A ragged thunder of cannon-fire echoed across the water, and through the taut rigging Herrick saw the spreading wall of gunsmoke drifting down to enfold the Zenith like a cloud.
He heard Gossett mutter, 'Make a note in the log. At two bells of th' Forenoon action was joined.' He cleared his throat. 'And God preserve us!'
Waiting for the final clash seemed endless. Bolitho made himself stand motionless by the rail while he watched the battered Zenith receiving the full brunt of the enemy broadsides. Barely seventy yards separated the two-decker as she edged past the leading French ship, but as a down-draught of wind cut through the billowing smoke Bolitho saw with cold relief that her masts were still standing and her guns were running out again as she sailed to meet the next adversary. The second ship in the enemy line was a three-decker, and as he watched Bolitho saw her foremost guns belch fire and smoke, the thundering crash of the detonations making him wince. Above the growing bank of smoke he saw the bright flash of colour at the enemy's topmast, the command flag of an admiral.
He shouted, `Stand by!' He shut the picture of the flashing guns from his mind and concentrated on the leading ship, as like two wooden juggernauts she and Hyperion crossed bowsprits, and the men at the foremost guns stared through their ports and saw the hardening line of the enemy's bows.
Rooke yelled, 'Fire as you bear!'
Hyperion staggered drunkenly as the broadside rippled along her side in a double-edged line, the guns hurling themselves inboard against the tackles, their crews choking and cursing as the great fog of acrid smoke funnelled back through the ports, blinding them as they reeled and groped for the next charges.
Bolitho shaded his streaming eyes and stared up at the enemy's foremast as slowly and relentlessly it carved above the smoke until it hung directly above him. Then the French= man fired, the gun-flashes stabbing through the dense smoke and painting it with red and orange, so that it seemed to come alive. He felt the balls crashing into the hull, the splintering thunder jarring the planks beneath his straddled legs as if to burst up through the deck itself.
He yelled, 'Again, lads! Hit 'em again!'
His brain cringed as the nine-pounders at his back joined in the savage onslaught, and through the deafening gunfire he heard muffled cries and shouted orders as the marines opened fire with their muskets, shooting blindly into the allenveloping smoke.
Something slammed into the rail by his hand, and when he looked down he saw a wood splinter standing on end like a quill pen.
Ashby bellowed, 'The tops! Shoot down those marksmen, you bastards!'
A marine corporal pulled the lanyard of a swivel gun, and before the dense brown smoke blew back across the quarterdeck Bolitho saw some half-dozen men plucked from the enemy's maintop by the scything burst of canister and swept away like so much rubbish.
Rooke dropped his sword. 'Run out! Fire!' Again the extended thunder of the two batteries and the answering crash of iron against timber as the full weight of Hyperion's broadside smashed home.
Bolitho wiped his face with his sleeve. The other ship was already past, yet in spite of the hammering he could see little damage around him. He tried to stop the grin from spreading over his face. The Tenacious would soon finish off the leading ship, he thought wildly.
He cupped his hands. `Easy, lads! The next one is the admiral's ship.' He heard the derisive yells from the smokeshrouded gunners. `Give him a proper salute!'
Then he ran across to the other side of the deck, straining his eyes to find the Zenith. He saw her maintop mast and commission pendant isolated above the smoke and already level with the third enemy ship. Her foremast had gone, but her guns were still firing, and between the savage broadsides he could hear cheering, like men driven beyond caution or sanity.
He shouted, 'Mr. Piper! Hoist that signal!'
He watched the flags jerking up to the yards and then stared anxiously towards the battered Zenith. With only one mast in view it was hard to judge her exact position or bearing.
But Piper was ready. 'She's acknowledged, sir!' He was clinging' to the shrouds, oblivious of the oncoming threedecker as he peered at the signal.
Bolitho watched, hardly daring to breathe as Captain Stewart tacked his ship round and headed straight towards the enemy. He could see the Zenith's topmast outlined against the braced yards of the fourth ship in the French line.. She was already heading into the wind, and Bolitho had to grip the rail to prevent himself from running along the deck to watch as she swung still further, her bows pushing resolutely across the enemy's course, her guns firing from either beam as she struggled to obey Bolitho's last signal.
Herrick yelled, 'She's through! By God, she's cut the line!'
Men were cheering in the smoke, some hardly aware of the reason, but desperately eager to break their own dazed uncertainty.
Bolitho shouted, "Stand by, Mr. Rooke!' He ran back to the nettings as the French flagship rose above the fog like a cliff, her forecastle rippling with musket-fire, her bow guns already shooting out their long red tongues as the range fell away to fifty yards.
Rooke yelled, 'Fire as you bear!' He was running down the upper deck, stopping for just a few seconds by each gun as captain after captain pulled his lanyard to add to the deafening bombardment.
From astern Bolitho heard the Tenacious adding her massive weight to the engagement, but forgot her completely as the deck bucked wildly beneath him and some twenty feet of the larboard gangway careened into the air, hurling men and splintered timbers back into the smoke.
He saw the nets across the upper deck jumping with severed blocks and pieces of rippled sailcloth, but when he stared aft he could still see every mast and yard intact.
Bolitho shouted, 'On the uproll, Mr. Rooke!' He peered towards the Frenchman's braced yards, the sudden flurry of colour as a signal broke to the wind. Their admiral obviously intended to try and stop the British attempt to cut the line, he thought wildly. He pulled out his sword and held it above his head. `When I give the signal, Mr. Rooke!' His throat was raw with shouting and coughing. 'I want that rigging down!'
Another ragged broadside cut through the trapped smoke alongside, and two twelve-pounders were hurled away from the bulwark as if they were scraps of paper. Bolitho tore his eyes from the men trapped beneath the heavy guns and shut their agonised screams from his mind. Those muzzles must be almost red-hot, he thought vaguely.
He dropped his sword. 'Fire!'
Hyperion was rolling heavily with the wind, and the force of a full broadside threw her even further over as both gundecks roared out together.
With something like sad dignity, the Frenchman's foremast began to totter, the stays and shrouds holding it just long enough to give those trapped in the top and along the yards a few seconds of hope. Then with a great sigh the whole mass of rigging and spars pitched forward through the smoke, cleaving into the forecastle gunners before plunging down towards the shrouded water below.
Bolitho groped his way towards the poop until he found Gossett's massive shape beside the wheel. 'Stand by to wear ship!' Bolitho felt a musket-ball whip past his head and hamer into the poop ladder. 'We will turn across the enemy's line when you are ready!'
He did not wait for an answer but hurried back to the quarterdeck rail. The other ship was wallowing downwind, the trailing mass of spars acting like a giant sea-anchor. But over and beyond her snared bows Bolitho could already see the towering sails of the Tenacious, and before he wrenched his eyes back to the next ship in the line he saw the three-decker's broadside smashing into the French flagship, bringing down her main topgallant to add to the confusion below.
'Nowl' Bolitho had to call twice because of the ninepounders' vicious barking behind him. 'Now, Mr. Gossett!'
He watched narrowly as the big double wheel began to go over, the helmsmen stepping over two dead comrades as they fought to control the spokes.
At the quarterdeck rail Herrick was roaring at the top of his voice, 'Braces there! Let go and haul!'
&
nbsp; Through the smoke the third ship was already firing across the narrowing strip of water. Shots hammered into the Hyperion's hull, and others slapped through topsails and spanker, severing halyards and shrouds and hurling pieces of splintered wood high in the air.
But the old ship was answering. As she swung slowly across the enemy's quarter Bolitho saw some French seamen running aft as if to repel boarders, and then as the Hyperion's intention became clear they opened fire with muskets and pistols, urged on by their officers and the fury of battle.
Across the disengaged side Bolitho saw another ship loom through the fog like some phantom vessel, and with something like disbelief he realised that Hyperion was cutting the line, her tapered bowsprit and flapping jib already clear of smoke and reaching out beyond the enemy's weather side.
He shouted, 'Stand by to starboard! It's your turn now, lads!'
A man fell back from a' nine-pounder, his face smashed to a bloody pulp, and he saw young Caswell, white but determined, waving another to take his place.
The gunners of the starboard battery waited their moment. The smoke hid the bulk of that fourth ship, but the black bowsprit and gleaming figurehead acted better than any aiming mark.
Rooke bellowed, 'Fire as you bear!'
Hyperion was responding to wind and rudder, and as she edged purposefully around the third ship's counter the starboard battery opened fire on her helpless consort. Two by two the guns bellowed and lurched inboard, their whooping crews already sponging and reloading before the broadside had reached as far aft as the quarterdeck.
Pieces of bulwark flew skyward above the haze of smoke, and the luckless ship's sails streamed from her yards like so much shredded waste.
Bolitho watched until the Tenacious's topmasts crept' into line. Dash was following, and above the crashing roar of Hyperion's artillery he could hear the deeper thunder of the three-decker's thirty-two-pounders as they continued to hammer the enemy.
When the Hyperion's bow swung gratefully across the wind the smoke cleared from her decks as if drawn away by a giant hand. All at once her scars were laid bare, and Bolitho felt suddenly stunned by the completeness of her misery.
Dead and wounded lay everywhere on the upper deck. The rest, their naked. bodies shining with sweat and blackened by powder, worked at their guns with the wild desperation of souls in hell.
The great net above the littered deck was covered with torn canvas and wood splinters, and here and there a wounded man writhed broken and whimpering- in the mesh after being shot down from aloft, like dying insects in a web.
The marines kept up a rapid fire from the nettings, hurling insults as they reloaded, and yelling encouragement to their comrades high in the swaying tops.
The larboard battery fired yet again, the balls ripping a bare twenty yards to blast through the enemy's poop and turn her quarterdeck into a bloody shambles.
Bolitho pounded the rail, silently urging his ship to complete her turn. But it could not last like this. Soon the other French ships would recover and fight back to rejoin their line. Before that happened they must settle with the enemy flagship and smash these three leading vessels into submission.
He swung round as Piper yelled, 'Signal from Zenith, sir! "Require assistance!"'
Bolitho had already seen the leading two-decker. She was completely dismasted, but for a stump of her main, and had drifted downwind across the French flagship's bows. Where the two vessels embraced men were already locked in hand-tohand combat, while in the trapped arrowhead of water between them the guns still kept up their relentless bombardment, their blackened muzzles barely feet apart.
He shook his head. `Make "Inability", Mr. Piper!' He watched the flags soaring aloft and added, 'Now that other signal, Mr. Piper, lively there!'
Bolitho ignored the rippling flashes as his guns bellowed defiance at the nearest ship. The enemy was hardly firing a shot in return, but aboard her battered decks he could see something like panic as the Tenacious followed ponderously through the gap in the line, her triple rows of guns gaping straight at the Frenchman's unprotected stem.
He gripped Herrick's shoulder, feeling him jump with shock at the sudden contact. Like himself he was probably expecting a musket-ball, he thought grimly.
`Zenith is all but done for, Thomas.' He broke off as a ball ploughed through the quarterdeck ladder and smashed into a file of crouching marines. Sickened, he saw the blood spreading away like paint, until it seemed it would never stop. Amidst the litter of smashed limbs and screaming men he saw a marine's head rolling across the deck, the eyes still open and staring.
He swallowed hard to control the nausea. 'We must take the enemy flagship, Thomas!' He saw understanding flooding across Herrick's begrimed features. 'It is our only chance!'
He looked round abruptly as someone started to cheer. He saw young Caswell waving his hat like a madman and pointing at the last signal.
'Engage the enemy closer!'
Through the swirling smoke another set of red tongues licked across the water and Caswell was dead. He had had one hand across his chest and the ball smashed it through his body, cutting off his cry with the sharpness of a knife.
Bolitho turned towards the towering three-decker. All the anger and hate, the despair and bitterness seemed to overpower him like a frenzy. The sword was in his hand, and as he waved it he felt his hat plucked away by another musketball, so that the rebellious lock of hair fell across his eye, shutting out Caswell's broken body and his staring look of disbelief.
'Starboard gunners take station for boarding!' He was almost screaming. 'Come on, lads! England wants a victory, so what do you say?'
He did not hear the answering cheers and yells, but was already running along the larboard gangway. He leapt across the shattered bulwark and above the naked gunners, the sword in his hand and his eyes fastened on that one patch of colour which still flew from the enemy's topmast.
18
IN GALLANT COMPANY
By the time Bolitho reached the forecastle the Hyperion's bowsprit was already edging across the French flagship's starboard gangway, thrusting through the boarding nets and into the main shrouds like a giant lance.
He stared round at the crouching seamen and marines and yelled, 'Over you go, lads!' Then as both hulls ground together he hurled himself from the cathead, his sword slashing wildly at the nets, his feet kicking to gain some hold above the dark strip of trapped water.
Across the French ship's bows the dismasted and listing Zenith was putting up a stiff resistance, but in face of a great wave of boarders the English seamen had fallen back as far as their quarterdeck, the cutlasses and axes flashing dully through the smoke, the air filled with terrible screams and cries as they retreated across the bodies of their comrades already killed in battle.
But as Bolitho's men leapt over the narrowing gap the French attack hesitated, and at the blare of a trumpet many of the successful boarders turned and ran back to their own ship to meet this new threat from astern.
Lieutenant Shanks was pulling himself up the sagging net, his sword dangling from his wrist as he yelled encouragement to his men. A bearded French sailor ran across the gangway, and before Shanks could jump clear thrust upward with a boarding pike, the force of his charge driving the point deep into the marine's stomach. Shanks gave one shrill scream and dropped like a stone.
When Bolitho looked down he saw the lieutenant's whiteclad legs kicking above the water, the motion becoming more violent and terrible as the two hulls moved together to hold the pulped corpse firmly between them.
Bolitho slashed through the last of the net and flung himself down to the deck. The same French seaman was already turning to meet him, but a yelling bosun's mate pushed Bolitho aside and slashed the man down with his cutlass, the blow amost cutting him from shoulder to armpit.
As more and more men jumped from the Hyperion it was hard to distinguish friend from foe. Bolitho fired his pistol at the wheel and saw the last helmsman fall kicking on the splin
tered planking. Then he placed his back against the poop ladder and crossed blades with a wild-eyed petty officer, while the fighting surged around him in a panorama of hatred and terror.
Bolitho parried the heavy sword aside and struck out hard for his neck. He felt the shock jerk up his wrist, and swung round to seek out another enemy even as the man pitched across the rail, blood gushing from a great wound in his throat.
He saw a marine drive his bayonet through a shrieking midshipman, and Tomlin, the boatswain, swinging a huge boarding axe like a toy as he. carved a path for himself towards the upper deck, his bare shoulders covered with blood, although whether it was his own or that of his victims it was impossible to tell.
A French lieutenant threw down his sword, his mouth slack with terror as he struggled to catch Bolitho's arm. He wanted to surrender, either himself or the ship, but it was to no avail. The Hyperion's seamen were not yet ready to consider reason or quarter, for themselves or the enemy.
The man moaned and held his hands across his face, and as a cutlass flashed across Bolitho's vision he saw the blade sever the lieutenant's hand at the wrists and drive on to smash him bodily to the deck.
Sergeant Best, wielding his half-pike like a club, staggered to join Bolitho above the reeling mass of men, dragging a French officer at his side. .
He shouted, `This 'ere's th' admiral sir!' He lashed out savagely, and a seaman already wounded screamed and fell sideways across an abandoned swivel gun.
Bolitho stared for a few seconds at the small admiral before recognition and understanding returned to his shocked mind.
He snapped, 'Take him aft, Sergeant!' He saw the admiral's agonised face relax slightly and added, 'Get that flag down, for God's sake, and hoist our colours above it!'
The admiral tried to speak. Maybe he was grateful, or he could have been making a last protest, but Best hauled him away like a. sack, and Bolitho knew that but for the marine's strong arm the French admiral would already be dead.
He heard Tomlin roaring like a bull. 'Avast therel Give 'em quarter!' And as Bolitho kicked a corpse from the ladder and ran on to the gangway he saw with amazement that the French seamen were throwing down their weapons and falling back towards the bows. From the relieved Zenith he could hear wild cheering, and when he looked across at his own ship he saw the gunners standing back from the smoking muzzles to join in.
Form Line Of Battle! Page 32