Colours Aloft!

by Alexander Kent

  Bolitho clutched his bandage. He had seen some flashes through it. Not much. Like lightning through a curtain. It was something.

  A few musket shots whined overhead and one hit the hull. Half dazzled by the guns, the officers and lookouts were now finding it hard to locate the enemy’s boats.

  Bolitho said, “What do you see?”

  Bankart replied, “One o’ th’ boats is ’ead on, sir. Comin’ straight for us, starboard bow.”

  Bolitho grasped his fingers around his sword until the pain steadied him. Around him he heard men whispering to one another, the hiss of steel as cutlasses were drawn, boarding pikes handed to the gun crews.

  “Fire as you bear!”

  Again and again the four-pounders blasted the night apart, the grape ripping across the water like lethal hail. But none found a mark.

  Bankart said excitedly, “I saw th’ Frogs’ boat in the flashes, sir!”

  Bolitho twisted his head. Where were the others?

  “Repel boarders!”

  Hallowes cheered like a madman, like the time when he and Adam had boarded the Argonaute.

  “At ’em, Supremes!”

  Bolitho heard the thud of grapnels, screams rising seemingly at his feet, the rasp of steel and several shots, from friends or enemies he could not tell.

  A man cannoned into him and Bankart dragged at Bolitho’s arm.

  “Back, sir! That one’s done for!”

  A voice yelled, “Port quarter, lads!”

  Bolitho gritted his teeth as more shots clanged around him. As he had expected, he heard a boat crash into the stern, the yells and curses of boarders and defenders alike as they came to grips with blades, axes and pikes—there was not time to reload. He was pushed aside and two figures fought one another with Bolitho pressed against the bulwark. At any second he expected to feel the slashing agony of a blade or the thrust of one into his body. A man screamed almost in his face; he could feel his terror, his pain, before a sickening thud silenced him. How often had Allday protected him like that, had driven his cutlass into a man’s head like an axe into a log.

  He exclaimed, “Thank you, Bankart!”

  Stayt said between gasps, “It’s me, sir. Thought you looked surrounded, so to speak.” A pistol exploded at waist-height and Stayt said savagely, “Take that, you bugger.”

  “They’re falling back!”

  Someone raised a cracked cheer, and Bolitho heard men tumbling into a boat, others hurling themselves into the water to escape the maddened English seamen.

  Okes bellowed, “Stand aside, you booby! Let me at that swivel!”

  Bolitho heard the thrash of oars; he knew that if he could see he would be looking down on one of the French boats right alongside.

  Stayt pulled his arm. “Here we go!”

  The swivel gun gave a tremendous crack. For a split second beforehand Bolitho thought he heard someone scream, pleading perhaps as he realized what Okes intended.

  Stayt said quietly, “There can’t be a man left alive there.”

  Bolitho could barely hear him, his ears still cringing from the last explosion.

  A whistle shrilled and he heard Hallowes shout, “Cease firing!” Then, with a break in his voice, “Well done, my Supremes!”

  Stayt said, “We’ve lost a few. Not too many though.”

  “Silence on deck!”

  The sudden quiet was almost worse. Bolitho heard some of the wounded gasping and sobbing. How would they manage without a surgeon?

  Then he heard the distant splash of oars—so there had been another boat, maybe several. But for Sheaffe’s warning they would have swamped the cutter’s defences no matter what it cost them.

  Unable to contain themselves the seamen cheered and cheered again. Bolitho felt the pain returning and wanted to lay his head in his hands. But somehow he knew Stayt was watching him.

  “Get Lieutenant Hallowes for me.” He fought back the need to cry out and asked between gasps, “Where’s Bankart?”

  Over his shoulder Stayt said casually, “Gone somewhere, sir.” It was all he said.

  Hallowes arrived and knelt beside Bolitho. “I am here, sir.

  Bolitho felt for his shoulder. “That was bravely done.”

  Hallowes said huskily, “But for my men—”

  Bolitho shook him gently. “Because they respect you. You led, they responded in the only way they know.”

  Hallowes did not speak for several seconds and Bolitho could guess why. In victory and defeat he had known emotion more than many. Hallowes was just discovering the pride as well as the pain of command.

  Hallowes said, “They’ll be back.”

  “Not tonight. Too costly. Thanks to Sheaffe.”

  Hallowes sounded as if he was grinning. “Your idea, sir, with respect.”

  Bolitho shook his shoulder. He seemed to need a physical contact. Without it he felt completely cut off, a burden.

  “Call him alongside. We may need that boat.”

  He heard the insane bellow of Supreme’s copper foghorn and wondered what Sheaffe and his companion had thought as the fight had exploded on board the cutter.

  Stayt came back and helped Bolitho to seat himself with his back against a small companion-way. Everyone was talking, friends seeking out friends, others sitting in silence, remembering a messmate who had been killed or badly wounded.

  Bolitho knew they would not survive in daylight when the frigate came for them. After their bloody repulse, the French would be out for revenge and give no quarter.

  He felt the other officers standing or squatting near him. Hallowes was in command. What would he do?

  Hallowes asked, “What would you advise, sir?”

  Bolitho held his eyes again, hating the spectacle he must present to these men.

  “We must try to break out.”

  Hallowes sounded relieved. “I was going to suggest that, sir. Strangely enough, in that brief angry fight during which he had not even been a spectator, Bolitho had lost all sense of direction. The headland, the bluff at the end of the bay, even the rocks seemed all jumbled together.

  “Mr Okes?”

  Okes belched and Bolitho smelled rum. He had been having a well-earned wet as Allday would call it.

  The thought touched off Stayt’s words. What had happened to Bankart? He was close by now; he had heard him several times. Was it fear? Everyone was afraid in a fight, but he thought of Allday and tried to shut it from his mind, like something foul and unclean.

  Okes rambled on, unperturbed by his murderous attack with the swivel. “With the Cap’n’s permission, I’ll send the boat for t’other one. We could warp Supreme clear. I think the wind ’as backed, not greatly, but this beauty don’t need that much.”

  Hallowes said, “See to it, Mr Okes. And thank you.”

  Okes strode off and Bolitho pictured his thick legs in their white stockings when he had shot down the running Frenchman.

  He said, “That man is worth a pot of gold.”

  Stayt said, “The others have gone, sir.”

  Bolitho laid back and tried to ignore the pain, to think of something which might distract him. But it was hopeless. If anything it was getting worse and Stayt knew it.

  The flag-lieutenant said quietly, “We could parley with the French, sir. Their surgeon might be able to help.”

  Bolitho shook his head vehemently until Stayt said, “I felt I should speak out, sir. I’ll not mention it again.”

  He stood up and leaned over the bulwark to stare at the blacker mass of land.

  It was spoiled now. The smell of blood and gunpowder was too strong.

  He considered Bolitho’s driving, almost fanatical determination. If only he could sleep and escape from his pain.

  A voice called, “The two boats are comin’, sir!”

  Bolitho stirred and exclaimed, “Your hand, get me up!”

  Stayt sighed. Perhaps the strength which was holding Bolitho together was what they all clung to.

  They would so
on know.

  There was something unreal about the way Supreme’s weary company set to and prepared to weigh anchor.

  Bolitho remained by the companion-way and tried to picture the cutter’s deck as, with barely a word of command, the seamen went to their stations. Below the long bowsprit the two boats were already in position with extra hands to throw their weight on the oars if the cutter looked about to go aground.

  Leadsmen whispered together on the forecastle, and behind his back Bolitho heard Okes rumbling to the helmsmen at the tiller bar while Hallowes attended to the shaken-out sails. Bolitho heard someone cursing that a French ball had ripped a hole through the topsail big enough for two men.

  He tried to remain calm as he felt figures brush past him as if he barely existed.

  A petty officer called in a hushed voice, “Anchor’s hove short, sir!”

  Bolitho shivered as a warm breeze rattled the loose rigging and made the deck tilt, as if Supreme was eager to get away.

  Hallowes had told him that the nearest beach was about half a cable away. The French were bound to have left men there. They would soon know what Hallowes was trying to do.

  Okes said, “Stand by!”

  Hallowes called, “Ready! Two more men on the larboard braces!”

  “Anchor’s aweigh, sir.”

  Bolitho craned forward and tried to put a picture to every new sound. The anchor being winched home and made fast to its cathead, loose or severed lines being flung aside to leave the deck clear, almost the whole company was now employed either in the boats or in the business of making sail when required.

  If they had to fight, they would be lucky if they could loose off a single gun in time.

  Okes hissed, “Helm down, boy!” The tiller creaked, and Bolitho heard a sail slap impatiently as the wind plucked at it.

  A man cried out with shrill urgency, but his voice was muffled, far away, and Bolitho knew he was one of the badly wounded who had been carried below to die. The cry rose to a higher pitch, and Bolitho heard a seaman hauling on a halliard nearby utter a terrible curse, urging this unknown sailor to die and get it over with. The cry stopped, as if the man had heard the curse. For him at least it was over.

  “Let ’er pay off!” Okes raised his voice as the cutter gathered way, and the oars of the two boats ahead of her thrashed the sea like wings. The lines would be lifting from the water as the gig and jolly-boat took the strain of the two. They had steerage way, not much, but Okes sounded breathless, confident, “Good. Warmly done, lads!”

  Hallowes said, “We have to use whatever passage we can, sir.”

  Bolitho had not heard him approach.

  Hallowes continued, “I’ve a party by the anchor to let go if we get into trouble.” He seemed to chuckle. “More trouble, that is.”

  Stayt asked, “How long?”

  Hallowes said, “As long as it takes!” Bolitho pictured him looking everywhere as his command edged painfully ahead at a walking pace. The pumps thudded and creaked and Bolitho guessed that Supreme had been badly damaged and was taking a lot of water.

  The leadsman called, “By th’ mark five!”

  Bolitho recalled when he had been about twelve and in his first ship. Like little Duncannon, he thought. Too young to die. But he remembered watching the leadsmen sounding their way through a sea mist off Land’s End, while the upper yards and wet sails of the big eighty-gun Manxman had been out of sight from the deck. Skilled seamen, like those who were sounding now, their hard fingers feeling the marks on their lines or guessing the depths in between.

  “Deep six!”

  That was plenty of water for the cutter even with her bilges filling from several shot holes.

  The French would know now, Bolitho thought, not that they could do much about it. The clank of pumps and the occasional cry from the leadsman would mark their slow and precarious passage better than anything.

  Stayt waited for Hallowes to go aft and said, “She may be small, sir, but in these waters she feels like a leviathan.”

  There was a splash alongside and Bolitho knew it was the dead seaman being dropped overboard. No prayer, no ceremony to mark his brief passing. But if they lived through this he would be remembered, even by the ones who had cursed his reluctance to die.

  Bolitho cupped his bandaged eyes in his fingers and shook as more pain tested his resistance. It came in waves, slashing down his defences like a bear’s paw.

  How could he go on like this? What would he do?

  “By th’ mark seven!” The other leadsman called, “Sandy bottom!”

  They had primed their leads with tallow which would pick up tiny fragments from the seabed. Anything helped when you were feeling your way.

  Bolitho dragged his hands down to his sides. Like a blind man.

  Hallowes was speaking with Okes again. “I think we might recover the boats and make sail, eh, Mr Okes?”

  Okes answered but Bolitho could not hear. But he sounded doubtful. Thank God Hallowes was not stupid enough to ignore Okes’ skill.

  He said, “Very well.” The deck leaned slightly and he added brightly, “The wind is backing, by God! Luck is with us for a change!”

  After an hour, which felt like an eternity, the gig fell back and there was a quick change of crew. The returning hands were utterly exhausted and fell to the deck like dead men. Even Okes’s promise of rum did not move them.

  Next it was the jolly-boat and Bolitho heard Sheaffe speaking to the Supreme’s only master’s mate.

  The midshipman came aft and said, “I have reported back, sir.”

  It sounded so formal, so empty of what the youngster had done, that Bolitho forgot about his own pain and despair.

  “That was a fine piece of work, Mr Sheaffe. But for you we would have been swamped by the enemy.” He heard Sheaffe dragging on his shirt, his teeth chattering. It was not the night air, it was the sudden realization, the shock of what he had carried out.

  “Go and rest. You’ll be needed again before long.”

  Sheaffe hesitated and then sat on the deck near Bolitho.

  He said, “If this does not disturb you, sir?”

  Bolitho looked towards his voice. “Your company is welcome, believe me.” He leaned against the companion-way and tried not to anticipate the next wave of pain.

  Sheaffe had his knees drawn up to his chin and was instantly asleep.

  Bankart crouched down and whispered, “I’ve brought you some wine, sir.” He waited for Bolitho’s fingers to grip the goblet. “Mr Okes sent it.”

  Bolitho sipped it. Strong, rich Madeira. He drank it slowly, let it run through him, restore him. He could not remember when he had last eaten; perhaps that was why the wine seemed so potent. He touched his face below the bandage. Several cuts and some dried blood. He needed a shave badly. He tried to smile. Allday would soon see to that. Big and powerful like an oak, yet he was as gentle as a child when need be. Both Bolitho and Keen had good reason to remember it.

  “What is it like to discover your father, Bankart?”

  The question seemed to shock him. “Well, it’s fine, sir, it really is, like. My mother’d never tell me, y’see, sir. I always knew ’e were in the Navy, sir.”

  “That was why you volunteered?”

  There was a long pause. “I suppose it were, sir.”

  Bankart poured him another goblet of wine, and when Sheaffe was roused to take charge of the jolly-boat again and take up the tow Bolitho barely stirred.

  Okes left his helmsmen and walked over to the companionway. He was satisfied with what he saw.

  Hallowes asked, “Is he asleep at last?”

  Okes fumbled with a red handkerchief and blew his nose loudly.

  “Aye, sir. So ’e should, arter what I put in ’is Madeira!”

  Bolitho felt a hand on his arm and twisted round with sudden fear as his senses returned.

  Stayt said, “First light, sir.”

  Bolitho touched his bandage and tried not to show his pain.

>   “How do I look?”

  Stayt sounded as if he was smiling. “I’ve seen you somewhat better, sir.” He took Bolitho’s hand. “I’ve got a bowl of warm water and a towel of sorts.”

  Bolitho nodded, grateful and ashamed as he dabbed his mouth and face with the wet towel. Such a simple thing and it was unlikely that Stayt realized how it had moved him.

  “Tell me what’s happening?”

  Stayt thought about it. “I reckon we’re about a mile from where we set out, sir.” He sounded neither bitter nor even surprised. “We’re in some shallows at the moment—” He broke off as the leadsman called, “By th’ mark three!”

  Bolitho forgot his pain and dragged himself to his feet. Three fathoms of water and a mile from their last anchorage. He felt the wind on his cheek and heard the splash of boats as his head rose above the bulwark. One of the coxswains was calling out the time for the stroke. The oarsmen must be worn out, he thought.

  “Is it really light?”

  Stayt said, “I can see that bluff, sir, and just make out the horizon. Sky’s a bit angry. Could be in for a blow, I’m thinking.”

  Hallowes was calling, “Rouse the hands! I’m going to make sail.”

  Okes replied, “No choice, sir. Them boats are useless now.”

  The deck lifted on a swell and Bolitho felt a catch in his throat. The open sea was waiting for them.

  The cranking pumps, the tattered sails, nothing would stop them once they found sea room. Room to bustle in.

  Stayt was watching him and saw him give a small smile.

  Hallowes said, “Recall the boats. Be ready to shake out the mains’l! Get the topmen to report on damage now that they can see it!” He was speaking quickly, sharply.

  Bolitho had known such moments many times. Covering doubts and uncertainties, to show confidence when there was little.

  A call shrilled and someone gave a mocking cheer as the lines to the boats were slacked off and the oarsmen slumped over their looms.

  “By th’ mark five!”

  Hallowes rubbed his hands. “We’ll show ’em!”

  Who, Bolitho wondered?

  Men charged past him hauling on tackles as first one boat and then the other was hoisted into position on the tier.

  The cutter seemed to stir herself and Bolitho wished he could watch as men swarmed to their stations. Somewhere overhead a sail cracked out noisily in the damp air.