, sir!”

Queely grimaced. “Twenty guns at least.” He looked away.

“I keep seeing Kempthorne. I used him badly. That is hard to forgive.”

Bolitho saw Allday moving carefully aft from the forehatch, his cutlass thrust through his belt. The words seemed to repeat themselves.
Of one company.

Queely watched the sails shaking and banging, taking the full thrust of the wind.

He said, “Must have veered some more. From the north, I'd say.” He puffed out his cheeks. “It feels like it too!”

They all heard the sudden crack of cannon fire, and then the lookout shouted, “Sail closin' the corvette, sir!”

There were more shots, the sounds spiteful over the lively wave crests.

Queely said guardedly, “Small guns, sir.” He glanced at his men along either side, drenched with spray and flying spindrift, trying to protect their powder and flintlocks. “Like ours.”

Bolitho frowned. It would be just like Paice. Coming to look for them. He tensed as a measured broadside thundered across the water. He saw the sea-mist waver and twist high above the surface, and for those few moments the other vessel was laid bare. Even without a telescope he saw the lithe silhouette of a square-rigged man-of-war, gunsmoke fanning downwind from her larboard battery. The other vessel was beyond her, but there was no mistaking the great mainsail, its boom sweeping across the waves as she bore down on the French corvette.

Bolitho gritted his teeth. The corvette was like a small frigate, and probably mounted only nine-pounders. But against a cutter she was a leviathan.

Queely yelled, “Another point!”

The helmsman shouted, “West-Nor'-West, sir!” He did not have to add that she was as close to the wind as she had ever sailed; there was hardly a man who could stand upright.

Bolitho said, “Bring her about.” He saw Queely's indecision. “If we turn back, we may stand across his course, and still have time to turn again.”

Bangs echoed against the hull as Queely yelled, “Stand by to come about!
Let go and haul!
”

As the helm went over, the cutter seemed to rise towards the sky, her bowsprit and flapping jib lifting and lifting until the sea boiled over the side and swept aft like breakers. Men fell cursing and gasping, others seized their friends and dragged them to their feet as the receding water tried to sweep them over the bulwarks.

But she was answering, and as she swayed over on the opposite tack Bolitho felt like cheering, even though each minute was one gone from his life.

Queely shouted, “Hold her! Steady as you go!” He beckoned frantically— “Two more hands on the tiller!”

The master glared at him, then called, “Steady she is, sir! East by North!”

Bolitho snatched up a glass and sought out the corvette.

There she was, now on the larboard quarter, as if their whole world had pivoted round.
La Revanche
was almost lost in mist and spray, standing away as fast as she could. Queely's master's mate had even managed to set her topsail and royal.

He waited for the deck to steady again and tried to ignore the bustle of figures around and past him as the mainsail was sheeted home on the opposite tack.

He trained the glass with care and saw the corvette fire again, the smoke momentarily blotting her out but not before he had found the other cutter, and had seen the sea around her bursting with waterspouts and failing spray. The cutter was still pressing closer, and he saw her side flash with bright orange tongues as she fired her small broadside.

Queely said savagely, “Vatass has no chance at that range, damn it!” He saw the question in Bolitho's eyes and explained, “It's him.
Snapdragon
has a darker jib than the rest of us.” He winced as another fall of shot appeared to bracket the cutter. But
Snapdragon
pushed through the falling curtain of spray, her guns still firing, although, as Queely suspected, it was doubtful if a single ball would reach the French corvette.

Bolitho tried to ignore the twisting shape of the cutter and concentrated on the enemy. She was maintaining the same tack as before and steering almost south-east. Her captain had seen
La Revanche
and would let nothing stand in his way.

Queely exclaimed, “
Snapdragon
must have sighted us, sir!” He sounded incredulous as he raised his glass again, his lips moving as he identified the pinpricks of colour which had broken from
Snapdragon'
s topsail yard.

He said hoarsely, “Signal reads,
Enemy in sight,
sir!”

Bolitho looked at him, sharing his sudden emotion. It was Vatass's way of telling them that they were at war. Trying to warn him before it was too late.

Bolitho said, “Run up another flag.” He looked along the crowded deck, at the men who waited for the inevitable. “It will give him heart!”

With two White Ensigns streaming from gaff and masthead,
Wakeful
prepared to come about yet again. The manoeuvre would stand her across the enemy's path and make it impossible for the corvette to avoid an embrace. Once in close action,
Snapdragon
might be able to attack her stern, with luck even rake her with a carronade as she crossed her wake. He held his breath as a hole punched through
Snapdragon'
s topsail and the wind tore it to ribbons before it could be reefed.

The corvette fired again, each broadside perfectly timed. No wonder this captain had been selected for the task, Bolitho thought. He raised the glass, but mist and gunsmoke made it impossible to see the horizon.

He looked at Allday by the compass box.
Where is Paice?

Allday saw his expression and tried to smile. But all he could think of was the man-of-war which was closing on them with every sail set and filled to the wind. He looked at the men on
Wakeful'
s deck. Popguns against nine-pounders, an open deck with no gangways or packed hammock nettings to protect them from the splinters. How would they face up to it? Would they see there was nothing but death at the end of it?

He thought of Lieutenant Kempthorne and all the others he had seen drop in a sea-fight. Proud, brave men for the most part, who had whimpered and screamed when they were cut down. The lucky ones died then and there, and were spared the agony of a surgeon's knife.

Here there was not even a sawbones. Maybe that was all to the good. Allday watched Bolitho's fingers close around the sword at his side. It had to end somewhere, so why not here?

He winced as the guns thundered yet again, closer still, the shots churning the sea into jagged crests, or whipping off the white horses like invisible dolphins at play.

He tried to think of his time in London, the nights in Maggie's tiny room, with her buxom body pressed against his in the darkness. Perhaps one day—the guns roared out across the shortening range and he heard several of the watching seamen give groans of dismay.

Queely shouted harshly, “Stand to, damn you! Prepare to come about! Topmen aloft, lively now!”

Bolitho heard the edge in his voice. Its finality. It was not even going to be a battle this time.

Lieutenant Paice yelled at the masthead, “Repeat that!” The last roll of cannon fire had drowned the man's voice.

The lookout shouted, “
Snapdragon'
s signallin', sir!
Enemy in sight!
”

Paice released his breath very slowly. Thank God for a good lookout. It was what they had planned should they find
Wakeful.
Where she was, so would be Bolitho.

Paice lifted his glass and saw the mist moving aside, even the smoke thinning to its persistent thrust. He saw the French vessel some two miles directly ahead, framed in
Telemachus'
s shrouds as if in a net. She was running with the wind directly under her coat-tails, her sails iron-hard. Paice saw
Snapdragon
for the first time, her frail outline just overlapping the enemy's quarter and surrounded by bursting spray from that last fall of shot. Her top-sail had been shredded, and there were several holes in her mainsail; otherwise she appeared to be untouched, and as he peered through the glass until his eyes watered he saw Vatass's guns returning fire, their progress marked by thin tendrils of foam, well short of a target.

There was another vessel moving away from the embattled ships. Paice guessed it was either an unwilling spectator, or the one Bolitho was expected to escort back to England. Then he saw
Wakeful,
sweeping out of the mist, her sails flapping then filling as she completed her tack and swung once more towards the enemy.

Triscott broke into his thoughts. “Why does the Frog stay on that tack, sir? I'd go for
Snapdragon,
if I were her commander, and lessen the odds. He must surely see us by now?”

Somebody dropped a handspike and Paice was about to shout a reprimand when he remembered what Triscott had told him about the six-pounders.

“The Frenchman has been under way all night, up and down, searching for Captain Bolitho, I suspect. My guess is that her running rigging is so swollen she can barely change tack—her blocks are probably frozen solid!” He gestured towards
Telemachus'
s spread of canvas. “Here the wind does the work for us.” There was contempt in his tone. “Over yonder even muscle-power won't shift those yards until the day warms up!” He sounded excited. “So they'll have to reef, or stand and fight!”

There was a great sigh from some of the hands and Paice saw
Snapdragon
stagger as some of the enemy's balls slammed home. But she came upright again and pressed on with her attack.

Paice swore angrily. “Fall back, you young fool!” He swung on Triscott. “Set the stuns'ls and shake out every reef! I want this cutter to
fly!
”

As the studding-sail booms were run out from the yard, the mast bent forward under the additional strain. The sea seemed to rush down either beam, so that some of the gun crews stood up and cheered without knowing why.

Paice folded his arms and studied the other vessels.
Hounds around a stag
. He swallowed hard as the tall waterspouts shot sky-ward along
Snapdragon'
s engaged side. The damage was hidden from view, but Paice saw rigging curling and parting, then, slowly at first, the tall mainmast began to reel down into the smoke. In the sudden lull of firing he heard the thundering crash of the mast and spars sweeping over the forecastle, tearing men and guns in its wake of trailing shrouds and rigging until with a great splash it swayed over the bows like a fallen tree. Tiny figures appeared through the wreckage where nobody should have been left alive, and in the weak sunlight Paice saw the gleam of axes as Vatass's men hacked at the broken rigging, or fought their way to mess-mates trapped underneath.