Colours Aloft! (32 page)

Bolitho met his glance. “Lapish must do his best.”

It might baffle the enemy when they saw a two-decker suddenly clap on more sail and dash into the fray. If Lapish used that surprise he might bring down some spars unless . . . Bolitho closed his mind to the appalling risks he was telling Lapish to take.

He heard Allday whispering fiercely to Bankart, and saw the youth shake his head, his stubborn determination somehow pathetic as the distant guns roared out once again. Bankart stood his ground. Whatever it was costing him, he was more terrified of showing fear.

Bolitho raised his telescope and trained it through the black rigging and for a few moments saw familiar faces leap into view before he found the enemy. There she was, her leaping leopard savage and realistic in the strengthening sunshine, the rear-admiral's flag streaming out from her mizzen.

Keen crossed to join him, his fingers drumming a silent beat on his sword hilt.

Bolitho said, “We must stop her, Val.” He felt him watching him. “Jobert will sacrifice every ship and man he has just to snatch the gold with us helpless to stop him.”

Keen nodded, his mind still reeling from the change of events. To begin with he had been able to ignore the danger in the face of their timely arrival. Now there seemed no chance even of survival. He watched Bolitho's expression, the way he covered his left eye while he rested the glass on a seaman's bare shoulder to get a clearer view.

It seemed to steady him. He was able to accept what must happen. But first—

Bolitho lowered the glass. “Load and run out. Then—” He looked at Stayt. “Hoist the signal for close action.” He handed the glass to Sheaffe's small assistant. “I'll not need this again, I think.” He walked away from the others and stared at the blue water and the endless desert of small crests.

Throughout his small squadron it would be the same, he thought. Brave men afraid to die, cowards fearful of living. They would follow his flag wherever it led. He saw their faces, Montresor, Houston, Lapish and young Quarrell nursing his two big guns. And Adam. Back there in his first command, in his twenty-third year. Or perhaps, like Inch, he had already paid for his impudent courage.

He looked up as the signal for close action broke out, and recalled that other time when men and boys like some of these had died to keep it flying. He shifted his gaze to the bright flag at the fore, and as guns cracked out from the convoy he was surprised to discover that all hate and bitterness were gone.

They were the luxuries of the living.

17 BENEATH THE
F
LAG

T
HE TWO
converging lines of ships appeared to be closing rapidly, although Jobert's squadron still stood at about three miles' range.

Keen watched fixedly and then said, “He's not reduced sail yet, sir.”

Bolitho wanted to climb to the poop and see what was happening in the convoy. There the firing had become general, and the last time he had looked Bolitho had seen
Benbow
wreathed in smoke as she engaged the two French seventy-fours on either beam at once. It was never a comfortable plan; it meant dividing the gun crews and left few hands to carry out repairs and remove the wounded.

The sharper crack of small weapons told him that Adam's
Firefly
had thrown any caution to the wind as she tacked as close as she dared to the two big Frenchmen. Adam knew
Benbow
wore Herrick's flag. Not that he would need any encouragement to fight. Bolitho thought of Keen's comment. Jobert had hoisted no signals either and had obviously drilled his ships for this very moment.

Keen asked without lowering his glass, “Shall I shorten sail, sir?”

“Yes. Take in the courses. Otherwise Jobert will overreach our line before we can cripple some of his ships.”

Paget shouted, “
Barracouta
has gone for the frigates!” He sounded excited. “God, she's crossing the stern of one of 'em!”

Lapish had used his disguise well. While the two French frigates had held their station, one astern of the other, he had swept suddenly towards them with all the wind in his favour. His starboard battery was blasting into the enemy while he cut so dangerously close across the leader's stern that it looked as if they had collided. Smoke and flame belched from the Frenchman, and somebody gave a wild cheer as the maintopmast plummeted over her side, the attendant tangle of rigging and snapped spars dragging her over and giving Lapish's gun crews the rare chance of a second broadside, before
Barracouta
's helm went down and she changed tack towards the French line.

Even some of Keen's seamen paused as they fisted and kicked the main and forecourses against their yards, to stare as their one frigate curtsied round before the second enemy vessel had time to follow. Her two broadsides had rendered the other ship momentarily helpless and the list of killed and wounded must have struck them hard.

Bolitho made himself watch Jobert's flagship. Like her consorts, she was painted in black and white stripes, her gunports rising up her tumblehome in a checkered pattern.

Keen said, “He intends to overreach us, sir.”

Bolitho said nothing.
Léopard
's jib-boom appeared to be pointing directly at their own.

Then Keen said, “They're shortening now, sir.” He sounded tight with concentration. Relief too, for if Jobert's ships crossed their line of battle, they could smash into the convoy while Keen lost vital time trying to head round and engage. The reduction of sails might settle their final embrace.

The range was less than two miles now, and seemed to make Jobert's flagship loom even higher above the choppy wave crests.

“Stand by, starboard batteries!” Keen drew his sword, his eyes slitted in concentration.

Bolitho heard the order being piped to the lower gun deck and imagined the faces he had come to know.

He said, “We must try to break the line. Pass astern of Jobert, and let Montresor and Houston tackle the others. Ship to ship, broadside to broadside.”

He saw the stabbing lines of flashes as Jobert's three-decker fired a slow broadside. The sea boiled violently as the heavy balls screeched above him and tore rigging to shreds and punched a dozen holes in the sails. Men swarmed aloft with the boatswain's bellowing voice guiding them to the worst damage.

Less than a mile now.
More shots crashed overhead, and two balls hit the lower hull like battering rams. Bolitho wiped his eyes as smoke swirled over the quarterdeck in a freak downdraught before being sucked away downwind.

“Signal
Rapid
to assist
Benbow.
” Bolitho tried not to consider Quarrell's chances, but it would lend heart to Herrick—he bit his lip—and Adam. Please God he was still safe.

Paget yelled, “He's resetting his tops'ls, the bugger!”

Bolitho watched as
Léopard
's topmen struggled out on their yards while the helm went over and Jobert's ship changed tack as if to avoid a final encounter. As she presented her full broadside she fired. It was like one gigantic explosion and Bolitho had to seize the rail as many of the balls struck
Argonaute
's side or crashed across the forecastle. Wood fragments whirled in the air and most of the starboard carronade's crew were cut to bloody fragments.

Keen's sword flashed down.
“Fire!”

The gun captains jerked their lanyards and
Argonaute
swayed over to the thrust of her combined broadside. The lower battery, their main armament, reacted badly; some of the crews there must have been stunned or unnerved by the weight of the enemy's iron.

Some of
Léopard
's sails lifted and writhed, and her foretopsail was torn apart by the force of the wind through the ragged holes. It was not enough to make her even falter.

Despatch
was closing with the second Frenchman, and Bolitho could hear
Icarus
firing from extreme range at the rearmost twodecker. He hurried to the nettings, the crews of the unemployed nine-pounders staring at him, their eyes wild, their naked bodies heaving with exertion as if they had been running.

Bolitho watched his two ships closing with the enemy,
Icarus
almost hidden in a rolling fog of gunsmoke.

He shouted, “Follow Jobert!” He winced as more balls slammed into the hull and a man screamed briefly as he was cut down.

Keen shouted, “Put up your helm! Close with her, man!”

Fallowfield glared at him and then gestured to his helmsmen, who clustered around the big wheel as if it was a last refuge.

Small flashes lit up
Léopard
's fighting-tops and several musket balls, almost spent, slammed harmlessly into the hammocks. The Royal Marines crouched against their frail protection and waited for the command to fire; some even glanced at Captain Bouteiller, willing him to give the order.

Keen called, “Set the forecourse!”

The hands had been waiting and Bolitho saw the great sail billow from its yard, cutting away the vision of the enemy like a huge curtain.

More shots whimpered across the quarterdeck and poop and Allday muttered, “Stay close to me, lad. They're out of range, but—”

Stayt pulled out his pistol and stared at it as if he were seeing it for the first time.

The air was filled with noise, gun captains yelling and gesturing to their crews who wielded their handspikes to heave the smoking barrels round towards the enemy. Overhead, seamen called to one another while severed standing and running rigging flapped out in the wind and defied their grasping fingers. Occasionally the spread nets would jerk as something broke free and plummeted down from aloft, and Bolitho knew it was a miracle that more damage had not been done.

He heard two bangs, loud and resonant, and knew
Rapid
was using her borrowed thirty-two-pounders. They would give the French ships something to worry about. They might even draw one of them away from Herrick who was being raked from two sides at once.

He saw a frigate falling downwind, her foremast trailing over the side, antlike figures swarming amongst the wreckage to hack it away. A cheer from some of the gun crews stopped abruptly, as if to a word of command.

Bolitho gripped his sword and saw
Barracouta
reel over as another burst of crossfire tore into her and brought down more spars and flailing rigging.

Keen murmured, “Bad luck. But he's knocked one of them out of the fight!” He ran to the side as Jobert's ship fired again, some of the balls ripping overhead with just a few feet to spare.

Stayt said abruptly, “We can't mark him down!” The words were wrung from his lips as if he were feeling every shot.
“Must get closer!”

Bolitho shouted, “Captain Keen! Head for the convoy!” It was suddenly more than clear that Jobert intended to take the merchantmen as he had planned, and abandon his captains to stop or delay Bolitho's ships from interfering.

A great shower of sparks burst from
Despatch
's main deck and timber splashed down alongside. For an instant Bolitho imagined that a magazine had exploded, but it must have been a powder charge which had burst before it could be rammed home. As the French ship drifted away from her Bolitho saw that she too was badly mauled, and
Despatch
was already nudging round, her lower battery firing again and again, although many of her upper gun crews had been cut down by the explosion.
Icarus
too was obeying the signal, and appeared to be overlapping her enemy, her sails filled with holes and some of her guns unmanned or smashed.

With her helm over,
Argonaute
's bowsprit followed Jobert's ship as if to impale her. The arrowhead of sea between them was torn again and again by leaping fins of spray, many followed by the terrible thud of iron striking deep into the hull.

Stayt remarked, “We're alone!”

Bolitho looked at him. Stayt sounded so calm, almost matter of fact. A man without nerves, or one resigned to the inevitable.

“Larboard battery!” Keen's sword caught the sunlight.
“Fire!”

There were some wild cheers as the Frenchman's sails bucked and split, and tell-tale puffs of smoke along her tall hull told of their success. Keen's regular drills were paying off even now.

Stayt ducked as musket balls scythed over the hammock nettings, and two seamen were hurled to the deck, one screaming as he clawed at his stomach. The dead man was thrown over the side, the other dragged to the nearest hatch and eventually down to Tuson.

Bolitho shuddered. It was happening there now. The knife and saw, the dreadful agony while some poor wretch was held on the table.

Stayt coughed.

Bolitho looked at him and saw him falling very slowly to his knees, a look of intent concentration on his dark features.

Midshipman Sheaffe ran to his aid and put an arm round his shoulders.

Bolitho said, “Get him below!”

Stayt looked up at him, but seemed to have difficulty in focusing his eyes. He had one hand to his waist, and already his fingers were wet with blood.

Stayt tried to shake his head but the pain made him cry out.

“No!”
He stared at Bolitho, his eyes desperate.
“Hear me!”

Bolitho knelt beside him, his ears cringing to the crash and roar of cannon fire.
Léopard
's masts were no longer at a distance; they were rising up alongside, huge and formidable, as the two ships continued to drive together.

“What is it?” He knew Stayt was dying. Men were falling everywhere; one of the helmsmen was dragging himself into the gloom of the poop, his efforts mocked by the great pattern of blood he left behind him.

“It was my father . . . I wanted to tell . . .” He coughed violently and blood ran from his mouth. “I wrote to him about the girl, never thought what he might . . .” He rolled up his eyes and gasped, “Oh dear God, help me!”

Sheaffe said, “I'll carry him, sir!”

Sheaffe's voice seemed to give Stayt some impossible strength. His eyes turned towards the midshipman and he started to grin. It made him look terrible. “Admiral Sheaffe, it was. A friend of my father, y'see.”

He turned back to Bolitho and shut his eyes tightly as shots scored across the deck, killing a seaman who was thrusting his rammer into a gun and taking off the arm of his companion like a dead twig.

“Always hated you. Thought you knew, sir. All fathers together.” He tried to speak clearly but there was too much blood. He was drowning in it. “Yours, mine and this young mid—” He coughed again and this time the blood did not stop.

Sheaffe lowered him to the deck, and when he looked up his face was like stone. Then he picked up the silver-mounted pistol and thrust it into his belt.

Keen hurried across the deck and shouted, “We're all but into her!” The deck bucked and splinters flew like hornets, hurling men aside or leaving them too badly injured to help themselves. He saw Stayt's body and said,
“Damn them!”

Bolitho walked to the nettings again and, using a marine's shoulder for support, climbed up to look at the other vessel. On every hand the battle raged, flotsam and broken spars drifted abeam, while here and there a lonely corpse floated beneath the thunder of cannon fire, like an uncaring swimmer.