Colours Aloft!

by Alexander Kent

  As the bows lifted he saw a hint of land for the first time, tilting to larboard as if to slide the ship to windward. He turned to inform Bolitho but said nothing as he saw the vice-admiral standing as before, with Allday close behind him. Bolitho had seen nothing, and Keen was both moved and troubled.

  Allday gave him a brief glance, but it told Keen everything. It said, I shall be here.

  Keen said, “Aloft with you, Mr Griffin, and tell me what you can see.”

  He saw Midshipman Sheaffe and his signals party by the halliards and a huge French Tricolour trailing across the deck.

  Keen took a telescope and climbed into the shrouds. The land was touched with sunlight, but without much substance. They were steering almost parallel with it and about two miles distant. The whole gulf was only ten miles across, and at the end of it the craggy-nosed cape leaned out protectively to make a perfect shelter or anchorage.

  Bolitho called, “Any ships?”

  “None yet, sir.”

  Bolitho sighed. “Bit different from our last commission together at San Felipe, eh?”

  Then he seemed to lift from his mood. “Run up the flag, and then get the t’gallants on her. We shall need all our agility today if we are to be lucky.”

  Keen gestured to the first lieutenant but paused as the voice from the masthead made them all look aloft.

  “Deck there! Ship, dead ahead!”

  Keen stared up until his eyes watered, fretting with impatience until Lieutenant Griffin yelled, “Sail of the line, sir! At anchor!”

  Keen saw the big Tricolour break out from the gaff, while men swarmed up the ratlines to set more canvas.

  The anchored ship was not visible from the deck, but even allowing for Griffin’s telescope they could be up to her within the hour.

  “Steady as she goes, sir! Nor’ by west!”

  Keen heard Bolitho say quietly, “And it seems we are to be lucky after all.”

  By the time the sunlight had reached the upper deck Bolitho could feel the tension rising about him while the lookouts called down their reports. He was torn between asking Keen what he was doing phase by phase or leaving him unimpeded by his questions.

  Keen joined him suddenly and shaded his eyes to look at the set of the sails. Beyond them the clouds had broken up slightly to allow the sun to colour the ship and the sea around it.

  He said, “The Frenchman is anchored by the bow only, not fore and aft.” He let his words sink in so that Bolitho could form his own picture. With the wind still from the south the other ship would be swinging towards them as if on a converging tack, only her larboard bow exposed.

  Keen added, “No sign of excitement. Yet. Mr Griffin says there are craft alongside, a water-lighter for one.”

  Bolitho thought suddenly of Supreme, of Hallowes holding his hand in death.

  “That is very apt.”

  “I intend, with your assent, sir, to pass between her and the land. There is ample depth there. Then we can hold the advantage, and rake her as we cross her bows.” A corner of his mind recorded the hoarse shouts of the gun captains, the harsher tones of the fearsome gunner’s mate Crocker. He was with the first division starboard side. He would enjoy that.

  “Ship, sir! Larboard bow!”

  Keen snatched a glass from Midshipman Hext. Then he said, “Spaniard. One of their corvettes.”

  Stayt murmured, “Having a job to close with us, sir. She’s almost in irons.”

  Keen said, “Watch for her hoist, Mr Sheaffe. She’ll challenge us soon.” He raised his voice. “You, on deck! Keep your eyes on the Frenchman, not on this little pot of paint!” Someone laughed.

  Bolitho said, “My guess is that there’ll be no signal. The Dons won’t want to be too open about their collusion.”

  The little corvette was changing tack, the choppy water seething along her gunports as if she had run aground.

  Beyond her the land looked high and green, a few white specks here and there to mark isolated dwellings.

  There might be a battery, but Bolitho doubted that. The nearest garrison of any size was said to be in Gerona, only twenty miles inland. Enough to deter any would-be invader.

  The small Spanish man-of-war was within a cable’s length now. Bolitho heard the clatter of tackle from Argonaute’s forecastle as an anchor was loosened at its cathead as if they were preparing to drop it. Many eyes must be watching Argonaute from the Frenchman. Her preparations, like her design, would be noted.

  Bolitho fretted at his inability to see. He took a telescope from Stayt and trained it across the nettings. He saw the corvette, watched her heeling over, her red and yellow ensign streaming almost abeam as she came up into the wind. He could ignore the blindness, forget that without the glass he would be helpless again. Tuson would rebuke him severely for straining his good eye. But the surgeon was in his sickbay, waiting for the next harvest.

  Bolitho thought of the girl, her lovely eyes as she had exchanged glances with Keen. Could they ever find happiness? Would they be allowed to?

  Fallowfield growled, “Be God, sir, the wind’s a veerin’!”

  Men ran to braces and halliards again and Keen said, “From the sou’-west by my reckoning, sir.”

  Bolitho nodded, fixing the chart’s picture in his mind. Veering. Lady Luck, as Herrick would have said, was with them.

  Keen shouted, “Be ready to brail up the forecourse, Mr Paget!”

  A thin voice floated across the water from the corvette.

  Bolitho said, “Wave your hat to them!”

  Keen and Stayt waved to the Spaniard, who was being rapidly driven towards the larboard quarter.

  A mile to go. Bolitho gripped the rail and peered through the crossed rigging and straining jibsails. He could see the enemy, angled towards the starboard bow just as Keen had described her.

  Keen glanced meaningly at Paget. “Load, if you please.”

  The order was instantly piped to the decks below and Bolitho could imagine the gun crews toiling with charges and rammers in semi-darkness behind sealed ports, their naked backs already shining with sweat. He had seen and done it so often from the early age of twelve. The men at the guns, the red-painted sides to hide the blood, and here and there an isolated blue and white figure of authority, a lieutenant or a warrant officer.

  It did not seem to take long before each deck had reported ready.

  Bolitho heard Captain Bouteiller of the Royal Marines whispering instructions to Orde, his lieutenant. Like the rest of the Marines, he was crouching out of sight of the enemy. One sign of a scarlet coat would be enough to rouse a hornet’s nest.

  “Take in the forecourse!” Paget sounded hoarse. It had to appear as if they were shortening sail and preparing to drop anchor.

  Bolitho stood away from the rail, his hands clasped behind him. It could not last much longer. One thing was certain, Jobert was not here. He would have been ready to fight as soon as his old flagship was revealed in the dawn light.

  “Five cables, sir!”

  Bolitho felt a trickle of sweat run down to his waist. Half a mile.

  “The Frenchie’s hoisted a signal, sir!”

  That was it. No coded acknowledgement meant instant discovery for what they were.

  Keen yelled, “Belay that order, Mr Paget! Get the t’gan’s’ls on her!”

  Calls shrilled, and high above the decks the topmen spread out on the yards like monkeys to release the extra sails.

  Fallowfield said, “Wind’s steady, sir. Sou’-west. No doubt about it.” He sounded too preoccupied to care about the enemy closing towards the starboard bow.

  “Three cables, sir!”

  Faintly above the din of wind and rigging they heard the urgent blare of a trumpet.

  Voices called from every hand, the anchor was catted again and, as the marine marksmen swarmed up to the fighting-tops with their muskets or manned the swivels there, the rest of the detachment spread themselves along the poop nettings, their weapons already resting on the tightly pack
ed hammocks.

  Keen watched unblinking, gauging the moment, knowing that Bolitho was sharing it, and that Paget was ready to act on each command.

  “Open the ports!”

  Along each deck the port lids lifted on their tackles, like drowsy eyes awakening.

  “God, they’re cutting their cable, sir!”

  Keen bit his lip. Too late. “Run out!”

  Squeaking and rumbling, the Argonaute’s powerful armament poked through the open ports like snouts. The muzzles of the big thirty-two-pounders on the lower gun deck were already lifting or dipping as their captains practised their aim.

  Bolitho took Stayt’s glass again and trained it on the other ship. He saw her fore-topsail breaking free from its yard and men swarming aloft while others crowded the forecastle above the cable. The water-lighter was still lashed alongside, its hull lined with staring faces as Argonaute bore down on them.

  The cable parted and the French two-decker began to fall downwind, more canvas flapping in disarray as men fought to bring her under command.

  “Stand by, starboard battery!”

  Keen’s eyes narrowed in the strengthening sunlight as he waited for the Tricolour to tumble across the deck, and the Red Ensign to break out from the gaff in its place. At the foremast truck Bolitho’s flag flapped stiffly to the wind, and Keen heard one of his midshipmen give a shrill cheer.

  Argonaute’s tapering jib-boom crossed the other ship’s bows barely a cable away.

  Keen lifted his hanger. He heard the grate of a handspike from forward and saw the starboard carronade being inched round; her massive sixty-eight-pound ball would be the first to fire. The rest would shoot as they found the target, not in a full broadside, but deck by deck, pair by pair.

  “As you bear, lads!” The hanger’s blade made a streak of light.

  “Fire!”

  10 RETRIBUTION

  WITHOUT changing tack or altering course one degree Argonaute swept past the drifting French two-decker, her hull jerking violently to each resounding bang. So conscious were the gun captains of this moment that each pair of cannon sounded like a single explosion.

  Bolitho swayed and almost slipped as the deck tilted into another offshore roller. He felt his nostrils flare in the acrid smoke, his ears quake to the thunder of gunfire. The attack was begun by the carronade, but at a range of almost a cable it was more of a gesture than any danger to the enemy.

  Keen wiped his face as the last division of guns recoiled inboard on their tackles and men scampered to sponge out and reload. The Frenchman had been badly mauled, and smoking scars along her tumblehome marked the accuracy of the carefully aimed attack. A few guns fired in return, and one ball smashed into Argonaute’s lower hull like a mailed fist.

  Some of the crews were calling to each other, racing to beat their time, to be the first to run out and be ready to fire again.

  Keen watched narrowly as the Frenchman set her forecourse and then her maintopsail. She was under command, but almost beam-on to sea and wind as she fought to bear up to her attacker.

  He shouted, “Ready! On the uproll, Mr Paget!” He glanced at Bolitho, just a fraction of a second, but he saw him as he always remembered. Straight-backed, facing the enemy yet now unable to see them. “Full broadside!” This might be the only time. He caught a vague glimpse of the Spanish corvette, now well astern, a helpless and astonished spectator.

  More shots hammered alongside and somewhere a man screamed out in agony.

  Keen held out his hanger, his eyes watering again as the sunlight warmed his face.

  “Now!”

  As the whistles shrilled and Argonaute’s topgallant masts began to tilt once more, the whole broadside thundered out with such violence it was like hitting a rock.

  Smoke and charred wads drifted everywhere, but not before Keen had seen the broadside tear across the lessening gap, the wave-crests breaking to the force and the weight of iron.

  He saw the enemy ship shiver, then sway over as the full onslaught smashed into her. Wood and rigging flew in all directions, and the labouring hull was masked by falling fragments and leaping talons of spray.

  “Stop your vents! Sponge out! Load!” Paget’s voice echoed above the wind and the squeal of tackles like a clarion call.

  Allday said in a sudden pause, “We hit ’em, sir! Even her canvas is shot through!” He sounded tense, slightly wild, like men usually are when battle is joined.

  Bolitho held the quarterdeck rail, afraid he might lose his balance again. He thought he had heard the broadside strike home even at this range.

  He said tersely, “Close the distance, Captain Keen!”

  Lieutenant Stayt lowered his telescope and looked at him. He had seen Keen’s quick glance as his mind had registered Bolitho’s sharp formality.

  “Alter course to starboard, Mr Fallowfield!” Keen broke off as several balls crashed into the hull, and some hammocks burst from the forward nettings in a wild tangle, like exultant corpses.

  Keen shouted, “That was chain-shot!” He looked at the sailingmaster. “Close as you can!”

  Men ran to the braces while along the upper deck’s eighteenpounders others worked like demons with handspikes and tackles, training, and holding the enemy firmly in their ports.

  “Fire!”

  The broadside thundered out again, and Bolitho heard someone cheering, like a demented soul in Hell, he thought.

  Allday exclaimed, “Her mizzen’s gone! She’s tryin’ to come about, to save her stern from the Smasher!”

  Bolitho seized a glass and pressed it to his right eye. All the jokes about Nelson at Copenhagen were not so funny now. He saw the hazy outline of the French ship, shortening as Argonaute turned towards her, the bowsprit pointing directly at her poop.

  The other captain had not regained control completely when the second broadside struck and raked his ship from bow to stern. Instead of continuing to turn, she was falling downwind, her afterpart shrouded in fallen spars and canvas, while here and there along her battered side a few guns fired independently, and on her gangway tiny stabbing flashes showed that her marksmen were fighting back.

  “Steady as you go!”

  Keen crouched down to peer through the pall of smoke and straining rigging. The wind had risen; he had to hold the gage or lose all the advantage his attack had gained. He saw the waterlighter tilting over, spilling men and casks into the sea, the hull so pitted with holes it was a wonder it had taken so long. On the opposite, disengaged side, another harbour craft, a big yawl, had cast off, and was probably trying to beat away from her big consort before she shared the lighter’s fate.

  Keen made up his mind. “Mr Fallowfield, lay her on the starboard tack!” The Frenchman was still beam-on to the wind, her progress further hampered by the trailing wreckage of spars and rigging alongside. The shattered lighter was sinking rapidly and he realized that she was still made fast by the bow to the twodecker. Either they had not had time to cast off, or the men so ordered had been scythed down by the last murderous broadside. But Keen had been in enough fights to know how quickly the balance could alter. The French captain had kept his mind above the disaster which had caught him unprepared, and had found time to order his gun crews to load with chain-shot. A well-aimed fusillade could bring down a vital spar—victory and defeat were measured by such delicate distinctions.

  Orders were yelled and men hauled at the braces yet again. Bolitho felt a shot fan past him, heard a crack and something like a fierce intake of breath as the musket ball hurled a marine from the nettings, the side of his skull blasted away. His companions left their stations as the after-guard was piped to the mizzen braces, while the ship tilted steeply and began to plough over to the opposite tack.

  Keen joined Bolitho and shouted above the noise of gunfire and bellowed orders, “They see you, sir! Put on my coat!”

  Bolitho clung to a stay and shook his head. “I want them to see me!” More shots hissed past him and smacked into hammocks on the opposite
side or cracked against the planking. Bolitho could feel the anger rising inside him, driving away reason and caution had there been any. Keen did not understand. Bolitho was afraid to release his grip and move about as any sane man would. His bright epaulettes marked him down as a prime target; better that than lose his balance again while his men fought for their very lives around him.

  Crash—crash—crash, the French ship returned fire yet again.

  Bolitho raised the telescope and jammed it to his eye. It was heavy, difficult to hold steady with one hand. He saw the French ship suddenly stark and huge, towering over the Argonaute’s starboard bow. Keen’s sharp change of tack had pared away the distance. The French captain had no chance now to break off the action, to turn and fight or even to run.

  He saw the enemy’s helpless stern rising still higher, isolated from the rest of the ship by the great gap in her silhouette left by the fallen mizzen.

  Keen said fiercely, “We shall pass barely a boat’s length away, sir!”

  A masthead lookout waited for a pause in the firing and yelled hoarsely, “Ships to larboard, sir!”

  Keen shouted, “Send an officer aloft!” He ducked and coughed as a ball slammed through the nettings and hurled blasted hammocks everywhere. But for the alteration of course there would have been a solid rank of marines there.

  A ship’s boy, a mere child, who was running almost doubled over with fresh shot to a quarterdeck nine-pounder, was caught even as he reached the gun. The horrified crew of the ninepounder were drenched in blood as the ball cut the boy neatly in half so that the legs appeared to run on after the torso had fallen to the deck.

  “Steady she goes, sir! Nor’-east by east!”

  “As you bear!”

  Keen waved to the forecastle although he doubted if the carronade crew needed encouragement this time. Every gun had extra hands to work it, men taken from the disengaged weapons on the larboard side.

  More shot whined overhead, and several sails danced as holes appeared and broken rigging clattered across the nets and gangways.