Midshipman Springett, who was the youngest in the ship, appeared on deck. His station was on the lower gun deck, to relay messages back and forth to the poop. In the bright sunlight he had to blink several times after the gloom of the sealed gun deck.
Bolitho saw the boy turn, watched his expression as he gazed at the enemy ships, seeing them probably for the first time.
For those few moments his uniform and the proud, glinting dirk at his belt meant nothing. He drove his knuckles into his mouth as if to hold back a cry of fear. He was a child again.
Jenour must have seen him, and strode across. “Mr Springett, isn’t it? I could do with you assisting me today.” He gestured to the two signals midshipmen, Furnival, the senior, and Mirrielees, who had red hair and a face covered with freckles. “These old men are getting past it, I fear!” The two in question grinned and nudged one another as if it were all a huge joke.
The boy stared at them. Mesmerised. He whispered, “Thank you, sir.” He held out a paper. “Mr Mansforth’s respects, sir.” He turned and trotted back to the ladder without once looking at the imposing ranks of sails.
Keen said quietly, “Your flag lieutenant just about saved that lad from bursting into tears.”
Bolitho watched more flags rising and dipping above the San Mateo. To himself he said, “And it saved Stephen Jenour, I suspect.”
Even across the expanse of glistening swell you could hear the slow rumble of gun trucks, while something like a sigh came from the waiting sailors as shadows painted the San Mateo’s tall side. All her larboard battery had been run out. It was like looking into the mouth of every one of them.
Bolitho heard the blare of a trumpet, and pictured the enemy gun crews at their quarters. Eyes peering over the muzzles, the next shots and charges already to hand.
“Hoist Benbow’s number.” Bolitho took Keen aside as the flags were swiftly bent on to the halliards. “I dare not wait too much longer, Val.” They both stared at the converging lines of ships, like one great arrowhead which must soon meet at some invisible westerly point.
There was a dull bang and Bolitho saw a puff of smoke drifting away from San Mateo’s side. The ball hit the sea, rebounded and smacked down, flinging a ragged waterspout half a cable clear. A ranging shot? Or was it merely to raise the spirits of the Spanish seamen who had been sharing the same agony of suspense as Hyperion ’s?
“Benbow’s acknowledged, sir!”
Make the signals as few as possible. Bolitho had always believed it a good idea in principle. It was not difficult for an enemy to guess or determine the next move from another’s signals. It was likely too that the prize, Intrépido, had been captured with some secret signals still intact.
When poor Captain Price had run his ship aground he could never have visualised any of this.
Bolitho looked at Keen and his first lieutenant. “We will alter course in succession. Hyperion and Benbow will lead the two divisions.” He saw them nod; Parris was watching his lips as if to read what he had not said.
“It will be as close to the wind as she can lie, so it will reduce our progress.” He saw their understanding. It might also mean that it would give the enemy more time to traverse his guns. Bolitho walked to the starboard side and stood on the truck of a quarterdeck nine-pounder, his hand gripping the bare shoulder of one of its crew.
He could see Benbow’s masts beyond the others astern, Herrick’s flag rippling out from the mizzen. Benbow was still flying her acknowledgement, just as Hyperion had kept her number hoisted close-up. Like a trumpet signalling a cavalry charge into the jaws of hell. A charge which cannot be halted once it has been urged to attack. Bolitho felt the man’s shoulder tense as he turned to stare up at him. Bolitho looked at him. About eighteen. The sort of face you saw around the farms and lanes of Cornwall. But not in times of war.
He said, “Naylor, am I right?”
The youth grinned while his mates winked at each other. “Aye, Sir Richard!”
Bolitho kept his eyes on him, thinking of the terrified midshipman, and Jenour, who was more frightened of showing fear than of fear itself.
“Well, Naylor, there is our enemy. What say you?”
Naylor stared at the nearest ships with their trailing banners and curling pendants, some of which almost touched the water. “I reckon we can take ’em.” He nodded, satisfied. “We can clear the way for t’others, Sir Richard!”
Some of the gun crews cheered and Bolitho climbed down, afraid that his eye might choose this moment to betray him.
Just an ordinary sailor, who if he survived today, would likely end in another battle before he was a year older.
He thought suddenly of the grand London house, and Belinda’s scathing words to him.
He nodded to the bare-backed seaman called Naylor. “So we shall!” He turned quickly. “Captain Keen!” Again, time seemed to stop for both of them. Then Bolitho said in a more level tone, “Alter course three points to starboard, steer nor’-by-west!” He waved to Jenour. “Now! Execute!”
Every man in Herrick’s flagship must have been poised for the moment. For as the flags were hauled down Benbow appeared to swing immediately out of the line, as if she, and she alone, was mounting a solitary attack on the enemy.
Keen watched closely, as pursued by Parris’s speaking trumpet the scrambling seamen hauled on the braces, while others freed the big main course even as the yards creaked round.
Penhaligon spread his legs while the deck leaned to larboard, as the wind explored the braced sails and thrust the ship over.
Then Keen was at the compass, although Bolitho had not seen him move.
“Meet her! Steady as you go!”
The sails boomed and thundered in protest, and the driver rippled from peak to foot as if it was about to tear apart. She could stand no closer to the wind, and from the Spanish line it must appear as if all her sails were overlapping fore-and-aft.
Bolitho clutched the rail and stared at the enemy. Someone was firing, but the nets rigged above the main deck gunners, and the huge billowing main course hid the flashes.
Bolitho saw Benbow drawing level abeam, barely three cables away. The others astern of her were already following round, with Tybalt tacking wildly to take station as the last of the line.
Keen exclaimed, “The Dons are taken aback, by God!”
Bolitho looked at the Spanish flagship. Now she seemed to be heading away from Hyperion’s larboard bow, two others still following her as before.
Bolitho shouted, “Load and run out, Captain Keen!”
The order was repeated to the deck below, and it seemed barely a minute had passed before each gun captain was faced aft, his fist above his head.
“All loaded, sir!”
“Open the ports! Run out!”
Squeaking noisily, the guns were hauled up to their ports. On the lee side the sea appeared to be curling up to the black muzzles as if to drive them inboard again.
Hyperion’s deck shivered violently as the nearest enemy ships opened fire. But the two small divisions had taken the Spanish admiral by surprise, and most of his guns could not be brought to bear. Several tall waterspouts shot above the gangways, and Bolitho felt the tell-tale crash of a ball hitting Hyperion’s lower hull.
“Brail up the courses!”
Shots whimpered overhead, and the gun crews crouched even lower, their faces running with sweat as each group peered through their open port, waiting for a target.
As the forecourse was brailed up the scene opened on either bow as if a giant curtain had been raised.
Bolitho heard one of the midshipmen gasp with alarm as the stern of the nearest Spaniard appeared from nowhere, or from the depths—her high, ornate gallery, stabbing musket fire from above, and her name, Castor, reflecting the spray beneath her counter.
“Stand by to larboard!” Lovering, the second lieutenant, was striding inboard from the first division of guns. “As you bear!”
Keen raised his sword, then sliced it d
own. “Fire!”
The larboard carronade on the forecastle hurled its huge ball into Castor’s stern with terrible effect. Bolitho heard the roar of its explosion within the other ship’s hull, could imagine the scything horror of the packed grape as it swept through the ship. Cleared for action, any man-of-war was most vulnerable when an enemy was able to cross her stern.
The ship on the other side was looming through the smoke, her guns shooting out vivid orange tongues.
“Fire!”
Bolitho was deafened by the roar of guns as both sides vanished in swirling smoke and charred fragments from the charges. The ship to starboard was already being engaged by Obdurate, and Bolitho could see just her mastheads rising above the dense smoke like lances. He felt the deck jar again and again, Parris yelling, “On the uproll, lads!” Then the next division fired as one, and Bolitho saw the Castor’s mizzen-mast topple, suspended momentarily in the rigging and stays before going over the side with a sound like thunder.
“Fire!”
Keen strode across the quarterdeck, his eyes streaming, as the upper battery recoiled singly and in pairs on their tackles, the crews leaping forward with sponges and rammers, ready to tamp home the next ball. To do what they had been taught, to keep on firing no matter what was happening about them.
Jenour coughed in the smoke, then shouted, “ Obdurate is in collision with a Spaniard, Sir Richard!” He winced as a musket ball slammed into the deck nearby and added, “She requests assistance!”
Bolitho shook his head.
Keen said tersely, “Inability!”
The flags bearing Keen’s curt signal lifted and vanished into a great pall of smoke which came surging inboard as the lower battery roared out to starboard.
Parris shouted, “We’re through, we’re through!” He waved his hat wildly. “Huzza, lads! We’ve broken the line! ”
More sails loomed like giant ghosts astern. Crusader, and Redoubtable, the latter almost colliding with another Spaniard which had either lost her steering or had her helmsmen shot down.
“Stand by to alter course to larboard!” Bolitho tossed his telescope to one of the midshipmen. “I don’t need this now!” He could feel his lips set in a grin.
“Deck there!” Someone up there above the smoke and shrieking iron was keeping his head. “ Benbow’s through the line!”
There were more wild cheers and coughs as the larboard battery fired a full broadside through the smoke, some into the Castor’s side, while the rest fell on and around the second ship in the enemy column.
“Lay her on the larboard tack, Mr Penhaligon! Afterguard, man the mizzen braces there!” Selected marines put down their muskets and ran to help, while some of their comrades squinted above the hammocks, their weapons cradled to their cheeks, seeking a target.
Bolitho looked up and saw lengths of severed cordage dangling on the protective nets, while above it all there was still the same peaceful sky.
A ball slammed into the larboard side, and crashed amongst the men by one of the forward eighteen-pounders. Bolitho gritted his teeth as two were smashed to bloody ribbons, and another rolled across the deck, his leg held on by a thread of skin.
He tried to concentrate. All his ships must be engaged now. The roar of battle seemed to roll all around, as if vessels were on every hand, masked from each other by their own smoke. Sharper gunfire, like the staccato beat of drums, echoed over the water, as if it were another part of destiny.
Bolitho shouted, “General signal. Close on the Flag. Re-form line of battle!”
How they could work with their flags was a miracle, Bolitho thought.
“All acknowledged, Sir Richard!” Jenour tried to grin. “I think!”
“No matter!” Bolitho strode to the rail as he saw a Spanish two-decker standing out from the others as she made more sail. Her captain either wished to rejoin his own flagship, or he had increased sail to avoid hitting the crippled Castor.
Bolitho pointed, “There, Val! Engage her!”
Keen yelled, “Stand by to starboard!”
The newcomer seemed to gather speed as the distance fell away, but Bolitho knew it was the illusion made by smoke. He watched the Spaniard changing tack so that she would cross Hyperion’s bowsprit; he could see the scarlet and gold banner of Spain, the huge cross on her forecourse.
Keen’s sword rose in the air. “As you bear!”
The other ship fired almost at the same time. Iron and wooden splinters flew across the main deck, while overhead the sails flailed and kicked, shot through so many times that some could not hold a cupful of wind. Bolitho wiped his face and saw the other ship’s foremast going down in the smoke, rigging and pieces of canvas vanishing into bursting spray alongside.
But he could ignore even that. Hyperion had been badly wounded. He had felt part of the enemy’s broadside crash into the lower hull with the weight of a falling cliff.
He made to cross the deck but something held his shoe. He looked down and saw it was the young seaman, Naylor. He was lying against his upended gun, and was trying to speak, his face creased with pain, and the effort to find words.
Keen called, “Over here, Sir Richard! I think we may—” He stopped, his feet slipping on blood as he saw Bolitho drop to his knee beside the dying seaman.
Bolitho took the youth’s hand. The Spaniards must have used extra grape in their broadside. Naylor had lost half of his leg, and there was a hole in his side big enough for a fist.
“Easy, Naylor.” Bolitho held his hand tightly as the deck seemed to leap beneath him. He was needed, probably urgently. Around them the battle raged without let-up. Obeying his instruction. No matter what.
The seaman gasped, “I—I think I’m dyin’, sir!” There were tears in his eyes. He seemed oblivious to his blood, which poured unchecked into the scuppers. It was as if he was puzzled by what was happening. He almost prised his broken body away from the gun, and Bolitho felt a sudden strength in his grip.
The youth asked, “Why me, sir?” He fell back, blood making a thin line from a corner of his mouth. “Why me?”
Keen waited while Bolitho released his hand and let it fall to the deck.
Keen said, “Capricious is in support, Sir Richard! But there is another Don breaking through yonder!” He stared at his own raised arm. There was a strip torn from his sleeve. Yet he had not even felt the ball hiss past.
Bolitho hurried to the side and saw the second ship already overhauling the one which had fired the last broadside.
Bolitho nodded. “Trying to join her admiral.”
Keen waved his hand. “Mr Quayle! Pass word to the lower battery! We will engage this one immediately!”
The fourth lieutenant was no longer pouting disdainfully. He was almost beside himself with terror.
Keen turned. “Mr Furnival!” But the midshipman had fallen too, while his companion stood rigidly beside Jenour, his eyes on the flags where his dead friend lay as if resting from the heat of battle.
Bolitho snapped, “Get below, Mr Quayle! That is an order!”
Keen dashed the hair from his forehead and realised that his hat had been plucked away.
“God damn,” he said.
“Ready, sir!”
Keen sliced down with his sword. “Fire!”
Gun by gun the broadside painted the heaving water between the ships in the colours of the rainbow. It was possible to hear Hyperion’s weight of iron as it crashed into the other ship’s side, smashing down men and guns in a merciless bombardment.
The smoke swirled away in a rising breeze and Keen exclaimed, “She’ll be into us! Her rudder’s shot away!”
Bolitho heard a splash and when he turned his head he saw some of the boatswain’s party hurrying from the upended gun. Naylor’s corpse had gone over the side. There was only blood left to mark where he had fought and died.
Bolitho could still hear his voice. Why me? There were many more who would ask that question.
He saw Allday with a bared cutlass in
his fist, watching the oncoming Spaniard with a cold stare.
Parris yelled, “Stand by to repel boarders!”
Major Adams went bustling forward, as the other ship’s tapering jib-boom rose through the smoke and locked into Hyperion’s bowsprit with a shudder which made even the gun crews pause at their work.
Keen shouted, “Continue firing!”
Hyperion’s lower battery of thirty-two-pounders fired relentlessly across the littered triangle of smoky water. Again, and yet once more, before the enemy’s jib-boom shattered to fragments and with a great lurch she began to sidle alongside, until the gun muzzles of both friend and enemy clashed together.
Muskets cracked from the tops and a dozen different directions. Men dropped at their guns, or collapsed as they ran to hack away fallen rigging and blocks.
The swivels barked out from Hyperion’s maintop, and Bolitho saw a crowd of Spanish sailors blasted away even as they swung precariously across the boarding nets.
Keen shouted, “We’ve lost steerage-way, Sir Richard! We’ll have to fight free of this one, and I think the other two-decker is snared into her! ”
“Clear the lower battery, Val. Seal the ports! I want every spare hand up here!”
They dared not fire into the ship alongside now. They were locked together. It only needed one flaming wad from a gun to turn both ships into an inferno.
The seamen from the lower battery, their half-naked bodies blackened by the trapped smoke, surged up to join Major Adams’s men as they charged to meet the attack.
Keen tossed his scabbard aside and tested the balance of his sword in his hand. He stared around in the drifting smoke, picking out his lieutenants amongst the darting figures. “Where’s my bloody coxswain?” Then he gave a quick grin as Tojohns ran to join him, his cutlass held high to avoid the other hurrying seamen.
“Here, sir!” He glanced at Allday. “Ready when you are, sir!”
Honour This Day Page 28
