Hugh Bolitho tightened his jaw. “We need skill today, Mr Dancer, but I’ll grant you I’ll not send any luck away!”
Straining and pitching, her sails booming under the pressure, Avenger responded to their combined efforts. Like huge ears, the studding sails were run out on either beam, so that with the yards braced round she presented a tremendous pyramid of canvas before the wind.
It was a strange sensation, and sometimes frightening, Bolitho thought, as the cutter battered her way through crests and troughs alike, the spray bursting over the weather bulwark in solid sheets. There was still no sign of the Virago, and from what Dancer had described, there was little to see, even from the yards. Her hull was lost in sea mist, while like disembodied fins her sails towered above it, an easy task for the keen-eyed lookout.
Bolitho thought it unlikely that Vyvyan’s sailing master was bothered at the possibility of a sea chase. Not at this stage. Vyvyan probably knew more about local ship movements even than the Admiralty, and would imagine Avenger snug in harbour, or tail between legs on her way back to face the admiral’s wrath.
They were probably celebrating, somewhere up ahead. Christmas, victory over the King’s authority, and a booty Bolitho could not even begin to imagine. And why not? Vyvyan had won all the tricks. And now he was safely around the Lizard and would be well clear of the Scillies when he eventually broke into the vast desert of the Atlantic.
He heard Truscott ask, “What pieces will she be carryin’, sir?”
Hugh Bolitho sounded preoccupied as he scanned the sails again, searching for some possible danger or weakness.
“Much as ourselves normally. My guess is that Sir Henry Vyvyan will have a few extra surprises however, so be vigilant, Mr Truscott. I want no haphazard shooting today.” His tone hardened. “This is not a mere fight. It is a matter of honour.”
Bolitho heard him. He sounded as if it was another duel. Something to be settled in the only way he knew. Perhaps this time, he was right.
Gloag called, “Rain’s movin’ off, sir!”
It was hard to tell the difference, Bolitho thought. There was more spray coming inboard than rain, and the pumps were going busily all the time, so that he guessed a good portion of sea-water had found its way below.
There was a different light, not anything like the sun, and yet the tossing wave crests were brighter, their deep troughs less grey.
The helmsman cried, “Steady she goes, sir! West-sou’-west!”
Bolitho held his breath. Incredible. In spite of the powerful wind, Gloag had brought her three full points into it, with every sail and spar cracking and booming like a miniature battle.
Hugh Bolitho saw his expression and gave a quick nod. “I told you, Richard. She handles well!”
A yell from the lookout put an end to speculation. “Deck there! Ship on the lee bow!”
Peploe, the sailmaker, bustling past with his mates to prepare for the first exploding piece of canvas, looked at the acting-master and grinned. “Got ’im! We’m to wind’rd of th’ bugger now!”
The lookout shouted, “She’s sighted us!”
They stared, fascinated, as the other vessel seemed to expand out of the receding rain like a spectre. She was moving well, the sea creaming back from her fore-foot in an unbroken white moustache.
Someone gasped as smoke belched from her quarter, and before the smoke had been thrust aside a ball slammed through Avenger’s sails and rigging, ripping holes in the starboard studding sail and main alike.
“By God, the old fox is still alert!” Hugh Bolitho turned to watch the ball pounding across the waves. He strode to the lee side and trained his telescope on his adversary. “Load and run out, if you please. I see no need for a challenge. That has already been offered!” He left the Avenger’s small broadside to Truscott and said in a quieter tone, “That was a powerful piece. A nine-pounder at least. Probably put aboard with this in mind.”
Another bang, and a ball whimpered past the taffrail before throwing up a waterspout well off the larboard quarter.
Hugh Bolitho said angrily, “Run up the colours.”
He watched as the gunner signalled from the foredeck that the guns were all loaded and run out. With the hull at such an angle it had been easy to thrust the six-pounders tightly against their ports, but less easy to fire with any accuracy. The sea was barely inches below each port, and the crews drenched with each savage plunge.
“On the uproll!”
Five tarred hands were raised along the bulwark, five slow-matches poised, hissing, above each touch-hole.
Then, “Fire!”
The sharp explosions were closely joined, jarring the deck, probing the ears, as shouting and cheering the crews hauled in their guns to swab out and reload with a minimum of delay.
Above the swaying hull men swarmed like monkeys to repair severed cordage, to take in the studding sail, which because of the wind’s strength had torn itself to shreds. And it had taken only one shot to do it.
Crash.
The cutter shook violently, and Bolitho knew that a ball had at last hit the hull, and possibly close to the water-line.
Bolitho steadied a glass on the other vessel. Instantly her masts and yards sprang alive in the lens, and he saw tiny figures moving around the deck, or working at braces and halliards like the Avenger’s men.
He winced as the next puny broadside banged out from the starboard battery. He saw the balls splashing around the Virago’s handsome counter, or falling well astern of her. The guns would not bear, but to give the crews a chance Hugh would have to sail even closer to the wind, and so lose time and lengthen the range. He saw a brief, stabbing flash from the other vessel’s quarter, imagined he saw a black blur before the iron ball ripped through the bulwark and tore along the deck like a saw. Men yelled and ducked, but one of the helmsmen was almost cut in half before the ball smashed its way through the opposite side.
Voices bellowed orders, feet slithered in spray and blood as more men ran to tend the wounded, to take control of the tiller.
Virago was drawing away now, and as Bolitho moved his glass still further he saw a patch of green on her poop and guessed it was Vyvyan in the long coat he often wore for riding.
Gloag shouted, “S’no use, sir! Much more o’ this an’ we’ll lose every spar!”
As he spoke another ball hissed through the shrouds and brought down the other studding sail complete with boom, cord-age and a trailing tangle of canvas. Men dashed with axes to hack it free, as like a sea-anchor it floundered alongside, hampering their progress.
Hugh Bolitho had drawn his sword. He said calmly, “Make this signal, Mr Dancer. Enemy in sight. ”
Dancer, used to the instant discipline of a ship of the line, was running to the halliards with his signal party before he properly understood. There was nobody to signal to, but Vyvyan might not realize it.
Even as the signal jerked up to the yard and broke to the wind Virago’s master would be advising Vyvyan to change tack, to beat further south for fear of being caught in a trap and driven into Mounts Bay by two instead of one pursuer.
“It’s working!” Dancer stared at Bolitho with amazement.
The Virago’s sails were in disarray as she edged closer to the wind, her yards braced so tightly round they were almost fore and aft. But more flashes spat from her side, and several lengths of rigging and some shattered blocks joined the litter on Avenger’s deck.
A great crash shook the hull, and a chorus of shouts and yells made the seamen scatter as the topmast with yards and flailing stays plunged down, splintering yet again above the guns before lurching over the side.
Hugh Bolitho waved his sword. “Put the helm down, Mr Gloag! We will steer as close as we can!” As the tiller went over and the great mainsail swung on its boom, obedient to the straining seamen, he added for Truscott’s benefit, “Now! On th’ uproll!”
With the range falling away, and fully conscious of their own peril, each gun captain fired at will.
Bolitho gritted his teeth and tried to ignore the terrible cries from the wounded men below the mast. He concentrated every fibre as he watched for the fall of Avenger’s ragged broadside.
Then he heard the crack. Across the angry wave crests and above the din of battle he heard it, and knew one of the six-pounders had found its mark.
And it only needed one. Under full sail, standing dangerously into the wind to beat away from Avenger’s invisible ally, the sloop seemed to quiver, as if striking a sandbar. Then, slowly at first, then with terrifying speed, the complete array of canvas began to stagger aft. The topgallant mast, the fore-topmast and yards, driven with all the speed of wind and strain, collapsed along the deck, changing the Virago from a thoroughbred to a shambles in seconds.
Hugh Bolitho snatched up a speaking trumpet, his eyes never leaving the other vessel as he shouted, “Stand by to shorten sail! Mr Pyke, prepare to board!”
Then there was a new sound, rumbling and spreading as if from the Avenger herself. But it was her company whose voices mingled in something like a growl, as snatching up their weapons they ran to their stations for boarding.
Dancer said, “There’ll be more of them than us, sir!”
Hugh Bolitho pointed his sword and looked along the blade as if sighting a pistol.
“They’ll not fight.”
He watched the range falling away, the sloop spreading out on either bow as if to snare them.
“Now, Mr Gloag.”
The sails were already being taken in, and as the tiller went over again the Avenger’s bowsprit came up and into the wind, while between the two hulls the sea was lost in their shadows.
The tiny figures on the Virago’s deck had become men, and the faces had sharpened into individuals, some of whom Bolitho recognized, a few he had even seen in Falmouth.
Hugh Bolitho stood at the bulwark, his voice sharp through the trumpet.
“Surrender! In the King’s name!” His sword swung like a pointer towards the levelled swivel guns. “Or we fire!”
With a lurch the two vessels came together, bringing down more broken rigging and spars to add to the confusion. But despite a few defiant shouts not a shot was fired, not a sword was raised.
Hugh Bolitho walked slowly between his men towards the place where he would board. Taking his time, looking for some last spark of defiance.
Bolitho followed him with Dancer, hangers drawn, conscious of the oppressive silence which had even quietened the wounded.
These were not disciplined sailors. They had no flag, no cause to guide or inspire them. At this moment of truth they knew they would not escape, so that personal safety had become all important. To lay evidence against a man they had once called a friend, to face prison rather than a gibbet. Some would even now be hoping to be freed altogether by using lies with no less skill than their cruelty.
Bolitho stood at his brother’s shoulder on the Virago’s deck, watching the cowed faces, feeling their fury giving way to fear, like the blood that had faded away in the blown spray.
Sir Henry Vyvyan would probably be able to plead for some special privilege even now, he thought. But Hugh’s victory was complete all the same. The ship, her cargo and enough prisoners to make Mounts Bay safe for years to come.
“Where is Sir Henry?”
A small man in a gilt-buttoned coat, obviously the sloop’s master, pushed towards them, his forehead badly cut by flying wood splinters.
“Worn’t my fault, sir!”
He reached out to touch Hugh Bolitho’s arm but the sword darted between them like a watchful snake.
So he backed away, while Bolitho and the others followed him towards the poop, which had taken the full brunt of the falling mast.
Sir Henry Vyvyan was pinned underneath one massive spar, his face screwed into a mask of agony. But he was still breathing, and as the sailors stood over him he opened his one eye and said thickly, “Too late, Hugh. You’ll not have the pleasure of seein’ me dance on a rope.”
Hugh Bolitho lowered his sword for the first time, so that its tip rested on the deck within inches of Vyvyan’s cheek.
He replied quietly, “I had intended a more fitting end for you, Sir Henry.”
Vyvyan’s eye moved towards the glittering blade and he said, “I would have preferred it.”
Then with a great groan he died.
The sword vanished into its scabbard, the movement final, convincing.
“Cut this wreckage away.” Hugh Bolitho sounded almost untouched by the events and the sights around him. “Pass the word to Mr Gloag. We will require a tow until a jury-rig can be arranged.”
Only then did he look at his brother and Dancer.
“That was well done.” He glanced at the flag which was being run up to the Virago’s peak, the same one which, although torn ragged by wind and gunfire, still flew above his own command. “The best Christmas gift I have ever been given!”
Dancer grinned. “And maybe there will still be something left at Falmouth to celebrate with, eh, Dick?”
As they made their way back to their own vessel, Bolitho paused and looked aft towards the great heap of wreckage.
His brother was still standing beside the trapped body in the long green coat.
Perhaps, even now, he was thinking that Sir Henry Vyvyan had beaten him?
Band of BROTHERS
1 The way AHEAD
MIDSHIPMAN RICHARD BOLITHO threw up one hand to shade his eyes, surprised by the fierce, reflected glare from the water alongside. He waited while two seamen lurched past him half carrying, half dragging some bulky objects wrapped in canvas towards the open deck and the hard sunlight. After the semi-darkness of Gorgon’s between decks, it only added to his sense of unreality.
He calmed himself. Another day. For most people, anyway.
He glanced down at his uniform, his best. He wanted to smile. The only uniform that would pass muster and avoid criticism. He flicked off several strands of oakum which he had collected somewhere along the way from the midshipmen’s berth, his home in Gorgon for the past year and a half.
Was that really all it was?
He took another deep breath. He was ready; and it was not just another day.
He walked onto the main deck, adjusting his mind to the noise and outward confusion of a ship undergoing the indignities of a badly needed overhaul. Chisels and hand-saws, and the constant thud of hammers in the depths of the hull, while elsewhere men swarmed like monkeys high above the decks, repairing the miles of standing and running rigging which gave life to a fighting ship and the sails that drove her. And now it was almost finished. The stench of tar and paint, the heaps of discarded cordage and wood fragments, would soon be a cursed memory. Until the next time.
He gazed across the nearest eighteen-pounders, black muzzles at rest inboard of their ports, still smart, disdaining the disorder around them. And beyond, to the land, hard and sharply etched in the morning light: the rooftops and towers of old Plymouth, with an occasional glitter of glass in the sun. And beyond them the familiar rolling hills, more blue than green at this hour.
He tried not to quicken his pace, to reveal that things were different merely because of this particular day. The new year of 1774 was barely a few days old.
But it was different.
Some seamen flaking down halliards glanced at him as he passed. He knew them well enough, but they seemed like strangers. He reached the entry port, where the captain was piped aboard and ashore, and important visitors were greeted with the full ceremonial of a King’s ship. Wardroom officers were also permitted here, but not a midshipman, unless on duty in his proper station. Richard Bolitho was not yet eighteen, and he wanted to laugh, to shout, to share it with someone who was free of doubt or of envy.
Out of the blue and with less than a few days’ warning, the signal had arrived: the appointment every midshipman knew was inevitable. Welcome, dread, even fear: he might receive it with all or none of these emotions. Others would decide his fat
e. He would be examined and be subject to their decision, and, if successful, he would receive the King’s commission, and take the monumental step from midshipman to lieutenant.
He watched a schooner passing half a cable or so abeam, her sails hard in the wind, although the waters of Plymouth Sound were yet unbroken, a deep swell lifting the slender vessel as if it were a toy.
“Ah, here you are, Mr Bolitho.”
It was Verling, the first lieutenant.
Perhaps he was waiting to board a boat himself, on some mission for the captain; it was unlikely he would be leaving the ship, his ship, for any other reason at a time like this. From dawn until sunset he was always in demand, supervising working parties, checking daily, even hourly, progress above and below decks, missing nothing. He was the first lieutenant, and you were never allowed to forget it.
Bolitho touched his hat. “Aye, sir.” He was ahead of time, and Verling would expect that. He was tall and thin, with a strong, beaky nose which seemed to guide his pitiless eyes straight to any flaw or misdemeanour in the world around him. His world.
But his appearance now was unexpected, and almost unnerving.
Verling had turned his back on the usual handful of watch-keepers who were always close by the entry port: marine sentries in their scarlet coats and white crossbelts, a boatswain’s mate with his silver call ready to pipe or pass any command immediately when so ordered. The sideboys, smart in their checkered shirts, nimble enough to leap down and assist any boats coming alongside. And the officer of the watch, who was making a point of studying the gangway log and frowning with concentration, for Verling’s benefit no doubt.
Bolitho knew he was being unfair, but could not help it. The lieutenant was new to the ship, and to his rank. He had been a midshipman himself only months ago, but you would never know it from his manner. His name was Egmont, and he was already heartily disliked.
Verling said, “Remember what I told you. It is not a contest, nor an official corroboration of your general efficiency. The captain’s report will have dealt with that. It goes deeper, much deeper.” His eyes moved briefly to Bolitho’s face but seemed to cover him completely. “The Board will decide, and that decision is final.” He almost shrugged. “ This time, in any case.”
The Complete Midshipman Bolitho Page 22