Signal Close Action

by Alexander Kent

The masthead yelled above the din, ‘Some of the French are making sail!’

  Bolitho said, ‘Cutting their cables.’

  He did not blame them. With one or more of their number ablaze or badly crippled by Osiris’s broadsides, they had nothing to gain by remaining where they lay. He felt the deck under his feet. Lifeless, but for the guns’ savage vibration. And nobody could stop them.

  Something fanned past him, crashed against a nine-pounder in a shrieking wave of splinters. Men fell kicking and gasping, and Bolitho felt blood splashed across his breeches like paint.

  He turned and saw Farquhar leaning back against the quarter-deck rail, his gaze fixed on the lower yards while he clutched his chest with both hands.

  Bolitho ran to his side. ‘Here! Let me help!’

  Farquhar’s eyes swivelled down towards him. He bared his teeth, spacing out each word to hold back the pain.

  ‘No. Leave me. Must stay. Must.’

  He had bunched the front of his new uniform coat into a tight ball. A ball which was already bright red.

  Allday said, ‘I’ll take him below.’

  The ship quivered again as the lower battery vented its anger on the anchorage. Several masts had fallen, and the two leading ships were listing towards each other, one almost awash, the other a blackened wreck in the path of that terrible explosion.

  Farquhar tried to shake his head. ‘Keep your damned hands off me!’ He reeled against Bolitho. ‘Mr. Outhwaite!’

  But the first lieutenant was sitting against one of the abandoned guns, his head lolling, and the deck around him spreading in blood.

  Bolitho looked at Allday. ‘Get Mr. Guthrie! Tell him I want all the wounded brought to the lower gun deck, larboard side, and be quick about it!’

  He saw the smoke from the hillside mingling with that from the guns. At least Veitch’s courage had given the wounded a chance. Without the smoke’s screen, any attempt to get boats alongside would have been prevented by the two siege guns. As it was, the French were still firing blindly across the water, the great balls adding their strange notes to the screams of the dying and wounded men.

  A small man darted through the smoke, and Bolitho saw it was the surgeon.

  Despite Farquhar’s protests, he ripped open the gold-laced coat, his hair blowing in the wind from another shot directly above the deck, and placed a heavy dressing above the bright stain.

  Farquhar gasped, ‘Get below, Andrews! See to our people!’

  The surgeon looked despairingly at Bolitho. ‘I’m getting the wounded up, sir.’ He peered dazedly at the shattered bulwarks and sprawled corpses. Even after the gruesome work he had to perform deep on the orlop deck, this must seem a worse horror. ‘Will you strike, sir?’

  Farquhar heard him and gasped, ‘Strike? Get below, you bloody fool! I’ll see you in hell before I strike my colours!’

  Bolitho beckoned to Pascoe. ‘Attend the captain. You stay here, too, Allday.’

  He ignored their anxiety and ran to the rail, straining his eyes through the smoke until he had found the boatswain. He could not remember his name, but shouted wildly until the man looked up at him, his face as black as any Negro’s from powder-smoke and charred wreckage.

  ‘Get the quarter boats alongside to larboard! A raft, too, if you can manage it!’

  He turned as Pascoe called him and saw a pale square of canvas rising through the smoke, the ship beneath still hidden.

  His sword blade touched the deck as his arms dropped to his sides. Time had run out. The Frenchman was here. Crossing their stern with the precision of a hunter stalking a wounded beast.

  He saw, too, the enemy’s broad pendant lifting and curling in the offshore wind, and wondered vaguely if its owner had seen his above the ruin and carnage.

  The smoke seemed to fan upwards to a freak gust, but the ripple of red and orange tongues which spurted through it told Bolitho that this wind was man-made.

  Deck by deck, pair by pair, the seventy-four’s armament poured its broadside into Osiris’s stern.

  It seemed to go on and on forever. The cringing, reeling men around him lost shape and meaning, their faces merely masks of pain and terror, their gaping mouths like soundless holes as they ran blindly before the onslaught.

  Bolitho found that he was on his knees, and as his hearing started to return he groped for his sword, using it like a lever to prise himself from the deck.

  Hardly daring to breathe, he staggered to the rail, or what was left of it, and saw that Pascoe and Allday stood as before, with the captain propped between them. Allday had a bad cut on one arm, and Pascoe had a dark weal on his forehead where he had been hit by a flying piece of timber. Bolitho could not get his breath to speak, but clung to them, nodding to each in turn.

  Beyond the quarter-deck there was not a mast left standing, and the whole of the upper gun deck, forecastle and gangways were buried under a mountain of broken spars and rigging. Smoke billowed from everywhere, while beneath the heaped wreckage he heard voices calling for help, for each other, or cursing like men driven mad.

  Allday gasped, ‘Mizzen’ll come down any minute, sir!’ He sounded faint. ‘Only the shrouds holding it, I’d say!’

  Faintly through the din of shouts and splintering woodwork Bolitho heard cheering. Frenchmen cheering their victory.

  Farquhar thrust Pascoe away and reeled towards the broken hammock nettings. His uniform was torn, and several wood splinters were embedded in his shoulders like darts. Blood ran unheeded down his chest and marked his passage towards the side, and when Bolitho caught him he had his eyes tightly shut.

  He gasped, ‘Did we strike, sir?’

  Bolitho held him firmly as Pascoe ran to help. The mast with his pendant, the halliards which had held the ensign, all had been blasted away in the enemy’s broadside.

  ‘No, we did not.’

  Farquhar opened his eyes very wide and looked at him. ‘That is good, sir. I-I’m sorry about –’ He closed his eyes against another searing pain, but exclaimed fiercely, ‘I hope Probyn rots in hell! He’s finished us this day.’

  Bolitho supported him, knowing that Pascoe was watching his face as if for an answer to something.

  Farquhar said quietly, ‘Let me stand, sir. I will be all right now. Get that fool Outhwaite to –’ Some last understanding flashed across his eyes, and then froze there.

  The second lieutenant staggered through the funnelling smoke, but stopped motionless as Bolitho said, ‘Take your captain, Mr. Guthrie.’ He watched a few men emerging from beneath the poop. ‘Sir Charles Farquhar is dead.’

  16

  The Captain’s Report

  ‘ONLY THE WOUNDED into the boats!’

  Bolitho was hoarse from shouting above the din of gunfire. Several transports were shooting through the smoke, and he knew that some of the shots would be hitting their consorts, as the packed anchorage changed from a prepared defence-line to a scene of indescribable panic. Three ships were blazing fiercely, and with their cables either cut or burned through, were already drifting amongst the others.

  Bolitho could not tell how many guns were firing at Osiris, for with only a few of her lower battery still manned, it was impossible to distinguish between a thirty-two-pounder’s recoil and an enemy ball crashing into the hull.

  He peered over the gangway and saw the boats immediately below him, filled with wounded, while others clung to the gunwales or floated away, unable to swim, or without the strength to do so. Others were clambering down the rounded tumblehome, marines and seamen, coopers and sailmakers, while here and there the blue and white of an officer tried to restore order.

  Pascoe ran to his side. ‘What will happen now, sir?’

  Bolitho did not reply immediately. ‘Down there, Adam. That is what defeat is like. The way it looks. How it smells.’ He turned away. ‘Pass the word. Cease firing. This ship may take fire at any moment when one of those wrecks drifts against us.’

  More violent crashes, and freed at last from its remaining
shrouds, the mizzen mast plunged down alongside, bedding itself in the shallows like a great marker.

  He walked a few paces across the deck, his shoes catching in splinters and the great diagonal rent where the French gunners had smashed down the helm and all around it.

  A few men ran past him, not even giving him a glance. To where, and for what purpose, they probably did not know.

  Smoke poured across the hull and eddied through holes in the deck. It was like walking in hell. Dead men were on every hand, weapons and small possessions where they had been dropped or had fallen in battle. A marine lay staring at the sky, his head and shoulders supported on the lap of a comrade. A best friend perhaps. But he, too, was dead. Killed by a metal splinter as he had watched his friend die.

  There was no sign of Farquhar, and he imagined that they had carried him right aft, to the wrecked cabin with its once beautiful furniture and fittings.

  A small figure emerged below the poop, and he realised it was Midshipman Breen.

  ‘Go with Mr. Pascoe!’ He watched the boy peering at him without a spark of recognition. ‘And take care.’

  Breen nodded, and then burst into tears. ‘I ran away, sir! I ran away!’

  Bolitho touched his shoulder. ‘A lot of men did that today, Mr. Breen. There’s nothing more they can do here.’

  Pascoe came aft with the second lieutenant. The latter looked exhausted, white-faced with shock.

  ‘The boats are full, sir.’ He cringed as a ball ripped past him and struck something solid in the smoke. The smoke was so thick that the other ship was completely hidden.

  ‘Very well.’ Bolitho looked slowly along the deserted decks. There would still be some who were trapped under that great tangle of wreckage. Listening, or calling for help.

  He said, ‘Pass the word. Abandon ship. We will ferry the wounded ashore.’ He looked at Pascoe. ‘I am sorry for you, Adam. Twice a prisoner of war in so short a span.’

  Pascoe shrugged. ‘At least we’re together this time, Uncle.’

  Allday, who had been nursing his injured arm, levered himself from the rail and said, ‘Listen!’

  They looked at him, and Bolitho put his arm round him, fearing that because of his own despair he had failed to help Allday.

  Breen wiped his eyes with his fists and stared at Allday. ‘I hear it!’ He reached out for Allday’s hand. ‘I do hear it!’

  Bolitho walked over the broken planks, listening to the swelling roar of cheers. It faltered only to a ragged crash of gunfire, which was followed instantly by an even louder, more violent broadside. Then the cheering resumed, stronger and fiercer, like one great voice.

  Allday said huskily, ‘That’s no French cheer!’

  ‘Huzza! Huzza!’

  And again the smoke surged towards the stranded Osiris, stirred and blown by another massive broadside.

  Pascoe said, ‘Buzzard.’

  Allday leaned against him and looked at Bolitho. ‘Bless him, sir, did you hear that?’

  ‘Yes.’ Bolitho sheathed his sword without knowing why he had done so. ‘No frigate carries that number of men.’

  The second lieutenant dropped his head and said brokenly, ‘That damned Nicator. Here at last, too late to save our ship and all our men.’

  Sunlight probed through the smoke, and Bolitho saw leaping flames and heard the crackle of burning timber. A mastless hulk, abandoned and well ablaze, was less than fifty yards away.

  But as the smoke swirled high in the air, he stared at a ship which even now was firing another broadside downwind, at some other invisible target.

  There was no mistaking her. Lysander was steering past the scattered transports, firing into individual vessels, or pouring a half-broadside into one isolated or apparently untouched. Her other side was obviously firing at the French seventy-four, which explained the first cheers and violent broadsides.

  Bolitho saw and understood all of these things, but found they carried no meaning.

  Only one thing counted. Lysander. Thomas Herrick had come for them, by some fantastic piece of luck and little less than a miracle, he had sailed down from the north channel and turned the anchorage into a shipbreaker’s yard.

  Pascoe said, ‘I think that’s Buzzard now, sir!’ He was wild-eyed, his chest and throat moving with emotion. ‘Yes, it is her! Her sails are so holed she is barely making way!’

  Bolitho rubbed his eyes, seeing a corvette following close under Lysander’s stern. She was listing, but had less damage to her sails than Javal’s victorious frigate. Also, above her flapping tricolour she was wearing a large Union Jack.

  Bolitho wrenched his eyes away. ‘They’ve got boats in the water. Tell our people that help is coming.’

  He watched the drifting hulk and prayed she was not one of the ammunition ships.

  Another gust of wind moved across the water, and he saw that many of the transports had sunk completely. If they were loaded with those great guns, it was not surprising.

  Boats pulled below the Osiris’s shadow, and he heard voices shouting encouragement, while the oarsmen stared grim-faced at the battered, holed wreck which had once been Farquhar’s command.

  Plowman limped past carrying the ship’s chronometer. He saw Bolitho and gave a tense grin. ‘Pity to leave it in the wreck, sir. ’Er’ll come in useful.’ He hurried to the side adding, ‘Glad you’re safe, sir.’

  Bolitho realised there were many boats nearby now, some with armed marines, and swivels mounted on their stems, while the others got on with the work of rescue.

  That, too, became clear as he leaned on the rail to watch. Some boats were painted dark red, from Nicator then. So somewhere beyond the scattered transports and burning wrecks Probyn’s ship was here to see the price of the battle.

  A lieutenant crossed the deck and touched his hat to Pascoe. ‘Nobody else survived but you?’ He looked very clean against the horror and death.

  Bolitho said, ‘I survived.’

  The lieutenant gaped at him and snapped, ‘Beg pardon, sir! I did not recognise you in –’

  Bolitho said wearily, ‘No matter. It has become a custom.’

  The officer blinked. ‘I am from Nicator, sir. We did not think anyone had survived,’ he waved his hand despairingly around the deck, ‘all this!’

  Guthrie, the Osiris’s second lieutenant, suddenly ran from the poop and seized the young officer by the coat.

  ‘You bloody coward! You damned, crawling toad! Look what you did –’

  As Pascoe pulled him away from the astonished lieutenant, Guthrie broke down completely, his body shaking violently to his sobs.

  The lieutenant gasped, ‘Nicator ran aground, sir. But when Lysander appeared out of nowhere, we were able to kedge off fairly well. Without Captain Herrick’s arrival I fear we would have been even later.’

  Bolitho watched him gravely, seeing his despair, his shame at Guthrie’s attack.

  ‘Of that I am quite sure.’

  He walked to the sagging gangway. ‘Now we can clear the ship.’

  He paused above the nearest launch, his eyes on the hull’s bare outline. Without masts or sails, and with only the dead and a few trapped and crazed men to crew her, Osiris was already a wreck. He felt the hull shudder, as if in protest against his thoughts, and knew that the blazing hulk had drifted along the other side. He heard the crackle of flames, the jubilant roar as they spread along Osiris’s tarred rigging which lay in huge coils to receive them.

  The French, or others, might salvage some of her seventy-four guns, and perhaps her bell as a souvenir. But the keel and ribs would lie in the sand long after the flames had been quenched, and until time and the sea completed the victory.

  ‘Cast off.’ He sat on the gunwale, surrounded by silent men, some wounded, some merely stunned by all they had witnessed and suffered. ‘Give way all!’

  Bolitho looked at the other boats. Every one crowded with survivors. But of Osiris’s original company of six hundred souls there were about half that number. He tigh
tened his lips and felt his gaze smarting from strain. A very heavy price. It was to be hoped someone would appreciate their sacrifice.

  He heard a voice calling, and then Allday croaked, ‘God, look at that gig!’

  It was Lieutenant Veitch, blackened from head to foot and almost naked, but waving towards him and grinning from ear to ear.

  Plowman murmured, ‘Said ’e’d make it. That what ’e said. The mad bugger!’

  Bolitho lost sense of time and distance, and as the boats were followed and surrounded by drifting smoke it was almost a surprise when he saw Lysander’s black and buff hull rising like a cliff to greet him, her gun ports crammed with cheering faces, her gangway thronged with seamen and marines.

  He gripped the nearest stair below the entry port and pulled himself from the boat. He felt as if his arms would not hold him, or tear from their sockets.

  There were hands gripping his, figures pushing around him, helping, staring.

  Herrick took his arm and guided him aft.

  He said softly, ‘Thank God.’ He turned and studied Bolitho’s face for some seconds. ‘Thank God.’

  Bolitho swung round as a searing column of flame shot above the smoke. Osiris’s pyre.

  He said, ‘See to her people, Thomas. They fought well. Better than I dared hope.’ He shrugged heavily. ‘But for your arrival, their efforts would have failed. Their losses too great when weighed against the gains.’

  He nodded as Pascoe joined them. ‘Adam, too, is unhurt.’

  Herrick peered through the smoke. ‘And the captain?’

  Bolitho watched the leaping flames. ‘He died in battle.’ He turned to Herrick. ‘Bravely.’

  More cheering echoed through the din of gunfire, and someone called wildly, ‘The Frenchie’s struck, sir!’

  Bolitho looked at Herrick questioningly. ‘The seventy-four?’

  ‘Aye. We shot her steering away, and raked her twice before she could fight clear. I think her captain was so taken with Osiris’s defiance he did not see us at all.’ He reached out awkwardly. ‘So you’ll have another ship to replace the one lost.’

  Lieutenant Kipling strode aft and touched his hat. ‘Boarding party in command now, sir. Mr. Gilchrist has hailed us to say that the French commodore and most of his senior officers are wounded.’