Signal Close Action (28 page)

He released the nettings and allowed the wind to thrust him along the tilting deck until he fought his way aft to the compass.

Grubb shouted, 'Ship's 'ead is almost due north, sir!' He turned to watch as a whimpering man was carried past. 'She might be able to 'old it!'

'She
must!'
Bolitho saw his words go home. 'If we run before this wind we'll never beat back in time!'

Grubb watched him go and then said to a master's mate, 'How say you, Mr. Plowman ?'

Plowman gripped the binnacle for support, his coat shining like sodden silk in the feeble lamp.
‘I
told
Mr. Gilchrist to call all 'ands
' He added angrily, 'God rot 'im, 'e might 'ave been the death of us all!' Grubb grimaced. 'Still time for
that?

Bolitho was on his way forward to the rail again when he heard a yell.

'Heads below! Fore t'gallant's coming adrift!'

Before anyone could move or act the uppermost spar on the foremast tilted violently to leeward, hung for a few agonising seconds and then plunged down like a tree. Stays and shrouds all followed it in a great mass of rasping cordage and blocks, until with a jarring crash it came to rest below the starboard bow, the furled topgallant sail showing through the darkness like some nightmare tusk.

Grubb shouted, 'She's payin' off, sir!' He threw his considerable weight on the wheel. 'It's
like a bloody anchor up forrard
'

Bolitho saw Farquhar staggering along the weather gangway, drenched to the skin, one shoulder bare and bloodied by some fallen object from above. It was all plain to see. As if he were studying a diagram instead of watching a ship fighting for survival.

Had Herrick been in command at this moment none of it would have happened. No lieutenant would be too frightened to call him, and no matter what Herrick was like as a strategist and the squadron's second-in-command, he was a superb seaman.

Bolitho shouted, 'Get a strong party up forrard!' He strode past Farquhar, knowing that Allday was close on his heels. 'We don't have time to waste!'

Calls shrilled, and voices responded. Bolitho saw marines and seamen, some fully dressed, some naked, fighting through the torrential spray to where the boatswain and a handful of older men from the forecastle party were busy amidst the tangle of rigging.

Bolitho felt the ship lift and then dip heavily into a long trough, and heard several cries of alarm as the trapped topgallant mast and yard crashed against the hull.

He realised that Pascoe was already there and shouted, 'Are you in charge ?'

Pascoe shook his head. 'Mr. Yeo is cutting some of the rigging adrift, sir!' He ducked like a prize-fighter, his arms bent, as a great wall of water surged amongst the gasping men. 'And Mr. Gilchrist is leading the mai
n party outboard by the cathead
'

Bolitho nodded. 'Good.' To Allday he said, 'We'll add our weight. There's nothing more we can do aft.'

He groped his way down and through the huge coils of tarred rope, his shins and hands scarred within seconds.

A voice said 'Gawd, it's the commodore, lads!' Another muttered, 'Then we must be in a bad way!'

Bolitho peered over the side, seeing the frothy undertow beneath the bows, the broken mast surging and veering into the hull like a battering ram. In the darkness the jagged wood gleamed as if to mock their efforts. To put a seal on their hopes.

He saw Gilchrist waving his arms through the tangle, like a man seized by a terrible sea-creature.

'Axes, Mr. Yeo! Save the yard, but hack the mast away as soon as you can!'

A man tried to claw his way back from his precarious perch on the cathead, but Gilchrist seized him and forced him to look down past the massive anchor-stock, to the surging water below him.

'We save the ship, or go under together! Now catch a turn with that line, or I'll see your backbones tomorrow!'

Gilchrist's fury, his unintentional hint that there was indeed going to be a tomorrow, seemed to have an effect. Grunting and swearing they threw themselves into battle with the fallen spars, using their anger to hold fear at bay and drown the wail of the wind.

Bolitho worked alongside the anonymous figures, using the back-breaking work to steady his thoughts. The topgallant mast could be replaced. Herrick had made certain of a good stock of spare spars before leaving England. If the yard could be saved, the ship's sail-power should be normal again in a few days, once they enjoyed calmer weather. But it would take time. Time when they should have been on their station, the one he had so carefully selected to snare the enemy supply ships.

Gilchrist yelled, 'Mr. Pascoe! Take some men aft along the starboard gangway and grapple the spar!'

Pascoe nodded and touched the nearest men on shoulders or arms. 'Aye, sir!'

Gilchrist peered up at him. 'If you cannot save it, then at least make sure it causes no further harm to the hull!' He broke off, choking as spray leapt up and over the bowsprit.

When the water subsided in a great hissing torrent Bolitho saw that the man Gilchrist had been threatening had vanished. He was probably somewhere in the darkness, watching his ship moving away, his cries lost in the angry wave crests. More likely he had gone straight down. It was a sad fact that few sailors could swim. Bolitho found himself praying that the man had died quickly and had been spared the agony of being left out there alone.

Thud,
thud,
thud,
the axes hacked savagely at the rigging, while other hands worked at hastily rigged tackles to sway the undamaged yard up and around the foremast.

'There she goes!'

The cry was taken up as with a grinding clatter of severed gear and cordage the released topgallant mast plunged freely down the lee side. Bolitho watched Pascoe's men struggling along the gangway trying to control the still-dangerous spar, and then caught his breath as a line parted and another went bar-taut, scraping along the gangway rail and catching Pascoe around the shoulders.

'Belay
those
lines!'

Midshipman Luce dashed down the gangway, heedless of the bursting spray. 'Cut him free!'

Another line snapped, and Bolitho felt his blood chill as Pascoe appeared to bow over the rail, dragged helplessly towards the sea by the surging mass of rigging.

But Luce was beside him now, his slim frame bent under the black ropes as he hacked upwards with an axe.

Yeo strode along the forecastle, his quick eye and twenty years at sea telling him instantly of the midshipman's danger.

'Avast there, Mr. Luce!'

But it was too late. As the keen blade slashed away one of the broken stays another tightened automatically, so that as Pascoe fell gasping into the arms of two seamen, Luce was pinned against the side, his arm taking the full weight. When the ship lifted sluggishly to the wind he cried out once, 'Oh God, help me!' Then as Yeo and the others reached him and cut the rigging free once and for all he fell senseless at their feet.

Bolitho said, 'Qui
ck, Allday, take him below!
' Then he hurried along the gangway and helped Pascoe to his feet. 'How does it feel ?'

Pascoe felt his spine and grimaced. 'That was near
-'
He stared along the deck. 'Where is Bill Luce, sir ?' He struggled against the rail. 'Is he -'

'He was injured.' Bolitho felt the ship responding slowly to her freedom, indifferent perhaps to those who had suffered in the process. 'I have had him taken to the surgeon.'

Pascoe stared at him. 'Oh no, not after he saved my life!'

Bolitho sensed his distress, could see the grief despite the enclosing darkness.

He added, 'I will go below, Adam. You remain here.' It hurt him to continue, 'Others need you now.'

He walked aft, seeing Farquhar by the quarterdeck rail. As if he had never moved.

Farquhar blurted out, 'Thank you, sir! Seeing you there helped the men to rally.'

Bolitho looked at him. 'I doubt that. But one captain aft is enough!'

He peered up at the reefed topsail. Still iron-hard, but holding well, in spite of the enormous pressure. He s
aid, ‘
I am going to the sickbay.' 'Are you hurt, sir?'

'Call me instantl
y if anything changes.' He walked to the companion. 'No. Not physically, that is.'

As he made his way down and down by one ladder to the next he was conscious of the sea noises becoming muted, the new sounds of straining timbers, the smells of bilge and tar rising to greet him. Lanterns swayed and cast leaning shadows as he continued through the lower gun deck and below
Lysander's
waterline, where natural light was unknown the year round.

Outside this small sickbay he found several seamen resting after treatment, some bandaged, some lying in an escape of sleep and rum. The air was thick with the combined smells of pain and blood.

He entered the sickbay where Henry Shaddock, the surgeon, was talking to some of his assistants as they arranged two more lanterns above his table.

Shaddock glanced up and saw Bolitho.
'Sir
?'

He was a tired-looking man with thin hair. In the swaying yellow light he appeared almost bald, although he was not yet thirty. Bolitho had found him to be a good doctor, which was unfortunately rare in King's ships.

'How is Mr. Luce ?'

The men stood aside, and Bolitho realised that the midshipman was already lying on the table. He was naked, and his face was set in a frown, the skin very pale. Shacklock lifted a rough dressing from his shoulder.

Bolitho guessed that the rope had cut through the flesh and muscle like wire through cheese. The lower arm lay at an unnatural angle, the fingers unclenched and relaxed.

Shacklock held his own hand above the midshipman's arm, the palm open like a ruler. It was less than six inches below the point of his shoulder.

He said, 'It must come off, sir.' He pursed his lips. 'Even then. . .'

Bolitho looked down at Luce's pale face. Seventeen years of age. No age at all. 'Are you certain?'

What was the point? He had heard it asked so often.

'Yes.' Shacklock nodded to his assistants. "The sooner the better. He might not come to his senses before it is done.'

At that moment Luce's eyes opened. They stayed fixed on Bolitho's face, unmoving, and yet in those few seconds they seemed to understand everything which had happened, and what was to come.

He made to move, but Bolitho gripped his uninjured shoulder. His skin was like ice, and his hair still wet with the spray from that other howling world three decks above.

He said, 'You saved Mr. Pascoe's life.' He kept his voice steady. 'Adam will come as soon as he can.'

Beyond the boy's head he saw Shacklock taking two knives from a case. One short, the other long and thin. An assistant was wiping something below a lantern, and as the deck tilted and the man lurched sideways he realised it was a saw.

Luce whispered quietly, 'My arm, sir?' He was starting to weep.
'Please,
sir!'

Bolitho reached out and took a cup of rum from a loblolly boy. 'Drink this.' He forced it to his lips. 'As much as you can.'

He saw it slopping out of his mouth, could feel his body trembling as if in a terrible fever. It was all they had. Rum, with opium to follow the operation as a sedative.

He heard footsteps and then Pascoe's voice, taut and barely recognisable.

'The captain sends his respects, sir. We have just sighted
Nicator.'

Bolitho straightened his back but kept his hand on Luce's shoulder.

'Thank you.' Around him the shadows loomed nearer, like angels of death, as Shacklock's men waited to begin. 'Stay with him, Adam.'

He made himself look at the midshipman. He was staring up at him, the rum and tears mingling on his throat. Only his mouth moved as he whispered again,
'Please.'

He waited until Pascoe was by the boy's head and then said to Shacklock, 'Do your best.'

The surgeon nodded. 'I have had the blades warmed to lessen the shock, sir.'

As Bolitho made to leave he saw the surgeon give a signal, heard Luce cry out as the assistants gripped his legs and held his head back on the table.

Bolitho had reached the upper deck when Luce screamed. The sound seemed to follow him up and into the wind, where it ended abruptly.