Gossett watched him pass and breathed out admiringly. 'Did you see that, lads? Not a flicker! As cool as an Arctic wind is our cap'n!'
9
LIKE A FRIGATE!
Midshipman Piper peered into the chartroom, pausing only to recover his breath. 'Mr. Rooke's respects, sir, and the enemy is now in sight!'
Bolitho deliberately lifted his cup and sipped at his coffee. It was, of course, stone cold.
He asked quietly, 'Well, Mr. Piper? Is there nothing more?'
The boy gulped and tore his eyes from watching his captain's apparent indifference to the sudden proximity of danger.
He said, 'Three sail, sir. Two frigates and one larger ship.'
'I will come up directly.' Bolitho waited until the boy had hurried away and then swept the untouched food from the table. As he peered searchingly at the chart he was again reminded of his complete isolation. If Snipe far ahead of the convoy had sighted the ships in any other position there might have been cause for some small optimism. As it was the enemy were well to windward and approaching his ill-assorted convoy on a converging course. They could take their time, choose their moment to sweep in close to attack.
He picked up his hat and walked swiftly to the quarterdeck. The breeze was still fresh, but already the air was much hotter. He made himself walk to the rail and stare down at the upper deck while every nerve in his body seemed to cry out for him to snatch a glass and search out the enemy.
Below the gangways each crew waited silently beside its gun. The decks around them were sanded to give the seamen maximum grip when once action was joined, and beside every twelve-pounder stood a freshly filled water-bucket for the swabs or any sudden fire in the tinder-dry woodwork and cordage.
At each hatch was a marine sentry, bayonet fixed, legs braced to the steady roll of the ship, his duty to prevent any frightened seaman from running below if the pace became too hot. He took a telescope and lifted it over the nettings. The wallowing convict ship swam hugely across the lens, and then it reached out and steadied on a point below the horizon, far away on the leading ship's larboard bow.
Without turning his head he knew that those around him were watching his face. They had already seen the approaching vessels. Now they wanted to see his reactions and thereby gain comfort or find fresh doubt. He clamped his jaws together and tried to keep his face impassive.
As he edged the glass gently back and forth in time with Hyperion's movements he saw the two frigates. They were so close together and pointing almost directly towards his glass that they looked for all the world like one giant, illdesigned ship. One was slightly ahead of the other, and he could see that she was making more sail and spreading her topgallants even as he watched. Thirty-six guns at least, and a second frigate only slightly smaller.
But further astern, and close hauled on the starboard tack, was a ship of the line. Like the frigates she wore no colours, but there was no mistaking that beakhead, the graceful rake of her masts. Probably a French two-decker which had broken out from one of the Mediterranean ports to try and test the pressure of Hood's blockade. He lowered his glass and glanced at the transports. They would make a good start, he thought grimly.
He said, 'We will retain this course, Mr. Rooke. There is no point in trying to run south. The enemy has the advantage if he keeps to windward, and there is nothing to the south'rd',
He smiled briefly, 'but Africa.'
Rooke nodded. 'Aye, sir. D'you think they'll try and engage?'
'Within the hour, M'r. Rooke. The wind might drop. I would certainly attack were I in his shoes!'
He pictured the French two-decker as he had seen her in the glass. She was slightly bigger than Hyperion, but more to the point would be much faster, having been snug in harbour and able to receive the full attention of dockyard and riggers.
He made up his mind. 'Alter course two points to larboard. We will lay the ship on the convoy's quarter. Signal Harvester to take up station to windward of the leading ship immediately.'
'And Snipe, sir?' Rooke sounded tense.
'She can retain her present position, I think.' He imagined the havoc and complete destruction which a frigate's broadside could make of the sloop's frail timbers. `The next move will be made by the enemy very soon now.'
With her yards braced round the Hyperion edged slowly across the wake of the other ships in the convoy, while the Harvester, her topgallants and royals ballooning with sudden eagerness, sped recklessly past the Justice's stem and then tacked with equal dash towards the leading transport Erebus.
Lieutenant Dalby called, 'The frigates have gone about, sir!'
Bolitho shaded his eyes and watched the two ships swinging round and heeling sharply to the wind. When they had completed their manoeuvre they would be running parallel with the convoy, some five miles clear. Even without his glass Bolitho could see that their gunports were still closed, each captain no doubt concentrating on laying himself in the most advantageous position.
The two-decker sailed majestically on her original course as if to pass astern of the convoy and ignore it completely. Bolitho bit his lip. Her captain was doing exactly as he would have done. The two frigates would swoop down on the convoy and attack either the Harvester or the leading ship, or both together. If Hyperion closed to support the Harvester it would take some time to beat back and protect the rear of the convoy, and by then the enemy two-decker would have pounced. It was the oldest lesson of war. Divide and conquer.
Gossett intoned, 'Course nor' by east, sir, full an' bye.'
'Very well.' He stared up at the masthead pendant. 'Signal the convoy to make all available sail.' To Rooke he added sharply, 'Get the royals on her again, I want to see what the two-decker intends to do then!'
With all sail set the Hyperion gathered way in time with the transports, and the effect on the French ships was instantaneous. The senior captain had no doubt expected Bolitho to close up his convoy and protect them as best he could from a two-pronged attack. Running away was as unlikely as it was impracticable. But with the ships already drawing away from his guns the Frenchman had no alternaive but to give chase.
Captain Ashby breathed out slowly. 'There he goes, by God!'
The tall two-decker was already tacking, her topsails flapping wildly as she swung across the wind. So quick was her response to Bolitho's tactics that she seemed to lean right down into the white-capped water until her mainyard appeared to slash at the wavecrests, her lower gunports completely hidden- beneath the cream and surge of her own efforts.
Her sail drill was less efficient than Hyperion's, and that was probably because she had spent more time at anchor than at sea, but within fifteen minutes she too had spread her royals and topgallants in one giant pyramid of gleaming canvas.
Rooke said flatly, `She's overhauling us, sir. She'll be up to us in thirty minutes.'
But Bolitho was staring ahead watching the Justice. She was less than a mile away now, and like the other transports was finding the pace too demanding. The two enemy frigates were standing in closer to the lead ships, and as he strained his eyes through the crisscross of rigging he saw a puff of smoke from the leading one and a ripple of bright flashes.
It seemed an age before the dull rumble of gunfire reached back to him, then he said, 'You may load now, Mr. Rooke. See that the first broadside is double-spotted with a measure of grape for good fortune!' The first aimed salvo was usually the last to be fired with time to spare. After that men fired more from familiarity than anything else. And down on the lower gundeck it would be even worse. With hardly enough room to stand upright, the crews would fight their guns in a crazed world of dense, choking smoke, or semi-darkness and horror which was better unseen.
'Harvester has returned fire, sirl'
Bolitho nodded, half-watching the gunners as they cradled
!, the gleaming balls from the racks and rammed them down the gaping muzzles. The more practised gun-captains checked each ball with something like loving care before loadi
ng. Some were better rounded than others. They would go with that first order to fire.
'Make a signal to Harvester. "You are at liberty to engage the enemy."' He almost smiled at the empty words. 'Not that he has any choice.'
Rooke asked, 'Shall we run out, sir?' He was staring across the larboard quarter watching the French ship cutting away the distance as she drove effortlessly towards the convoy. Her captain was level-headed enough to stay just that much upwind of the slower Hyperion. If Bolitho turned away he would present his ship's stern to the French broadside. At close range that would be enough to reduce the between-decks to a slaughterhouse, and probably dismast her into the bargain. If he held his present course it would be a gun-for-gun battle, with the Frenchman holding his advantage and Hyperion unable to tack in either directon without receiving crippling damage.
`Not yet, Mr. Rooke.' His voice was quite controlled, but as he watched the other ship's shadow rising and falling across the glittering water he guessed that Rooke probably imagined he was running away, either from fear or from a complete inability to think of a plan to avoid destruction.
He glanced quickly at the masthead again. He hardly dared to look for fear his eye had deceived him. But the pendant was at a different angle. Only very slight, but it was all he had.
To Gossett he said evenly, `The wind has veered a point, I believe?'
The master stared at him. 'Well, yes, sir. Just a mite.' He sounded surprised that it should matter.
Bolitho controlled the rising tension in his thoughts. He had to use all his will to shut out the distant crash of gunfire as the frigates engaged the solitary Harvester, even to crush the lurking fear that he had already misjudged the situation around him.
'Very well, Mr. Rooke. Shorten sail. Get the royals and 'gallants off her.' He gripped his hands behind him as the topmen swarmed along the yards. 'Now you may run out the larboard battery.'
The Hyperion seemed to sink forward into a trough as the power died in her extra sails. The weeds on her bottom acted as a brake, and Bolitho could see the mizzen topgallant shivering like a tree in a wind and felt the vibration transmitting itself through the planks under his shoes.
Then he walked to the larboard side of the quarterdeck and leaned out to watch as the double line of gunports swung upwards, and seconds later he heard the squeal of trucks as the sweating seamen threw themselves against the tackles and hauled their heavy weapons up the canting deck. A shaft of sunlight touched the black muzzles as they poked from the open ports and Rooke called, 'Run out, sir!'
He gave a slight shiver and turned to watch the Frenchman. She was barely a cable's length astern now, and even though she too was shortening sail, would be alongside in minutes. To the French captain it would look as if Bolitho had tried to drive his convoy to safety under full sail but had failed and was now falling back to accept full payment for his folly.
Bolitho licked his lips. They felt like dust. To Gossett he said slowly, `Stand by to wear ship, Mr. Gossett. In two minutes I intend to go about across his bows!' He did not see the stunned look on Gossett's face. He was looking at the other two-decker. She had run out her starboard battery, and on her gangways he could see clumps of figures and the gleam of sunlight on levelled muskets and cutlasses.
`Aye, aye, sir!' Gossett had recovered his voice again.
To Rooke Bolitho added sharply, 'We will sail back on the same course and engage his other side!' He felt a grin spreading on his face and sensed that same madness he had forcibly controlled at Cozar.
Rooke nodded and raised his speaking trumpet. He looked pale beneath his tan, but somehow he got the words out. `Stand by to go about! Ready ho!V
'Helm alee!' Gossett threw his own weight to help the straining helmsmen.
For a few seconds the ship seemed to go mad, and as the men in the bows let go the headsail sheets and the hull began to answer the savage demands of the rudder, even the distant gunfire was drowned by the thunder of canvas and the agonised whine of stays and rigging.
'Off tacks and sheets!' Rooke was dancing with impatience and despair. 'Mainsail haul!'
What the Hyperion's desperate manoeuvre looked like to the Frenchman Bolitho could not imagine, but as he stared fixedly at the other two-decker he felt the sweat like ice across his forehead. Perhaps he had after all left it too late. The other ship seemed to tower across the Hyperion's quarter like a great cliff, so that as the old hull staggered round it seemed as if nothing would prevent the Frenchman from smashing headlong into her larboard side.
'Let go and haul, you bastards!' Rooke was hoarse and al
most screaming. But the men at the braces were almost horizontal with the deck as they dug in their toes and tugged like madmen, their ears and minds blank to everything and their eyes filled with the tall, onrushing sails which loomed high above them blotting out all else.
But she was answering, as with a mighty roar of canvas the Yards went round, the sails ballooning and cracking with effort while the deck tilted further and still further towards the Frenchman's onrushing bowsprit.
Bolitho gripped the rail and shouted, 'Stand to! Guncaptains fire as you bearl Pass the word to the lower battery!'
He was almost blinded with sweat and was shaking with wild excitement. Somehow the Hyperion had answered his impossible demands and had turned into the wind right across the other ship's course. Now as she heeled on an opposite tack she was already charging down the Frenchman's side, a side lined with sealed ports and as yet undefended. He could see the surging chaos on the ship's maindeck as men from the opposite battery ran across to open the ports, probably stunned by the sudden change of roles.
The Hyperion's heeling bows passed the Frenchman's forecastle, her shadow across the struggling seamen like a cloud of doom.
Inch was running along the guns, and as he dropped his arm the first pair of guns roared out together. Both ships were passing one another so rapidly that the attack was almost a full broadside, rippling down the Hyperion's hull in a double line of darting red flashes.
Bolitho almost fell as the quarterdeck nine-pounders joined in the battle, while around and above him he could hear Ashby's marines yelling and cursing with excitement as they fired their muskets into the mounting wall of smoke which billowed up and across the Frenchman's side hiding the carnage and damage as they passed within twenty yards of those sealed ports.
Bolitho yelled, `Stop that cheering! Reload and run out!' He had his sword in his hand although he did not recall drawing it. `Larboard cat ronade stand by!' He saw the gunners on the forecastle staring back at him from beside the snub-nosed carronade. They were hemmed in by smoke and seemed to be suspended in space. He turned to Gossett. 'Stand by to go about again! We will cross his stem now that we have taken the weather-gage!'
`Look, sir! Her foretopmast's falling!'
Bolitho rubbed his streaming eyes and turned to watch as with something like tired dignity the Frenchman's topmast staggered and then began to topple. He could see small figures clinging to the severed yards, and then being shaken off like dead fruit as with a splintering crash the whole spar, complete with rigging and lacerated sails, pitched forward and down into the smoke alongside.
But the Hyperion was already reeling round, the men at the braces and sheets coughing and choking as the guns fired yet again, their minds dulled by the din of noise and the blinding fog of battle.
Bolitho hurried across the deck, his eyes on the smokeshrouded topsails, pockmarked and ragged from his ship's attack, as once more the Hyperion went about to cross the enemy's stem. A gust of wind cleared a patch of water, so that he saw the other ship's counter within fifty feet of the bows. He could see the tall windows, the familiar horseshoeshaped stem so beloved by French designers, and the small figures clustered above her name, Saphir. They were firing muskets, and as he watched he saw some of the forecastle hands falling and kicking in the smoke, their cries lost in the bombardment.
But then, as the Hyperion's bowsprit cast a black shado
w across the open patch of water the carronade fired. For a brief instant before the smoke eddied across the water once more he saw the whole section of stern windows fly open as if in some maniac wind, and in his mind's eye he pictured the carnage in the Saphir's crowded lower gundeck as the packed charge smashed through the ship from end to end. On Cozar's pier it had been terrible enough. In a confined space filled with dazed seamen who were already unnerved by the Hyperion's swift vengeance it would br like a scene from hell.
He forcibly thrust the picture from his mind and concentrated instead on the Hyperion's upper deck. As the ship tacked heavily around the Frenchman's stern the larboard battery were only getting off half the shots which they had achieved in the first assault. All the grating apprehension which had gripped the men earlier while the French ships had approached with such confidence had been replaced by a kind of delirious excitement, and as he peered down through the billowing smoke Bolitho saw more than one gunner capering with wild delight. intent on watching the havoc across the narrow strip of water rather than attending to his own duties.
Bolitho cupped his hands and shouted, `Mr. Inch! Double up the gun crews from the starboard side, and pass the word .too the lower deck to do the same!!' He saw Inch nodding violently, his hat awry, his long face blackened by the powder smoke.
The Saphir had stewed slightly to larboard, the fallen topmast acting as a great sea anchor, so that it took more precious minutes to sail around bet counter. Although Hyperion was now technically downwind of her adversary once more the earlier advantage had been rendered useless by the damage to the Saphir's spars and sails. As the bowsprit edged purposefully past the Frenchman's high poop and the forward guns belched out with renewed anger, Bolitho saw great fragments of splintered timber flying up from the bulwarks and the flare of sparks as one of the enemy's guns was hurled bodily sideways on to its crew, the screams only urging the British gunners to greater efforts.
Form Line Of Battle! Page 16