With All Despatch (33 page)

Some of the corvette's larboard battery must have been trained as far round in their ports as they could bear. Paice watched through his glass and saw the shadows of the enemy's guns lengthen against the hull as they were levered towards the quarter. He shifted his horrified stare to
Snapdragon.
It was impossible to see her as another graceful cutter. She was a listing, mastless wreck already down by the bows, her shattered jolly-boat drifting away from the side amidst the flotsam of planking and torn canvas.

Triscott exclaimed in a strangled voice, “They'd not fire on her now!”

The after divisions of guns belched out flame and smoke together. It was like a single, heart-stopping explosion. Paice could even feel the weight of the iron's strength as
Snapdragon
was swept from bow to stern, timber, decking, men and pieces of men flung into the air like grisly rubbish. When it finally fell it pock-marked the sea with white feathers, strangely gentle in the pale sunlight.

Snapdragon
began to capsize, her broken hull surrounded by huge, obscene bubbles.

Paice watched with his glass. He did not want to forget it, and knew he never would.

He saw the deck tilting towards him, a corpse in a lieutenant's coat sliding through blood and splinters, then rising up against the bulwark as if to offer a last command. Then
Snapdragon
gave a groan, as if she was the one who was dying, and disappeared beneath the whirlpool of pathetic fragments.

Paice found that he was sucking in the bitter air as if he had just been running. His head swam, and he wanted to roar and bellow like a bull. But nothing came. It was too terrible even for that.

When he spoke again his voice was almost calm.

He said, “All guns load, double-shotted!” He sought out Triscott by the mast; his face was as white as a sheet. “Did you see that? The Frenchie made no attempt to bear up on—” he hesitated, unable to say the name of the ship he had just seen destroyed. Vatass, so keen and unworldly, hoping for promotion, wiped away like the master's calculations on his slate.
Because of me. I forced him to put to sea.
He faced Triscott again. “She'd have been in irons if she had. I reckon her running rigging is frozen as solid as a rock!”

Triscott wiped his lips with the back of his hand. “But how long—”

He was close to vomiting.

“It don't matter, and it don't signify, Mr Triscott! We'll rake that bugger an' maybe Captain Bolitho can put a ball or two through
him!
”

Triscott nodded. “Prepare to shorten sail!” He was glad of something to do. Anything which might hold back the picture of
Snapdragon'
s terrible death. It was like watching his own fate in a nightmare.

Paice moved aft and joined Chesshyre beside the helmsmen. From here he could see the full length and breadth of his small command. Within the hour she might share
Snapdragon'
s grave. He was surprised that he could face the prospect without pain. His fate, his
lot
would be decided for him. There was no choice open to any one of them.

He saw the master-at-arms and Glynn, a boatswain's mate, passing out cutlasses and axes from the chest, and below the raked mast another handful of men were loading muskets under the watchful eye of a gunner's mate. It kept them busy as the enemy vessel grew in size, lying in their path like a glistening barricade. He saw the gunner's mate gesturing towards the mast, doubtless explaining that a good marksman could play havoc with men crowded together on a ship's deck. He had picked the men himself, each one an excellent shot.

Paice nodded as if in agreement; a seaman called Inskip had held up his fist and then hurried to the weather shrouds. A good choice. Inskip had been a poacher in Norfolk before he had found his way into the navy by way of the local assizes.

Chesshyre said dryly, “Better him than me, sir.”

Paice knew that Inskip would be more than mindful of
Snapdragon'
s mast plunging down into the sea. Nobody working aloft or around it would have survived. The corvette's captain had made certain of those who had.

Chesshyre muttered,
“My God!”

Paice walked to the side as
Telemachus'
s stem smashed through some drifting wreckage. A torn jacket, what looked like a chart, splinters as thick as fingers, and the inevitable corpses, bobbing and reeling aside as
Telemachus
surged through them.

He said roughly, “I'll lay odds you wish you was in the East India Company!”

A puff of smoke drifted from the corvette's side, and seconds later a ball sliced across the sea before hurling up a waterspout half-a-cable beyond the bows.

Paice growled, “Close enough, Mr Chesshyre.” He crossed to the compass box and peered at the card. “Bring her up two points.” He eyed him impassively. “We'll go for his flanks, eh?”

Chesshyre nodded, angry with himself because his teeth were chattering uncontrollably.

He said, “Ready aft! Put the helm down! Steer South by West!” Then he watched as the corvette showed herself beyond the shrouds as if she had only now begun to move.

Paice watched the enemy loose off another shot, but it was well clear.

Shorten sail or stand and fight.

He saw
Wakeful'
s jib and foresail hardening on the new tack, the canvas clean and pale in the early sunshine.

Chesshyre called, “We don't even know why we're here!”

Paice did not turn on him. He knew Chesshyre was afraid, and he needed him now as never before.

“D'you need a reason, then?”

Chesshyre thought of
Snapdragon,
the corpses bobbing around her like gutted fish.

Paice was right. In the end it would make no difference.

17. SHIPS OF
W
AR

B
OLITHO
mopped his streaming face for the hundredth time and watched
Wakeful'
s seamen sheeting the mainsail home, while others swarmed aloft in the freezing wind to execute the next command.

Yet again
Wakeful
had fought round in a tight arc to her original course, with the approaching corvette lying directly across the starboard bow. The enemy would have the wind-gage, but for
Wakeful'
s small guns it might be their only advantage.

“Loose tops'l!”
Queely was everywhere, never more acutely aware of Kempthorne's loss.

Bolitho could see it, the gangling lieutenant swinging around, the gaping hole in his throat. Then nothing. He plucked the sodden shirt away from his skin, another reminder of the man who had stopped a ball which had been intended for him.

Queely came aft again, his chest heaving. “What now, sir?”

Bolitho pointed to the scarred jolly-boat. “Drop it outboard.”

The boatswain glanced at Queely as if for confirmation. Queely nodded curtly. “Do it!”

Bolitho watched the spare hands hoisting the boat up and over the lee bulwark. Like all sailors they were reluctant, fearful even of letting go of their only boat. Bolitho knew from experience it would have been the same had there been ten times as many people in the company, and still only one boat. Always the last hope.

Queely understood although he lacked experience of it.

He was saying, “We'll have enough splinters flying about before too long, man!”

Bolitho waited for the boatswain to hurry away to tend to some frayed rigging. The choppy sea and freezing wind could play havoc with even the best cordage.

He glanced around the deck. “Have all the hammocks brought up and lashed around the after gratings. It will give the helmsmen some protection.” He did not add that an unprotected deck could be swept into a bloody shambles by one well-aimed burst of grape. It gave every man something to do. After
Snapdragon'
s destruction they needed to be busy even in the face of the oncoming corvette.

La Revanche
had seemingly vanished, tacking back and forth, each precious minute taking her away from the drifting smoke which still floated above the sea where
Snapdragon
had dived for the bottom.

They had not been able to see much of the encounter, but the broadside which had followed
Snapdragon'
s last futile shots had stunned all of them.

Bolitho saw Allday supervising the stacking and lashing of the tightly lashed hammocks. In battle, even a strip of canvas gave an impression of safety to those denied protection.

Allday crossed to his side and said, “She'll be up to us in twenty minutes, Cap'n.” He sounded unusually desperate. “What can we hit her with?”

“
Telemachus
has run out her stuns'ls, sir!” Another voice muttered, “Gawd! Watch 'er go!”

Bolitho saw the other cutter surging across the diagonal ranks of angry white horses, her hull dominated by her sails, her stem and forecastle rising and dipping in great banks of bursting spray.

Bolitho took a telescope and rested it against Allday's shoulder. It took time to train it on
Telemachus
and as soon as he had found her he saw one empty gunport, like a missing tooth. Paice had forgotten none of the things Bolitho had brought to their small flotilla. He was at this moment manhandling his second carronade over to larboard so that both could be laid on the corvette.

The enemy fired again, but the ball fell outside his vision. It was strange that the corvette did not alter course just long enough to pour a full broadside on the approaching cutter. It was unlikely that such a compact man-of-war would mount stern-chasers, and she could not fail to miss as the range dwindled away between the two vessels.

Queely shouted, “She's coming for us, sir!”

Bolitho watched the corvette. She was almost bows-on now, her canvas tall above
Wakeful'
s starboard bow. He could see her flag whipping from the gaff, and was glad Brennier had at least been spared that.

“Shall I shorten, sir?” Queely was watching him, as if trying to shut out the menace of the oncoming enemy.

“No. Speed is all we have. Hold her on this tack, then put the helm up when we cross their path. We can luff, but only with speed in the sails!” He looked along the crouching gun crews. “I suggest you bring the men from the larboard battery.” Their eyes met and Bolitho added gently, “I fear we will take heavy losses if they manage to rake us. The weather bulwark will give them some cover at least.”

A whistle shrilled and the men scampered across from the other battery. They ran half-crouching as if already under fire, their faces stiff and pinched, and suddenly aged.

Queely made himself turn and stare at the corvette. He said, “Why does she hold so straight a path?”

Bolitho thought he knew. In this icy north wind and after the snow and sleet it was likely that every piece of her rigging was packed solid. It was also possible that the corvette had spent most of the past months in harbour while the loyalty or otherwise of France's sea-officers was decided. Her company would be unused to this kind of work.
Wakeful'
s company was also new to it, but each and every hand was a prime seaman. It was pointless to mention his thoughts to Queely. It might offer a gleam of hope where there was none to be had. If the corvette was able to destroy or cripple the remaining cutters she could still chase and catch
La Revanche
before she reached a place of safety.

He hardened his heart. It was their sole reason for being here. To delay this enemy ship no matter what.

Bolitho raised the telescope again and saw
Telemachus'
s top-sail yard brace round, her hull merge then vanish beyond the corvette. Above the sounds of sea and wind he heard the faint crackle of musket fire, the harder bang of a swivel.

Then there was a double explosion and for a moment longer Bolitho imagined that the corvette did after all carry sternchasers, and had fired directly into the cutter as she veered wildly across her quarter.

Queely muttered thickly, “Hell, he's damned close!”

Bolitho saw smoke billow over the corvette's poop and knew Paice had fired both of his carronades into her stern. If one of those murderous balls managed to pierce the crowded gundeck it would keep them occupied until
Wakeful
was able to engage.

He heard the crack of Paice's six-pounders and saw a hole appear in the enemy's main topsail, some rigging part and stream out in the wind. But she was still coming, and Bolitho could see the details of her beakhead without the need of a glass, the white painted figure beneath it holding some sort of branch in one out-thrust hand.

“Stand by on deck!”
Queely swung round, his eyes angry as if searching for Kempthorne. He saw Bolitho watching him and gave a small shrug, but it said everything.

Then he drew his hanger and held it above his head. “We fire on the uproll, my lads!”

Bolitho saw their despairing faces. The way they pressed close together, friend with friend, waiting to fight and die.

The corvette was sliding across the starboard quarter, and marksmen were already firing from her forecastle, one insolently straddling a cathead with his legs to obtain a better aim.

A musket banged out from below the mast and Bolitho saw the Frenchman hurl his weapon into the sea below as if it had become red-hot, before toppling from the cathead and plunging down the side.

Allday muttered, “Good shot, matey!”

The tiller went over and as blocks squealed and the forecourse and topsail yards were hauled taut,
Wakeful
seemed to pivot round to windward when minutes before it had seemed she would be run down by the enemy.

“Fire!”
The six-pounders cracked out in a ragged salvo, the double-shotted muzzles spitting their orange tongues as the trucks squealed inboard on their tackles.

Queely yelled,
“Stand fast!”
He waved down some of the gun crews who were about to sponge out and reload.
“Take cover!”
The hanger gleamed in the smoky sunshine as Queely signalled to the carronade crew.
“As you bear!”
The gun-captain jerked his lanyard and the ugly, snub-nosed “smasher” lurched back on its slide, the heavy ball exploding against the corvette's gangway, blasting one of the nine-pounders from its port, and flinging splintered woodwork and ripped hammocks over the side.

Bolitho watched the corvette's exposed battery recoil. The two attacks had broken their timing, and the broadside was ragged, each one firing independently.

Bolitho tensed as a ball smacked through the mainsail and another parted some rigging and struck the sea far abeam. One gun had been loaded with grape and canister and Bolitho ducked as the charge exploded over the maindeck, hurling shattered planking into the air, and thudding into the opposite bulwark where the gun crews would otherwise have been crouching.

Queely shouted, “Reload!” He stared wildly at his men. Not one had been hit, although a splintered piece of wood had been hurled into the hammocks around the helmsmen with the accuracy of a spear.

And there was
Telemachus.
As
Wakeful
charged past the enemy's poop, they all saw the other cutter tacking around to follow the corvette on the same course.

It took longer to bring
Wakeful
about and under control again. With so much sail, it was like trying to slow a runaway team of horses. The corvette lay directly ahead of them, with the cutters using wind and rudder to hold station on either quarter as if they were escorting her rather than forcing another engagement.

The corvette's captain seemed unwilling to wear ship and confront them. But the cutters were unable to damage the enemy vessel without overhauling her. And the next time the French captain would be ready.

Bolitho watched Paice manoeuvring his cutter closer and closer, the occasional stab of musket fire exchanged between the ill-matched vessels.
Telemachus
had been badly mauled, and Bolitho had seen there was a hole punched through her hull, just a few feet above the waterline, before she had changed tack to continue her attack.

Sunlight flashed across the corvette's stern-windows and Bolitho raised his glass to read the name painted on her counter.

La Foi.
So the girl's figurehead must be Faith. In the stained lens he saw heads moving on the corvette's poop, the flash of muskets, an officer pointing with his speaking trumpet. He also saw the massive scars on her lower hull where one of Paice's carronades had found its mark. A foot or so higher and—he stiffened as two of the stern-windows shattered and pitched into the vessel's frothing wake.

For one more moment he thought a lucky shot had hit the stern, although reason told him that none of Paice's guns would yet bear.

Then he stared with sick realisation as another window was smashed out, and the black muzzle of a nine-pounder thrust into view.

“Signal
Telemachus
to stand away!” Bolitho had to seize Queely's arm to make him realise what was happening. “They'll blow him out of the water!”

But
Wakeful
was a good cable's length astern of Paice's cutter, and nobody aboard was bothering to look and see what she was doing. Paice had at last realised what was happening. Bolitho saw the yards coming round, the mainsail suddenly free and flap-ping wildly as Paice let her sway over while she took the wind across her beam.

Bolitho watched anxiously. Paice was doing what he thought was best. Lose the wind, but stand away from the onrushing
Wakeful
and so avoid a collision.

Bolitho snapped, “We'll engage to larboard!” He did not want to take his eyes from the two vessels ahead, but needed to watch the mast and bulging topsail.
Wakeful
was tearing through the waves; the mast must be curving forward under such a pressure and weight of canvas and spars.

He turned his head, and at that very moment
La Foi
fired her hastily-rigged stern-chaser.

Queely shouted, “More grape!” He wiped his eyes wildly. “She's still answering, sir!”

Telemachus
was certainly under command, but her sails were pockmarked with holes, and, as he lifted his glass again, Bolitho saw bodies on her deck, a man on his knees as if he was praying, before he too fell lifeless.

He wanted to look away but watched as two thin threads of scarlet ran from the washports to merge with the creaming sea alongside. Like seeing a ship bleeding to death, as if there was no human hand aboard.

Wakeful'
s men were staring over the bulwark, the gun crews from the opposite side hurrying to join their comrades for the next embrace.