Success to the Brave (8 page)

“Put the helm down!”

Duncan beckoned to the midshipman. “Glass, Mr Evans.”

He took the telescope from the boy's hand and glanced at him as he did so. Midshipman Evans was thirteen, the youngest in
Sparrowhawk
's gunroom. A likeable youth, who had been mastheaded more than once since leaving England for his practical jokes.

Duncan levelled the glass and braced his legs as the ship heeled violently in a trough and the men up forward loosed the headsail sheets to allow
Sparrowhawk
to swing through the eye of the wind. To a landsman the ship would appear in confusion, with rippling sails and clattering rigging, but in a moment or so she would come round on the opposite tack and reduce sail even more.

Duncan smiled grimly. He liked his ship to be handled firmly, like a strong-willed horse.

He stiffened as the other ship swam hugely into the lens. Her yards were swinging, her sails filling like metal breastplates as she changed tack, not into the wind, but to starboard, and as her fore-course thundered out from its yard she seemed to lean forward as she swept down across the frigate's stern.

Duncan yelled, “
Belay that order,
Mr Palmer! Bring her about again!”

Men tumbled in confusion and braces and halliards squealed through the blocks and more hands threw themselves among their companions to try and haul the yards round.

Duncan reeled as his ship tried to respond, but she was nearly aback, the sails billowing and cracking against the masts and shrouds.

“Beat to quarters!”

Duncan stared wildly at the other ship, his skin like ice despite the sun's heat.
He should have seen it.
Now it was already too late, and even as he stared he saw the other vessel's gunports open, the black muzzles poking out into the sunlight, while his own startled marine drummers started the staccato beat which brought more men pouring up from between decks, some still unaware of the danger.

Duncan made himself face the regular flashes along the other vessel's side, the darting orange tongues and rolling bank of smoke. Then in seconds a torrent of iron smashed into the frigate's hull and above the deck, tearing down rigging and spars, punching holes in the flapping canvas, and worse, ploughing through the stern to turn the crowded gun-deck into a bloody shambles.

Duncan clung to the nettings, bellowing like a wounded bull as a ball slammed into one of the quarterdeck guns and flung splinters across the planking, cutting down men and daubing scarlet patterns to mark where they fell.

He felt a blow in his side like a blade of an ax, and when he looked he saw blood pumping down his leg, and when the pain came he could hear himself moaning with agony.

A great shadow swept over him, and with a thundering roar the mizzen-mast and rigging crashed over the side carrying seamen and marines with them.

More violent shocks battered at the hull like iron rams, and Duncan had to hold on to the nettings to prevent himself from falling. Their attacker was following them round, her sails rising above the smoke like the wings of hell itself. She was firing without a break, and still not one of
Sparrowhawk
's guns had been loaded. Men lay dead and dying everywhere, and when he peered at the helm Duncan saw that the wheel was in fragments, the master and his helmsmen scattered by the fury of the bombardment.

“Mr Palmer!”

His cry was less than a croak. But the first lieutenant was on his knees by the rail, his mouth like a black hole as he screamed silently at his hands which lay before him like torn gloves.

Duncan fell down as more great crashes rocked the hull. He could hear the balls slamming through the deck below and saw smoke rising from an open hatch.
She was on fire.

He tried to stand, his rage and his despair making him terrible to see. He had fallen in his own blood, and he could feel the strength running away to match the terrible patterns on the deck around him.

“Let me help, sir!”

Duncan thrust his arm around the boy's shoulders. It was little Evans, and the realization helped to steady him.

He gasped, “Done for, boy. See to the others.” He felt the midshipman shudder and saw the bright fear in his eyes. He gripped him more tightly with his bloody arm. “Stand to, boy, you're a King's officer today. Get them—” Then he fell and this time he did not rise.

A few seamen and marines ran aft and would have flung themselves into the sea astern but for the thirteen-year-old midshipman.

He shouted, “Quarter-boat! Bosun's mate, take charge there!”

When one tried to knock him aside he snatched a pistol and fired it above their heads. For a moment longer they stared at each other like madmen, then, obedient to their training, they tossed their weapons aside and ran to haul the quarter-boat alongside.

A few shots were still hitting the hull, but
Sparrowhawk
had no fight left in her. She was settling down, the sea exploring the orlop and reaching up further still so that there was a glint of water below the companion.

Evans ran to aid his friend, the signals midshipman, but he was already dead, a hole in his chest big enough for a man's fist.

Evans stood up very carefully, his feet sliding in blood as the stern began to go under.

He thought he heard one of the other boats nearby, the third lieutenant trying to restore order and rally the survivors.

He looked at his dead captain, a man he had feared and admired. Now he was nothing, and Evans felt unnerved by it, cheated.

A burly marine, one of his comrades over his shoulder like a sack, paused and gasped, “Come along, sir. Nothin' 'ere now.”

The wounded man groaned and the one who was carrying him peered round, looking for a boat. But something in Evans' face held him there like a shouted command on the square. The marine had been at St Vincent and the Nile, and had seen many of his friends die like this.

He said roughly, “You've done yer best, so come along, eh?”

The hull gave a great shiver. She was going.

The midshipman walked with the marine and did not even blink as the foremast thundered down like a falling cliff.

“I'm ready, thank you.” It seemed little enough comment for such a terrible moment.

As guns tore themselves loose from their lashings and crashed along the deck among the corpses and whimpering wounded,
Sparrowhawk
lifted her bows and dived steeply. The whirlpool of swirling wreckage, men and pieces of men remained for a long time, long enough for their attacker to make more sail and alter course to the westward.

There were two boats and a roughly lashed raft left as evidence of what had happened, with survivors floundering in search of a handhold or a place in one of them.

A week later, the American brig
Baltimore Lady,
on passage from Guadeloupe to New York, sighted one drifting boat and hove to to investigate. The boat was filled with sun-blackened men, some dead, apparently from wounds or burns, others barely able to speak. Deep score marks on the boat's planking showed where sharks had torn others from their handholds alongside. There was an officer of sorts in charge of the boat. The brig's mate later described him as “less'n a boy.”

Midshipman Evans had obeyed Duncan's order,
“See to the others.”

It was something he would remember for the rest of his life.

Samuel Fane regarded Bolitho without emotion as he said, “I have spoken with the President and have also discussed the matter of San Felipe with the French admiral.”

Bolitho watched him calmly. There was no point in attacking Fane for going behind his back and speaking with the French flag-officer. He had every right to, if Boston was to be a neutral ground for the discussions.

Also, being aboard his own flagship made more of a difference than he would have expected. Ashore in Chase's fine house he was the stranger. Here in
Achates,
with familiar faces and sounds all around him, he felt assured and confident.

He said, “No steps can be taken until I receive the report from my frigate captain. A compromise may be worked out, but only under the present conditions. Sir Humphrey Rivers is the British Governor of San Felipe, but nothing more than that.”

Jonathan Chase, who had swallowed two glasses of claret in his anxiety that it should be a better meeting than the previous one, exclaimed, “No harm in that, eh, Sam?”

Fane's deepset eyes settled on him only briefly.

“Our government will not tolerate a war, large or small, where it might endanger United States' trade and progress. It makes more sense to me that the island should come under
our
protection, if that is the will of the people there.”

He gave a deep sigh. “But if the admiral wishes to show his authority
first,
then I suppose we must indulge him.”

Chase held out his glass for Ozzard to refill.

“God damn it, Sam, do you never relax?”

Fane smiled wryly. “Hardly at all.”

Feet moved on the deck overhead, and Bolitho heard a voice calling an order. It was his world. This sort of double-tongue was alien to him.

He stood up and walked to the stern windows. There was a slow, hot wind across Massachusetts Bay and the sky was slashed by thin, pink clouds. How inviting the sea looked.

Fane was saying, “It might take a few months to settle, but what of that? The French will not insist on immediate occupation of the island. It will give all of us time.”

Bolitho suddenly saw a naval brig turning into the wind, her anchor splashing down even as her sails were smartly furled at their yards. The ensign which licked out from her gaff was the same as the one at
Achates
' taffrail.

He replied, “His Majesty's Government has entrusted me with the task of handing over the island, sir. None of us wants an uprising, especially now that the West Indies are recovering from the war.”

A boat had been dropped from the brig and was already speeding across the water towards the flagship.

Bolitho felt a nerve jump in his throat. What was it? News from home already, could it be . . . ?”

He forced himself to face the others, his eyes almost blind in the cabin's shady interior.

“I shall send a letter to your President. I appreciate very much what he is trying to do—” He broke off and turned sharply as Ozzard murmured, “It's the captain, sir.”

Keen stood in the doorway, his hat jammed beneath his arm.

“Please forgive this interruption, sir.” He glanced at the others. “The commander of the brig
Electra
is come aboard. He has news for you, sir.” His eyes were pleading. “Very serious news.”

Bolitho nodded. “I'll not be long, gentlemen.”

He followed Keen from the cabin and saw a young officer waiting by the chartroom.

Keen said tightly, “This is Commander Napier, sir.”

Bolitho looked at him impassively. “Tell me.”

Napier swallowed hard.
Electra
was his first command, and he had never spoken with a vice-admiral before.

“I was on passage to the south'rd when I sighted an American brig. She signalled for assistance, and when I boarded her I found her to be carrying British seamen.” He flinched under Bolitho's gaze. “They were survivors.”

Bolitho saw Keen's face, he looked pale in spite of the sun.

The commander added quietly, “From
Sparrowhawk,
sir.”

Bolitho clenched his hands together behind him to control his sense of shock. In his heart he had nursed a dread that something had happened to the little frigate. A storm, a reef, or one of a dozen disasters which can befall a ship sailing alone.

Napier continued, “She was attacked, sir. A two-decker to all accounts, although—”

Bolitho could see it as if he had been there himself. Just as their attacker had fired on
Achates.
Without warning, except that this time her victim had been hopelessly outgunned even if Duncan had been expecting trouble.

“How many?”

Again the young commander could barely speak above a murmur.

“Twenty-five, sir, and some of those are in a poor way.”

Bolitho felt his skin go cold. Twenty-five, out of a company which had numbered two hundred souls.

“Any officers?” He barely recognized his own voice.

“None, sir. Just a midshipman. First commission too.”

Bolitho eyed him bitterly. Duncan had perished with his ship. He could picture him without effort. Duncan had even been to his wedding at Falmouth. A good man, strong and reliable.

It was impossible. A nightmare.

The commander took his silence for displeasure and hurried on, “The midshipman said that the third lieutenant was in another boat but was badly wounded in the face and neck by splinters. During the night the boats drifted apart, and then the sharks came.” He looked at the deck.