Stockdale swayed through the boat and then returned. ‘All done, sir.’
‘Mr Frowd?’
The lieutenant waved to him. ‘Ready, sir!’
In spite of his tense nerves Bolitho felt he wanted to smile. Sir. Frowd would never call him by his first name in a hundred years.
‘Out oars,’ He raised his arm. ‘Easy, lads. Like field mice!’
Stockdale sounded approving. ‘Shove off forrard! Give way larboard!’
Very slowly, with one set of oars pulling the boat round like a crab, they moved away from their tiny haven.
Frowd was following, and Bolitho saw the bowman training the swivel from side to side as if to sniff the way.
Couzens whispered, ‘There’s the corner, sir!’
Bolitho watched the jutting spur of rock, Couzens’ ‘corner’. Once round it, they would be on exposed water and visible to any vigilant sentry.
It was brightening so rapidly that he could see a touch of green on the land, the glitter of spray over some fallen stones. Weapons too, and in the bows, leaning forward like a figurehead, the topman, Buller.
‘Christ, there she be, sir!’
Bolitho saw the swaying mainmast and the smaller one right aft on the anchored yawl, stark against the sky, even though the hull was still in shadow.
A yawl, or dandy, as they were usually termed, would be just the thing for using amongst the islands.
He heard the gurgle of water around the stem, and from astern the regular, muffled beat of Frowd’s oars.
Stockdale eased the tiller over, allowing the cutter to move away from the island to lay the yawl between him and D’Esterre’s marines.
Soon now. It had to be. Bolitho held his breath, drawing his hanger carefully, although he knew from past experience that a tired look-out would hear little but his own shipboard noises. An anchored vessel was always alive with sound and movement.
But there was a long way to go yet. He said, ‘Roundly, lads! Put your backs into it!’
The cutter was moving swiftly and firmly towards the yawl’s larboard bow. Bolitho saw the anchor cable beneath the pole-like bowsprit, the casual way the sails were furled and brailed up.
The crack of a pistol shot was like a twelve-pounder on the morning air, and as somebody gave a startled cry aboard the yawl, an undulating line of heads, closely linked with muskets and fixed bayonets, appeared along the top of the island, then touches of scarlet as the marines continued to march in a long, single rank up and then down towards the water.
‘Pull! All you’ve got!’ Bolitho leaned forward as if to add weight to the fast-moving cutter.
Figures had appeared on the yawl’s deck, and a solitary shot lit up the mainmast like a flare.
Across the water they all heard D’Esterre shouting for the yawl to surrender, and more confused cries, followed by the sound of cordage being hauled madly through blocks.
Bolitho momentarily forgot his own part in it, as with unhurried precision the line of shadowy marines halted and then fired a volley across the vessel’s deck.
There was no movement aboard after that, and Bolitho shouted, ‘Stand by to board! Grapnel ready there!’ From a corner of his eye he saw Frowd’s boat surging past, a grapnel already streaking towards the yawl’s bulwark, while the selected men charged up with drawn cutlasses.
Yelling and cheering, the seamen clambered on either side of the bowsprit, seeing the crew crowding together near the mainmast, too shocked by what had happened to move, let alone resist. A few muskets had been thrown down on the deck, and Bolitho ran aft with Stockdale to ensure that no more men were hiding below and even now attempting to scuttle their vessel.
Not a man lost, and across the water he saw the marines waving their hats and cheering.
Frowd snapped, ‘Privateers, right enough!’ He dragged a man from the crowd. He had thrown his weapons away, but was so loaded with pouches of shot and cartridges that he looked like a pirate.
Bolitho sheathed his hanger. ‘Well done, lads. I’ll send word across to the marines and –’
It was Couzens who had shouted with alarm. He was pointing across the bows, his voice breaking, ‘Ship, sir! Coming round the point!’
He heard D’Esterre calling through his speaking trumpet, his voice urgent and desperate. ‘Abandon her! Man your boats!’
Frowd was still staring at the neat array of braced yards and sails as the approaching vessel tilted suddenly to a change of tack.
He asked, ‘What the hell is she?’
Bolitho felt fingers tugging his sleeve, and he saw Buller, his eyes on the newcomer.
‘It’s ’er! Th’ one I saw, zur! Th’ brig which went about when Spite were dismasted!’
It was all tumbling through Bolitho’s mind like a tide in a mill-race. The brig, the yawl waiting to load or unload more weapons and powder, D’Esterre’s last order, his own decision which lay frozen in his reeling thoughts.
There was a flash, followed by a dull bang, and a ball whipped overhead and smashed down hard on the island. The marines were falling back in good order, and Bolitho could sense the change in the yawl’s crew. Fear to hope, and then to jubilation at their unexpected rescue.
‘What’ll we do?’ Frowd was standing by the capstan, his sword still in his hand. ‘She’ll rake her as she passes with every gun she’s got!’
Bolitho thought of Pears, of Coutts’ disappointment, of Quinn’s face at the court of inquiry.
He yelled, ‘Cut the cable! Stand by to break out the mains’l! Mr Frowd, take charge there! Stockdale, man the helm!’
Another ball came out of the misty light and smashed into one of the cutters which was bobbing beneath the stem. Before it heeled over and sank, its loaded swivel gun exploded, and a blast of canister cut down a seaman even as he ran to sever the cable.
With only one boat there was no chance to obey D’Esterre’s order. Bolitho stared at the brig, his heart chilling with anger and unexpected hatred.
And he knew, deep down, that he had had no intention of obeying.
The great mainsail swung outboard on its boom, thundering wildly as the anchor cable was hacked away to allow the yawl to fall downwind, out of command.
‘Put up your helm!’
Men were slipping and stumbling at the halliards, ignoring the dumbfounded crew as they fought to bring the yawl under control.
Bolitho heard a ragged crash of gun-fire, and turned in time to see the small after mast pitch over the rail, missing Stockdale by a few feet.
‘Hack that adrift!’
Another crash shook the hull, and Bolitho heard the ball slamming through the deck below. She could not take much of this.
‘Put those men on the pumps!’ He thrust his pistol into Couzens’ hand. ‘Shoot if they try to rush you!’
‘I’ve got ’er, sir!’ Stockdale stood, legs wide apart, peering at the sails and the freshly set jib as the land swam round beneath the bowsprit. He looked like an oak.
But the brig was gaining, her deck tilting as she tacked round to hold the wind and overreach her adversary.
The yawl had two swivels, but they were useless. Like a pike against a charge of cavalry. And all the hands were better employed at sheets and braces than wasting their strength on empty gestures.
A bright ripple of flashes again, and this time the balls battered into the lower hull like a fall of rock.
Bolitho saw the flag at the brig’s gaff, the one he had been hearing about. Red and white stripes, with a circle of stars on a blue ground. She looked very new, and was being handled by a real professional.
‘We’m makin’ water fast, sir!’
Bolitho wiped his face and listened to the creak of the pumps. It was no use. They could never outreach her.
Small, vicious sounds sang past the helm, and he knew they were in musket range.
Somebody screamed, and then he saw Frowd stagger and fall against the bulwark, both hands clutching a shattered knee.
Couzens appeared a
t the hatch, his back towards the deck as he trained the pistol down the companion ladder.
‘We’re sinking, sir! There’s water bursting into the hold!’
A ball burst through the mainsail and parted shrouds and stays like an invisible sabre.
Frowd was gasping, ‘Run her ashore! It’s our only chance!’
Bolitho shook his head. Once on firm sand, the yawl’s cargo, and he had no doubt now that she was loaded with arms for the brig, would still be intact.
With sudden fury he climbed on to the shrouds and shook his fist at the other vessel.
His voice was lost on the wind and the answering crash of cannon-fire, but he found some satisfaction as he yelled, ‘I’ll sink her first, damn you!’
Stockdale watched him, while beyond the bows and the sea which was being churned by falling shot he saw the headland sliding away.
Please God she’ll be there, he thought despairingly. Too late for us, but they’ll not live neither.
16
Orders
AS SHE FLOUNDERED further from the island’s shelter and into open water, the yawl rapidly became unmanageable. With so much damage below, and the dead-weight of weapons and iron shot, she was destroying herself on every wave.
The brig had changed tack again, sweeping away sharply to run almost parallel, while her gun crews settled down to pound the smaller craft into submission. There was no thought left of saving anything or anybody, and even the terrified prisoners were falling under the murderous cannon-fire.
Bolitho found time to notice that the brig, obviously new from some master-builder’s yard, was not fully armed. Otherwise the fight would have been over long since. Only half her ports were firing, and he guessed the remainder were supposed to have been filled from the yawl’s cargo. And this was her master’s second attempt. The first had cost many lives, and the loss of the Spite. It seemed as if the brig had a charmed life and would escape yet again.
The deck gave a tremendous lurch and the topmast and upper yard fell in a mess of rigging and flapping canvas. Immediately the deck began to lean over, throwing men from their feet and bringing down more severed rigging.
From the open hatch Bolitho heard the violent inrush of water, the cries of the prisoners as the sea pushed through the frail timbers into the hold.
Bolitho clung to the bulwark and shouted, ‘Release those men, Mr Couzens! The rest of you help the wounded!’ He stared at Stockdale as he released the useless tiller. ‘Lend a hand.’ He winced as more shots whistled low overhead. ‘We must abandon!’
Stockdale threw an unconscious seaman over his shoulder and strode to the side, peering down to make sure the remaining cutter was still afloat.
‘Into the boat! Pass the wounded down.’
Bolitho felt the deck tilt and begin to settle more steeply. She was going by the stern, and the taffrail, with the stump of the after mast, was already awash.
If only the brig would cease firing. It needed just one ball to fall amongst the wounded and they would sink with the cutter. He looked at the swirling water and lively white crests. They would have a poor chance of survival in any case. On the island, which seemed to have moved a mile astern, he could see a few red coats, and guessed that the majority of the marines were running back to man the other boats. But marines were not seamen. By the time they managed to draw near, it would be over.
Couzens staggered towards him and gasped, ‘The bows are out of the water, sir!’ He ducked as another shot ripped through the mainsail and tore it away to rags.
Stockdale was trying to climb back on deck, but Bolitho shouted, ‘Stand away! She’s going down fast!’
With his face like a mask, Stockdale cast off the painter and allowed the current to carry him clear. Bolitho saw Frowd struggling aft to watch the sinking yawl, his fingers bloody as he waved his sword above his head.
The brig was shortening sail, the forecourse vanishing to reveal the rest of her neat hull.
Will they try to save us or kill us?
Bolitho said, ‘We will swim for it, Mr Couzens.’
The boy nodded jerkily, unable to speak, as he kicked off his shoes and tore frantically at his shirt.
A shadow moved below the open hatch, and for a moment Bolitho imagined a wounded or trapped man was still down there. But it was a corpse, drifting forward as the water pounded between the decks. It was as high as that.
Couzens stared at the water and murmured, ‘I’m not much of a swimmer, s-sir!’ His teeth were chattering in spite of the sunlight.
Bolitho looked at him. ‘Why in hell’s name didn’t you leave with the cutter then?’ He realized the answer just as quickly and said quietly, ‘We will keep together. I see a likely spar yonder . . .’
The brig fired again, the ball skipping over the wave crests, past the swaying cutter and between some floundering swimmers like an attacking swordfish.
So that was why they had shortened sail. To make sure the British force was totally destroyed. So that every officer would think again if in the future he saw a chance of seizing much-needed supplies.
The yawl lurched over, tipping loose gear and corpses into the scuppers.
Bolitho watched the brig. But for Couzens he would have stayed and died here, he knew it. If he had to die anyway, it were better to let them see his face. But Couzens did not deserve such a death. For him there must always seem a chance.
The brig was putting her helm over, her yards in confusion as she swung away from the drifting wreck. He could even see her name on the broad counter, White Hills, and a startled face peering at him from the stern windows.
‘He’s going about!’ Bolitho spoke aloud without knowing it. ‘What is he thinking of? He’ll be in irons in a minute!’
The wind was too strong and the brig’s sails too few. In no time she was rendered helpless, her sails all aback in flapping, disordered revolt.
There was a muffled bang, and for an instant Bolitho thought she had sprung a mast or large yard. With disbelief he saw a great gaping hole torn in the brig’s main-topsail, the wind slashing it to ribbons against the mast even as he watched.
He felt Couzens clutching his arm and shouting, ‘It’s Trojan, sir! She is here!’
Bolitho turned and saw the two-decker, standing as if motionless in the haze, like an extension to the next pair of islets.
Pears must have judged it to the second, biding his time while the same wind which was hampering the brig carried him slowly across the one safe channel of escape.
Two bright tongues stabbed from the forecastle, and Bolitho could see the gun captains as if he were there with them. Probably Bill Chimmo, Trojan’s gunner, would personally be supervising each careful shot.
He heard the splintering crash as an eighteen-pound ball blasted its way into the brig.
Then, below his feet the deck started to slide away, and with Couzens clinging to him like a limpet he plunged over the bulwark. But not before he had heard a wild cheer, or before he had seen the bright new flag being hauled down from the brig’s gaff.
Even at that range Trojan’s starboard broadside could have smashed the brig to pieces in minutes, and her master knew it. A bitter moment for him, but many would thank him all the same.
Gasping and spluttering they reached the drifting spar and clung on to it.
Bolitho managed to say, ‘I think you saved me.’ For, unlike Couzens, he had forgotten to remove his clothes or even his hanger, and he was grateful for the spar’s support.
As he tried to hold his head above the choppy wave crests he saw the cutter turning towards him, the oarsmen leaning outboard to pull some of the swimmers to safety, or allow them to hang along either side of the hull. Further beyond them the other boats were coming too, the marines and the small party of seamen left to guard them doing better than Bolitho had expected.
He called, ‘How is the brig?’
Couzens stared across the spar and answered, ‘She’s hove to, sir! They’re not going to make a run for it!�
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Bolitho nodded, unable to say anything more. The White Hills had no choice, especially as D’Esterre’s boats were being careful not to lay themselves between him and Trojan’s formidable artillery.
The brig’s capture might not make up for all those who had died, but it would show Trojan’s company what they could do, and give them back some pride.
Trojan’s remaining boats had been lowered and were coming to join in the rescue. Bolitho could see the two jolly boats and even the gig bouncing over the water. It took a full hour before he and Midshipman Couzens were hauled aboard the gig by a grinning Midshipman Pullen.
Bolitho could well imagine what the delay had done to Stockdale. But Stockdale knew him well enough to stand off with his overloaded boat of wounded and half-drowned men, rather than to show preference for a lieutenant who was to all intents safe and unhurt.
The eventual return aboard the Trojan was one of mixed feelings. Sadness that some of the older and more experienced hands had died or suffered wounds, but riding with it a kind of wild jubilation that they had acted alone, and had won.
When the smartly painted brig was put under the command of a boarding party, and the seamen lining the Trojan’s gangway cheered the returning victors, it felt like the greatest triumph of all time.
Small moments stood out, as they always did.
A seaman shaking his friend to tell him they were alongside their ship again, the stunned disbelief when he discovered he had died.
The cheers giving way to laughter as Couzens, as naked as the day he was born, climbed through the entry port with all the dignity he could manage, while two grinning marines presented arms for his benefit.
And Stockdale striding to meet Bolitho, his slow, lopsided smile of welcome better than any words.
Yet somehow it was Pears who held the day. Tall, massive like his beloved Trojan, he stood watching in silence.
As Couzens tried to hide himself Pears called harshly, ‘That is no way for a King’s officer to disport himself, sir! ‘Pon my soul, Mr Couzens, I don’t know what you are thinking about, and that’s the truth!’ Then as the boy ran, flushing, for the nearest companionway, he added, ‘Proud of you, all the same.’
In Gallant Company Page 27