Bolitho 19 - Beyond the Reef (45 page)

And for what? It might rate a comment in the Gazette as had Hyperion’s last battle. That had been almost lost in the resounding echoes of Trafalgar, and the death of the nation’s hero.

Ferguson would hear it first, either in the town or from the post-boy. Then Catherine. He glanced at Keen’s handsome profile. One did not need to be a magician to know what he was thinking as the time dragged by and men leaned on their weapons, some already gasping for breath as the suspense wore them down like exhausted survivors from a battle still to fight.

After all, what did Martinique really matter? They had taken it from the French by force in 1794 but, typically, had handed it back during the brief Peace of Amiens. It was always the same, and Bolitho had often been reminded of the words of an embittered sergeant of marines who had exclaimed, “Surely if it’s worth dyin’ for, it’s worth ‘oldin’ on to?” Down over the years his lonely protest had remained unanswered.

Now, with the war changing direction in Europe, the prospect of throwing lives and ships away to no lasting purpose went against everything he held important.

Once again, they were faced with action, not because it was logical or unavoidable, but because war had started to outstrip the minds of men who planned its strategy from afar.

Keen had joined him. “If the rest of the squadron finds us, sir, we could still win the day. But if Captain Crowfoot has no inkling …” He turned and stared into the bright sunshine as Tybalt completed another tack.

“I cannot send Tybalt to find him, Val. She is our only hope today.”

Keen watched the men at the helm, Julyan speaking quietly with two of his master’s mates. “I know.”

Bolitho took a cup of water from one of the boys. And what of Thomas Herrick? Had he rallied some of his local patrols, and was he already heading out to offer support? It seemed far more likely that he would take charge of the 74 Matchless under the command of his latest enemy, Captain the Lord Rathcullen. Her repairs would be almost completed, and in any case, the sight of just one additional sail of the line might make a difference to an invasion fleet which would wish to avoid battle at any cost. It was unnerving: this constant comparison with the events which had led to Herrick’s court martial. In her letter Catherine had touched briefly on the sudden death of Hector Gossage, Herrick’s flag captain at that costly battle for the convoy. He had never recovered fully after losing his arm, and even the unexpected promotion to flag rank could not protect him from the onslaught of gangrene. Had he known he was doomed that day in the great cabin below, his version of the evidence might have been very different. Bolitho had his suspicions, but they were not something he could voice freely without proof. Either way, Gossage had saved Herrick’s future and probably his very life.

The only constant factor had been in the presence of Sir Paul Sillitoe.

Keen said, “They’re forming into two lines, sir.”

Bolitho raised the glass again, knowing that as he did so, Midshipman De Courcy was watching him fixedly. Another admiral in the making. How different his navy would be, he thought.

He settled on the two ships leading the enemy’s lines, sails writhing while they tacked yet again, with the frigate passing through them, the terrier between the bulls.

The masts and yards were bright with signals and the streaming Tricolour flags, just as the short English line had hoisted extra ensigns as a gesture of defiance. Or was it only a hopeless obstinacy.

Major Bourchier called, “Royal Marines, stand-to for inspection!”

He gestured to his second-in-command, Lieutenant Courtenay, a veteran for one so young. Who but the Royals would have an inspection in the presence of the enemy and, perhaps, in the face of death?

Bolitho touched his eye. It was itching badly, so that it watered whenever he looked towards the sun.

“What is the range, do you think, Val?”

“Two miles, sir. No more.” He thought again of the jolly-boat, and Bolitho’s desperate attempt to conceal his blindness from those who were relying on him.

He saw Allday loosening his cutlass, and Jenour peering up at the flags while Midshipman Houston listened to his instructions.

And there was the sixth lieutenant, James Cross, a boy dressed as an officer and in charge of the afterguard and the mizzen-mast with its less complicated sail plan and rigging. He looked neither right nor left, and never towards the slowly advancing Frenchman. And Lieutenant Whyham, the fourth senior who had served under him in the old Argonaute six years ago as a cheerful midshipman. He looked resolved enough as he watched his division of guns, and the spare hands who would be employed on the mainmast, the true strength of any ship of the line.

And down below in the darkened gun decks all the others would be waiting, straining their ears, trying to recall a home or loved ones, but finding nothing.

The Royal Marine lieutenant was saying, “I’ve never seen such a turnout, Colour Sergeant! Give him extra work after this is done with!”

The other marines grinned. They were not new to the ship, and but for a mere handful of recruits were of one unit, the scarlet line that stood through thick and thin between officers and forecastle. In spite of the crowded world between decks they still managed to keep to themselves, in their own “barracks,” as they called their messes.

There was a dull bang, and seconds later a thin waterspout shot up from the sea to leave a wisp of smoke where it had fallen.

The first lieutenant forced a grin. “They’ll have to do better than that!” But his eyes were empty.

Keen said, “I cannot see the sense in dividing their strength, sir.”

“I think I know what they intend, Val. Three will go for our two consorts.” He saw his words sink in. “The other half will come for us.” All at once the plan was so clear he could almost see it in action.

“Shall I load and run out, sir?”

He did not reply directly. “Pass the word to the gunner and Lieutenant Joyce on the lower gun deck. We still have time. Valkyrie will be the first to engage.” He considered. “Yes, there is time enough. The enemy will try to do as much damage to our spars and rigging as possible to keep us from supporting our friends. But our thirty-two-pounders will outshoot them. How much bar-shot and anything for that very purpose do we have? We will race them at their own game.”

It was not hard to understand the French tactics. It was customary for them to aim for the rigging to disable their opponents, whereas the English put their faith in rapid broadsides to smash the hulls into submission.

Keen said, “It is unlikely that we carry enough for more than a few full broadsides. But I shall pass your instructions to the gunner immediately. Mr Joyce is a good officer—I shall see that he is instructed to point each gun himself. With the wind holding us over, we should be able to maul them badly.”

“After that, Val, pass the order to load and run out.”

There were a few more shots but nobody saw where they fell, probably ahead of Valkyrie in the van.

The three other French ships had shortened sail, preparing to fight the three-decker with a vice-admiral’s flag at the fore. The first embrace would be vital. The wind’s steady strength would carry the enemies apart immediately afterwards, and it would take more time to regain any sort of advantage.

Whistles shrilled below decks and as the port lids were hoisted, the whole ship seemed to hold her breath. Then, with her decks shaking under their tremendous weight, she ran out her guns, their crews busy with handspikes while they peered over the black muzzles to catch a glimpse of the enemy. More whistles. Every gun loaded, the great lower battery packed with murderous linked shot, some like bars which doubled in length as it screamed through the air, others shaped like iron spades which when fired spun around like the sails of a mill.

Keen said, “Let her fall off two points. I want to draw the others away.”

It was at that moment that Valkyrie and then Relentless opened fire, the pale smoke fanning through their sails and rigging like low cloud. Much of the broadside fell short, flinging up banks of broken water, some of which reached the enemy vessels. The air quivered as the French line responded, the long orange tongues spitting out along the gunports. As Bolitho had predicted it was not a powerful reply; the lower guns were cruising just above the sea, and it seemed likely that the officers could not elevate them enough to reach the two 74s.

“Steady as you go!” Keen crossed the quarterdeck, his eyes everywhere as he stared from the set of the sails to the enemy formation. They were beginning to draw near on a converging tack, whilst beyond them he could make out the sleek hull of the solitary frigate. He turned to say so to Bolitho, but saw him smile.

“I’ve seen her. She flies a rear-admiral’s flag. It would be exactly what Baratte would do. This way he can remain in control, but move between the formations without delay.”

Keen found himself able to smile back. “What you might do, sir, if I’m not mistaken!”

Sedgemore was striding along the upper gun deck, his bared sword resting on his shoulder as he looked quickly at each crew. From the gun captains with their trigger lines already pulled taut, to the seamen on either side of the carriage, ready to sponge out the smoking muzzles and reload as they had done so many times in Keen’s relentless drills. The boys had sanded the decks, while others stood ready to fetch fresh powder from the magazine so long as it was needed. Boys from the seaport slums, or unwanted children from families already worn down by childbirth. The same age as the midshipmen for the most part. A million miles apart.

Keen drew his sword and tossed the scabbard to Tojohns, his coxswain. He would not sheath it again until the enemy struck, or it was dragged from his dead hand.

The leading French ship was changing tack very slightly. Bolitho imagined Joyce and his subordinates on the lower gun deck, watching the square ports, the glittering expanse of water and then out of nowhere, the enemy’s bowsprit and beak-head.

Bolitho glanced at the masthead pendant. It was pointing stiffly, like a lance, and he felt the deck tilting even further to leeward. The shrill of Joyce’s whistle was drowned by the first pair of guns, and another, and still more until the air was filled with choking smoke. In the confines of that great gun deck it would be far worse.

The leading Frenchman seemed to wilt, her canvas writhing as if torn apart by giant claws, and with a sliding crash which could be heard across the water her foremast and rigging fell over the side, taking shrouds, spars and shrieking men with it.

The second ship, another 74, had been obeying a signal to close on the leader, and now because her consort was staggering out of line, her forecastle strangely bare with the mast gone, there was danger of collision.

Keen shouted, “Fire at will!”

Whistles again, the upper and middle gun decks roared out at the enemy. Bolitho saw wreckage fly from the second ship, and holes punched through her flapping sails as the iron raked her from bow to poop.

John Allday gritted his teeth. “For what we are about to receive …”

Every port along the enemy’s side flashed fire and Bolitho gripped the quarterdeck rail as he felt the shots smashing into the hull like great hammers. But nothing fell from above, and already several of the gun captains below him had their hands in the air, ready to fire again.

Keen yelled, “On the uproll, Mr Sedgemore!”

“Fire!”

The long twelve-pounders flung themselves inboard on the tackles, their black muzzles streaming smoke and hissing like live things as the wet sponges were rammed into them.

“Run out!” Sedgemore wiped his sweating face. “As you bear, lads! Fire!”

The third ship had dropped downwind to avoid the leading two and swayed over to the force of a full broadside as she fired directly into Black Prince’s quarter.

There were crashes and screams from below the poop, and the rumble of a gun being upended.

“Put your helm down!” Keen watched the leading ship swinging towards them, still out of control because of the great mass of rigging and spars hauling her round like some huge sea anchor. He raised a glass and saw the gleam of axes as men tried to cut away the fallen mast, while others stood, apparently unable to move as Black Prince’s jib-boom passed their own.

At this range Joyce’s great thirty-two-pounders could not miss. The enemy stood at barely thirty yards’ range when his guns thundered from every port, and another broadside of screaming metal ripped through the remaining masts and spars or across the deck itself.

Major Bourchier watched with little more than professional interest as his lieutenant snapped, “Marines! Fix bayonets! Stand-to! “

They stepped smartly up to the packed nettings and slid their muskets across the hammocks to take aim.

Smoke swirled over the deck. Bolitho felt Allday flinch beside him as a ball crashed through a port and splintered on the breech of a gun even as it was being run out.

The gun’s crew were hurled in all directions, some cut to pieces to cover the men at the neighbouring twelve-pounder with blood, others smashed down where they had been standing in their fixed attitudes before they fell to the deck.

Midshipman Hilditch, one of the twelve-year-olds who had joined Black Prince at Spithead, had been running messages to and from the lower gun deck. He fell down the open hatchway, but not before Bolitho had seen that half of his face had gone. Like Tyacke.