Colours Aloft! (13 page)

“Deep six!”

That was plenty of water for the cutter even with her bilges filling from several shot holes.

The French would know now, Bolitho thought, not that they could do much about it. The clank of pumps and the occasional cry from the leadsman would mark their slow and precarious passage better than anything.

Stayt waited for Hallowes to go aft and said, “She may be small, sir, but in these waters she feels like a leviathan.”

There was a splash alongside and Bolitho knew it was the dead seaman being dropped overboard. No prayer, no ceremony to mark his brief passing. But if they lived through this he would be remembered, even by the ones who had cursed his reluctance to die.

Bolitho cupped his bandaged eyes in his fingers and shook as more pain tested his resistance. It came in waves, slashing down his defences like a bear's paw.

How could he go on like this? What would he do?

“By th' mark seven!” The other leadsman called, “Sandy bottom!”

They had primed their leads with tallow which would pick up tiny fragments from the seabed. Anything helped when you were feeling your way.

Bolitho dragged his hands down to his sides.
Like a blind man.

Hallowes was speaking with Okes again. “I think we might recover the boats and make sail, eh, Mr Okes?”

Okes answered but Bolitho could not hear. But he sounded doubtful. Thank God Hallowes was not stupid enough to ignore Okes' skill.

He said, “Very well.” The deck leaned slightly and he added brightly, “The wind is backing, by God! Luck is with us for a change!”

After an hour, which felt like an eternity, the gig fell back and there was a quick change of crew. The returning hands were utterly exhausted and fell to the deck like dead men. Even Okes's promise of rum did not move them.

Next it was the jolly-boat and Bolitho heard Sheaffe speaking to the
Supreme
's only master's mate.

The midshipman came aft and said, “I have reported back, sir.”

It sounded so formal, so empty of what the youngster had done, that Bolitho forgot about his own pain and despair.

“That was a
fine
piece of work, Mr Sheaffe. But for you we would have been swamped by the enemy.” He heard Sheaffe dragging on his shirt, his teeth chattering. It was not the night air, it was the sudden realization, the shock of what he had carried out.

“Go and rest. You'll be needed again before long.”

Sheaffe hesitated and then sat on the deck near Bolitho.

He said, “If this does not disturb you, sir?”

Bolitho looked towards his voice. “Your company is welcome, believe me.” He leaned against the companion-way and tried not to anticipate the next wave of pain.

Sheaffe had his knees drawn up to his chin and was instantly asleep.

Bankart crouched down and whispered, “I've brought you some wine, sir.” He waited for Bolitho's fingers to grip the goblet. “Mr Okes sent it.”

Bolitho sipped it. Strong, rich Madeira. He drank it slowly, let it run through him, restore him. He could not remember when he had last eaten; perhaps that was why the wine seemed so potent. He touched his face below the bandage. Several cuts and some dried blood. He needed a shave badly. He tried to smile. Allday would soon see to that. Big and powerful like an oak, yet he was as gentle as a child when need be. Both Bolitho and Keen had good reason to remember it.

“What is it like to discover your father, Bankart?”

The question seemed to shock him. “Well, it's fine, sir, it really is, like. My mother'd never tell me, y'see, sir. I always knew 'e were in the Navy, sir.”

“That was why you volunteered?”

There was a long pause. “I suppose it were, sir.”

Bankart poured him another goblet of wine, and when Sheaffe was roused to take charge of the jolly-boat again and take up the tow Bolitho barely stirred.

Okes left his helmsmen and walked over to the companionway. He was satisfied with what he saw.

Hallowes asked, “Is he asleep at last?”

Okes fumbled with a red handkerchief and blew his nose loudly.

“Aye, sir. So 'e should, arter what I put in 'is Madeira!”

Bolitho felt a hand on his arm and twisted round with sudden fear as his senses returned.

Stayt said, “First light, sir.”

Bolitho touched his bandage and tried not to show his pain.

“How do I look?”

Stayt sounded as if he was smiling. “I've seen you somewhat better, sir.” He took Bolitho's hand. “I've got a bowl of warm water and a towel of sorts.”

Bolitho nodded, grateful and ashamed as he dabbed his mouth and face with the wet towel. Such a simple thing and it was unlikely that Stayt realized how it had moved him.

“Tell me what's happening?”

Stayt thought about it. “I reckon we're about a mile from where we set out, sir.” He sounded neither bitter nor even surprised. “We're in some shallows at the moment—” He broke off as the leadsman called, “By th' mark three!”

Bolitho forgot his pain and dragged himself to his feet. Three fathoms of water and a mile from their last anchorage. He felt the wind on his cheek and heard the splash of boats as his head rose above the bulwark. One of the coxswains was calling out the time for the stroke. The oarsmen must be worn out, he thought.

“Is it really light?”

Stayt said, “I can see that bluff, sir, and just make out the horizon. Sky's a bit angry. Could be in for a blow, I'm thinking.”

Hallowes was calling, “Rouse the hands! I'm going to make sail.”

Okes replied, “No choice, sir. Them boats are useless now.”

The deck lifted on a swell and Bolitho felt a catch in his throat. The open sea was waiting for them.

The cranking pumps, the tattered sails, nothing would stop them once they found sea room.
Room to bustle in.

Stayt was watching him and saw him give a small smile.

Hallowes said, “Recall the boats. Be ready to shake out the mains'l! Get the topmen to report on damage now that they can see it!” He was speaking quickly, sharply.

Bolitho had known such moments many times. Covering doubts and uncertainties, to show confidence when there was little.

A call shrilled and someone gave a mocking cheer as the lines to the boats were slacked off and the oarsmen slumped over their looms.

“By th' mark five!”

Hallowes rubbed his hands. “We'll show 'em!”

Who, Bolitho wondered?

Men charged past him hauling on tackles as first one boat and then the other was hoisted into position on the tier.

The cutter seemed to stir herself and Bolitho wished he could watch as men swarmed to their stations. Somewhere overhead a sail cracked out noisily in the damp air.

“
Shallows ahead!
Fine on the starboard bow!”

“Hell's teeth!” Hallowes yelled. “Stand by to let go the anchor!”

Okes said in a harsh whisper, “Belay that, sir! We'll swing round an' strike if we does!”

Hallowes sounded confused, “If you believe—”

But Okes was already acting and thinking. “Let 'er come up a point! Steady as she goes!” He must have cupped his hands, Bolitho thought as his voice boomed along the deck, “Set the jib, Thomas!”

“Here we go again.” Stayt sounded dangerously cool. “Shallows, the lookout said. I can see breakers, for Christ's sake.” He added, “Forgive me, sir. I am not used to this.”

Bolitho lifted his chin as if to see some light beneath his bandage. There was only darkness.

“Nor I.”

Okes barked, “Now, lee helm!”

Bolitho heard several shouts and a clatter of rigging as, with a fierce jerk,
Supreme
surged into a bar. Gear torn loose in the one-sided fight rolled about the deck and a four-pounder reared up on its trucks as if it had come to life. The grinding, shaking motion continued for what seemed like an age, with Okes coaxing his helmsmen or throwing an occasional instruction to his petty officers.

The shaking stopped and after a while a voice called, “Pumps are still holding it, sir!”

Stayt said between his teeth, “A damned miracle. There were rocks an arm's length abeam but we hit only sand!”

“Deep six!” The leadsman must have been nearly hurled from his precarious perch, Bolitho thought. But they were through.

“Loose tops'l!”

Once in open water nothing could catch the cutter even with her damaged hull.

Men were calling to one another, the fear and the danger forgotten or put aside for this moment in their lives.

Stayt said, “Our surgeon will know what to do, sir. As soon as we sight—”

He broke off and gasped, “It can't be!”

The lookout called, “Sail, sir! Fine on th' weather bow!”

Bolitho heard Stayt murmur. “It's the frigate, sir.”

Bolitho was almost glad he could not see their stricken faces. The French captain had not been so overconfident that he had waited around the headland. While Hallowes' men had toiled at their oars, the Frenchman had spent his night clawing to windward and towards the bluff where he had first appeared. Now he held the wind-gage and was sweeping down on them, with only his braced topsails visible against the dawn horizon.

Bolitho did not need Stayt to describe it. He could see the hopelessness of it as if he were seeing it through Hallowes' eyes.

Another mile and they could have lifted their coat-tails and run from the frigate's guns. But they were still on a lee shore despite the change of wind, and the two vessels were converging on some invisible rendezvous. No escape this time.

Hallowes shouted, “Run up the Colours, Thomas! Have the guns loaded and run out!”

As men ran to obey Bolitho was conscious of the other silence. No yells or threats, certainly not a cheer. Men facing certain death could still work well, but their minds would be elsewhere, seeking refuge with a memory, which moments ago had been a hope.

“Bankart!”

“Present, sir!”

“Go below and fetch my coat and hat.”

Filthy and bloody, but he was still their admiral and would be damned if they should see him already beaten.

Crash—crash—crash.
The frigate was already firing some of her forward guns. Balls hurled waterspouts into the air or ricocheted across the sea in short, fierce spurts.

Bolitho heard Okes murmur, “Will you fight, sir?”

“Would you have me strike?” Hallowes sounded calm, or was he beyond that?

More shots made the air quiver and Bolitho heard a ball crash down close by, the water tumbling across the weather shrouds like lead shot.

“Bring her up a point, Mr Okes!” Hallowes was drawing his sword. Bolitho touched his own and wondered what would become of it. He would fling it into the sea if he was given time and life to do so.

Another series of bangs made Stayt swear under his breath and a ball slapped through a sail and parted a stay like a piece of cotton.

“On the uproll!”

Stayt said fiercely, “He's no chance, sir! Most of his pop-guns won't even bear yet!”

Bolitho said, “It is his way. There is nothing else now.”

“Fire!”

The air cringed as the four-pounders recoiled inboard on their tackles, their explosions almost blanketed as the frigate fired yet again.

The deck jumped and wood splinters flew over the cowering gun crews.

Then a second salvo tore overhead and a man fell kicking and screaming into the sea alongside.
Supreme
was moving so fast despite her torn canvas that the man was soon lost far astern.

“How is it now?”

Stayt said tonelessly, “Lighter, sir.” He winced as more balls slammed close alongside and one hit the bows with a terrible jerk. Torn rigging drifted down from aloft and trailed from the spars like shabby banners.

The gun crews did not look up but sponged out, rammed home fresh charges and tamped down their shot, because it was what they were trained to do, if necessary until death itself.

More shots struck the hull, and Bolitho said, “She can't take much more.”

“Sail to lee'rd, sir!”

Men gaped at each other, not understanding, unable to judge anything in the ear-shattering din of cannon fire.

Stayt shouted, “It's
Rapid,
sir!” He almost shook Bolitho's arm. “She's catching the sun right now, sir! She's hoisted a signal! By God, the squadron must be here!”

Another explosion rocked the deck and men screamed as splinters scythed them down. It must have been a full broadside for someone yelled with disbelief, “The Frenchie's goin' about! The bastards are runnin' for it! You showed 'em, Cap'n!”