To Glory We Steer

by Alexander Kent

  Some had escaped below in spite of Rennie's sentries, and would now be covering their ears and whimpering in the bilges to face drowning rather than the onslaught from the Andiron's guns.

  He had seen the little powder monkey cut in half, and even above the roar of battle he had heard his own words to that same boy just three weeks ago: `You'll see England again! Never you fear!'

  Now he was wiped away. As if he had never been.

  And there had been the seaman Betts, trapped and writhing on the severed topgallant. The man he had used to try. to prove his authority. The axes had cut the spar away, and with a sigh it had bobbed clear of the ship before moving away in the smoke in a trail of rigging. The spar had idled past the quarter-deck, and for a brief instant he had seen Betts staring up at him. The man's mouth had been open like a black hole, and he had shaken his fist. It was a pitiful gesture, but it felt like a curse from the whole world. Then the spar had rolled over, and before it had faded astern Bolitho had seen Betts' feet sticking out of the water, kicking in a futile dance.

  He tore his eyes from the carnage as more balls slapped through the main course and whined away over the water. It could not last much longer. The Andiron had hauled off slightly to windward. He could see her upper yards and punctured sails moving above the smoke bank as if detached from the hidden ship beneath, and guessed she was drawing clear to pound the Phalarope into submission with slow, carefully aimed shots.

  He did not recognise his own voice as he gave his orders automatically and without pause. `Tell the carpenter to sound the well! And pass the word for the boatswain to send more men aloft to splice the mizzen shrouds!' There was little point any more, but the game had to be played out. He knew no other way.

  His eye fell on an old gun captain at the nearest twelvepounder below -the quarterdeck. The man showed fatigue and strain, but his hoarse voice was unhurried, even patient as he coaxed his crew through the drill of reloading. `That's right, my boys!' He peered through the haze as one of his men rammed home the cartridge and another cradled the gleaming ball into the gaping muzzle. A splinter flew from the gunport and laid open his arm, but he merely winced and tied a filthy rag around his biceps before adding, `Ram that wad well home, bucko! We don't want the bugger to fall out agin!' He saw Bolitho watching him and showed his stained teeth in what might have been either pain or pride. Then he bawled, `Right then! Run out!' The trucks squeaked as the gun lumbered up the canting deck and then roared back again as the old man pulled his trigger.

  Vibart loomed across the rail, his figure like a massive blue and white rock. He looked grim but unflinching, and waited for the nine-pounders to fire and recoil before he shouted, 'No water in the well, sirl She's not hit below the waterline!'

  Bolitho nodded. The American obviously felt sure of a capture. It would not take long to refit a ship in one of the dockyards left by the British retreating from the American colonies.

  The realisation brought a fresh flood of despairing anger to his aching mind. The Phalarope was fighting for her life. But her men were failing her. He was failing her. He had brought the ship and every man aboard to this. All the hopes and promises were without meaning now. There was only disgrace and failure as an alternative to death.

  Even if he had Contemplated flying from the Andiron's attack it was too late now. The wind was falling away more and more, and the sails were almost useless, torn like nets by the screaming cannon balls.

  A marine threw up his hands, clawing at the gaping scarlet hole in his forehead before pitching back into his comrades.

  Captain Rennie drawled, 'Fill that space! What the hell do you think you're doing?' To Sergeant Garwood he added petulantly, 'Take the name of the next man who dies without permission!'

  Surprisingly, some of the marines laughed, and when Rennie saw Bolitho looking at ban he merely shrugged, as if he too understood it was all part of one hideous game.

  The ship staggered, and overhead the sails boomed in protest as the fading wind sighed against the flapping canvas. Bolitho snapped, 'Watch your helm, quartermaster! Steady as you go!'

  But one of the helmsmen had fallen, a pattern of scarlet pouring from his mouth and across the smooth planking. From somewhere another seaman took his place, his jaw working steadily on a wad of tobacco.

  Vibart growled, 'The starboard battery is a shambles! If we could engage the opposite side it would give us time to reorganise!'

  Bolitho eyed him steadily. 'The Andiron has the advantage. But I intend to try and cross her stem directly.'

  Vibart peered abeam, his eyes cold and calculating. 'She'll never allow it. She'll pound us to shavings before we get a cable's length!' He looked back at Bolitho. We will have to strike.' His voice shook. 'We can't take much more.'

  Bolitho replied quietly, 'I did not hear that, Mr. Vibart. Now go forrard and try and get the full battery into action again!' His tone was cold and final. 'When two ships fight, only one can be the victor. I will decide op the course of action!'

  Vibart seemed to shrug. As if it was not his concern. 'As you say, sir!' He strode to' the ladder adding harshly, 'I said that they did not respect weakness!'

  Bolitho felt Proby shaking his arm and turned to see the anxiety etched on his mournful face. 'The wheel, Captain! It don't answer! The yoke lines have parted!'

  Bolitho stared dully over Proby's rounded shoulders to where the helmsmen pulled vaguely at the wheel, the squeaking spokes responding in empty mockery as the ship paid off and began to sidle sluggishly downwind.

  The sudden movement brought more cries from the maindeck as the frigate rolled her gunports skyward in a dizzy, uncontrollable elevation.

  Bolitho ran his fingers through his hair, realising for the first time that his hat had been knocked from his head. The masthead pendant was barely flapping now, and without power in -her sails the ship would drift at the mercy of the sea until her surrender or destruction. It would take all of an hour to re-rig the rudder lines. By then ... he felt a cold shudder moving across his spine.

  He cupped his hands. 'Cease firing!'

  The sudden silence was almost more frightening than the gunfire. He could hear the chafe and creak of spars, the gurgle of water below the counter, and the swaying clatter of loose rigging. Even the wounded seemed quelled, and lay gasping and staring at the captain's still figure at the quarterdeck rail.

  Then across the water, drifting with the smoke like a final insult, he heard a wild cheering. It was more like a baying, he thought bitterly. Like hounds closing for the. kill.

  A V-shaped cleft broke in the smoke, and through it came the Andiron's raked bow and the long finger of her bowsprit. Filtered sunlight played across her figurehead and glinted on raised cutlasses and boarding pikes. As more and more of the other ship glided into view Bolitho saw the press of men running forward to the point where both ships would touch. Others were crawling out along the yards with grapnels, ready to lash the two enemies together in a final embrace. It was nearly finished.

  He heard Stockdale mutter at his elbow, 'The bastards! The bastards!'

  Bolitho saw that there were small tears in the man's eyes, and knew that the battered coxswain was sharing his own misery.

  Above his head the flag whipped suddenly in a small breeze, and he knew that he dare not look at it. A defiant patch of scarlet. Like the red coats of the marines and the great glittering pools of blood which seeped through the scuppers as if the ship herself was bleeding before his eyes.

  A new wildness moved through his mind, so that he had to lock his fingers around his swordbelt to prevent his hands from shaking.

  'Get Mr. Brock! At the double!'

  He saw Midshipman Maynard lope forward, and then forgot him as his glance strayed again to the watching men. They were exhausted and smashed down with the fury of battle. There was hardly a spark amongst them. His fingers settled on the hilt of his sword and he felt'the painful prick of despair behind his eyes. He could see his father, and so many others of his family
, ranked with his crew, and watching in silence.

  Proby said hoarsely, 'I've sent a party to splice the yoke lines, Captain.' He waited, plucking the buttons of his shabby coat. 'It were not your fault, sir.' He shifted beneath Bolitho's unwavering stare. `Don't you give in, sir. Not now!'

  The gunner reached the quarterdeck and touched his hat. 'Sir?' He was still wearing the felt, spark-proof slippers he always wore in the dark magazine, and he seemed dazed by the sudden silence and the litter of destruction about him.

  'Mr. Brock, there is a task for you.' Bolitho listened to his own voice and felt the strange wildness stirring him like brandy. 'I want every starboard gun loaded with chain shot.' He watched the Andiron's slow, threatening approach. 'You have about ten minutes, unless the wind returns.'

  The mann nodded and hurried away without another word. His was not to question a meaningless order. A command from the captain was all he required.

  Bolitho looked down at the maindeck, at the dead and wounded, and the remaining gunners. He said slowly, 'here will be one final broadside, men.' The words swept away his own illusion of making a last empty gesture. He continued, 'Every gun will have chain shot, and I want each weapon at full elevation' They began to stir, their movements brittle and vague like old men, but Bolitho's voice seemed to hold them as he added sharply, 'Load, but do not run out until the wordl' He saw the gunner's party carrying the unwieldy chainshot to each gun in turn. Two balls per gun, and each ball linked together with thick chain.

  Captain Rennie said quietly, `They're getting close, sir. They'll be boarding us very soon now.' He sounded tense.

  Bolitho looked away. All at once he wanted to share the enormity of his decision, but at the same instant he knew the extent of his own loneliness.

  His last effort might fail completely. At best it would only drive the enemy to a madness which only the death of the whole of his crew would placate.

  Herrick looked aft, his eyes steady. 'All guns loaded, sir!' He seemed to square his shoulders, as if to project some strange confidence over his battered men.

  Bolitho pulled out his sword. Behind him he heard the marines fixing their bayonets and shuffling their booted feet on the stained planking.

  He called, 'Stand by the starboard carronade, Mr. Farquahar! Is it ready?' He watched narrowly as the other ship's bowsprit swung over the Phalarope's bulwark, her forechains and rigging alive with shouting men. Her captain must have stripped his guns to get such a large boarding party. Once aboard, they would swamp the Phalarope, no matter how desperate the resistance.

  Farquhar swallowed hard. 'Loaded, sir. Canister, and a full charge!'

  'Very good.' The Andiron was barely twenty feet clear now, the triangular patch of trapped water between them frothing in a mad dance. 'If I fall, you will take your orders from Mr. Vibart.' He saw the young officer's eyes seeking out the first lieutenant. 'If not, then watch for my signal!'

  The Andiron's bow nudged the main shrouds and a great yell of derision broke from the waiting boarders.

  Bolitho ran down the ladder and leaped on to the starboard gangway, his sword above his bare head. A few pistols banged across the gap and he felt a ball pluck at his sleeve like an invisible hand.

  'Repel boarders!' He saw the gunners staring up at him, uncertain and shocked, their guns still inboard and impotent.

  Herrick jumped up beside him, his eyes flashing as he shouted, 'Come on, lads! We'll give the buggers a lesson!'

  Somebody voiced a faint cheer, and the men not employed at the guns surged up to the gangway, their cutlasses and pikes puny against the great press of boarders.

  Bolitho felt a man drop screaming at his side, and another pitched forward to be ground between the hulls like so much butcher's meat. He could see the privateer's officers urging their men on and pointing him out to their marksmen. Shots banged and whistled around him, and the cries and jeers had risen to one, terrifying roar.

  The hulls shuddered once more and the gap began to disappear. Bolitho peered back at Farquhar. The quarterdeck with its dead marines seemed a long way away, but as he waved his sword in a swift chopping motion he saw the midshipman jerk the lanyard and felt the gun's savage blast pass his face like a hot wind.

  The canister shot contained five hundred closely packed musket balls, and like a scythe the miniature bombardment swept through the cheering boarders, cutting them down into a bloody tangle of screams and curses. The boarders faltered, and a young lieutenant who had climbed up on the Andiron's bowsprit dropped unsupported on to the Phalarope's gangway. His scream was cut short as a big seaman lashed out and down with an axe, and then his body was pinned between the hulls and forgotten.

  Bolitho shouted wildly, 'Come on, you gunners! Run out! Run outl'

  He held out his sword like a barrier in front of his men. 'Back there! Get back!'

  His small party fell back, confused by this turn of events. They had facefl certain annihilation, and had accepted it, Now their captain had changed his mind. Or so it seemed.

  But Herrick understood. Almost choking with excitement he yelled, 'All guns run outl'

  Bolitho saw the survivors from the carronade's single blast falling back towards their guns, shocked and dismayed as the Phalarope's muzzles trundled forward and upwards towards them.

  'Fire!' Bolitho almost fell overboard, but felt Stockdale catch his arm as the whole battery exploded beneath his feet.

  The air seemed to come alive with inhuman screams as the whirling chain shot cut through sails and rigging alike in an overwhelming tempest of metal. Foremast and maintopmast fell together, the great weight of spars and canvas smashing down the remaining boarders and covering the gunports in a whirling mass of canvas.

  The recoil of Phalarope's broadside seemed to drive the two ships apart, leaving a trail of wreckage and corpses floating between them.

  Bolitho leaned against the nettings, his breath sharp and painful. 'Reload! Carry on firing!' Whatever happened next, the Phalarope had spoken with authority, and had hit hard.

  The frigate's proud outline was broken and confused in tangled shrouds and sails. Where her foremast had been minutes before there was only a bright-toothed stump, and the resonant cheers had given way to screams and confusion.

  But she pushed forward across the Phalarope's bows, followed by a further ragged salvo and a single angry bark from a forecastle nine-pounder. Then she was clear, gathering her tattered _sails like garments to cover her scars, and pushing downwind into the rolling bank of smoke.

  Bolitho stood watching her, his heart thumping, his eyes watering from strain and emotion.

  The minutes dragged by, and then the insane realisation came to him. The Andiron was not putting about. She had taken enough.

  Half stumbling he returned to the quarterdeck where Rennie's marines were grinning at him and Farquhar was leaning on the smoking carronade as if he no longer trusted what he saw.

  Then they started to cheer. It was not much at first. Then it gathered strength and power until it moved above and below decks in an unbroken tide.

  It was part pride and part relief. Some men were sobbing uncontrollably, others capered on the bloodstained decks like madmen.

  Herrick ran aft, his hat awry, his blue eyes shining with excitement. 'You did for them, sir! My God, you scuppered 'em!'

  He clasped Bolitho's hand, unable to stop himself. Even old Proby was grinning.

  Bolitho controlled his voice with one last effort. `Thank you, gentlemen.' He looked along the littered decks, feeling the pain and "the blind exultation. 'Next time we will do better!'

  He swung round and pushed through the whooping marines towards the dark sanctuary of the cabin hatch.

  Behind him, as if. through a fog, he heard Herrick shout, 'I don't know about next time, lads! This will do me for a bit!'

  Bolitho stood breathing hard in the narrow passageway listening to their excitement and laughter. They were grateful, even happy, he realised dully. Perhaps the bill would not be t
oo high after all.

  There was so much to do. So many things to prepare and restore before the ship would be ready to fight again. He fingered the worn sword hilt and stared wearily at the deck beams. But it would wait a moment longer. Just a short moment.

  Herrick leaned heavily on the forecastle rail and wiped his forehead with the back of his hand. Only the slightest breeze ruffled the calm sea ahead of the gently pitching bows, and as he watched he saw the sun dipping towards the horizon, its glowing reflection already waiting to receive it and allow night to hide the Phalarope's scars.

  Herrick could feel his legs shaking, and again he tried to tell himself it was due to fatigue and the strain of a continuous day's working. Within an hour of the privateer's disappearance Bolitho had returned to the quarterdeck, his dark hair once more gathered neatly to the nape of his neck, his face freshly shaved, and the dust of battle brushed from the uniform. Only the lines at the comers of his mouth, the grave restlessness in his eyes betrayed any inner feelings as he passed his orders and began the work of repairing the damage to his ship and crew.

  At first Herrick had imagined the task impossible. The men's relief had given way to delayed shock, so that individual sailors lay aimlessly about the stained decks like marionettes with severed strings, or just stood and' stared listlessly at the aftermath of the nightmare.

  Bolitho's sudden appearance had started a train of events which nobody could really explain. Every officer and man was too spent, too dulled by the brief and savage encounter to spare any strength for protest. The dead had been gathered at the lee rail and sewn into pathetic anonymous bundles. Lines of kneeling men had moved from forward to aft working with heavy holystones to scrub away the dark stains to the accompaniment of clanking pumps and the indifferent gurgle of sea-water.

  The tattered and useless sails were sent down and replaced with fresh canvas, while Tozer, the sailmaker, and his mates squatted on every available deck space, needles and palms moving like lightning as they patched and repaired anything which could be salvaged and used again.