And there was Telemachus. As Wakeful charged past the enemy’s poop, they all saw the other cutter tacking around to follow the corvette on the same course.
It took longer to bring Wakeful about and under control again. With so much sail, it was like trying to slow a runaway team of horses. The corvette lay directly ahead of them, with the cutters using wind and rudder to hold station on either quarter as if they were escorting her rather than forcing another engagement.
The corvette’s captain seemed unwilling to wear ship and confront them. But the cutters were unable to damage the enemy vessel without overhauling her. And the next time the French captain would be ready.
Bolitho watched Paice manoeuvring his cutter closer and closer, the occasional stab of musket fire exchanged between the ill-matched vessels. Telemachus had been badly mauled, and Bolitho had seen there was a hole punched through her hull, just a few feet above the waterline, before she had changed tack to continue her attack.
Sunlight flashed across the corvette’s stern-windows and Bolitho raised his glass to read the name painted on her counter.
La Foi. So the girl’s figurehead must be Faith. In the stained lens he saw heads moving on the corvette’s poop, the flash of muskets, an officer pointing with his speaking trumpet. He also saw the massive scars on her lower hull where one of Paice’s carronades had found its mark. A foot or so higher and—he stiffened as two of the stern-windows shattered and pitched into the vessel’s frothing wake.
For one more moment he thought a lucky shot had hit the stern, although reason told him that none of Paice’s guns would yet bear.
Then he stared with sick realisation as another window was smashed out, and the black muzzle of a nine-pounder thrust into view.
“Signal Telemachus to stand away!” Bolitho had to seize Queely’s arm to make him realise what was happening. “They’ll blow him out of the water!”
But Wakeful was a good cable’s length astern of Paice’s cutter, and nobody aboard was bothering to look and see what she was doing. Paice had at last realised what was happening. Bolitho saw the yards coming round, the mainsail suddenly free and flap-ping wildly as Paice let her sway over while she took the wind across her beam.
Bolitho watched anxiously. Paice was doing what he thought was best. Lose the wind, but stand away from the onrushing Wakeful and so avoid a collision.
Bolitho snapped, “We’ll engage to larboard!” He did not want to take his eyes from the two vessels ahead, but needed to watch the mast and bulging topsail. Wakeful was tearing through the waves; the mast must be curving forward under such a pressure and weight of canvas and spars.
He turned his head, and at that very moment La Foi fired her hastily-rigged stern-chaser.
Queely shouted, “More grape!” He wiped his eyes wildly. “She’s still answering, sir!”
Telemachus was certainly under command, but her sails were pockmarked with holes, and, as he lifted his glass again, Bolitho saw bodies on her deck, a man on his knees as if he was praying, before he too fell lifeless.
He wanted to look away but watched as two thin threads of scarlet ran from the washports to merge with the creaming sea alongside. Like seeing a ship bleeding to death, as if there was no human hand aboard.
Wakeful’s men were staring over the bulwark, the gun crews from the opposite side hurrying to join their comrades for the next embrace.
Bolitho said, “It’ll take time to load and train that gun with makeshift tackles.” He looked at Queely, his gaze calm. “We must be up to her before she can use it on us.”
They bore down on Telemachus and Bolitho saw men working like demons at halliards and braces, others clawing their way up broken ratlines to discard or repair damaged rigging.
He saw a lieutenant amongst some fallen rigging and knew it was Triscott. Then right aft near the tiller, Paice’s tall figure, with one hand thrust inside his coat. He might have injured it, Bolitho thought, but it was somehow reassuring to see him there, in his place. As Wakeful swept past Bolitho saw Paice turn and look across the tumbling waves, then very slowly raise his hat. It was strangely moving, and some of Wakeful’s men raised a ragged cheer.
Allday stepped nearer, his cutlass over his shoulder while he watched the other ship’s stern rise above the larboard bow. He had been a gun-captain himself aboard the old Resolution before he had met up with Bolitho. But then Allday had turned his hand to most things.
He knew better than most that if they overhauled the French ship they would be destroyed by her main battery. At close quarters like this, Wakeful would be pounded to fragments in minutes. Their only hope of delaying the corvette long enough to be worthwhile was to hit her with a carronade with no chance of a miss. For if they remained on the enemy’s quarter the improvised stern-chaser would finish them just as brutally.
He saw a musket fire from the French ship and heard a spent ball slap into the deck nearby. In minutes, each ball could be deadly, and he stood close to Bolitho, just so that he would know he was here when it happened.
Bolitho said, “I would that we were in Tempest, old friend.” He spoke quietly, so that Allday could barely hear him above the chorus of wind and sea.
He added in the same unemotional voice, “I shall always remember her.”
Allday watched him grimly. Who did he mean? Tempest or his lady, Viola?
He heard Queely shouting to his gun crews, saw a terrified ship’s boy dash past with fresh charges for the six-pounders, and one of the seamen of the boatswain’s party staring at the deck, his lips moving as though in prayer, or repeating someone’s name.
He saw all and none of it. Bolitho had shared something with him, as he always did.
Allday lifted his chin and saw a movement in the corvette’s stern-windows. It was almost over. He stared up at the sky. Please God, let it be quick!
Lieutenant Andrew Triscott tore his eyes from Wakeful ’s straining sails and made himself turn inboard again. He had thought he was prepared for this, had trained himself to accept the inevitable when it came. Instead he could only stare at the utter chaos on Telemachus’s deck, fallen rigging and scorched pieces of canvas, and worst of all the blood which ran unchecked into the scuppers. He had never believed there could be so much blood.
Faces he had come to know, some dead, others screwed up in agony, like strangers.
He heard Paice’s strong voice forcing through the noise and confusion. “Clear those men from the guns!”
Triscott nodded, still unable to speak. He clung to Paice’s strength like a drowning man groping for a piece of flotsam in the sea. He saw Chesshyre by the tiller, two helmsmen down, one gasping with pain as his companion tied a rough bandage around his arm to staunch the bleeding. Triscott retched helplessly. The second man was headless, and he saw some of his blood and bone spattered across Paice’s breeches.
The boatswain swam into Triscott’s blurred vision, his face smeared with powder smoke, his eyes like coals.
“You all right, sir?” He did not wait for an answer. “I’ll muster some spare ’ands!”
Triscott stared round, half-expecting to find nobody alive, but Paice’s powerful voice and the burly boatswain’s angry gestures with a boarding axe brought them from cover, while others dragged themselves from beneath fallen sails and cordage. Obedient even in the face of death, from fear or from habit, or because they did not know how else to act.
Triscott lurched away from the bulwark and saw some of the bloodied corpses being dropped over the side. The wounded were taken to the main hatch or aft to the companionway, their cries and screams ignored as they were hauled to some kind of safety.
Triscott had seen Paice raise his hat to the other cutter, and wondered how he could stand there, with the ship shaking herself apart around him.
Paice seemed to read his mind from half the deck’s length away.
He shouted, “Stand to the guns again, Mr Triscott! Point the carronades yourself!”
Triscott realised that he w
as still gripping his hanger, the one his father had given him when he had passed for lieutenant.
He saw the gunner’s body being toppled over the side. A dour but dedicated man, who had helped Triscott many times when he had learned the ways of handling the cutter’s weapons. Now he was drifting away from the hull, no longer a face at gun-drill, or yelling threats to his own special party of seamen. Triscott stuffed his fist into his mouth to prevent himself from crying out aloud.
Hawkins rejoined him and said harshly, “It’s up to you, sir.” He regarded him steadily and without sympathy. “We must engage again. Wakeful’s trying to close with the enemy. She’ll never manage unsupported!”
Triscott stared aft, seeking the aid which had always been there.
Hawkins said flatly, “You’ll get no ’elp there, Mr Triscott. ’E’s badly wounded.” He watched his words sink in and added relentlessly, “The master’s as scared as shite, ’e’ll not be much use.” He stood back, forcing himself to ignore the shouts and demands which came from every side. He had to make Triscott understand if only for a moment longer. “ You’re the lieutenant, sir .”
Triscott stared at Paice who was gripping the compass box, one hand still thrust inside his coat. His eyes were tightly shut, his teeth bared as if to bite back the pain. Then he saw the blood which had soaked the left side of Paice’s breeches, all the way from beneath his coat to the deck around him. He had been hit in the side.
Hawkins persisted, “Took a piece of iron the size of three fingers in his ribs. God dammit, I tried to get ’im to let me—” He watched the lieutenant, his voice suddenly desperate. “So act like ’im, sir, even if you does feel like runnin’ to yer mother!”
Triscott nodded jerkily. “Yes. Yes, thank you, Mr Hawkins.” He looked at the watching faces. “We shall follow Wakeful, and attack to—” He hesitated, thinking of the dead gunner. “To lar-board. There’s no time to transfer the carronades this time.”
The boatswain frowned and then touched his arm. “ That’s more like it.” He turned to the others nearby. “The lieutenant says we’ll engage to larboard!” He brandished the axe. “So stand to, lads! Man the braces there!”
From aft Paice watched the sudden bustle, with even injured men limping to their stations, the sudden response as the punctured mainsail tugged at the long boom and filled reluctantly to the wind. He dragged himself to the tiller, the remaining helmsmen moving to give him room.
He gripped the well-worn tiller bar and felt his Telemachus answering him through the sea and rudder. His head dropped; he jerked up his chin, suddenly angry, and doubly determined.
God Almighty, what a bloody mess. He did not know or care if he had spoken aloud. A terrified lieutenant, and a third of his company killed or wounded. Two guns upended, and so many holes in the remaining sails they would be hard put to put about when the worst happened.
He closed his eyes and gasped while the agony lunged through him. Each time it was worse, each one like the thrust of a heated blade. He had bunched his waistcoat and shirt into a tight ball against the wound, and could feel his blood soaking his side and leg. It felt warm while the rest of his body was shaking and icy cold.
“Steady, men!” He peered forward but the compass seemed too misty to read. He said thickly, “Steer for the bugger’s quarter!”
Chesshyre cried, “ Wakeful’s nearly there!”
Paice leaned hard on the tiller and growled, “Get up on your feet, man! D’you want the people to see you cringing like a frightened cur?”
Chesshyre scrambled upright and stared at him wildly. “God damn you!”
“He most likely will!”
He heard Triscott yell, “All loaded, sir!” Paice hoped that nobody else had guessed just how terrified Triscott really was. But his was the true courage, he thought. More afraid of showing fear than of fear itself.
Hawkins hurried toward him, his gaze taking in the blood and Paice’s ashen features.
He said, “ Wakeful’s goin’ to engage, sir! But I reckon the Frogs ’as got their chaser rigged again!”
Paice nodded, for a moment longer unable to speak. Then he asked, “What can you see now, Mr Hawkins?”
Hawkins turned away, his eyes burning. He had served with Paice longer than anyone. He respected him more than any other man, and to see him like this was worse than the stark death which had torn the decks open in a merciless bombardment. Now he could barely see. Hawkins said, “She’s up to ’er starboard quarter!” He slammed his hands together and shouted, “The stern-chaser is runnin’ out, sir!”
The explosions seemed joined as one, the stern-chaser’s sharper note almost lost as Wakeful’s carronade belched fire at point-blank range even as her bowsprit outreached the enemy’s quarter.
Paice asked, “ Well? What’s happened?”
Hawkins said, “Not sure, sir. Wakeful’s payin’ off.” He could not bear to look at Paice. “Their jib and fores’l are shot away.”
“And the enemy—speak up, man!”
Hawkins watched the other vessel. The carronade had blasted away the stern windows and must have completely destroyed the makeshift stern-chaser. But otherwise she seemed intact, with only her foresail in disarray. Some of her hands were swarming aloft, and he saw the corvette begin to change course for the first time.
Then he said with chilled disbelief, “I think ’er steerin’s gone, sir!”
Paice gripped his shoulder and shook him. “Thank God!” He peered along the torn and littered deck. “Ready there?”
Triscott called aft, “Aye, sir!”
Paice forced a grin. “We’ll close with her now, before the buggers can rig new steering-gear!”
Hawkins asked urgently, “Will you let me fix a bandage?”
Their eyes met and Paice said, “You bloody fool. We both know the truth.” Then he grimaced as the pain came back. “But I thank you, and I plead to my Maker that you see another dawn break, Mr Hawkins!”
Hawkins swung away and waved his axe at some unemployed gun crews.
“To me, lads! Stand by to wear ship!”
He thought he heard faint cheering, and when he peered through the drifting smoke he saw Wakeful falling with the wind, temporarily out of control, her forecastle torn and splintered by that last charge of grapeshot.
He turned on his heel and shouted, “They’m cheerin’ you, sir!” Then he waved his hat and yelled to his own men, “ Huzza, lads! A cheer for Wakeful! ”
They probably thought him mad, with death lurking so close. But it helped to save Hawkins’s last reserve of strength. When he had turned aft he had seen that for Paice, victory, like defeat, was already out of reach.
Bolitho crouched on his hands and knees, his mind and ears cringing to the twin explosions. He had felt the massive charge of grapeshot smash into the bows, the screams and yells of men who had been scythed down even as the carronade had crashed inboard on its slide.
Then Allday’s hand was beneath one armpit, lifting him to his feet, and he saw Queely offering him the old sword, which must have been cut from his belt by a single iron splinter. He felt his breeches, the jagged tear. The splinter had been that close.
Then he stared at the enemy’s blackened stern. All windows demolished, the counter stove in like wet felt, the ornate taffrail high overhead splintered and unrecognisable.
Queely said hoarsely, “I think we got her steering, sir!” He looked at him with sudden desperation. “It’s still not enough, is it?”
Bolitho watched the small figures swarming up the corvette’s ratlines. Soon they would have a jury-rig, and be ready to face them once more. He shifted his glance to Wakeful’s foredeck. Six men dead, several more crawling to safety, or being carried to the hatchway. It was a miracle that anyone had survived.
It would take Queely’s men an hour or more to re-rig the foresail and jib, and it was obvious that most of the forward rigging was rendered quite useless.
He watched the corvette turning very slowly, wind, and not
rudder, carrying her off course. At this range she would use her broadside to bombard Wakeful until she followed Snapdragon to the seabed.
Allday exclaimed harshly, “Here comes Telemachus, Cap’n! By God, haven’t they taken enough?”
Bolitho saw the other cutter bearing down on the drifting corvette for another attack, her sails in rags, her bulwark and forecastle looking as if they had been torn and gnawed by some nightmare monster.
He said quietly, “Give them a cheer, Mr Queely. I’d not thought to see such valour this day.”
The cheers echoed across the lively wave crests to the men on the other cutter, and probably to those working aloft aboard La Foi whose captain had ordered his stern-chaser to fire just seconds too late. Men were running aft and shooting towards the oncoming cutter, but once under the corvette’s quarter there was not a single nine-pounder which could be brought to bear.
The two carronades fired within seconds of one another. More debris burst from the stern and up through the deck beyond. The force of the explosion flung men from the gangways, while some even fell from the foresail yard to the deck below.
Bolitho stared until his eyes throbbed. Was it the constant strain, the agony of seeing men cut down, who had never known the savage demands of sea warfare? He seized Queely’s arm. “Is it going?”
Queely nodded, unable to answer. The corvette’s main mast was beginning to topple, held for a while by stays and shrouds until the weight of spars and wind-filled canvas took control. In those few seconds Bolitho saw some of the French sailors who had been sent aloft to free each frozen block by hand, stare down as they realised too late that there was no escape or survival.
Then, with rigging parting like pistol shots, the mast thundered over the side, to be snared by the remaining lines and dragged alongside to make any chance of steering impossible.
Bolitho watched the confusion, and knew that Telemachus’s last shots must have exploited the damage left by Queely’s carronade.
Queely stared along the deck, his eyes wild, hungry for revenge. For Kempthorne and the others who lay dead and dying, for Snapdragon, and for his own command.
With All Despatch Page 29