In Gallant Company

by Alexander Kent

  Stockdale whispered, ‘The Frenchie can do as ’e pleases now, sir.’

  The anchorage was opening up with every dragging minute. Bolitho could see the sheltered water beyond the turbulence at the entrance. Spite’s three masts, slightly angled and stiffly unmoving. Beyond her the deeper shadows, and a schooner at anchor, close inshore.

  The look-out shouted, ‘They’re tryin’ to tow ’er off, zur!’

  Bolitho could not see without a telescope, and like the seamen around him, fretted and waited for more news from aloft. Cunningham had boats down and would probably lay out an anchor to kedge his ship free from the ground.

  Quinn asked, ‘What is the Frenchman doing?’ He sounded beside himself with worry.

  ‘He’ll no doubt anchor, James. He has beaten us to the island. To attack him there would be a sure way of starting a war.’

  He looked away, confused and bitter. Whatever they did, no matter how right the cause, fate seemed to be against them.

  The Argonaute was quite likely bringing another great cargo of ordnance and powder. Some to be loaded into the schooner, more to be stacked in a safe hiding place to await the next privateer or transport. Contenay must have sailed from here more than a few times. No wonder he found Fort Exeter without any trouble.

  As if to bear out his ideas, another look-out shouted wildly, ‘Sail on the starboard quarter, sir!’

  Figures bustled across the quarterdeck, sunlight glinting on raised telescopes, as the look-out continued, ‘Brig, sir! She’s goin’ about!’

  Bolitho looked at Quinn’s pale features. ‘I’ll bet she is, James! Just the sight of us will be enough. She must have been coming here to collect her cargo from the French!’

  ‘Is there nothing we can do?’

  Quinn looked up, startled, as Buller yelled again, ‘Deck there! Spite’s come off, zur! She’s shakin’ out ’er tops’ls!’

  Quinn gripped Bolitho’s arm as the news brought a wild burst of cheering from the watching seamen and marines.

  They looked aft as Midshipman Weston’s signals party burst into life and sent a hoist of bright flags flying to the yards.

  Bolitho nodded. In the nick of time. Coutts had signalled Spite to leave the anchorage and give chase. Even the delay at hoisting her boats would not mean much to Cunningham. With a following wind, and his honour very much at stake, he would overhaul and take the brig before noon.

  And there was still the schooner. If she was a privateer, the French could not prevent Coutts taking action against her if she attempted to leave.

  He shaded his eyes, seeing more sails breaking out from the sloop’s yards, imagining the excitement and relief pushing all disappointment aside.

  ‘Spite’s acknowledged, sir!’

  Midshipman Couzens bounded past on some mission or other, his freckled face alive with anticipation.

  ‘Now it’s the Frenchman’s turn to be an onlooker, sir!’

  Bolitho turned sharply as the anchorage echoed violently to the crash of cannon fire. He saw the gunsmoke hit the calm water and burst skyward, eddying across the pale sunlight like a cloud.

  Everyone was yelling and shouting at once, stricken by the unexpected turn of events. Spite was turning to one side, still reeling from a savage broadside at extreme range. Like a hurricane the Argonaute’s iron had ripped through her masts and rigging, reducing her to an unmanageable wreck in seconds. Her foremast had gone, and while they watched, her maintop-mast fell alongside in a welter of spray and tangled cordage. Spite stopped moving, and Bolitho guessed she had run aground again on an extension of the same sand-bar. Seeing her go from movement to sudden stillness was like watching something beautiful die.

  The Argonaute had made certain the brig would not be captured, and even now was coming about, her long jib boom swinging through the smoke of her one, murderous broadside.

  Quinn said in a choking voice, ‘God, they’re coming out!’

  Bolitho looked aft as Cairns’ voice boomed through his speaking trumpet.

  ‘Hands aloft and shorten sail! Mr Tolcher, rig your nets!’

  A bright scarlet ensign rose to the gaff, and Stockdale spat on his hands. Coutts had shown his colours. He was going to fight.

  Nets were already being spread above the gundeck, the men working without thought, as they had so often at their drills.

  Bolitho watched the Argonaute’s shape shortening as she completed her turn towards the entrance.

  She too had run up her colours. The white flag of France. No more pretence or bluff.

  Later, higher authorities might argue over excuses and deceptions. But now, today, each captain had his own clear reason to engage an enemy.

  ‘Open your ports!’

  Tackles squeaked, and along either side a double line of port lids lifted in time with the lesser quarterdeck batteries.

  ‘Run out!’

  Bolitho drew a deep breath, forcing himself to watch as his own guns trundled noisily to their ports, thrusting out their black muzzles like snouts in the strengthening sunlight.

  Two ships of the line, without aid, not even a spectator to watch their ponderous strength as they manoeuvred towards each other, in no haste, and in total silence.

  Another glance aft and he saw Coutts lifting his arms to allow the captain’s coxswain to buckle on his sword for him.

  Bolitho realized that Coutts would never give in. He dare not. It must be victory today. Or nothing.

  ‘Starboard battery, stand by!’

  Bolitho tugged out his hanger and pulled his hat over his eyes.

  ‘Ready, lads!’

  He glanced to left and right, the familiar faces passing his vision, merging, then disappearing as he faced the enemy.

  ‘On the uproll!’

  Somewhere, a man started to cough violently, another was pounding a slow, desperate tattoo on the deck beside his gun.

  ‘Fire!’

  14

  A Very High Price

  AS THE UPPER battery, followed instantly by the thirty-two-pounders on the lower gundeck, roared out in a full broadside, Trojan gave a tremendous shudder, as if she would wrench herself apart.

  Even though every man had been expecting it, the deafening crash of gun-fire was beyond imagination, the sound going on and on as each cannon hurled itself inboard on its tackles.

  Bolitho watched the dense smoke being forced downwind from the starboard bow and stared towards the French ship as the sea around her became a mass of leaping white feathers. The Argonaute was steering on a converging tack, her yards braced hard round to carry her away from the nearest spit of land. Without a telescope it was impossible to see if they had hit her, although with such a massive broadside they should have found some targets. But Trojan had fired at the first possible moment, and Bolitho estimated the range to be at least eight cables.

  On either side of him the gun captains were yelling like demons, the crews ramming home charges and fresh balls, while others stood with handspikes in readiness to control their ponderous weapons.

  It sounded blurred, unreal, and Bolitho rubbed his ears rapidly to restore his hearing. The deck tilted very slightly as Pears ordered an alteration of course towards the other ship. How invulnerable she looked. With topsails and forecourse flapping to retain the wind, the French captain was trying to gain sea-room, to escape the blanketing shelter of the land across his quarter.

  What was he up to, he wondered? What motive did Coutts’ opposite number have in mind? Perhaps he wished to draw Trojan away from the island to allow the schooner time to escape. Or maybe, having put the Spite out of action, all he wanted to do was slip away himself and avoid further conflict. Perhaps he had other orders, to find a second rendezvous and unload his cargo without delay.

  It was incredible that he could think at all. He peered along the deck, seeing the captains raise their fists, their faces masked in concentration.

  He looked aft. ‘Ready, sir!’

  Again, the senior midshipman of the lower gun
deck bobbed through the hatch and yelled, ‘Ready, sir!’

  Couzens went past at the run, carrying a message from the forecastle to Cairns on the quarterdeck.

  As he passed Midshipman Huss he shouted, ‘You were slow that time!’ They grinned at one another as if it were a huge game.

  Bolitho turned towards the enemy again. Nearer now, her deck angled over to the wind, the lines of guns shining in the sunlight like teeth.

  He knew in his heart that the French admiral had no intention of telling his captain to haul off. He was going to fight. What the world said later mattered little out here. Justification would be sought and found by both sides, but the winner would have the real say in things.

  The side of the French ship vanished in a writhing bank of smoke, broken by darting orange tongues, as she delivered her reply to Trojan’s challenge.

  Bolitho gritted his teeth, expecting to feel the hull quiver to the crash of the broadside. But only a few balls hit the tumblehome, while above the decks the air became alive with screaming, shrieking chain-shot.

  Bolitho saw the boatswain’s hastily spread nets jumping with fallen blocks and severed rigging, and then a marine fell headlong from the maintop, struck the gangway and vanished over the side without even a cry.

  Bolitho swallowed hard. First blood. He looked aft, seeing Pears watching the enemy while his hand rose level with his shoulder.

  Bolitho said quickly, ‘Ready, lads!’

  The captain’s arm fell, and once more the air was blasted by the thunder of guns.

  ‘Stop your vents! Sponge out! Load!’

  The seamen, who had cursed their captain and officers as they had drilled again and again in every kind of condition, went through the motions without even pausing to watch some of their companions hurrying aloft to make repairs.

  Bolitho saw the great rent in the main-topsail spreading and ripping as it was pushed by the wind, and knew that the enemy was following a reguar French tactic. To cripple the adversary first, render her useless and impossible to handle so that she would fall downwind and present her stern to another murderous broadside. Cleared for action, a ship of the line was open from bow to stern, and a well-timed bombardment through the poop and counter could change the gundecks into a slaughter-house.

  The Argonaute was showing some signs of damage, too. Shot-holes in her canvas, and a savage gash in her larboard gangway where two balls had struck home together.

  Five cables. Just half a mile between them, and both ships gathering speed as they thrust clear of the land.

  Again the writhing bank of smoke, and once more the shriek of chain-shot overhead. It was unbelievable that no spar was hit, but the terrible sound made more than one man gasp with alarm as he worked at his gun.

  Stockdale paused at his efforts and shouted, ‘We’re holdin’ the wind, sir!’ His battered features were stained with smoke, but he looked unbreakable.

  ‘On the uproll!’

  Bolitho heard Midshipman Huss repeating the order to Dalyell below.

  ‘Fire!’

  The deck rebounded as if the ship was driving ashore, and then there was a ragged cheer as the enemy’s main-topgallant mast swung wildly on its stays before breaking away and plunging down like a lance.

  A lucky shot, and nobody would ever know who had aimed it.

  Pears’ harsh voice carried easily above the squeak of gun trucks and the clatter of rammers.

  ‘Well done, Trojans! Hit ’em again!’

  More cheers, quenched by the enemy’s return fire, the terrifying crash of iron smashing into the hull and through some of the gunports below.

  Bolitho winced, wondering why the Frenchman had changed his tactics. He heard the rumble of a cannon careering across the lower deck, the sudden lurch as it hit something solid. Men were yelling down there, their voices strangely muffled, like souls in torment.

  The Argonaute seemed to be gaining, drawing slightly ahead, so that her jib boom appeared to be touching Trojan’s bowsprit. With the advantage of wind and position, Pears would probably let his ship fall off, then spread more sail and try to cross the enemy’s stern.

  He heard Cairns’ voice through his speaking trumpet. ‘Hands aloft! Loose t’ gan’sls!’

  Bolitho found himself nodding as if in agreement. The ship was turning again, just a few points, while her topgallant sails flapped and then hardened at their yards.

  He watched the other ship, his eyes smarting in the smoke. One giant arrowhead of blue water, and both vessels aiming for some invisible mark which would bring them together.

  ‘Fire!’

  The seamen leapt aside as their guns crashed inboard, groping in the funnelling smoke to sponge out the muzzles before a packed charge was rammed home.

  Bolitho felt the hull quiver and realized the enemy had fired again, and saw part of a gangway splinter apart as if under an invisible axe. A seaman ran screaming and stumbling past his companion, his hands clawing at his face.

  A marine seized him and pushed him to a hatchway, and others reached up to drag him below.

  Bolitho glanced at Quinn and saw him retching. The seaman had taken a giant wood splinter in his eye as big as a marlinespike.

  The sharper crack of the quarterdeck nine-pounders told him that their crews had at last been able to bring them to bear on the enemy.

  The noise was growing and spreading as the two ships moved inexorably towards each other. Wood splinters, fragments of cordage and yet another corpse joined the tangle on the nets, and from below Bolitho heard a man screaming like a tortured hare.

  A quick glance aft again. Pears still there, unmoving and grim-faced as he studied the enemy. Coutts, apparently untroubled by the din of battle, one foot on a bollard as he pointed to something on the Frenchman’s deck for Ackerman’s benefit.

  ‘Fire!’

  The guns were recoiling more unevenly now. The crews were getting tired, stunned by the constant thunder and crash of explosions.

  Bolitho made himself walk along the deck, ducking to peer through each port as the men hauled their guns back in readiness to fire. A small world, a square of hazy sunlight in which each crew saw just a portion of the enemy.

  He felt unsteady, his gait jerky as he moved behind them. His face was stiff with strain, and he imagined he must look halfway between laughing and squinting from shock.

  Stockdale glanced round at him and nodded. Another man, Bolitho recognized him as Moffitt, waved his hand and shouted, ‘Hot work, sir!’

  More powerful thuds into the lower hull, and then a column of black smoke through an open hatch to bring a chorus of shouts and cries of alarm. But the smoke was quickly brought under control, and Bolitho guessed that Dalyell’s men had been ready for such an emergency.

  ‘Cease firing!’

  As the men stood back from their smoking guns, Bolitho thought the silence almost as painful as the noise. The enemy had moved further across the bows, so that it was pointless to try to hit her.

  Cairns shouted, ‘Put some men to larboard!’ He gestured with his trumpet. ‘We will engage him as we cross his stern!’

  Bolitho saw petty officers pushing dazed men across to the opposite side to help the depleted crews there. Pears had timed it well. With the slight change of tack, and extra canvas to give her more speed, Trojan would sweep across the enemy’s wake and pour a broadside, gun by gun, the length of her hull. Even if she were not dismasted, she would be too crippled to withstand the next encounter.

  He shouted, ‘Ready, James!’ Again he felt his jaw locked in a wild grin. ‘Yours is the honour this time!’

  A gun captain touched Quinn’s arm as he hurried past. ‘We’ll show ’em, sir!’

  ‘Hands to the braces there!’

  Bolitho swung round as Cairns’ voice echoed from the quarterdeck.

  Stockdale gasped, ‘The Frenchie’s luffed, by God!’

  Bolitho watched, his body like ice, seeing the Argonaute swinging steadily up into the wind, her reduced sails almost a
back as she turned to face her enemy.

  It was all happening in minutes, yet Bolitho could still find time for admiration at the superb seamanship and timing. Round and further still, so that when she had finished her manoeuvre she would be on the reverse tack, while Trojan was still struggling to slow her advance.

  ‘Hands aloft! Take in the t’ gan’sls!’

  Masts and spars shook and creaked violently as the helm was put over, but it was all taking too long.

  As men ran wildly back to the starboard battery, Bolitho saw the enemy’s side belch smoke and fire, felt the ship stagger as a carefully timed broadside smashed into the side from bowsprit to quarterdeck. Because of the angle, many of the shots did little damage, but others, which burst through gunports or smashed through the flimsy defences of gangways and nettings, caused terrible havoc. Three guns were upended, their crews either crushed or hurled aside like rubbish, and Bolitho heard the splintering bang of more balls ripping through the boat tier and sending a wave of splinters across the opposite side like tiny arrows. Men were falling and stumbling everywhere, and when Bolitho glanced at his legs he saw they were bloody from the carnage at the nearest gun.

  A great chorus of voices made him turn in time to see the fore-topgallant mast fall across the bows and plunge over the side, taking with it a writhing trail of rigging like maddened snakes, spar and canvas, and two screaming seamen.

  Momentarily out of control, Trojan swung drunkenly away from her enemy, while all the time, as her jubilant crews reloaded, Argonaute continued to go about until she had completed one great circle. Then as she settled down on a parallel course, but slightly ahead of the Trojan, she opened fire with her sternmost guns.

  Blinded by smoke, and fighting to free themselves from the mass of tangled rigging, the forward gun crews aboard the Trojan were able to return only half their shots.

  Bolitho found himself striding up and down yelling meaningless words until he was hoarse, raw with the stench of battle.

  Around him men were fighting back, dying, or sprawled in the bloody attitudes of death.

  Others hurried past, following the boatswain and his mates, axes shining in the smoky glare, to hack the wreckage away before it swung the ship stern on towards those merciless guns.