Success to the Brave

by Alexander Kent

Bolitho also watched the French flagship and felt the nearness of their contest like claws in his loins. She was new, big and better armed. But Achates was more agile, and had proved her worth a hundred times over.

  Keen was thinking aloud. “If he holds the wind we cannot reach him, sir. Whereas he can move in when he pleases or chance some long shots which might score a serious hit.”

  “I agree.” Bolitho climbed up to the nettings and peered over them. “The other frigate, the Diane, she’s steering for the west’rd, next she’ll come about after us.” He shot him a grim smile. “To snap at our heels!”

  Keen nodded. “She could do some damage if we were already engaged with the Argonaute, sir.”

  Bolitho stepped down. “Tell me what you think. Shall we use the Diane as bait?”

  Keen’s eyes lit up. “Go for the frigate, sir?”

  Bolitho nodded. “Contre-Amiral Jobert is, I believe, an honourable sailor. I cannot see him standing by while his remaining frigate is attacked by a ship of the line!”

  Bolitho looked at the sun. Only an hour since the carronade, the Smasher as it was termed, had blasted away the other frigate’s resistance.

  He said, “You have a gun captain named Crocker. I met him at the fortress. A fearsome fellow but, I understand, the finest of his trade.”

  Keen said, “Lower gun-deck, sir. I’ll send for him.”

  Crocker came aft, his good eye shielded from the sun. After the cool gloom of the lower gun-deck he was finding it irksome. He knuckled his forehead and gazed at Bolitho, his deformed figure at odds with the scarlet-coated marines nearby.

  Bolitho said, “I want you to take charge of the two stern-chasers. We shall have company there directly, and when I give the word I want you to damage her badly enough to cause concern to her admiral.”

  Crocker twisted his head further as if to fix his good eye on him.

  “Sir?”

  Keen said wearily, “Just do it, Crocker. The French seventy-four will close the range when her admiral sees what is happening.”

  “Oh, I see, sir!”

  “Pick all the men you want, but I need that frigate winged.”

  Crocker showed his uneven teeth. “Bless you, sir, I thought you was makin’ do with the little ’un!”

  He loped away with his strange swinging gait, and Keen said, “If we let the Frogs get alongside, old Crocker will frighten them to death!”

  Bolitho loosened his neckcloth and looked at the sky. Sea-birds floated high above the embattled ships, indifferent, and coldly watching for the gruesome scraps which would soon be theirs.

  He thought of Belinda, the green slope below Pendennis Castle where she could watch and wait for the ships to pass.

  He heard Adam say, “It won’t be long.”

  Bolitho looked at him. Was he afraid? Resentful that he might die so young?

  But the lieutenant saw his glance and said, “I’m all right, sir. I shall be ready.”

  Bolitho smiled. “I never doubted that. Come, Adam, let us take a walk together. It will pass the time.”

  The swivel-gun crews and marine marksmen in the tops peered down as the vice-admiral and his youthful aide walked up and down the quarterdeck, their shadows passing over the naked backs of the seamen at their tackles with their rammers and charges.

  Midshipman Ferrier lowered his glass for the hundredth time, his eye sore from staring at the oncoming seventy-four. It seemed such a short while ago that he had been thinking of home, of the chance to take his lieutenant’s examination. In that towering pyramid of sails and the double line of guns which glinted in the sunlight like black teeth, he saw his hopes already gone. Now the thing which worried him most was whether or not he could stand up to what lay ahead.

  He saw Bolitho pass by, speaking with his nephew, the way the flag-lieutenant was smiling at something he said. When he raised his telescope again his fear had gone.

  On the lower gun-deck Midshipman Owen Evans peered through the gloom until he found Lieutenant Hallowes who was in charge of the twenty-six cannons here and ran to pass a message from the captain.

  Hallowes listened to what the midshipman reported and remarked laconically, “’Pon my soul, Walter, we’re goin’ for the frigate first!”

  His assistant, the fifth lieutenant, laughed as if it was the greatest joke he had ever heard.

  Evans paused at the foot of a ladder, his eyes taking in the red-painted sides, the shining skins of the men by the open ports, the air of watchful tension. Every man had his ears covered by his neckerchief. In this confined space the roar of the twenty-four-pounders could deafen anyone in minutes.

  Evans stared at his hand on the scrubbed woodwork. It was shaking uncontrollably, as if it had a will all of its own.

  The shock made him look round at the gun-deck again. It was unlike the other times when he had been on deck near the vice-admiral when the Spanish ship had burst into flames after that fierce battle. Or even when he had taken command of Sparrowhawk’s boat. It was nothing like it at all.

  Scenes flashed before his eyes. His pride and excitement at being accepted as midshipman in a fine frigate like Sparrowhawk. His first uniform made with loving care by his own father. Evans came of a large family, but he was the only one who had chosen the sea rather than tailoring.

  Foord, the fifth lieutenant, saw the boy hesitating by the ladder and snapped, “Move your feet, lad. There’ll be messages aplenty in a moment or two!” Foord had once been a midshipman in this very ship and was only nineteen himself. He added in a gentler tone, “What is it, Mr Evans?”

  Evans stared up at him. “Nothing, sir.” But his mind was screaming instead, I’m going to be killed. I’m going to die.

  Foord watched him run up the ladder and sighed. Probably still thinking about Captain Duncan’s death, he thought.

  On the orlop deck beneath Foord’s feet, Tuson, the surgeon, walked slowly round his makeshift table, his eyes taking in the array of glittering saws and probes, the empty “wings and limbs” tubs, the leather strap to wedge between a man’s teeth. The great jar of rum to ease the agony. Away from the slowly spiralling lanterns his mates and loblolly boys stood like ghouls, their hands tucked in their clean aprons while they too waited.

  Tuson entered his small sick-bay and stared unseeingly at the cots, at the cupboard which contained more rum and brandy. He found that he was clenching his fists, his mouth like parchment as he imagined what that first drink would be like.

  He heard footsteps outside and saw Corporal Dobbs with his musket and fixed bayonet peering at him uncertainly. Dobbs had the additional duty of ship’s corporal in which he assisted the master-at-arms. But now he was a proper Royal Marine again and was needed at his station on deck.

  Tuson saw that Sir Humphrey Rivers was also standing by the door, his head bowed between the great deckhead beams.

  Dobbs said uncomfortably, “Couldn’t very well put a gentleman like ’im in the cells, sir.”

  Tuson nodded. In case the ship went down under them, he thought.

  Dobbs continued, “An’ it didn’t seem proper to leave ’im with the Froggies we picked up from the wreck.”

  Tuson looked at Rivers. “If you stay here, Sir Humphrey, it may not be pleasant either.”

  Rivers looked at the swaying shadows, the sense of doom which seemed to lurk here.

  “It will be better than being alone.” He nodded curtly. “I appreciate it.”

  His face filled with relief that he had rid himself of his burden, the corporal all but ran to the ladder.

  Bottles and jars clinked on the shelves as a gun banged out from aft.

  Tuson exclaimed, “What are they doing?”

  Rivers smiled coldly. “Stern-chaser.”

  Tuson massaged his fingers. “You’ve not forgotten then?”

  Rivers hung his richly embroidered coat on a hook. “That’s one thing you never forget.”

  Deep in the ship’s fat hull, in his own private storeroom, Tom Ozzard, the vice-admir
al’s servant, folded his arms and rocked back and forth as if he was in pain.

  By the light of a single lantern he could see all of Bolitho’s possessions stacked around him. It seemed wrong to leave them in such careless disarray, Ozzard thought. The fine table and chairs, the splendid wine-cooler, the desk and the cot, like everything else above the orlop deck which had been removed and torn down when the ship had been cleared for action. Now on both gun-decks Achates lay open from bow to stern, the crews unimpeded, the way clear for the young powder-monkeys to run with fresh charges and shot.

  Ozzard had heard the boats being swung out and lowered for towing astern. Once action was joined the boats would be cut free, to be recovered by the victor, whoever it was. But tiered boats on deck were an additional source of deadly, crippling splinters when an enemy’s iron crashed inboard.

  Ozzard looked at the bolted door and shivered. It was cold down here where he kept his wine, and in times like these took refuge.

  Like Allday, he was privileged to come and go as he pleased, and was grateful for the profession Bolitho had given him. Now in his store, in the lowest portion of Achates’ hull, he was afraid. But it did not trouble him. He had accepted it long ago.

  When he had carried the fresh chicken to the cabin for Bolitho, he had found time to glance at the master’s chart below the poop.

  Ozzard held his arms across his narrow chest even more tightly. Below where he sat was the keel, and beyond it there was nothing but a bottomless ocean.

  He winced as another gun made the deck quiver. But it seemed far away and without danger. Later he might venture up on deck. There was another muffled bang and he decided to wait.

  Isolated from the enclosed world between decks, Bolitho climbed to the poop and looked at the French seventy-four. She had spread more canvas, but although she had closed the distance between them she had not yet fired a shot. He estimated that she had changed tack slightly and was now steering along an almost parallel course. By contrast, the little frigate had run with the wind before coming about to take station on Achates’ lee quarter.

  He said, “Open fire.” He heard his order being passed to the quarterdeck, felt the response as the helm went over and the ship came reluctantly as close to the wind as she could manage.

  He watched as the frigate appeared to move over until she lay directly astern. Then, as the word reached him far below, old Crocker jerked his trigger-line and the starboard stern-chaser recoiled with a sharp bang. Bolitho did not blink, and thought he saw the dark blur of the ball as it reached the apex of its flight before it splashed down almost alongside, the tall waterspout failing and scattering in the wind.

  Bolitho heard the marines at the netting whispering and probably making bets on the next shot.

  Old Crocker was good all right. He had almost winged the frigate with his first ball.

  Now he had the range, and the “feel” of it, as every gun captain should. Furthermore, the Diane’s captain would know it.

  The frigate fired one of her bow-chasers, and its thin spout of water well astern of Achates brought a roar of derision from the marines.

  Their lieutenant snapped, “Sar’nt Saxton, you will oblige me by keeping those ruffians quiet and in good order!” But he was grinning as he spoke and the reprimand was more for Bolitho’s benefit than anything.

  Adam climbed to the poop with a telescope and looked astern as another gun fired from below the counter.

  This time there was no splash to betray the fall of shot. Instead a great streamer of torn topsail broke free and curled from its yard like a pale banner.

  Bolitho heard the muffled cheers from below. They had hit her. If one of Crocker’s eighteen-pound balls struck the Diane’s slender hull it could be serious.

  Adam exclaimed, “Look, sir! Argonaute’s setting her main course!”

  The seventy-four seemed to puff herself up as with sail upon sail she leaned over to the wind, her lower gunports almost awash as she changed tack towards Achates.

  Bolitho heard Keen shout, “Let her fall off three points again, Mr Knocker! Steer nor’-east by north!”

  Even as the hands hauled at the braces and Knocker stood over the binnacle like a watchful hawk, Crocker fired yet again, and this time one of the frigate’s jibsails was cut away to join its ragged companion.

  Quantock was yelling, “Mr Mountsteven! Another pull at the weather-forebrace there! Now belay, dammit, sir!”

  Men bustled about at the braces and halliards, while only the crews of the starboard guns, which pointed towards the enemy, remained at their stations.

  Bolitho gripped the nettings as the deck tilted to the thrust of the canvas overhead.

  The French captain would have to close the range whether he wanted to or not. Unless he ordered his frigate to stand away, in which case Achates would be able to meet his challenge gun to gun. Bolitho smiled. Well . . . almost.

  One of the marines who was leaning against the hammocks, his musket already cradled against his cheek, saw Bolitho’s smile and dared to say, “Us’ll teach them Frogs a lesson, sir!”

  He seemed to realize he had spoken to a vice-admiral uninvited and lapsed into confused silence.

  Bolitho glanced at him. He did not even know his name.

  In a while they would be fighting for their very lives. The heaviest casualties were usually aft on the unprotected poop and quarterdeck. This marine might be one of them.

  He said, “I am relying on it.” He looked at their expectant faces, hating his own words. “So give your best, lads!”

  There was a jarring crash as Crocker laid and fired another gun. The frigate had changed tack very slightly, but it had not passed unnoticed by the grotesque gun captain. As her shape lengthened momentarily Crocker pulled his trigger-line and the ball smashed through the enemy’s larboard gangway, hurling planks and splintered wood high into the air.

  There were more cheers, and Bolitho held his breath as the frigate paid off downwind, her torn canvas still whipping above the deck as she opened the range between them.

  Then he ran down the poop ladder and strode to the rail above the gun-deck.

  It would be very soon. He glanced quickly abeam and saw the seventy-four’s bows edging into view, her canvas bulging to the wind as she changed tack still further towards the Achates.

  “Stand by!”

  The cheering ceased instantly and gun crews crouched beside their eighteen-pounders, staring through the ports.

  “As you bear!”

  The French ship had the wind-gage, but so strong was the pressure in Achates’ sails that her gun muzzles were elevated to maximum advantage by the slanting decks.

  “Fire!”

  Deck by deck, gun by gun, the carefully aimed broadside flashed along Achates’ side from stern to forecastle. Some of the forward guns were traversed to full extent, their crews leaning on their handspikes until they too could train on the enemy.

  Bolitho watched intently as the Argonaute’s topsails danced wildly, the wind ready and eager to explore the holes punched by the double-shotted guns.

  Along and beyond her hull he saw the sea alive with flung spray as more balls slammed down with terrible impact.

  It was impossible to determine if they had hit anything vital. But the range was still closing, the French captain just as aware as Keen of the danger of a lucky shot. One ship knocked out of the fight, another driven off by Crocker’s two stern-chasers, the French captain would feel the humiliation too with his admiral breathing down his neck.

  Bolitho saw the flashing line of bright tongues from the seventy-four’s side, tensed for the sickening shriek of iron, the crash of shots slamming into timber. Instead he heard the insane whine of chain-shot and saw long streamers of broken rigging floating from the upper yards, the forward topgallant sail ripped apart like a handkerchief in the invisible onslaught.

  “Ready!” Keen had his hand up high. “Fire!”

  Again the guns recoiled madly on their tackles, their c
rews leaping forward to sponge out and ram in fresh charges while the muzzles were still spewing smoke.

  “Ready!” Keen wiped his streaming face with his forearm. “Fire!”

  The gunnery was superb. All the drills, the demanding discipline, were paying off now. Two broadsides to Argonaute’s one.

  They were hitting her too. Her mizzen topmast was dangling like a fallen bridge, and her sails were pock-marked by shot and flying splinters.

  Bolitho held his breath again as the guns flashed along the enemy’s side.

  He felt the jarring thud of balls hitting the hull, and saw the forecourse punctured in several places at once. The wind did the rest, and soon the forecourse was little more than rags.

  “Fire!”

  The pace was slower, the response more irregular, as the gun captains jerked their lines and jumped clear as each great breech charged inboard again.

  There was a great crack and then amidst a writhing tangle of stays and rigging Achates’ main-topgallant mast thundered down. It ploughed into the larboard gangway like a battering ram, tearing aside the protective nets as if they were cobwebs before toppling overboard.

  Rooke and his men were there in an instant, axes flashing as they cut the wreckage away. Two seamen were down, too. Dead or knocked unconscious by falling rigging, Bolitho did not know.

  The guns roared out once more, the din scraping at his mind, as fallen cordage and great strips of canvas fell over the sweating gun crews while they reloaded and then fired again.

  Keen shouted, “Argonaute’s coming at us, sir!”

  He looked wild-eyed, his hat knocked from his head in the turmoil which surged around him.

  Bolitho wiped his eyes and looked at the enemy. The trick had worked. The Argonaute was charging downwind with every available sail set, her forward guns firing haphazardly, some hitting, but others, because of the fine angle of approach, ripping through wave-crests far astern.

  The little frigate had made no attempt to press home her attack, and was probably grateful to be a mere spectator. She was too far away now to be of any use. It was already too late for last-minute strategy.

  Bolitho heard himself shout above the crash and recoil of the guns, “It’s men not ships, Val! They’re what count in the end!”