Then as both ships ploughed abeam through the smoke the French upper battery fired back for the first time. It was a ragged salvo, the tongues of flame lancing through the drifting fog, the crashing detonations mingling with the Hyperion's broadside as the distance slowly lessened until both ships were less than thirty feet apart.
The Saphir's gunners had fired on the downroll, and Bolitho felt the deck shake under him as ball after ball smashed into his ship's stout hull or shrieked towards the unseen world beyond the smoke. Men were shooting down from the French tops, and he caught a brief glimpse of an officer waving his sword and then pointing at him as if to will the marksmen to bring him down. Musket-balls slapped into the hammock nettings at his side, and he saw a seaman staring aghast at his hand where a ricocheting ball had clipped away a finger with the neatness of an axe.
Ashby's marines were yelling insults as they returned the fire, and more than one man hung lifeless on the French tops as silent witness to their accuracy.
Again a ragged salvo ripped along the Saphir's upper ports, but still the Hyperion's masts were unscathed. Her sails were well pitted with holes, but only a few severed blocks and halyards bounced unheeled on the nets which he had ordered to be strung across the upper deck to protect the sweating gunners.
He saw a small ship's boy scurrying across the deck bowed down with powder from the magazine. A man was hurled from one of the twelve-pounders to lie writhing and almost disembowelled at the boy's feet. He hesitated, then blindly ran on towards his own gun, too dazed to care for the thing which turned the planking into a scarlet pattern with each agonised convulsion.
Up through the smoke Bolitho saw the French ensign rising at last to the gaff. The white flag with its bright tricolour looked strangely clean and detached from the bedlam beneath, and he found time to wonder who had bothered to take the trouble to hoist it.
Gossett yelled hoarsely, "Er main tops'l 'as carried away, sir!' He was shaking one of the helmsmen in time with his words. 'By God, look at the bugger now!'
Ashby strode across the quarterdeck, his white 'breeches splashed with blood and his sword dangling from his wrist on a gold cord. He touched his hat, ignoring the whining musketballs and the screams and cries which came now from both ships.
'If you give the word, sir, we can board her! One good rush and we can knock the backbones out of 'em!' He was actually grinning.
A marine fell back from the nettings clawing at his face and then dropped motionless to the deck. A musket-ball had smashed his skull almost in two, so that his brains spewed across the planking like porridge.
Bolitho looked away. 'No, Captain. I am afraid that much as-I would like to take her as a prize I must think first of the convoy.' He saw a tall French seaman standing up on the settings a musket trained at him with fierce concentration. He was outlined against the smoke and oblivious of everything but the need to hit and kill the British captain.
It was strange that he could stand and watch, like an onlooker, as the musket flashed brightly, the sound of the shot swallowed by the heavy guns as the Hyperion rocked wildly to another broadside. He felt the ball pluck at his sleeve with no more insistence than a man's fingers. He heard a shrill scream at his back and knew without looking that the ball had claimed one victim. But his gaze was held by that unknown marksman. He must be a brave man, or one so crazed with anger by what had happened to his own ship that he no longer cared for his own safety. He was still standing on his precarious perch when a nine-pound shot from the Hyperion's quarterdeck battery smashed him apart, so that as his trunk and flailing arms pitched down into the churning water alongside, his legs still stayed resolute and firm for another few seconds.
The French ship was in bad shape. Her sails were little more than blackened streamers, with only a jib and mizzen course still fully intact. Thin red ribbons of blood trailed from her scuppers and ran unheeded down her battered side, and Bolitho could only guess at the extent of her casualties. It was significant that the enemy's lower gundeck with its big twenty-four-pounders remained silent and impotent, and it was a marvel that the whole ship had not burst into flames.
But he knew from hard experience that such appearances were deceptive. She could still put up a good fight, and one well-aimed salvo could cripple the Hyperion long enough to pare away their hard-won advantage.
He shouted, 'Mr. Rookel T'gallants and royals, if you please!' He saw the seamen below him gaping as if they could not believe that he was going to give up the stricken twodecker. `Then have the starboard guns run out!'
To Gossett he added firmly, `Lay a course for the convoy! We will beat to windward and see what there is to be done.'
Petty officers were already driving the battle-drained men to the braces, and even as he looked round he saw that the Frenchman was drifting astern in the smoke. Almost jauntily the Hyperion gathered the wind into her pockmarked sails and pushed after the other vessels.
A naked gun-captain, his muscular torso black and shining like a Negro's, leapt on to his carriage and yelled wildly, 'A cheer for th' cap'n, lads!' He was almost beside himself as the men joined in an uncontrolled wave of yelling and cheering. One gunner even left his station on the quarterdeck and danced up and down, his bare feet flapping on the stained deck, his pigtail bobbing crarily in time with his ecstasy.
Ashby grinned. `Can't blame 'em, sir!' He waved down at the cheering men as if to make up for Bolitho's grim features. 'That was a wonderful thing back there! My God, you handled her like a frigate! Never believed it possible. . .
,Bolitho eyed him gravely. 'At any other time I would be gratified to hear it, Captain Ashby. Now for God's sake get those men to work!' He walked quickly across to the weather side, his shoes slipping in a shining crescent of blood as he lifted his glass to look for the convoy.
As the Hyperion thrust herself clear of the smoke he saw the Justice. She was well astern of the other ships and the tumult of battle which surrounded them in another great bank of writhing smoke. Above the smoke he could see the Harvester's topgallants still standing, although how that could be was hard to understand. Most of her sails were gone, and the masts of a French frigate appeared to be almost alongside, yardarm to yardarm.
Sickened he saw a growing bank of flame beyond the two frigates, and as a short gust parted the smoke like a curtain he saw the little sloop Snipe burning like a torch as she drifted helplessly downwind. She was completely dismasted and already listing badly, but he could see the savage scars along her flush deck, the lolling corpses by her smashed and upended guns, and knew she had after all chosen not to remain an onlooker to the battle.
The transports appeared to be intact and still protected by the embattled Harvester, but as the smoke eddied once more the second French frigate thrust her bows clear and tacked purposefully towards the Vanessa. The frigate had lost her mizzen topmast, but was more than a match for the heavy merchantman. From her forecastle her two bowchasers had already opened fire, and Bolitho watched coldly as pieces of woodwork flew skyward from the Vanessa's ornate stern as if plucked away by the wind.
He said harshly, 'Starboard a point!' He watched the Hyperion's bowsprit edge across the distant ships like a relentless pointer and wondered why her disengagement from the Saphir had passed imnoticed.
It was only when the frigate had drawn almost across the transport's stem that some sort of alarm became visible. Then it was already too late. She could not withdraw because of the helpless Vanessa, and she could not swing around because of the wind. Desperately she spread her courses and with her yards braced almost fore and aft heeled to the fresh breeze, until the watchers on the Hyperion's decks could see the copper on her bottom gleaming like gold in the hazed sunlight.
Straight ahead, with her hard-eyed Titan below the bowsprit staring at the smoke-shrouded transport, the Hyperion drove purposefully past the Vanessa's counter.
Bolitho lifted his sword, his voice stilling an eager guncaptain who even now was tugging at his trigger line.
The enemy ship seemed to lift and then stagger upright, her fore and mainmastss falling as one in a thrashing tangle of rigging and brightly splintered spars.
There were just a few minutes before the Hyperion was hidden from the frigate by the Vanessa, but the gunners needed no more urging. As the bowsprit and flapping headsails passed the transport's mauled stem the whole starboard battery fired again, the hail of balls ripping down the remaining mast and turning the low hull into a floating ruin.
The men were cheering again, and it was taken up by the men on the Vanessa's poop. The latter had fallen back when the last broadside had swept past them, and some must have thought that the Hyperion's rage was so great she could no longer distinguish between friend and foe.
By now her seamen were climbing into the weather rigging to wave and cheer as the old two-decker loomed abeam, and more than one wept uncontrollably as her seamen cheered them back.
Bolitho gripped his fingers behind him to stop them shaking. `Signal the Justice to make more sail and resume proper station!'
Caswell was nodding dazedly, but in spite of his shocked senses was still able to call his men to the halyards.
`Deck there! T'other frigate is haulin' off, sirl' The masthead lookout sounded as wild as the rest of them.
Caswell lowered his glass and confirmed the news. `Harvester has just signalled, sir. She cannot give chase. Too much damage aloft.'
Bolitho nodded. It was no wonder. Harvester's captain had given battle to two frigates at once, aided only by the tiny Snipe. He was lucky to be alive.
He said, 'Signal the Harvester, Mr. Caswell.' He frowned with effort to clear his mind and concentrate on what was needed. It must not sound trite and meaningless. Harvester's people had shown what they could do. Nothing he could say would ever match their value. He said slowly, 'Make, "Yours was a fine harvest today. Well done." '
Cas.vell was scribbling frantically on his slate as he added, 'And I don't care if you have to spell out every single word!'
Tie shaded his eyes as with a sullen hiss the sloop rolled over to her beam ends, the water around her pockmarked with flotsam and burned woodwork.
Gossett said gruffly, 'The Erebus 'as lowered boats to look for survivors, sir.'
Bolitho did not answer. Not many seamen ever bothered to learn how to swim. There would be few to recall the sloop's last and greatest fight.
Heavily he said, 'I want a full report of our damage and casualties, Mr. Rooke.'
Rooke was still staring at the enemy, ships. The dismasted frigate was yawing uncontrollably, beam on to the steep troughs, and it would be some time before she could be taken in tow. It was more likely she would sink as she lay. The other frigate was closing the battered two-decker, and above the drifting smoke the signal flags were bright and busy.
Bolitho said, 'We must attend to our convoy. Those two will have to wait another day for final reckoning.' He spoke aloud, but it was almost as if he was speaking with his ship.
Caswell shouted, `Justice has acknowledged, sir!' He grinned. 'So has Harvester.' He looked around at the other strained and grimy faces. 'She says, "Have discontinued the action!" '
Bolitho felt his lips cracking with a smile. The formality of Leach's reply spoke volumes for the man's tenacity. 'Acknowledge.'
He saw one of the surgeon's mates standing below the ladder, his arms bloody to the elbows. He felt the same pang of despair he had known so often in the past. The suffering and the mutilation which made victory so bitter.
'What is it?'
The man looked vague jy around the deck as if surprised it was still intact. Below the waterline, with the ship wilting and shuddering to the broadsides, it was no easy task to deal with screaming wounded.
'Surgeon's respects, zur. Mr. Dalby 'as bin 'it, zur, an' wishes to speak with you.'
Bolitho shook himself. Dalby? The lieutenant's face floated before his eyes as he had last seen it. Then he said, 'How bad is he?
The man shook his head. 'Matter o' minutes, zur!'
'Take over the deck, Mr. Rooke. Signal the convoy to resume previous order once Erebus has recovered her boats.'
Rooke touched his hat as he passed. 'Aye, aye, sir.'
Bolitho climbed down the ladder, suddenly aware of the stiffness in his limbs, the aching tension in his jaw. Beside their smoking guns his men watched him pass. Here and there a braver soul than the rest reached out to touch his coat, and one even called, 'God bless you, Cap'n!'
Bolitho saw and heard none of it. It was taking all his strength to move between them, and he was conscious only of one thing. They had fought and won. It should be left at that. But as always he knew the cost was yet to be measured.
Bolitho ducked his head beneath the low beams and groped his way through the semi-darkness of the orlop deck. By comparison the air and light of the quarterdeck even at the height of the battle was fresh and clear, for down here deep in the Hyperion's hull there was little ventilation, and his stomach rebelled against the mingled stenches of bilge and tar, of neat rum and the more sickly smell of blood.
Rowistone, the surgeon, had soon found that his tiny sick bay was quite inadequate for the casualties sent down from the decks above, and as Bolitho stepped into a circle of swaying lanterns he saw that the whole area forward of the mainmast's massive trunk was filled with wounded men. Hyperion was plunging heavily in a lively quarter sea, so that the lanterns kept up a crazy haphazard motion and threw weird dancing shadows against the curved sides, or picked out small tableaux for just a few seconds at a time like sections of an old and faded painting.
Above the sounds of groaning timbers and the muffled pounding of water against the hull Bolitho heard the confused murmur of voices, mingled with sobbing and an occasional sharp cry of agony. For the most part the wounded lay still, only their eyes moving in the gyrating lanterns as they stared dully at the little group around the heavy scrubbed table, where Rowistone, his suety face screwed up with concentration, worked on a seaman who was being held down by two of his loblolly boys. Like any badly wounded man the sailor had been well dosed with rum, and as Rowlstone's saw moved relentlessly across his leg he lolled his head from side to side, his cries muffed by the leather strap between his teeth, his frantic protests drowned by both rum and vomit.
Rowistone worked busily, his fingers as bloody as the heavy apron which covered him from chin to toe. Then he gestured to his assistants and unceremoniously the seaman was hauled from the table and carried into the merciful darkness beyond the lanterns.
The surgeon looked up and saw Bolitho. Surrounded by wounded and mutt' -Ated men he seemed suddenly frail and vulnerable.
Bolitho asked quietly, 'How many?’
'fen dead, sir.' The surgeon wiped his forehead with his arm; leaving a red smear above his right eye. 'So far.' He glanced round as two of his assistants half-carried another man towards the table. Like so many wounded in a sea action he had been hit by wood splinters, and as the surgeon's mates tore off his stained trousers Bolitho could see the great jagged tooth of wood where it jutted from below his stomach. Rowlstone stared unwinkingly at the man for several seconds. Then he said flatly, 'Some thirty wounded, sir. Half of them might live through it.'
Another man was slopping rum into the wounded seaman's open mouth. He did not seem to be able to drink the neat spirit fast enough, and all the time his eyes were fixed on Rowlstone's hands with the fascination of hope and terror combined.
The surgeon groped for his knife and gestured towards the side. 'Mr.
Dalby's over there.' He eyed the man on the table with something like despair and added, 'Like most of the men he got his wound on the lower gundeck.'
Bolitho turned towards the side as the surgeon bent forward across the naked body on the table. The wounded man had gone immediately rigid, and Bolitho could almost feel the first pressure of that knife in his own body.
Dalby was propped in a sitting position with his shoulders against one of the ship's massive ribs. He was naked but for a wide, sodden bandage around his stomach, and with each painful breath the blood was spreading unchecked even by the thick dressing. As officer in charge of the lower battery he had been cut down by the first French broadside, yet in spite of his wound his face seemed almost relaxed as he opened his eyes` and stared up at his captain.
Bolitho dropped on his knees. 'Is there anything I can do?'
Dalby swallowed hard, and a few droplets of blood glistened on his lips. 'Wanted to see you, sir!' He gripped the mattress at his sides and held his breath. 'Had to tell you ..'
'Don't talk, Mr. Dalby.' Bolitho looked round for a clean dressing, but finding none dabbed the lieutenant's mouth with his handkerchief.
But Dalby tried to struggle forward, his eyes suddenly bright. 'It has been driving me mad, sir! That money ... I took it.' He fell back against the timbers, his mouth slack. 'Quarme had nothing to do with it. I had to have it, d'you see? Had to!'
Bolitho watched him sadly. It did not really matter any more who had taken the money. Quarme was dead, and Dalby should by rights have followed him already.
'It is all right, Mr. Dalby. It is over now.'
Dalby shuddered, his chest and arms suddenly running with sweat. Yet when Bolitho touched him his skin was cold and clammy like that of a corpse.
Then he muttered thickly, 'I owed money. Gambled everything.' He stared at Bolitho, but his eyes no longer held a proper focus. 'I would have told him, but ..'
Form Line Of Battle! Page 17