Before the night fell completely to hide one vessel from another there was a final unhappy incident. Bolitho had been striding up and down the weather side of the quarterdeck when he heard Okes snap, 'Mr. Maynard! Lively there! Train your glass on the flagship. She seems to be hoisting a signal.' Bolitho had crossed the deck to watch the midshipman fumbling with his long telescope. It was strange for the admiral to be sending signals in such poor visibility. A flare would have been more effective.
Maynard had lowered his glass and looked round at the two officers. He had looked sick, as he had on the day he had discovered Evans' body. `It's no signal, sir!'
Bolitho had taken the glass from the youth's hands and trained it across the hammock netting. Coldly he had watched the small black dot rising toward the Cassius's mainyard. It had twisted as it made its slow journey. Twisted and kicked, so that in his imagination Bolitho had thought he could hear the drum's staccato roll and the steady tramp of bare feet as the selected men had hauled the choking mutineer slowly up to the yard.
Maynard was wrong about one thing. It was a signal to every man who saw it.
Bolitho had returned the glass and said, 'I am going below, Mr. Okes. See that you have the best lookouts aloft, and call me if you sight anything.' He had glanced quickly at Maynard and added quietly, 'That man, whoever he was, knew the price of his folly. Discipline demands that it be paid in full!'
He turned on his heel and walked below, despising himself for the cold unreality of his words. In his mind he seemed to hear Vibart's thick, accusing voice, still jeering at him for his weakness. What did one more death matter? Fever and unaccountable accident, the cannon's harvest or the end of a rope, it was all the same in the end.
He threw himself across his cot and stared at the deckhead. A captain had to be above such things, to be able to play God without thought for those who served him. Then he remembered Allday's words and the blind trust of men like Herrick and Stockdale. Such men deserved his attention, even his love, he thought vaguely. To use power as a tyrant was to be without honour. To be without honour was to be less than a man.
With that thought uppermost in his mind he fell into a deep sleep.
`Captain, Sir!' Midshipman Neale rested his hand anxiously on Bolitho's arm and then jumped back in alarm as the cot swayed violently to one side.
Bolitho swung his legs to the deck and stared for a long moment while his mind sought to recover from the nightmare. He had been surrounded by screaming, faceless men, and his arms had been pinioned while he felt a noose being tightened around his neck. Neale's hand had only added to the nightmare's reality, and he could still feel the sweat running across his spine.
He said harshly, `What is it?' The cabin was still in darkness, and it took him several more seconds to recover his composure.
Neale said, 'Mr. Herrick's respects, sir. He thinks you should know we've heard something.' He fell back another pace as Bolitho lurched to his feet. 'It sounded like gunfire, sir!'
Bolitho did not pause to find his coat but ran quickly to the quarterdeck. It was almost dawn, and already the sky was painted in a pale blue strip beyond the gently corkscrewing bows.
`What is it, Mr. Herrick?' He moved to the rail and cupped his hands to his ears.
Herrick stared at him uncertainly. 'I could be mistaken, sir. It might have been thunder:'
'Most unlikely.' Bolitho shivered slightly in the cool dawn breeze. `Can you seethe Cassius yet?
'No, Sir.' Herrick pointed vaguely. `There's a mist coming up. It'll be another hot day, I'm thinking.'
Bolitho stiffened as a low rumble echoed sullenly across the open water. `Maybe hotter than you think, Mr. Herrick.' He glanced up at the jerking canvas. `The wind seems to be holding.' He was suddenly aware that there were several figures already standing on the maindeck. Everyone faced forward, listening and wondering.
Bolitho said, `Call the hands.' He peered upwards again. In the dim light he could just see the masthead pendant whipping out like a pointing finger. `Take out the second reef, Mr. Herrick. And set the fores'l and spanker.'
Herrick called for a boatswain's mate, and seconds later the ship came alive to the call of pipes and the stamp of running feet.
Then Herrick said, 'I still can't see the flagship, sir.'
'We won't wait for her!' Bolitho watched the men swarming aloft and listened to the harsh bark of commands. 'That is gunfire ahead. Make no mistake about it!'
Proby came on deck buttoning his heavy coat. He seemed half asleep, but as the big spanker filled with wind and the deck canted obediently to the wind's eager thrust he contained any comment he might have felt and crossed to the wheel.
Bolitho said calmly, 'Alter course. two points to larboard, Mr. Proby.' The ship's sudden response to wind and sail had swept away the strain and sleep from his mind. He had been right. The waiting was almost over.
He looked sideways at Herrick and saw that his face was clearer in the growing light. He looked worried and not a little startled by the swift chain of events.
Bolitho said quietly, 'We will investigate, Mr. Herrick.' He pointed at the men swarming back along the yards. 'I want chain slings fitted on every yard. If we are called to action our people have enough to contend with at the guns. I don't want them crushed by falling spars.' He halted the lieutenant in his tracks. 'And have nets spread above the maindeck, too.' He made himself stand quite still by the rail, his hands resting on the worn and polished wood. He could feel the ship trembling beneath his palms, as if his thoughts were being transformed into new life, and the life was flowing through the Phalarope even as he watched.
From newly awakened chaos the ship had already settled down into a purposeful rhythm. All the weeks of training, the hours of persistent instruction were giving their rewards. Stockdale joined him by the rail. 'I'll get your coat, sir.' 'Not yet, Stockdale. That can keep for a moment longer.'
He turned as Okes appeared at the ladder, his face still crumpled from sleep. 'I want the hands to eat well this morning, Mr. Okes. I have a feeling that the gallery fire will be out for some time to come.' He saw the understanding spreading across the officer's face. `This time we will be ready!'
Like a living creature the Phalarope lifted her bows and smashed jubilantly into each succeeding rank of low waves, the spray bursting back over her forecastle in long white streamers.
Herrick reported, 'Chain slings rigged, sir.'
'Very well.' It was an effort to speak calmly. `Have the boats swung out for towing astern. If we fight today there will be enough splinters flying without the boats adding to them!'
Okes managed to ask, 'The gunfire, sir? What do you make of it?'
Bolitho saw several men pausing to listen to his reply. He said slowly, 'Two ships. One much smaller than the other by the sound of the firing. We can be sure of one thing, Mr. Okes. They cannot both be enemies!'
Herrick was back again. 'What now, sir?
'I am going down to shave and wash. When I return I will expect to hear that the men have been fed.' He smiled. 'After that, we shall have to see!'
But once back in his cabin it was almost more than he could bear to take this time to shave and change his clothes. The breakfast which Stockdale hurriedly laid on the cabin table he could not even face. By tonight, or perhaps within the next few hours, he might be dead. Or even worse, screaming for mercy under the surgeon's knife. He shuddered. It was pointless even to think of it. More, it was harmful.
Stockdale said, 'I have laid out a fresh shirt, sir.' He looked searchingly at Bolitho. 'I think you should wear your best uniform, too.'
'For heaven's sake why, man?' He stared at the coxswain's battered face in surprise.
Stockdale replied, gravely, 'This is the day, sir. I have the same feeling I had with you once before.' He added stubbornly, 'And the men will be looking to you, sir. They'll want to see you.' He nodded as if to settle the matter. 'After all that's happened they'll need to know you're with them.'
Bolitho
stared at him, suddenly moved by the man's halting, broken voice. 'If you say, so, Stockdale.'
Ten minutes later a voice echoed faintly above the sounds of sea and canvas. 'Deck there! Sail on the starboard bowl'
Bolitho made himself wait just a few more seconds as Stockdale buckled on his sword, and then walked to the cabin ladder. The quarterdeck seemed -crammed with figures, all pointing and speaking at once. Every voice fell silent as Bolitho walked to the rail to take a telescope from Maynard.
Through the frigate's criss-cross of rigging he could see the distorted patterns of tossing whitecaps beyond her bows. The sky was already clear, but the water seemed to writhe in the grip of a slow-moving sea mist, and for once the new day felt drained of warmth.
Then he saw them. Two ships close together, their hulls hidden in a dense cloud of smoke and mist, their tattered sails hanging disembodied above the hidden battle below.
But the flags were easily visible. One blood red, like that which flew above him. The other clear and white. The flag of France.
He closed the telescope with a snap. `Very well, Mr. Okes. Beat to quarters and clear for action!'
His eyes held there a moment longer. `We must give well of ourselves today, gentlemen. If our people see us doing our best, they will be willing enough to do their duty!'
He half listened to the distant thunder of gunfire. `Carry on, Mr. Okes!'
They all touched their hats and then looked at one another, as if each man realised that for some, maybe for all of them, it would be the last time.
Then the drum began to rattle, and the small moment was past.
17
FORM LINE OF BATTLE!
Within ten minutes of the drum's urgent tattoo the Phalarope was cleared for action. Decks were sanded and buckets of water stood within reach of every gun. Over the whole ship there had fallen a strange, gripping stillness, broken only by the uneasy slap of canvas and the steady sluice of water around the stem.
Bolitho shaded his eyes and watched the sun's unearthly orange glow as it tried to filter through the unending wall of sea mist. The bang and clatter of gunfire had become more uneven and sporadic with each dragging minute, and now as the distance fell away between the Phalarope and the other ships there came new sounds, more vicious,, and somehow more personal. Bolitho could hear the sharp cracks of muskets and pistols, the jarring scrape of steel against steel, and above all the mingling cries of men fighting for their lives.
Okes wiped his face with the back of his hand and said quickly, `This damn mist! I can't see what's happening!'
Bolitho glanced at him briefly. `It is a godsend, Mr. Okes. They are too busy to see us!' He lifted his hand to the quartermaster. `Starboard a point!' Then he walked to the rail and looked down at Herrick's upturned face.
`Have the guns loaded, but do not run out until I tell you.'
He saw the gunners push the fresh charges down the gaping muzzles, followed by the round, gleaming shot. The more experienced gun captains took time to fondle each ball, weighing it almost lovingly to make sure that the first salvo would be a perfect one.
He heard Herrick shout, `Double-spotted and grape, lads! Let 'em feel it this time!'
A stronger breath of wind rolled aside the mist around the entangled ships, and Bolitho tightened his lips into a thin line. Almost stem on to the Phalarope's swift approach was a French frigate, and alongside, listing and battered almost beyond recognition, was the little brig, Witch o f Looe. One mast was already gone, and the other seemed to be held upright only by the remaining stays. He thought of her commander, the young Lieutenant Dancer he 'had met aboard the flagship, and marvelled at the man's pluck or wasted courage which had made him him match his ship against this powerful opponent. His little pop-guns against the still-smoking twelvepounders.
Okes said, `They've seen us, sir!' He swallowed hard as something like an animal growl floated across the water. `My God, look at them!'
The Witch of Looe's shattered deck seemed to be swamped in French sailors, and as the drifting gunsmoke parted momentarily to allow the sunlight to play across the carnage, Bolitho saw the small knot of defenders, still fighting back from the brig's small quarterdeck. In a few more minutes they would be swamped completely.
The gunports along the French frigate's disengaged side suddenly opened, and to the steady rumble of trucks the guns appeared like a line of bared teeth.
Bolitho shut his ears and mind to the victorious shouts from the French frigate and concentrated his thoughts on the narrowing strip of water between them. Less than a cable's length to go, with neither ship able to fire. Phalarope was almost dead in line with the other ship's stem, so that if she held her course her bowsprit would drive straight through the stern windows. On one side of the enemy frigate lay the listing, rid-• dled brig, and on the other the guns waited to claim another victim.
Bolitho called sharply, `Run out the starboard battery!'
He watched as his men threw themselves against the tackle falls, and in a squealing, protesting line the guns trundled up the slight slope of the deck and out through the open ports.
There was a great bellow of noise from the French ship, wild and inhuman. The sound gained from killing and madness. Phalarope's own men remained tense and cold, their eyes unblinking as the enemy's pockmarked sails grew higher and higher above the bows.
Bolitho placed his hands on the rail and said slowly, `Now send your men across to the larboard battery, Mr. Herrick!' He saw the quick, mystified glances and added harshly, `In another minute I am, going to turn to starboard and go alongside the Witch of Looe. She is low in the water, our broadside should pass right above her!'
Herrick's frown gave way to a look of open admiration.
`Aye, aye, sir!'
Bolitho's voice stopped him in his tracks. `Quietly there! I don't want the Frogs to see what we're doing!'
Crouching almost on their knees the gunners scuttled
across to the opposite side, then excitement instantly quelled
by hoarse threatss from the gun captains.
Nearer and nearer. A few musket balls whined harmlessly overhead, but for the most part the French captain was prepared to wait. He could match gun for gun, and as Phalarope's bows and foremast would take the first punishment he could afford to feel confident. His own ship was drifting slowly downwind and his gunners could thank the Witch of Looe's weight alongside for a'steadier platform beneath their feet. There was a faint ripple of cheering, drowned instantly by a fresh outburst of musket fire.
Proby muttered, `The brig's people are cheering us, sir!'
Bolitho ignored him. One error now and his ship would change into a shambles. Fifty yards, thirty yards. Bolitho lifted his hand. He saw Quintal crouching like a runner, one beefy hand resting on the nearest seaman at the braces.
Bolitho shouted, `Now!'
At his side Pioby added his weight to the wheel, as with a scream of blocks the yards began to swing, the sails flapping in protest, but answering the challenge of wind and rudder.
`Run out!' Bolitho felt ice cold as the larboard battery squealed across the sanded planks. `Fire as your guns bear!'
He pounded the rail, counting each frantic second. For a moment he thought that he had mistimed the change of course, but even as be waited, holding his breath and hardly daring to watch, the bowsprit swung lazily across the French ship's high stem, almost brushing away a small group of sailors which had gathered above the hammock nettings.
Herrick ran from gun to gun, making sure that each successive shot went home. Not that he need have troubled. As the French gunners ran dazedly from the opposite side the first shots went crashing home. The Phalarope shuddered as she ground -against the little brig, but maintained her way steadily down the ship's side, her guns belching fire and death above the heads of the stunned boarders and the remaining members of the brig's crew.
Bolitho winced as the quarterdeck nine-pounders joined in the din. But still there was no answer from th
e French ship. Bolitho had guessed correctly that the guns which stared impotently at the Phalarope's smashing attack would have been in action right up to the moment of grappling and boarding the little brig.
He watched as great pieces of the frigate's bulwark caved in and fragments of torn planking rose above the smoke as if thrown from an invisible hand. An axe flashed dully, and Bolitho yelled, `He's trying to free himself!' He drew his sword. `Over you go, lads! Boarders away!'
As the Phalarope ground to a sluggish halt, her bows locked into the brig's fallen rigging and spars, Bolitho ran down the port gangway and clambered on to the Witch of Looe's tilting deck. For a moment nobody followed him, and then with a great roar, half cheer and half scream, the waiting seamen swept over the bulwark behind him.
Most of the French sailors, caught between the Phalarope's savage gunfire and the revived members of the brig's crew, threw up their hands in surrender, but Bolitho thrust them aside, his sword raised high towards his own men. `Come on, lads! We'll take the frigate!' There would be time enough for the boarders later, he thought vaguely.
Once up the frigate's shot-pitted side the resistance became fierce and deadly. Wild, crazed faces floated around Bolitho as he hacked his way aft towards the poop, and his feet barely supported him-in the heel-thick layer of blood.which seemed to cover the deck like fresh paint. The enemy's upperdeck had been crammed with men. Some were boarders recalled from the Witch of Looe, and others were gunners caught off guard by the Phalarope's sudden change of course. This tangled, momentarily disorganised mass of men had received the full force of the broadside. All the Phalarope's larboard twelvepounders and the quarterdeck battery as well, every one double-shotted and loaded with grape for good measure. It looked as if a maniac had been throwing buckets of blood everywhere. Even the lower edges of the sails were speckled in scarlet, and fragments of men hung from upended guns and splintered bulwarks alike.
A French officer, hatless and bleeding from a scalp wound, leapt in front of Bolitho, his thin sword red almost to its hilt. Bolitho lifted his own sword, but felt it parried aside, and saw the French officer's expression change from anxiety to sudden exultation. Bolitho tried to draw back, but the struggling, press of figures prevented it. He could not lift his sword in time. He saw the man's arm come round, heard the swish of steel, and waited for the shock of the thrust.
To Glory We Steer Page 31