Colours Aloft!

by Alexander Kent

  “Shallows ahead! Fine on the starboard bow!”

  “Hell’s teeth!” Hallowes yelled. “Stand by to let go the anchor!”

  Okes said in a harsh whisper, “Belay that, sir! We’ll swing round an’ strike if we does!”

  Hallowes sounded confused, “If you believe—”

  But Okes was already acting and thinking. “Let ’er come up a point! Steady as she goes!” He must have cupped his hands, Bolitho thought as his voice boomed along the deck, “Set the jib, Thomas!”

  “Here we go again.” Stayt sounded dangerously cool. “Shallows, the lookout said. I can see breakers, for Christ’s sake.” He added, “Forgive me, sir. I am not used to this.”

  Bolitho lifted his chin as if to see some light beneath his bandage. There was only darkness.

  “Nor I.”

  Okes barked, “Now, lee helm!”

  Bolitho heard several shouts and a clatter of rigging as, with a fierce jerk, Supreme surged into a bar. Gear torn loose in the one-sided fight rolled about the deck and a four-pounder reared up on its trucks as if it had come to life. The grinding, shaking motion continued for what seemed like an age, with Okes coaxing his helmsmen or throwing an occasional instruction to his petty officers.

  The shaking stopped and after a while a voice called, “Pumps are still holding it, sir!”

  Stayt said between his teeth, “A damned miracle. There were rocks an arm’s length abeam but we hit only sand!”

  “Deep six!” The leadsman must have been nearly hurled from his precarious perch, Bolitho thought. But they were through.

  “Loose tops’l!”

  Once in open water nothing could catch the cutter even with her damaged hull.

  Men were calling to one another, the fear and the danger forgotten or put aside for this moment in their lives.

  Stayt said, “Our surgeon will know what to do, sir. As soon as we sight—”

  He broke off and gasped, “It can’t be!”

  The lookout called, “Sail, sir! Fine on th’ weather bow!”

  Bolitho heard Stayt murmur. “It’s the frigate, sir.”

  Bolitho was almost glad he could not see their stricken faces. The French captain had not been so overconfident that he had waited around the headland. While Hallowes’ men had toiled at their oars, the Frenchman had spent his night clawing to windward and towards the bluff where he had first appeared. Now he held the wind-gage and was sweeping down on them, with only his braced topsails visible against the dawn horizon.

  Bolitho did not need Stayt to describe it. He could see the hopelessness of it as if he were seeing it through Hallowes’ eyes.

  Another mile and they could have lifted their coat-tails and run from the frigate’s guns. But they were still on a lee shore despite the change of wind, and the two vessels were converging on some invisible rendezvous. No escape this time.

  Hallowes shouted, “Run up the Colours, Thomas! Have the guns loaded and run out!”

  As men ran to obey Bolitho was conscious of the other silence. No yells or threats, certainly not a cheer. Men facing certain death could still work well, but their minds would be elsewhere, seeking refuge with a memory, which moments ago had been a hope.

  “Bankart!”

  “Present, sir!”

  “Go below and fetch my coat and hat.”

  Filthy and bloody, but he was still their admiral and would be damned if they should see him already beaten.

  Crash—crash—crash. The frigate was already firing some of her forward guns. Balls hurled waterspouts into the air or ricocheted across the sea in short, fierce spurts.

  Bolitho heard Okes murmur, “Will you fight, sir?”

  “Would you have me strike?” Hallowes sounded calm, or was he beyond that?

  More shots made the air quiver and Bolitho heard a ball crash down close by, the water tumbling across the weather shrouds like lead shot.

  “Bring her up a point, Mr Okes!” Hallowes was drawing his sword. Bolitho touched his own and wondered what would become of it. He would fling it into the sea if he was given time and life to do so.

  Another series of bangs made Stayt swear under his breath and a ball slapped through a sail and parted a stay like a piece of cotton.

  “On the uproll!”

  Stayt said fiercely, “He’s no chance, sir! Most of his pop-guns won’t even bear yet!”

  Bolitho said, “It is his way. There is nothing else now.”

  “Fire!”

  The air cringed as the four-pounders recoiled inboard on their tackles, their explosions almost blanketed as the frigate fired yet again.

  The deck jumped and wood splinters flew over the cowering gun crews.

  Then a second salvo tore overhead and a man fell kicking and screaming into the sea alongside. Supreme was moving so fast despite her torn canvas that the man was soon lost far astern.

  “How is it now?”

  Stayt said tonelessly, “Lighter, sir.” He winced as more balls slammed close alongside and one hit the bows with a terrible jerk. Torn rigging drifted down from aloft and trailed from the spars like shabby banners.

  The gun crews did not look up but sponged out, rammed home fresh charges and tamped down their shot, because it was what they were trained to do, if necessary until death itself.

  More shots struck the hull, and Bolitho said, “She can’t take much more.”

  “Sail to lee’rd, sir!”

  Men gaped at each other, not understanding, unable to judge anything in the ear-shattering din of cannon fire.

  Stayt shouted, “It’s Rapid, sir!” He almost shook Bolitho’s arm. “She’s catching the sun right now, sir! She’s hoisted a signal! By God, the squadron must be here!”

  Another explosion rocked the deck and men screamed as splinters scythed them down. It must have been a full broadside for someone yelled with disbelief, “The Frenchie’s goin’ about! The bastards are runnin’ for it! You showed ’em, Cap’n!”

  But Stayt said bitterly, “Hallowes is down, sir.” He took Bolitho’s arm. “That last bloody broadside.”

  “Take me to him.”

  The seamen had been cheering at this impossible intervention but now fell silent as their blind admiral was led aft to where Hallowes was being held by Okes and the master’s mate.

  Bolitho murmured, “How bad is it?”

  Stayt swallowed hard. “Both his legs, sir.”

  Bolitho was guided to Hallowes’ side.

  Hallowes said in a strong voice, “I didn’t strike! Given the chance—” He broke off and cried out, “Help me!” Then mercifully he died.

  Bolitho had been holding his hand and felt it die. He lowered it to the deck and said, “Given the chance. That was the measure of this man’s courage.” He was helped to his feet and turned to where he knew Okes was waiting.

  “Supreme is yours, Mr Okes. You’ve more than earned her, and I’ll see that your appointment is confirmed if it is the last order I give.”

  “Rapid is heaving-to, sir.” That was Stayt.

  But that was all part of something else. It did not seem to belong. Here there was only this moment and the pain.

  “Take good care of her.”

  “I—I will, sir. It’s just that I didn’t want, didn’t expect—”

  Bolitho tried to smile. “It is your moment now, Mr Okes. Seize it.” He felt the pain grinding into his eyes again and knew they were all watching him. He said, “Never fear, Mr Okes, Supreme has a fine new commander, and she will fight again.”

  Okes stared after him as Stayt and Sheaffe guided the bandaged admiral to the bulwark.

  Then he said brokenly, “Aye, sir, an’ please God, so will you.”

  8 THE FIRE STILL BURNS

  AS Argonaute’s anchor cable took the strain men were already hoisting out boats while others were mustered into a landing party. Icarus had dropped anchor too, and even without a telescope Keen could see the busy activity on her upper deck and gangway.

  The island lo
oked so peaceful, he thought. It would be sunset in an hour and he needed to get a landing force of Royal Marines ashore with another detachment from Houston’s ship in case any French were still present.

  He removed his hat and rubbed his forehead. Could so much have happened in a single day?

  He looked across at the anchored brig Rapid, with the listing and scarred cutter lashed alongside.

  Why had he sent Rapid to find Bolitho? Instinct, a sense of danger? It had almost been too late. Perhaps it was too late. He thought of her young commander as he had described the scene, the frigate turning away when one more broadside would have finished what she had begun. Quarrell had said simply in his Isle of Man dialect, “I knew I couldn’t fight the Frenchie, sir, so I hoisted Enemy in sight as Sir Richard once did, and the enemy took the trick as fact and made off. But for it, Supreme and my own command would have been on the bottom!” His voice hardened. “I would not have hauled down my colours with the admiral out there watching us, no more than poor John Hallowes did.”

  Keen recalled the shock when he had seen Bolitho being hoisted up the side on a boatswain’s chair, something he would always refuse even in bad weather. The whole ship had held her breath, or so it seemed. Keen had wanted to run across, to take hold of him, but some last warning had told him that for Bolitho the moment of return had almost broken him.

  It fell to Allday who had stepped past the marines and watching officers to take Bolitho’s elbow and say in an almost untroubled voice, “Welcome aboard, sir. We was a mite worried, but now you’re back, so there’s an end to it.”

  As they had walked past, Keen had seen Allday’s face and had known his demeanour was a lie.

  All day they had continued to the watering place, with the squadron’s surgeons aboard Supreme doing what they could.

  Keen gripped the nettings and stared at the streaks of coralcoloured cloud. Calm, storm, gale and bright sunlight. It changed like the pages in a book.

  Paget joined him and touched his hat. “Shall we rig awnings, sir?”

  “No. We will begin to take on water tomorrow at first light. I want, no, I need to be out of this place quickly. I intend to join the squadron without delay. My bones tell me that things are moving fast.”

  Paget eyed him doubtfully but chose his words with care. Nearly everyone knew how the captain felt about Bolitho.

  He said, “It may be serious, sir. If he is blind—”

  Keen swung on him angrily. “Damn you, how would you know?” He relented just as swiftly. “That was unforgivable. I am tired but so is everyone else.” He nodded. “I know it must be faced. As soon as Supreme is ready I will send her south to Malta. Her wounded can be cared for. I shall make my report for the admiral there. He will be concerned about his convoys, no doubt.” He glanced at Paget’s impassive face. He is wondering if I am going to put her aboard for Malta.

  But Paget said, “It is a bitter blow.”

  Keen turned away. “Call me when the Royals are ready to leave.” He hurried aft past the immobile sentry.

  It was like a group painting. Stayt, still in his stained coat, sitting on the stern bench with a goblet between his fingers. Ozzard slowly polishing the table which did not need it, and Allday standing quite motionless as he stared at the old sword which he had returned to its rack. Yovell was slumped by Bolitho’s charts.

  Keen glanced at the sleeping compartment and thought of the girl in there with Tuson. The surgeon had asked for her to assist him; he did not explain why.

  When Keen had gone to her she had exclaimed, “Of course! I had no idea what had happened!” No tears, not a trace of hesitation. She had been in there for most of the day.

  Keen asked, “Anything?”

  Stayt made to rise but Keen waved him down. The flaglieutenant replied wearily, “I think the bandage is replaced, sir. There were splinters as well as sand.” He sighed. “I fear the worst.”

  Keen took a glass from Ozzard and swallowed it quickly. It could have been brandy or beer, he was too concerned to notice. It would be up to him to decide what to do. The other captains would obey, but would they trust him? It might take an age before Supreme reached Malta or they joined with the other ships of the squadron. How could Bolitho remain here? Suffering and fretting, destroying himself with each agonizing day.

  To send him to Malta would mean losing another ship. It was brutal, but a fact which Bolitho would have been the first to emphasize.

  The sentry called, “Officer-of-th’-Watch, sir!” Even his voice was hushed.

  The lieutenant hovered in the doorway. “First lieutenant’s respects, sir. I am to inform you that the boats are ready. Signal from Icarus, sir, asking permission to proceed.”

  At any other time Keen would have smiled. Captain Houston was always trying to be a jump ahead of the flagship.

  But not this time. “Signal Icarus to await orders!” He saw the lieutenant flinch and tried again. “I am sorry, Mr Phipps. My compliments to the first lieutenant and I shall come up in a moment.” The youthful lieutenant had been a midshipman in Keen’s Achates. Keen eyed him sadly. “Yes, it is true about Lieutenant Hallowes. He died bravely, I’m assured. I know you were his friend.”

  The ex-midshipman withdrew. He was still too young to shrug off grief and it showed.

  “Boys, all boys.” Keen realized he had spoken aloud. He said, “I shall return as soon as the boats are gone. Come for me if you hear anything.” He glanced at Allday’s broad shoulders. “Anything at all.”

  Stayt stood up and walked to the door. “The same for me.”

  Allday turned slowly and looked at his companions.

  “I should have been there with him, y’see.”

  Yovell took off his glasses. “There was nothing you could have done, man.”

  Allday was not hearing him. “By ’is side. Like always. I must speak with my lad about it.”

  Ozzard said nothing but polished all the harder.

  Allday said, “He should have let me kill that bloody mounseer up there on deck when I had the chance.”

  He spoke so quietly it was all the more fearful to watch him.

  Yovell suggested, “Have a tot of rum.”

  Allday shook his head. “When it’s over. When I know. Then I’ll drink a bloody keg of it.”

  Bolitho lay very still in the cot, his arms at his sides. He was not relaxed and every muscle in his body seemed to be stretched taut.

  How long was it? Everything merged and overlapped in his mind. The cutter, the sounds from the wounded, then being half carried into a boat and a voice he thought he recognized saying, “Attention in the boat there!”

  What a sight he must have been. Then more hands, some gentle, others less so, as he was hoisted into a boatswain’s chair and hauled up the ship’s side like a piece of cargo.

  Tuson had spoken only to identify himself and had got to work with his examination. They had cut away his clothes, and someone had dabbed and cleaned his face and throat before applying something to the scars which stung like nettles.

  Tuson had left the dressing until last. Feet had moved round the cot, and Bolitho had felt the edge of his scissors clipping carefully at the bandage.

  He had asked, “What time is it?”

  The surgeon had answered severely, “Please desist from talking, sir.”

  Then Tuson had said, “Hold that mirror. That’s right. I want you to reflect the sunlight from the open port when I say so.”

  It was only then that Bolitho had realized that the girl was there helping Tuson.

  He had made to protest but she had touched his face, her hand surprisingly cool.

  “Easy, sir. You’re not the first man I’ve seen.”

  The bandage had come away and Bolitho had almost cried out as Tuson’s strong fingers had probed around his eyes and rolled up the lids. It was agonizing and he heard the girl exclaim, “You’re hurting him!”

  “He’s already hurt! Now, girl, the mirror!”

  Bolitho had felt
the sweat running down his chest and thighs, like a fever as the pain scraped into his very sockets. It had been a blurred, jumbled nightmare, punctuated by sharp, raw probes from some instrument.

  The girl had stood beside the cot with the mirror, and another held his head firmly like a vice as the torture continued. Bolitho had tried to blink, but could not feel his eyelids move. But there was light, red and pink, and shadows which he knew were people.

  Tuson had said, “Enough.” The light faded as the mirror was removed. Then a new bandage had been carefully tied; it had been soft and damp, and after the probing and the pain it was almost soothing.

  That must have been several hours ago. Twice more the bandage had been removed and changed, with more agonizing manipulation and some oily liquid which had at first made his eyes sting worse than before. Then the pain had eased.

  When he had asked Tuson about the liquid Tuson had said offhandedly, “Something I picked up in the Indies, sir. Useful at times like these, really.”

  Bolitho listened to the girl’s voice. It made him think of Falmouth, and the thought made his eyes smart all the more.

  She said, “I don’t know how you can work in this light, sir.”

  Tuson replied, “It’s far better than I’m used to.” He rested his hand on Bolitho’s arm. “You must rest.” A sheet was pulled over his nakedness and Tuson added, “I see that you have gained a few honourable scars for King and Country, sir.”

  To the girl he said, “You’d better go and get some food inside you.”

  “I’ll come if you need me, sir.”

  Bolitho raised an arm over the cot and turned his head towards the door.

  She came to him and took his hand in hers. “Sir?”

  Bolitho barely recognized his own voice. “I just want to thank you—”

  She squeezed his hand. “After what you’ve done for me?”

  She seemed to run from the cabin and Tuson said heavily, “Fine girl.”

  Bolitho lay back in the cot and pictured the deckhead as he had seen it each morning.

  “Well?”