Stepkyne was striding aft along the maindeck guns, his hands chopping the air as if to restrain his men. "Stop your vents! Sponge out!" He paused to knock down a man's arm. "Sponge out, I said, damn you!" He seized the dazed seaman by the wrist. "Do you want the gun to explode in your bloody face?" Then he strode on. "Jump to itl Load and run outl"
At each gun the men worked as if in a trance, conscious only of the drill they had learned under their captain's watchful eye and of the towering pyramid of sails which now rose high above, the larboard gangway; and the flapping Tricolour whih seemed barely yards-,away.
Bolitho shouted, "Fire as you bear!" He stepped back choking as the guns roared out again, the smoke and flames darting from the ship's side and making the water between the two vessels as dark as night.
Then the French ship fired, her full broadside rippling down her side from bow to stern in a double line of darting orange tongues.
Bolitho felt the shrieking balls scything through shrouds and sails, and the harder, jarring thuds as some struck deep into the hull itself.
A seaman, apparently unmarked, fell through the smoke from the maintop and bounced twice on the taut nets before rolling lifelessly over. the edge and into the sea alongside.
A gun captain behind him- was bellowing above the crash of cannon fire and the sporadic bark of muskets, his eyes white in his powder-stained face as he coaxed and pushed his men to the tackle falls.
"Run out, you idle buggers! Us'll give they sods a quiltin'!"
Then he jerked his trigger line and the nine-pounder hurled itself inboard again, the black muzzle streaming smoke even as the men threw themselves forward to the task of sponging and reloading.
Through the drifting curtain of smoke the powder monkeys ran like dazed puppets, dropping their cartridges and scampering back to the hatchways with hardly a glance to left or right.
Pelham-Martin was still by the rail, his heavy coat speckled with powder ash and splintered paintwork. He was staring at the French ship's masts, seemingly mesmerised by the nearness of death as musket balls hammered the deck around him and a seaman was hurled down the poop ladder, blood gushing from his mouth and choking his screams as he fell.
Inch shouted, "We'll be past her soon, sir!" His eyes were streaming as he peered through the smoke to seek out the next French ship. Then he pointed wildly, his teeth shining in his grimy face. "Her mizzen's going!" He waved his arms in the air and turned to see if Gossett had heard. "There it goes!"
The Frenchman's mizzen was indeed falling. A lucky shat must have struck it solidly within some ten feet of the deck, for as Bolitho clung to the nettings to see better he saw stays and shrouds parting like cotton while the whole mast, spars and wildly flapping canvas staggered, swung momentarily enmeshed in the tangle of rigging, before pitching down into the smoke.
But the enemy was still firing, and when Bolitho strained his eyes aloft he saw that the Hyperion's topsails were little more than remnants. Even as he watched the main royal stay parted with the sound of a pistol shot, and when men swarmed aloft to splice another in its place others were falling, dead or wounded, on to the nets below as the hidden French marksmen kept up a murderous fire across the smoke.
The severed mizzen must have fallen close alongside the enemy's quarter, for as more long orange tongues darted through the smoke and one of the twelve-pounders lifted drunkenly before smashing down across two of its crew, the French ship's blurred outline shortened, and slowly and inexorably she began to turn away.
Gossett was yelling hoarsely, "The mizzen must be actin' as a sea anchor!" He was pounding the shoulder of one of the helmsmen. "By God, there's hope yet!
Bolitho knew what he meant. As he ran to the rail seeking out the scarlet shape of Lieutenant Hicks on the forecastle he knew that once the enemy had cut loose the trailing mass of wreckage he would still be ready enough to give battle.
He snatched Inch's speaking trumpet and yelled, "The larboard carronade! Fire as you bear!"
He imagined that the marine lieutenant was waving his hat, but at that instant the enemy fired another ragged broadside, some of the balls smashing through open ports, others hammering the hull or whipping like shrieking demons overhead.
But through the pall of smoke he heard one resonant explosion, and felt it transmit itself from bow to poop as the fat, crouching carronade hurled its giant sixty-eight pound ball towards the enemy's stem.
As a freak down-eddy pushed the fog aside Bolitho saw the massive ball explode. Hicks had been too eager or too excited,, and instead of passing through the enemy's stem windows and along the full length of her lower gundeck it had struck just below her quarterdeck nettings. There was a bright flash, and as the ball exploded and released its closely packed charge of grape he heard screams and terrified cries as a complete section of bulwark collapsed like so much boxwood.
Gossett roared, "That showed 'eml The old Smasher's taken the wind out o' their guts!"
Bolitho said, "Her steering seems to be damaged, or else that shot cut down most of her officers." He felt a musket ball pluck at his shirt with no more insistence than the touch of a child's fingers, and behind him a seaman screamed in agony and rolled away from his gun, his hands clawing into his stomach as the blood spattered across the planking and the men around him.
The whole ship seemed to be in the grip of fighting madness. Men worked at their guns, wild-eyed and so dazed by the din of battle and the awful cries of the wounded that most of them had lost all sense of time or reason. Some gun captains had to use their fists to drive their men through the changeless pattern of loading, running out and firing, otherwise they would have fired at empty sea or hauled a gun back to its port still unloaded.
"Cease firing!" Bolitho gripped the rail and waited as the last few shots roared from the lower battery. The French ship had all but vanished down wind, only her topgallants showing above the attendant curtain of smoke.
Inch said between his teeth, "The second one's going about, sir!"
Bolitho nodded, watching the two-decker's yards swinging round as she turned lazily to starboard. The Hyperion had already started her second turn, but now instead of passing between the two ships she would-if the Frenchman intended to maintain his new course-be running parallel with the enemy. Above his head the torn sails lifted and cracked in a sudden gust as with tired dignity the Hyperion tilted to the wind and then settled on her course away from the land.
Bolitho shouted, "Starboard battery ready!" He saw Stepkyne signalling sharply to some of the men from the other side and ordering them to the starboard guns.
Pelham-Martin lifted one hand to his face and then stared at his fingers as if surprised he was still alive. To Bolitho he muttered tightly, "This one'll not be so slow in returning fire!"
Bolitho looked at him steadily. "We shall see, sir."
Then he jerked round as more gunfire rolled through the haze of smoke, and he guessed that the Abdiel was closing with the enemy frigate.
Inch called, "We're overhauling him, sir!"
In spite of her torn canvas the old Hyperion was doing just that. Maybe the French captain had waited too long to tack or perhaps he had been unable to accept that the solitary two-decker would stand and fight after the first savage encounter. The jib boom was already passing the Frenchman's larboard quarter with less than thirty yards between them. Above the familiar horseshoe shaped stern with its gilded scrollwork and the name Emeraude Bolitho could see the flash of sunlight on levelled weapons and the occasional stab of musket fire.
But there was a growing froth beneath her counter, and even as he watched he saw her lean slightly away, gathering wind to.her straining sails as she started to pull ahead with increasing power.
Inch muttered, "We'll not catch her, sir. If she can retake the wind-gage she can come at us again and cover her consort until she is ready to fight tool"
Bolitho ignored him. "Mr. Gossett! Helm a'lee!" He held up his hand. "Easy now! Steady!" He saw the Hyperion's bow
sprit swing very slightly to windward, so that for a few moments she exposed her full broadside to the French ship's quarter.
"As you bear, Mr. Stepkyne!" He sliced downwards with his hand. "Now!"
Stepkyne ran down the length of the main deck, pausing by each gun captain just long enough to watch the enemy through the port.
And down the Hyperion's side the guns fired, two by two, the balls smashing into the enemy's quarter and waterline in an unhurried and merciless bombardment.
Someone aboard the Emeraude was keeping his head, for she was already turning, pivoting round to keep station on her attacker, so that once more they were drawing parallel.
Then she fired, and along the Hyperion's starboard side the mass of iron smashed and thundered into the stout timbers or screamed through gunports to cause havoc and murder amongst the press of men within.
Through the unending haze Bolitho could see the first ship's topmasts, the bright whip of her masthead pendant as she tacked round and headed back towards the fray, her bowchasers already barking viciously, although whether the shots were hitting or passing overhead and hitting her own consort it was impossible to determine.
Pelham-Martin shouted, "If she gets to grips with us they'll smash us from either beam!" He swung round, his eyes wild. "In the name of God, why did I listen to you?"
Bolitho caught a seaman as he slumped back from the nettings, blood already pumping from his chest. To a white-faced midshipman he snapped, "Here, Mr. Penrose! Help this fellow to the main deck!"
Inch was by his side again. "This one'll stand off until his friend arrives." He winced as a ball ploughed a deep furrow along the starboard gangway and hurled a corpse aside in two halves.
"If we let him, Mr. Inch!" Bolitho pointed at the other ship's bows. "Larboard your helm! We'll force him to close with us."
Very slowly, for her sails were almost in shreds, the Hyperion responded to the rudder's thrust. Further and further until the bowsprit seemed to be rising high above the enemy's deck as if to drive straight through her foremast shrouds.
Inch watched in silence as again the main deck guns hurled themselves inboard on their tackles, the figures around them darting through the funnelled smoke, their naked bodies black with powder and shining with sweat as they struggled to obey their officers.
But the salvos were more ragged and less well aimed, and the delay between each shot was growing longer. By comparison the enemy seemed to be firing rapidly and with greater accuracy, and the spread nets above the gunners were jumping madly with severed cordage and ripped sailcloth. And there were more than a dozen bodies across the nets, too. Some limp and jerking to the vibrating crash of gunfire, others twisting and crying out
like trapped birds in a snare while they struggled and died unheard and unheeded.
Captain Dawson was waving his sword and yelling to his men in the tops. The marines were shooting as rapidly as before, and here and there a man would drop from the enemy's rigging as proof of their accuracy. Even when a marine fell dead or wounded another would step up to fill his place, while Munro, the huge sergeant, would call out the timing for loading and aiming, beating the air with his half-pike as Bolitho had seen him do at the daily drills since leaving Plymouth.
The French captain was not it seemed prepared to accept the new challenge, but with yards swinging round he steered his ship away yet again, until he had the wind immediately under his stem.
Hicks had fired his other carronade, but again it was a poor shot. It struck the enemy's side and burst below the main deck gunports to leave a ragged gash in the shape of a giant star.
Bolitho looked down at his own men and bit his lip until the skin almost broke. The heart was going out of them. They had acted and fought better than -he had dared hope, but it could not go on like this.
A great chorus of voices made him look up, and with sick horror he saw the main topgallant and royal mast stagger and then bow drunkenly to larboard before ripping through sails and men alike on its way to the deck.
He heard Tomlin's voice bellowing above the din, saw axes flashing in the sunlight, and as if in a dream watched a wild-eyed seaman, naked but for a strip of canvas around his loins, run to the main shrouds and swarm up the ratlines like a monkey, Pelham-Martin's pendant trailing behind him as he scampered aloft to replace it.
The commodore murmured thickly, "My God! Oh, my merciful God!"
Reluctantly the broken spar slithered free from the gangway and bobbed down the ship's side, a dead topman still tangled in the rigging, his mouth wide in a last cry of damnation or protest.
Midshipman Gascoigne was tying a piece of rag around his wrist, his face pale but determined as he watched the blood seeping over his fingers. Amidst the smoke and death, the great patches of blood and whimpering wounded, only Pelham-Martin seemed unharmed and immovable. In his heavy coat he looked more like a big rock than a mere human, and his face was a mask which betrayed little of the man within. Perhaps he was beyond fear or resignation, Bolitho thought dully. Unable to move, he was just standing there waiting to see the end of his hopes, the destruction of himself and all about him.
Bolitho stood stockstill as a figure emerged from the aft hatchway and stepped over the spread-eagled marine. It was Midshipman Pascoe, his shirt open to the waist, his hair plastered across his forehead as he glanced round, stunned perhaps by the carnage and confusion on every hand. Then• he lifted his chin and walked aft to the quarterdeck ladder.
Inch saw him and yelled, "What is it?"
Pascoe replied, "Mr. Beauclerk's respects, sir, and he wishes you to know that Mr. Lang has been wounded."
Beauclerk was the fifth and junior lieutenant. It was too much of a task to control, those thirty twenty-four pounders singlehanded.
Bolitho shouted, "Mr. Roth! Go and take charge below!"
As the lieutenant ran for the ladder he beckoned to the boy. "Are you all right, lad?"
Pascoe looked at him vaguely and then pushed the hair from his eyes. "Aye, sir." He shuddered, as if suddenly ice
cold. "I think so."
A musket ball, almost spent, struck the deck at his feet, and he Wuld have fallen but for Bolitho's hand.
"Stay with me, lad." Bolitho held on to his arm, feeling its thinness and the cold clamminess of fear.
The boy looked round, --.Is eyes very bright. "Is it nearly over, sir?"
Overhead another halyard snapped and a heavy block clanged across a gun breech so that a seaman yelled up at the smoke, cursing and mouthing meaningless words, until the gun fired and he became part of the panorama again.
Bolitho pulled him towards the hammock nettings. "Not yet, my lad! Not yet!" He showed his teeth to hide his own despair. In a moment they would be at close quarters again with two ships. No matter how much damage they inflicted on them, the end would be certain.
"Captain, sir!" Inch came striding through the smoke. "The enemy's hauling off!" He pointed wildly. "Look, sir! They're both making more sail!"
Bolitho climbed into the mizzen shrouds, his limbs feeling like lead. But it was true. Both ships were turning away, and with the wind astern were already drawing steadily clear, the smoke swirling behind them like anattendant sea mist.
And as a shaft of sunlight cut across the water he saw the frigate, too, was under way, her yards braced round, her sails pockmarked and blackened to show Abdiel's efforts to defeat her.
He snatched a glass and trained it across the quarterdeck as the Abdiel emerged hesitantly through the billowing curtain of smoke. All her masts were intact, but the hull was scarred in several places as she idled into the pale sunshine.
Bolitho was already peering past the little frigate, and as the glass steadied beyond a curving green headland he thought for a moment he had taken leave of his reason.
There was another ship rounding the spur of land, her sails shining and very white in the morning sun, her tall side throwing back the sea's dancing reflections as she tacked ponderously across the wind before head
ing towards the Hyperion.
Pelham-Martin's voice sounded shaky. "What is she?"
Already the Hyperion's seamen were leaving their overheated guns to stand on the gangways and stare at the stately newcomer. Then as the Abdiel's people began to cheer, so too it was carried on by the Hyperion, until even the cries of the wounded were lost in the wild chorus of relief and excitement.
Bolitho watched the other ship without lowering his glass. He could see the long tricolour flag at her peak, the orange gilt-encrusted carving around her poop, and knew that if the Hyperion was old, then this one was the most ancient vessel he had yet clapped eyes on.
He replied slowly. "She's Dutch." He lowered the glass and added, "What are your orders, sir?"
Pelham-Martin stared at the Dutch ship as she tacked once more to sail easily under the Hyperion's lee quarter.
"Orders?" He seemed to get a grip on himself, "Enter harbour."
Bolitho said slowly, "Signal Abdiel and inform her we will anchor without delay, Mr. Gascoigne." He walked to the opposite side, his head ringing with the cheers, his mind dazed from the closeness of death and defeat.
Inch looked down at Midshipman Pascoe and shook his head. "Take good heed of this morning. Whatever you do or amount to in later years, you'll never see his like again!" Then he strode to the rail and began to rally the remnants of his topmen.
Bolitho did not hear Inch's words, nor did he see the look in the boy's eyes. He was watching the strange, outdated ship of the line turning once more to lead them into the bay. But for her arrival ... he paused and pulled out his watch. For a moment he thought it had stopped, but after another glance he returned it to his pocket. One hour. That was all it had taken. Yet it had seemed ten times that long.
He made himself look down at the main deck as the surgeon and his bloodstained assistants emerged to collect the rest of the wounded. So what must it seem like to his men?
Enemy In Sight! Page 13
