But only their drums would be used this day.
Jago walked towards him, eyes very calm, but watchful, no doubt taking in the breeches smeared with tar after his descent, and the open shirt, the neckcloth tied loosely around his bare throat. He was hatless, and wearing the familiar, sea-going coat with its faded and tarnished lace. Jago nodded in silent approval, as if he was putting his seal on it. No foolish chances today. But still the Captain.
He held up his arms and Jago clipped the old sword into place.
Deighton’s voice shattered the momentary stillness.
“From Flag, sir! Prepare for battle!”
“Acknowledge!”
Jago said, “We’ve heard that a few times, eh, sir?”
Adam grinned and impetuously seized his arm. It had been a close thing. Jago must have seen just how close.
He said, “And a few more yet, old friend!”
He swung away, without seeing Jago’s relief. “Come on, you drummers! Beat to quarters, and clear for action!”
He felt the waiting figures hesitate, and then come alive as if something far stronger controlled them.
Adam looked up at the long masthead pendant, streaming out now, pointing the way.
Men stampeding to their stations, screens being torn down, the hull alive with noise and purpose. A ship of war.
It was now.
19 CAPTAIN’S LEGACY
ADAM BOLITHO glanced at the compass and strode to the packed hammock nettings to train his telescope. In those few paces he saw the helmsmen watching the peak of the driver, flapping now as a warning, while Unrivalled held as close to the wind as was possible in the gentle pressure off the land.
So slow. So slow. He steadied the glass and watched the jagged spur of land reaching out towards the ships. It was as he remembered it: the rough landscape, where it was sometimes hard to distinguish between the country itself and the crumbling fortifications, and weathered towers built of sand-coloured stone, which looked older than time itself.
He swung the glass across the quarter. Halcyon was holding on station, a second ensign hoisted now, clean and very bright above the tanned sails and scarred hull. Their other companion, the 14 -gun brig Magpie, was further astern, tiny against the great array of sails where the fleet was on its final approach.
Adam returned to the quarterdeck rail, and saw several of the seamen look up at him from the nearest eighteen-pounders. So many times, and yet you were never certain. He ran his eyes along the length of the ship. The decks had been sanded to prevent men slipping in the height of battle, and to soak up the blood of the first to fall. That was always the hardest to accept. Not that men would die, but that they were faces and voices you knew, of which you had become a part. He saw the slow-matches, each in a bucket of sand beside every gun. It was still not unknown for the modern flintlock to fail because of a gun captain’s haste, or over eagerness to beat the others to a first broadside.
The nets were spread overhead, and the boat tier was empty, so that the deck seemed more spacious than it should. The gig and jolly-boat were towing astern; the rest were well away by now, drifting to a canvas sea anchor. Waiting for the victor to recover them, no matter which flag was still flying.
The land was curving away again, like the neck of a poacher’s bag. He trained the glass ahead, moving to avoid shrouds and stays, or faces, intent as they leaped into the lens. He could see the main anchorage, exactly as it was described in the orders, and as his uncle’s flag lieutenant, Avery, had reported after that first visit.
Adam lowered the glass and stared into the distance. There were ships at anchor, some no doubt waiting to attack and harry the slow-moving vessels of Lord Exmouth’s fleet once his intentions were recognised. He had heard four bells chime, but precisely when, he could not remember. It was a wonder that the seaman had kept his head and was able to mark the hour.
Sullivan had been right. They had closed the land at noon. That was two hours ago.
He looked at the gun crew directly below him. Stripped and ready, their bodies shining with sweat, neckerchiefs tied around their ears, cutlasses freshly sharpened at the grindstone and within reach. Another glance aloft. The big yards were braced so tightly that they appeared almost fore-and-aft; she was as close-hauled as she would come. He heard the wheel creak sharply, and one of the helmsmen mutter something as if to silence it.
He saw Galbraith by the starboard ladder, speaking with Rist, master’s mate, and Williams, the gunner’s mate who had been with him on the chebeck raid. He dabbed his lips with his sleeve. A lifetime ago.
Bellairs called, “Flagship is altering course, sir!”
Adam moved the glass. It was impossible to imagine the strength and effort now responding to Exmouth’s signal. Ponderous, slow, and some badly out of station, but the ships were moving as one, their shapes lengthening as they tacked like floating leviathans towards the shore.
It was still too far, but he could imagine the lines of guns running out, the muscle and sweat of hundreds of men like these around him, preparing to match their skills against the enemy. If Lord Exmouth had been expecting some last-minute submission he would be disappointed. The Dey was relying on his massive armament. Adam thought of that brief meeting. Trick for trick. Exmouth was still a frigate captain at heart.
There was a dull bang, the sound dragged out by echoes from the land, then they saw the ball splash down before ripping across the water like an enraged dolphin.
Cristie had his watch in one hand, but his voice was almost indifferent.
“Make a note in the log, Mr Bremner. At half past two o’clock, the enemy opened fire.”
Adam turned away. Nothing seemed to unsettle the old sailing master. He had even remembered the name of the midshipman who had only recently joined the ship. Like a rock. The man who had been born in the next street to Collingwood.
Perhaps the watchers on the shore had expected the fleet to sail directly into the anchorage, loose off a few shots at long range, and then go about without risking the mauling of close action. If so, they were wrong. A flag dipped above the Queen Charlotte and the air was split apart by the crash of gunfire. Unlike any broadside, it went on without cease, guns firing and reloading with barely a pause, the bay and the land already covered by drifting smoke.
What the gun crews must have trained for, all the way from Plymouth, and from Gibraltar to this mark on the chart.
Adam gripped the rail and felt the vibration of the bombardment jerking at the wood, as if some of the shots had smashed down alongside.
He thought of his own service in a ship of the line, and knew that Halcyon’s captain would be remembering it also. The incredible din, which scraped the inner walls of a man’s mind, so that only drill and discipline saved him from madness. Down on those gun decks, the overhead timbers brushing your hair, the confined space thick with smoke and the stench of burning powder, and only an open port beyond each crew, a hazy outline or shadow which had to be the enemy.
Sponge out! Load! Run out! Ready! Nothing else existed.
Adam called, “Two points, Mr Cristie! Steer sou’ by west!” It was impossible, but he could feel his mouth fixed in a grin. “That’ll give her more freedom!”
He swung round to watch a twisting column of sparks rising far beyond the nearest ships. Perhaps one had blown up, or a random shot had found its mark in one of the citadel’s magazines. Nobody could survive that.
He beckoned to Jago. “We shall be up to the anchorage directly. Keep with Mr Galbraith.” He lifted the glass again and held his breath until he had found the vessel in question. A schooner, moored apart from all the others. He moved the glass slightly and saw the frigate, anchored fore-and-aft, a floating battery, another man-of-war lying just beyond her. Guarding the anchorage, the ships which were the Dey’s lifeblood. “You know what to do, yes?”
He realised that Jago had remained silent. He looked at him, his ears cringing to yet another tremendous explosion, and saw the expression h
e had come to recognise since that day when they had settled on a handshake.
Jago said flatly, “My place is ’ere. With you.” He saw Lieutenant Varlo hurry past with a party of seamen. “Let ’im go!”
Adam contained his sudden anger. “I did not hear that, Luke.” He waved his hand towards the anchored ships. “That schooner is our weapon. The wind is right. Boat action, over quickly. Trust me.”
Jago touched the double-bladed weapon at his belt. “Burn the bastards out, before they can cut an’ run.”
Adam nodded. “Or get amongst the fleet. Some of our ships will be in a bad way by now.”
Jago frowned, his eyes elsewhere. Recalling another battle perhaps.
He said shortly, “Gig an’ jolly-boat. Might leave you short-’anded.” He glanced at somebody below the rail. “Some still wet behind the ears. If you gets boarded . . .” He looked at him and shrugged. “You command, sir.” Adam felt his limbs shaking. Not fear. It was worse. The madness. Just being here. It made no sense, and never would.
Jago was staring around, already seeking faces, names. “I’m ready.”
He swung himself down the ladder, his eyes still lifted to the quarterdeck, to the helmsmen barely moving as the sails filled again to the wind. Even that was full of acrid smoke. And when you looked astern it seemed the whole fleet had been swallowed up in it, broken here and there by flashes of gunfire, and the lasting patterns of burning timbers. Like a scene from hell.
This deck was quiet by comparison: Cristie beside his small rigged table, his eyes moving restlessly from masthead pendant to compass, from individual sails to his master’s mates and assistants, Midshipman Deighton at the flag locker, Bellairs waiting to make more sail, and the marines in position behind the hammock nettings, their only protection when the time came.
Jago said, “Watch yer back, sir.” Then he was gone.
More flashes darted through the smoke. From the anchorage this time. Adam winced as iron thudded into the lower hull. Not dangerous. He tried not to move, or to wipe his face. Even the slightest change in behaviour might be seen as doubt, or loss of confidence.
The frigate which was anchored fore-and-aft fired again, but the shots were haphazard, the gun crews perhaps confused by the spreading barrier of smoke. Adam crossed to the side and looked for the brig. She was holding on station. It was only too easy to close on one another, if only for a false sense of security.
He heard Cristie say, “That’s the same ship, sir! No Yankee colours this time, God rot him!”
Adam felt someone beside him. It was Napier, his eyes defiant as if he expected the worst.
But Adam said only, “Stay with me, David. Get down if I tell you.” He saw the youth nod, and then bite his lip as he took the weight on his injured leg.
“The surgeon said . . .”
Adam gripped his shoulder. “I can imagine what he said— much as he did to me, I have no doubt!”
Some seamen at the quarterdeck nine-pounders watched and nudged one another. The captain passing the time of day with his servant, as if they were still at Plymouth. It could not be that bad.
Galbraith was here. He looked very alert, no more time left for mistakes.
“Ready, sir. I’m taking Rist as my second-in-command—he’s a good hand. Williams has made up the charges. I already know what he can do!”
Adam did not look away as a ragged broadside crashed and echoed across the anchorage.
Bellairs exclaimed, “Halcyon’s hit, sir!”
Adam shut it from his mind and concentrated on Galbraith. A good officer who was used to taking risks. Who was about to lay his life on the line yet again. Who wanted his own command, and was watching Halcyon’s fore-topmast stagger and then pitch down into the water alongside. As if he was seeing his own ship under fire.
“I shall come about as soon as you slip the boats. If everything goes against us, then make your own way to the fleet. As you see fit, Leigh. I already know what you can do, too!”
Galbraith touched his hat and ran lightly down the ladder, shouting orders as he went. He paused only once, to stare across at Halcyon as she was raked by another full broadside. Then he, too, was gone.
Adam saw Partridge turn and wave his arm; the boats had cast off, and they were already pulling like madmen towards the anchorage.
He measured the distance as if he were studying a giant chart.
Varlo would remain up forward to direct the guns when Unrivalled came about. That inner voice persisted. If the wind holds. He could also be called to command if the worst happened and the quarterdeck became a bloody shambles. He looked around, at Bellairs with the afterguard, Captain Luxmore with Sergeant Bloxham and his marines. He had already sent his lieutenant, Cochrane, to cover and protect the carronade crews on the forecastle. He saw Midshipman Deighton staring at him over his signal locker, and his unexpected smile when Adam tossed him a casual wave. Casual? It was like raising the dead.
“Stand by on the quarterdeck!”
Cristie was waiting, slightly hunched as if anticipating a stray shot. Beside him the boy Ede, who had been spared the rope for an attempted murder, made an unlikely companion on the threshold of battle. Cristie had proclaimed that none of his navigational equipment had ever been in such good hands. It was praise indeed.
He counted seconds, all else but the narrowing triangle of smoke-hazed water thrust aside.
Another quick glance aloft: the masthead pendant was lifting and falling as before. But steady. The wind held.
His hand had found the folded note he had crammed into his breeches pocket.
Lowenna. In the old Cornish tongue it meant “joy.”
He swallowed, but his mouth was dry. So it will be.
“Ready ho! Put the helm down!”
He had to shout, above the noise of wind and canvas, and the continuous thunder of the distant battle. And because of his heart, which surely those around him must hear.
“Helm a-lee, sir!”
They were beginning to turn, to swing the jib-boom across the anchored shipping as if they and not Unrivalled were moving.
“Off tacks and sheets!”
Adam stared above the heads of running men, while the ship continued to answer the wheel until she was pointing directly into the wind.
“Run out the larboard battery.” He drew his sword, and found time to imagine Unrivalled as she exposed her opposite side to the anchored frigate. They would have been expecting an immediate challenge, and they would have been ready.
“Run out!”
He gripped the boy’s shoulder and knew he must be hurting him badly.
He saw the guns lurch against the side, muzzles lifting to the thrust of wind and wheel, as if to sniff out their old enemy.
The sword was above his head. All else was forgotten. Even the tearing crash of iron slamming into the hull meant nothing.
Not a voice he recognised. “As you bear, lads! Fire!”
Lieutenant Leigh Galbraith half rose from his place in the gig’s sternsheets as another ragged broadside crashed across the water. He saw the flashes reflected in the stroke oarsman’s eyes, but forced himself not to turn. It seemed so much deadlier, more personal, in spite of the unbroken thunder of heavier weapons which, as far as he could tell, had not stopped since the opening shots.
He had seen Unrivalled’s topgallants, taut and filling again as she came fully round on to the opposite tack, had heard the squeal of blocks, and imagined the shouted commands and stamping feet while men threw the full weight of their bodies and souls on braces and halliards.
Then the broadsides, Unrivalled’s, and the sharper bark of the brig Magpie’s nine-pounders as she sailed deliberately amongst the anchored shipping.
Here in the gig it was all so different, like being a spectator, or a victim, without the usual stealth and cunning of a boat attack.
He felt the heavy pistol at his side, the hanger already loosened in its scabbard. Puny against the thunder of battle, ships of the line
matched against the Dey’s batteries. The smoke over the town was thicker than ever, the fires rising through it, the gun crews probably half blinded and too dazed even to be afraid.
He said, “Ease the stroke, cox’n. We’ll lose the jolly-boat if we’re not careful!” He thought he heard Jago grunt, and saw the quick exchange between him and the stroke oar. The jolly-boat was abeam, heavier and slower because of Williams’ explosives and some extra hands to allow for opposition, and sudden death.
He twisted round as another broadside cracked through the smoke. The anchored frigate was still firing, but the rate was slower; Unrivalled’s sudden attack had worked. There were more shots on a different bearing, probably Halcyon. Wounded or not, she was well able to hit back.
Galbraith peered ahead as two anchored barges loomed through the haze. He found he was gripping the hanger as if to steady himself. The schooner lay directly beyond them.
He saw the bowman on his feet with the swivel gun on the stemhead. There would only be time for one shot. After that . . . Jago muttered, “There she is!”
The schooner’s counter seemed to loom through the smoke. Galbraith measured the distance. One grapnel would suffice. Each man was hand-picked. They all knew what to do. How to die without complaint if their officer made a mistake. He knew Jago was looking at him. Probably thought him mad anyway, if he could actually grin in the face of death.
Someone hissed, “Boat, sir! Larboard bow!”
It should not have been there. A major battle was in progress. Nobody sane or sober would venture out from a safe mooring.
There were wild shouts, and a sudden crack of musket fire. Galbraith heard and felt the balls smacking into the hull, saw the stroke oarsman throw up his hands and fall across his thwart, the oar trailing outboard like an extra rudder.
He shouted, “Fire, man! Rake the bastards!”
So close to the water, the bang of the swivel gun was deafening, the packed canister smashing into the other boat at almost point-blank range. The oars were in total confusion, the boat slewing round in a welter of spray, the air torn apart by the screams of men scythed down by the blast.
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