The sight of the Hyperion's damage helped to steady him. From the three-decker's high gangway it was all too apparent. There were dead and dying everywhere he looked. Her side was smashed almost beyond recognition, but from the lower gundeck more heads poked through the ports to add their voices to the wild cheering and excitement.
A dazed lieutenant gripped his hand and pumped it up and down, his eyes shining .with pleasure. 'I'm from Zenith, Captain. Oh my God, what a victory!'
Bolitho pushed him roughly aside. 'Take command here, Lieutenant!' He stared across his own ship, his mind ice-cold as he saw the bows of another Frenchman edging downwind towards Hyperion's disengaged quarter.
He yelled, 'To me, Hyperions! Fall back to the ship!'
The lieutenant was still following him. 'What shall I do, sir?'
Bolitho watched while his men began to scramble towards their own ship.
The lieutenant persisted, 'Captain Stewart fell when we cut the French line, sir!'
Bolitho turned and studied him gravely. 'Very well. Drive these French seamen below and put guards on the hatches.' He glanced up at the tattered sails. 'I suggest you bring every fit man across from your ship and prepare to take Zenith in tow!' He clapped the dazed officer on the shoulder. 'Good experience for you!' Then he turned and followed the last of his men over the side.
He found Herrick at the quarterdeck rail yelling at the men on deck to cast off the grapnels from the other vessel's hull.
He saw Bolitho and gasped, 'Thank God, sir! I lost sight of you back there!'
Bolitho grinned. 'See yonder, Thomas! That must be the fifth ship in the French line!' He pointed with his sword. 'The fourth has drifted downwind. She'll not bother us for a bit with her bowsprit and fore shot away!'
Rooke yelled up from the deck, 'We can't get clear, sir!'
`Damn!' Herrick ran to the nettings and peered across at the captured ship. 'We must have drifted round more than I thought, sir.' He stared across Bolitho's shoulder, his face suddenly tight with alarm. 'By God, he's going about!' He waved to the men at the starboard battery. 'Open fire as you bearl Lively, if you want to see another dawn!'
The captain of the approaching ship had had plenty of time to plan his next move. While Zenith and Hyperion were locked in close combat, and Dash completed his destruction of the other two ships, he had clawed upwind, his efforts to retake the advantage well hidden in the smoke of battle.
Now, as Hyperion's men ran desperately back to their guns, he tacked slowly to expose his full broadside at a range of about seventy yards. Not for him the uncertainty of close combat, but as the double line of guns belched fire Bolitho knew he was quite near enough to do his work.
It was like a scalding wind, with all sense of direction and feeling swept away in its path as the full weight of the Frenchman's broadside smashed into the Hyperion's after part with the force and devastation of an avalanche.
With it came the choking smoke, and as men screamed and cursed around him Bolitho stared up with numbed dismay as the whole mizzen mast splintered apart less than twenty feet above the poop.
Then his own gunners replied, their salvo ragged and uncertain while they groped in the swirling darkness and slipped on the blood which covered the scarred deck- from scupper to scupper.
Bolitho jumped aside as the topsail yard crashed across the quarterdeck and ground amidst the groping figures like a giant axe.
He heard Gossett roar. 'The steerin's gone, sirl' Then a curse. 'Get back to your station, that man!'
The Frenchman was still there, her yards coming round tightly as she closed in for another broadside. In a brief lull Bolitho heard more gunfire, and with astonishment saw the enemy's sails and rigging jerking wildly and more than one spar ripped away to fall alongside. Through the smoke he got a quick glimpse of close-reefed topsails beyond the Frenchman's rigging, and realised that Captain Leach had also been biding his time before throwing his frail Harvester to close quarters with the giants.
Axes rang amidst the crash and rumble of gunfire, and he heard Tomlin urging his men to greater efforts to hack away the shattered mast from the poop, while others streamed aft through the destruction and horror to help Gossett rig the emergency steering gear. Not that there would be time, he thought dully.
Rooke was almost beside himself as he strode along the starboard battery, his sword beating time to control the shocked and bleeding gunners as they rammed home the charges and hauled the twelve-pounders up the tilting deck for yet another assault. But there were several empty ports, and upended guns and the grisly remains of their crews were strewn in obscene profusion, while above the battered decks the tops and rigging were festooned with dead and dying seamen as a blast of grape moaned through the shrouds like a messenger from hell itself.
Rooke dropped' his sword. 'Fire!'
Bolitho staggered as the guns lurched back on their tackles, and then stared sickened as Rooke seemed to lift from his feet and fly back across the deck as if thrown by an invisible hand. One second he was there waving his sword and shouting at his sweating gunners. The next instant he was sprawled against the opposite bulwark, his limbs broken and twisted, the blood already pouring from a dozen wounds. He must have taken a full charge of canister. There was nothing left of the original man at all.
Shots seemed to be coming from every direction at once, and Bolitho guessed that the third ship in the French line, although crippled by the Tenacious's onslaught, was still firing some of her guns. Her men were blinded by smoke, but some of the balls were hitting and cutting across Hyperion's quarter to add to the damage and slaughter.
Bolitho turned and then stopped in his tracks. For a brief moment he thought he had finally cracked under the strain. In the middle of the quarterdeck, his full dress uniform glittering against the shattered planking and the piles of fallen rigging, Pomfret was surveying the terrible scene as if he was totally immune from danger of any kind.
Ailday shouted, 'I tried to stop him, Captain!' He jerked aside with a savage oath as Lieutenant Fanshawe received a musket-ball full in the breast and fell against him, his hands clawing wildly at his arm.
Pomfret ignored the dying man. 'How goes the fight, Bolitho?'
Bolitho felt slightly giddy. He replied, 'The French flagship has struck, sir. At least two more are disabled, I think.'
He added quickly, 'If you must stay here, Sir Edmund, I would suggest you walk for a while. The French have sharpshooters aloft, and your uniform is a fair target.' Pomfret shrugged. 'If you say so.' He began to pace up and down the littered deck with Bolitho at his side.
Bolitho said, 'I am glad to see you are better, sir.' Pomfret nodded indifferently. 'Just in time it seems.'
He stopped as Piper ran excitedly through the smoke and held up a large flag across his body. He was grinning and weeping with excitement. He did not even touch his hat as he shouted to Pomfret: 'Here, Sir Edmund! The enemy's command flag! I got it for your
Bolitho smiled in spite of his ragged nerves. 'It is your victory, sir. It will make a good souvenir.'
A musket-ball plucked Pomfret's hat from his head, but as Bolitho stooped to retrieve it he saw the admiral pointing with his hand. For the first time in days he was showing some emotion.
When Bolitho twisted round he saw the reason. Piper was on his knees, the flag still across his small body. Dead in the centre of the flag was a black hole, and as he reached out to catch him he saw Piper's face crumple with agony. Then he fell forward at the admiral's feet.
Seton staggered through the smoke and dropped beside him, but Bolitho pulled him to his feet.
The signals, Mr. Seton!' He saw the stunned horror on the boy's face and added harshly, 'They're your responsibility now!'
Herrick watched Seton walk away like a blind man, his shoes slipping on the blood-spattered planks, his hands hanging at his sides as if he no longer controlled them.
Then he bent over the dead midshipman, but Pomfret said sharply, 'Leave him there, Mr. Herrick!
Get to your duties!' Without looking at either Bolitho or Herrick he rolled Piper's body on to its back and gently covered his face with the captured flag. He murmured, 'A brave youngster! Would that I had had more like him at St. Clar!'
Bolitho tore his eyes away, realising vaguely that the guns had ceased firing. But when he reached the rail he saw that the other ship was already moving downwind, her topgallants spreading from the braced yards as her hull slid deeply into the dense smoke.
All around men started cheering and dancing, and even some of the wounded dragged themselves up to the battered gangways to watch and add their own voices to the tumult.
Seton called, 'Signal from 'Tenacious, sir!' His voice was quite empty of expression. 'Two enemy ships are withdrawing from battle! The rest have struck their colours!'
Bolitho gripped the rail, his arms and legs shaking uncontrollably. It was impossible. But it was true. Through the smoke and wreckage he heard the cheering going on and on, as if it would never stop. Men capered through the carnage to shake each other's hands, or just to grin towards a friend who had somehow survived the savage harvest.
'Captain, sir!'
Bolitho thrust himself clear of the rail, half fearing that his . legs might give way. When he turned he stared with disbelief at Rowlstone who was kneeling on the deck beside Pomfret.
The surgeon said shakily, 'He's dead, sir!' He had one hand inside the admiral's gold-laced coat, and when he withdrew it, it was shining with blood.
Gossett murmured, 'My God, 'e must 'ave bin wounded earlier, yet 'e said nothin'!' He took off his battered hat and stared as if seeing it for the first time.
Allday said quietly, 'When that Frenchman crossed our quarter, Captain, a ball came in through the chartroom.' He dropped his eyes under Bolitho's stare. 'It killed poor Gimlett, and a splinter struck the admiral.' He hung his head miserably. 'He made me swear not to tell you. He forced me to dress him in his best uniform. I'm sorry, Captain, I should've told you.'
Bolitho looked past him. 'It was not your fault, Allday.' So Pomfret would not receive the reward of the battle after all. But he must have understood that it was for him. In his broken mind he had found the strength and the will to show his appreciation the only way he knew.
Herrick said thickly, 'He had courage, I'll say that for him!'
Bolitho looked at the two bodies side by side on the broken deck. The admiral and the midshipman.
He said harshly, 'He is in gallant company, Thomas!'
The smoke was drifting clear of the ships to lay bare the destruction to victors and vanquished alike. The last two Frenchmen were already under full sail. Not that their captains need to fear now, Bolitho thought emptily. Apart from the distant Chanticleer, there was hardly enough undamaged sail to equip one ship amongst the battered survivors, let alone give chase.
If only the men would stop their cheering. He saw Inch walking unsteadily along the .upper deck. He stopped and stared down at Rooke's body and then gave what might have been a shrug. He was still alive. For today that was miracle enough for any man.
Seton called, 'Masthead has reported ships to the nor’east, sir!’
Bolitho looked at him blankly. His ears were so stunned by the gunfire that he had heard nothing.
Seton said, 'This time they are our ships, sir!' Then he looked down at Piper's body and began to shake.
Herrick watched him sadly. 'Had they been here earlier.....’
He left it unfinished.
Bolitho rested one hand on his arm and replied quietly, 'Bend on another flag, Thomas. This is still Pomfret's ship.' Then ' he looked away, his eyes suddenly pricking with emotion. 'And make this signal.' He faltered, seeing again all those faces. Caswell and Shanks, Rooke and little Piper. Like so many more they were just part of the past now.
In a firmer voice he said, 'Hyperion to Flag. "We are rejoining the squadron."'
Herrick touched his hat and walked past the cheering marines.
A moment later the flags jerked up the remaining yards to replace the signal which Piper had somehow managed to keep flying throughout the battle.
Herrick had taken the telescope from Seton's nerveless hands, and as he trained it on the distant ships his lips moved as if talking to himself.
He turned and looked at Bolitho. Very quietly he said, 'Victory to Hyperion. Welcome. England is proud of you.' Then he turned away, unable to watch the distress in Bolitho's eyes.
Gossett walked between the jubilant seamen and reported, 'The steerin' gear is rigged, sir!'
Bolitho swung round and wiped his face with the edge of his sleeve. He said quietly, 'Thank you. Be so good as to get under way, Mr. Gossett.' He ran his fingers along the splintered rail, feeling the old ship's pain like his own.
'There is still a long way to go yet.’
Gossett made to reply, but Herrick shook his head. He more than any other knew that Bolitho was speaking to his ship. Arid that was something he would share with no one.
EPILOGUE
The return of summer brought all things to all people. It was the second so far in a war which now seemed as if it would last for ever. In the towns and cities it was greeted with relief by those who had imagined that their island might already have been under the enemy's heel. By others, separated from loved ones, widowed or orphaned by the war's endless demands, it marked just one more milestone of loneliness or despair.
But in Cornwall, and in the seaport of Falmouth in particular, it was hailed as a time of thanksgiving, a just reward for the hardships and dangers of darker days. Inland, the patchwork of lush fields and red hedgerows, the rolling hills with their scattered sheep and contented cattle, all were visible evidence of survival, a sure belief in the future.
In the town itself the atmosphere was almost one of celebration, for although Falmouth was small, it drew its heritage, from the sea and the ships and men who came, and went on the tides. The long generations of sailors, who had been St. Anthony's Beacon not as a mere welcome but as a first sight of-home, had a true understanding of wider affairs and had done much to influence them.
Even the news was better, as if the coming warmth and the clear skies had at last brought a promise, if not a sight, of victory. Only that week the couriers had shouted the tidings in the narrow streets and along the busy waterfront. It was not just a rumour, but something to fire the most doubting heart.
Lord Howe had fought and defeated a French fleet in the Atlantic in a battle already known as 'The Glorious First of June'. It had been like a tonic. After the setbacks and reverses born of unpreparedness and over-confidence in high places, it was exactly what was needed. Even Hood's failure to hold Toulon six months earlier seemed to shrink in importance, as if it too was just one of winter's forgotten hazards.
Whatever had gone before was history as far as the people of Falmouth were concerned. England was ready, and if necessary would fight until the end of time to break the French tyrant once and for all.
New names and fresh ideas were springing up every day to sweep away the old and the hidebound. Names like Saumarez and Hardy, Collingwood and the young Captain Nelson whose deeds had already gripped the imagination of a nation.
But Falmouth did not have to look beyond its own limits to find a name to applaud. And on this particular day many had ridden in from outlying villages and farms, and even some of the small coastal craft had stayed in port instead of earning their keep, so that their masters could join the crowd outside the old grey church of King Charles the Martyr.
It was not just another sea officer, but one of their own sons who was getting married, a man whose family name was as much a part of Falmouth as the stones of the church or the sea at the foot of Pendennis Point. The Bolitho family had always been good for an exciting yam during the dark winter months, and this much-discussed marriage was as unusual and exciting as anything from their past exploits.
The girl was very beautiful, and had arrived in Falmouth in the middle of a snowstorm. Few had actually seen her,
but it was said she regularly walked above the wall of the Bolitho house watching the sea and searching for the one ship which never seemed to come.
Now the waiting was over, and Richard Bolitho was back. Even the taverns emptied as he walked to the church, and people cheered and called his name, although many had never laid eyes on him before.
But he was a symbol, and he ivas one of their own. That was more than enough.
To the man in question that particular day passed in a whirl of vague pictures and excited voices. Of last-minute instructions and conflicting advice. Only certain instances stood out with any sort of clarity, and they seemed to be happening to someone else, as if he was just one more of the onlookers.
Like the first moment of real peace when he had sat stiffly in the front pew, knowing that every person in the crowded church was watching him, yet unable to turn. and face them.
He had felt like a child, lost and confused, and the next second older than time itself. Everything seemed different, and even Herrick had looked like a stranger in his new captain's uniform.
He had wanted to peer at his watch, but had seen Walmsley, the old rector, looking at him severely, and had decided against it.
Poor Herrick. He seemed as surprised at his promotion to captain as he was confused by the new relationship it had presented. Bolitho had seen him glancing nervously at the line of wall plaques near the pulpit, and the record of Bolitho's ancestors stretching back in time. The last one was small and plain. It merely stated, `Lieutenant Hugh Bolitho. Born 1742. Died 1782.' And he found time to wonder what Herrick would say if he knew the truth about his brother. Somewhere on the other side of the world Hugh might be thinking about it, too, even smiling at the macabre joke which life had played on him.
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