Bolitho watched Indomitable’s double-shotted broadside smashing into the other ship, and imagined that he saw her stagger as if she had run aground. He saw great holes in the sails, the wind already exploring them and tearing them apart. Severed rigging and shrouds dangled over her side, and more than one gunport had been left empty, blinded, its cannon running free to cause more havoc inboard.
‘Stop your vents! Sponge out! Load! Run out!’
Even as the enemy fired, the gun crews threw themselves into their work in a barely controlled frenzy.
Gun captains peered aft where Tyacke stood watching the other frigate. Perhaps he could exclude all else but the moment and his duty; he certainly did not seem to notice as one of the packed hammocks was torn apart by a jagged splinter a few yards from his body.
Bolitho felt the hull jerk as some of the other frigate’s iron found its mark. The range was closing fast; he could even see men running to retrim the yards, and an officer waving his sword, before Tyacke’s arm came down and the guns hurled themselves inboard on their tackles once more. Through the black shrouds and stays the American frigate looked as if she would run headlong into Indomitable’s side, but it was an illusion of battle, and the sea churned between the two ships was as bright as before.
Bolitho snatched up a glass and walked to the opposite side, expecting to see the senior American frigate running into the fight, with only the smaller Attacker standing in her way. He stared with disbelief as he realized that she had already gone about, and was making more sail even as he watched.
Avery said hoarsely, ‘Not bluffing this time, sir!’
There was a wild cheer as the frigate’s foremast began to fall. He imagined he could hear the terrible sounds of splintering wood and tearing rigging, although his ears were still deaf from the last broadside. So slow, so very slow. He even thought he could see the final hesitation before shrouds and stays snapped under the weight, and the whole mast, complete with yards, top and sails, thundered down alongside, dragging the vessel round like some giant sea-anchor.
He watched the range closing fast, the American frigate turning clumsily while some of her men ran to cut the mast adrift, their axes like bright stars in the smoky sunshine.
Daubeny called, ‘All loaded, sir!’
Tyacke did not seem to hear. He was watching the other ship as she drifted helplessly to the thrust of wind and current.
The American officer was still waving his sword, and the huge Stars and Stripes streamed as proudly as before.
‘Strike, damn you!’ But Tyacke’s voice held no anger or hatred; it was more a plea, one captain to another.
Two of the enemy’s guns recoiled in their ports and Bolitho saw more packed hammocks blasted from their nettings, and seamen reeling from their weapons while one of their number was cut in half by a ball, his legs kneeling in grotesque independence.
Tyacke stared at Bolitho. Nothing was said. The sudden silence was almost more painful than the explosions.
Bolitho glanced at the enemy ship, and saw that some of her seamen who had been running seconds earlier to hack away the dragging wreckage had stopped as if stricken, unable to move. But here and there a musket flashed, and he knew that her invisible marksmen could not be cheated for much longer.
He nodded. ‘As you bear!’
The sword fell, and in one shattering roar the starboard battery fired into the drifting smoke.
Daubeny yelled, ‘Reload!’
Stooping like old men, the gun crews sponged out the hot guns and rammed home the fresh charges and shining black balls from the garlands. At one of the ports the men hauled their gun back, oblivious even to the sliced corpse and the blood that soaked their trousers like paint. A fight they could understand; even the pain and fear that kept it close company were part of it, something expected. But a drifting ship, unable to steer and with most of her guns either unmanned or out of action, was something different.
A lone voice shouted, ‘Strike, you bloody bastard! Strike, for Jesus’ sake!’ Above the wind in the rigging, it sounded like a scream.
Tyacke said, ‘So be it.’ He dropped his sword and the guns exploded, the vivid tongues of flame appearing to reach and touch the target.
The smoke funnelled downwind, and men stood away from their guns, their eyes red-rimmed in smoke-grimed faces, sweat cutting stripes across their bodies.
Bolitho watched coldly. A ship which could not win, and which would not surrender. Where the working party had been gathered there was only splintered timber and a few corpses, tossed aside with brutal indifference. Men and pieces of men, and from her scuppers there were tiny threads of scarlet, as if the ship herself was bleeding to death. Daubeny had removed his hat, probably without knowing what he had done. But he stared aft again, his face like stone as he called, ‘All loaded, sir!’
Tyacke turned toward the three figures by the weather rail: Bolitho, Avery close beside him, and Allday a few paces away, his naked cutlass resting on the deck.
One more broadside would finish her completely, with so much damage below deck that she might even burst into flames, deadly to any vessel that came near her. Fire was the greatest fear of every sailor, in both war and peace.
Bolitho felt the numbness. The ache. They were waiting. Justice; revenge; the completeness of defeat.
His was the final responsibility. When he looked for the other American ship, he could barely find her beyond the smoke. But waiting, watching to see what he would do. Testing me again.
‘Very well, Captain Tyacke!’ He knew that some of the seamen and marines were staring at him, with disbelief, perhaps even disgust. But the gun captains were responding, answering the only discipline they understood. The trigger-lines were pulled taut, each man staring across his muzzle, the helpless target filling every open port.
Tyacke raised his sword. Remembering that moment at the Nile when hell had burst into his life and had left its mark as a permanent reminder? Or seeing just another enemy, a fragment of a war which had outlived so many, friends and foes alike?
There was a sudden burst of shouting and Bolitho shaded his eyes to watch the solitary figure on the enemy’s torn and bloodied quarterdeck. No sword this time, and one arm hanging broken, or even missing in the dangling sleeve.
Very deliberately and without even turning towards Indomitable, he tugged at the halliards, and almost fell as the big Stars and Stripes spiralled down into the smoke.
Avery said in a tight voice, ‘He had no choice.’
Bolitho glanced at him. Like Tyacke, another memory? Of his own little schooner surrendering to the enemy, while he lay wounded and helpless?
He said, ‘He had every choice. Men died for no good purpose. Remember what I told you. They have no choice at all.’
He looked in Allday’s direction. ‘Bravely, old friend?’
Allday lifted the cutlass and balanced the blade on one hand.
‘It gets harder, Sir Richard.’ Then he grinned, and Bolitho thought that even the sunshine was dim by comparison. ‘Aye, set bravely!’
Tyacke was watching the other vessel, the brief savagery of action already being crowded aside by the immediate needs of command.
‘Boarding parties, Mr Daubeny! The marines will go across when the ship is secured! Pass the word for the surgeon and let me know the bill – we’ll see the cost of this morning’s show of courage!’
Indomitable was responding, the carpenter and his crew already below, hammers and squeaking tackles marking their progress through the lower hull.
Then Tyacke sheathed his sword, and saw the youngest midshipman observing him closely, although his eyes were still blurred with shock. Tyacke looked steadily back at him, giving himself time to consider what had so nearly happened.
He barely knew the midshipman, who had been sent out from England as a replacement for young Deane. His eyes moved unwillingly to one of the quarterdeck guns. Right there, as others had just fallen.
‘Well, Mr Campbell, what did
you learn from all this?’
The boy, who was only twelve years old, hesitated under Tyacke’s gaze, unused as yet to the scars, and the man who bore them.
In a small voice he answered, ‘We won, sir.’
Tyacke walked past him and touched his shoulder, something he did not often do. He was more surprised than the midshipman at the contact.
‘They lost, Mr Campbell. It is not always the same thing!’
Bolitho was waiting for him. ‘She’s not much of a prize, James. But her loss will be felt elsewhere!’
Tyacke smiled. Bolitho did not wish to speak of it, either.
He said, ‘No chance of a chase now, Sir Richard. We have others to care for.’
Bolitho stared at the dark blue water, and the other American frigate, which was already several miles clear.
‘I can wait.’ He tensed. Someone was crying out in agony as others attempted to move him. ‘They did well.’
He saw Ozzard’s small figure picking his way through the discarded tackles and rammers by the guns. So much a part of it, and yet able to distance himself from all the sights and sounds around him. He was carrying a bottle, wrapped in a surprisingly clean cloth.
Tyacke was still beside him, although aware of those on every hand who were demanding his attention.
‘They’re lucky, Sir Richard.’
Bolitho watched Ozzard preparing a clean goblet, oblivious to everything but the job in hand.
‘Some may not agree, James.’
Tyacke said abruptly, ‘Trust, sir.’ One word, but it seemed to hang there even as he walked away for the final act with a vanquished enemy.
Bolitho raised the goblet to his lips as the shadow of the enemy’s topmast laid its patterns on the deck beside him. He saw some of the bloodied seamen pause to watch him; a few grinned when they caught his eye, others merely stared, needing to recognize something. To remember, perhaps, or to tell somebody later, who might want to know about it. He found himself touching the locket beneath his shirt. She would understand what it meant to him. Just that one word, so simply put.
While the sun climbed higher in the clear sky to raise a misty haze on either horizon, Indomitable’s company worked with scarcely a pause to cleanse their ship of the scars and stains of battle. The air was heady with rum, and it was hoped that a meal would be ready by noon. To the ordinary sailor, strong drink and a full belly were considered a cure for almost everything.
Below the sounds of repair and the disciplined activity, on Indomitable’s orlop deck the contrast was stark. Beneath the ship’s waterline, it was a hushed place that never saw daylight, nor would it until she was broken up. Through the ship’s length it was a place for stores and spare timber, rigging and fresh water, and in the carefully guarded magazines, powder and shot. Here was the purser’s store, with slop clothing and tobacco, food, and wine for the wardroom, and in the same darkness, broken here and there by clusters of lanterns, some of Indomitable’s company, midshipmen and other junior warrant officers, lived, slept, and by the light of flickering glims studied and dreamed of promotion.
It was also a place where men were brought to survive or to die, as their wounds and injuries dictated.
Bolitho ducked low between each massive deck beam and waited for his eyes to accept the harsh change from sunlight to this gloom, from the relief and high spirits of the victors, to the men down here who might not live to see the sun again.
Because of their opening broadsides and Tyacke’s superior ship-handling at close quarters, Indomitable’s casualties, her bill, had been mercifully light. He knew from long experience that that was no consolation to the unlucky ones down on the orlop. Some were lying, or propped against the great curved timbers of the hull, bandaged, or staring at the little group around the makeshift table where the surgeon and his assistants, the loblolly boys, worked on their patients: their victims, the old Jacks called them.
Bolitho could hear Allday’s painful breathing, and did not know why he had chosen to accompany him. He must be grateful that his son had been spared this final indignity and despair.
They were holding a man down on the table, his nakedness still revealing the powder stains of battle, his face and neck sweating as he almost choked on the rum which was being poured down his throat before the leather strap was put between his teeth. The surgeon’s apron was dark with blood. No wonder they called them butchers.
But Philip Beauclerk was not typical of the uncaring, hardened surgeons who were usually found throughout the fleet. He was young and highly skilled, and had volunteered with a group of other surgeons to serve in ships of war, where it was known that conditions and the crude treatment of wounds often killed more men than the enemy. After his present commission Beauclerk would return to the College of Surgeons in London, where, with his colleagues, he would contribute his knowledge to a practical guide, which might help to ease the suffering of men like these.
Beauclerk had done well during the fight with the U.S.S. Unity, and had offered great support to Adam Bolitho when he had been brought aboard after his escape from prison. He had a composed and serious face, and the palest and steadiest eyes Bolitho had ever seen. He recalled the moment when Beauclerk had mentioned his finest tutor, Sir Piers Blachford, who had been researching the same conditions himself aboard Hyperion. Bolitho saw him even now, his tall, heron-like figure striding between decks, asking questions, talking to anyone he chose, a severe man, but possessing great qualities of courage and compassion, which had made even the hardest seamen respect him. Blachford had been in Hyperion to her last day, when she had finally given up the fight and gone down, with Bolitho’s flag still flying. Many had gone down with her: they could be in no better company. And they still sang about his old ship, How Hyperion Cleared the Way. It always brought a cheer in the taverns and the pleasure gardens, even though those who cheered her name rarely had any idea what it was like. What this was like.
For a few seconds Beauclerk looked up, his eyes like chips of glass in the light of the swinging lanterns. He was a very private man, no easy thing to achieve in a crowded warship. He had known for some time of Bolitho’s damaged eye, and that it had been Blachford who had told him that there was no hope for it. But he had said nothing.
The wounded seaman was quieter now, whimpering to himself, not seeing the knife in Beauclerk’s hand, the saw held ready by an assistant.
‘You are welcome here, Sir Richard.’ He watched him, assessing him. ‘We are nearly done.’ Then, as the seaman twisted his face toward the admiral, he gave a brief shake of his head.
Bolitho was deeply moved, and wondered if this was why he had come. This man might die: at best, he would be one more cripple thrown on the beach. His leg had been crushed, no doubt by a recoiling gun.
Tyacke’s words still haunted him, from that September day when so many others had fallen. And for what? An enemy frigate taken, but so badly damaged that it was unlikely she would survive a sudden squall, let alone fight in the line. Virtue had also been severely mauled, and had lost twenty of her men. Surprisingly, her captain, the devil-may-care M’ Cullom, had survived without a scratch. This time.
Indomitable had lost only four men killed, and some fifteen wounded. Bolitho moved to the table and took the man’s wrist, the surgeon’s mate stepping aside, staring at Beauclerk as if for an explanation.
Bolitho closed his fingers around the man’s thick wrist, and said gently, ‘Easy, now.’ He glanced at Beauclerk and saw his lips form the name. ‘You did well, Parker.’ He raised his voice very slightly and looked beyond, into the shadows, knowing that others were listening to his empty words. ‘And that applies to you all!’
He felt the wrist start to shake. It was not a movement, but a mere sensation, like something running through him, out of control. It was terror.
Beauclerk nodded to his assistants and they seized the leg, their eyes averted as the knife came down and cut deeply. Beauclerk showed no hesitation, no outward emotion, as his patient arche
d his back and tried to scream through the strap. Then the saw. It seemed endless, but Bolitho knew only a matter of seconds had passed. It was followed by a sickening thud as they dropped the leg into the ‘wings and limbs’ tub. Now the needle, the fingers bright and bloody in the swaying lantern light. Beauclerk glanced at Bolitho’s hand on the man’s wrist, the admiral’s gold lace against the smoke-grimed skin.
Somebody murmured, ‘No good, sir. Lost him.’
Beauclerk stood back. ‘Take him.’ He turned to watch as the dead seaman was dragged from the table. ‘It’s never easy.’
Bolitho heard Allday clearing his throat. Seeing it all again, as if it were his own son, floating away, eventually sinking into the depths. And for what?
He stared at the table, the pools of blood, the urine, the evidence of pain. There was no dignity here in death, no answer to the question.
He walked back toward the ladder and heard Beauclerk ask, ‘Why did he come?’ and did not linger to hear the reply. Beauclerk saw the instant guard in Allday’s eyes and added, quite gently, ‘You know him better than any man. I should like to understand.’
‘ ’Cause he blames himself.’ He recalled his own words when the American flag had come down. ‘It gets harder, see?’
‘Yes. I think I do.’ He wiped his bloody hands. ‘Thank you.’ He frowned as two of the injured men raised a hoarse cheer. ‘That will not help him, either.’ But Allday had gone.
When he returned to London it would all be so different. His experience might help others one day: it would certainly assist him in his chosen career. He looked around, recalling the admiral’s austere face after that other battle, as it must have been after all those which had preceded it. And the day his nephew had been brought aboard. More like two brothers, he thought. Like love.
He smiled, knowing that if they saw it, his assistants might think him callous. London or not, nothing would ever be the same.
Cross of St George Page 17
