Captain Bouteiller yelled, “Get those bloody sharpshooters, Orde!”
A swivel banged loudly and Bolitho recalled Okes firing into the French longboat. He felt the deck quiver by his feet and knew that a ball had almost taken him. He did not move. He wanted them to see him, to know who had done this.
A voice filtered through the noise. “They’re Spaniards, sir!”
Bolitho heard Keen shouting orders. Spaniards. Some local vessels coming to drive the attacker from their waters.
“Fire!”
The ship jerked violently as the carronade fired almost pointblank into the enemy’s stern.
It was a direct hit, and the whole ornate stern appeared to fall inboard as the massive ball exploded within the poop, its packed charge of grape bursting amongst the crowded gun crews and turning the confined deck into a slaughterhouse.
As Argonaute continued to edge remorselessly around the enemy’s broken stern, the murderous broadside swept across and into her. The lower gun deck had somehow found time to load with double shot, as if each officer knew it was their last chance before Argonaute was carried either past or into their enemy by the freshening wind.
Keen watched, chilled by what he saw, as the enemy’s maintopmast was carried away and one of the muzzles on the enemy’s lower gun deck exploded in a sheet of fire. Some terrified seaman had forgotten to sponge out before a fresh charge was rammed home, or maybe the gun was old and had outworn those who crewed it.
Keen shouted, “The Dons’ll be up to us in an hour, sir, despite the wind! Shall we discontinue the action?”
More shots roared from Argonaute’s lower battery, the long thirty-two-pounders wreaking terrible havoc on the other vessel, which now appeared to be out of control with either her helm shot away or none left to take charge aft.
Bolitho did not speak and Keen swung round on him, fearful that a marksman had found him.
But Bolitho was staring towards the other ship, his head on one side as if to force a clearer view.
Keen persisted, “She’ll not fight again for a long, long while, sir!”
“Has she struck?”
Keen stared at him. He barely recognized Bolitho’s voice. Curt, with all pity honed out of it.
“No, sir.”
Bolitho blinked as a ball from the enemy cut through the shrouds and a man screamed shrilly like a woman in agony.
“She must never fight. Continue the action.” He caught Keen’s arm as he made to hurry away. “If we leave her she’ll anchor. I want her destroyed. Totally.”
Keen nodded, his mind reeling to the crash and roar of cannon fire, the excited chatter from the marines as they fired their long muskets, reloaded with almost parade-ground precision, and then sought out fresh targets on the enemy’s decks.
He stared sickened as blood ran down the enemy’s side; he could imagine the horror between decks.
Paget stared up at him, his eyes very clear in his smokegrimed face.
Keen jerked his head and seconds later the broadside thundered out, measured and deliberate, with barely a gun firing back in reply. Keen watched through his telescope and saw the Frenchman’s foremast begin to dip through the smoke.
He gestured to Stayt, who snatched up a speaking-trumpet and then climbed nimbly into the mizzen shrouds.
“Abandonez!” But only musket shots answered him. Argonaute’s sails filled and gathered the wind as Fallowfield guided her clear of the drifting, dismasted hulk.
Keen glanced quickly at Bolitho but there was no change in his expression.
Keen raised his hanger, then thought of the girl who was sheltering in the hold far below his feet and the corpses that lolled by the guns. Someone had mercifully thrown some torn canvas over the ship’s boy who had been halved by the enemy’s iron.
It was no longer a battle. The enemy was like a helpless beast, waiting for the fatal blow to fall.
He saw the nearest gun captain watching him, his triggerline already taut.
“Prepare to fire!” He heard his order being piped to the lower gun deck and braced himself for the broadside.
A voice shouted, “White flag, sir!”
Keen looked at Bolitho, half expecting him to order the broadside to be unleashed.
Bolitho felt his glance and turned towards him. He could see only a misty outline, the blue and white of Keen’s clothing, the fairness of his hair. His eye stung with smoke and strain, but he managed to keep his voice level as he said, “Order them to abandon ship. Then sink her.”
Paget called, “There’s a lot of smoke, sir. I think she may have taken fire.”
Bolitho waited for the deck to settle then walked across to the quarterdeck rail. He heard faint shouts from the other vessel, smelt the breath of charred rigging which at any moment might turn the beaten ship into an inferno.
He said quietly, “War is not a game, Val, nor is it a test of honour for friend or foe.” His tone hardened. “Think of Supreme. There was no mercy for poor Hallowes, and I will offer none to the enemy.” He turned and walked to the opposite side, his foot slipping on blood where the marine had fallen when the ball had missed Bolitho by mere inches.
Paget yelled, “No, it’s the yawl which has taken afire, sir.”
Keen raised his glass and saw the smaller vessel drifting clear of the two-decker. To his astonishment he could see men leaping overboard, making no attempt to quench the flames. A stray ball from Argonaute’s last broadside perhaps, or maybe some burning canvas had dropped from the two-decker’s broken spars like a torch to a fuse.
Bolitho must have heard the busy speculation on the quarterdeck and said sharply, “Get the ship under way, if you please! That yawl must have been loading powder aboard the Frenchman!”
Calls twittered and men rushed yet again to their stations while others spread out on the yards above the pockmarked sails as their ship slowly turned towards the welcoming horizon.
The explosion was like a volcano erupting, catching men in their various attitudes of shock or dismay, and shaking the hull as if to carry vengeance even to Argonaute.
The two-decker’s hidden side took the full blast of the explosion, and even as the water began to descend again like a ragged curtain she started to heel over. The explosion, which had completely obliterated the yawl without leaving even a floating spar to mark her passing, must have stove in the two-decker’s bilge like a reef.
Keen watched, his mind refusing to contain the swiftness and the horror of the explosion. Much nearer and Argonaute might have shared the same fate.
Bolitho crossed the quarterdeck and paused to face the silent group of young officers there.
“That will save us the trouble, gentlemen.”
He turned to see Allday was marking his line of retreat. The smoke had played havoc with his eye and he could barely see their faces. But their shock was plain enough, as he had meant it to be.
As he made his way aft several of the smoke-blackened seamen raised a cheer: one, more daring than the rest, touched Bolitho’s back as he passed.
Keen’s men, his men. He wished those at home who took such people for granted could see them now. They did not care about the cause or the reason, and none had come to this place of his own free will. They fought like lions, for each other, for the ship around them. It was their world. It was enough.
He thought of the disbelief in Keen’s voice when he had ordered him to continue the action. For those few moments he had felt something more than anger, more than the hurt which had been done to him by the shot which had all but blinded him. It had been hate. Something white hot and without mercy which had almost made him order another broadside. The enemy had already been defeated before some half-crazed soul had raised a white flag on a boat-hook. He considered it warily, almost fearfully. Hate. It was beyond his reckoning, as alien as cowardice, like another person.
The deck tilted and, with the wind filling her newly spread main course, Argonaute stood away from the dying ship and the great spread o
f flotsam and floundering survivors. They at least would be picked up by the Spaniards.
Keen had watched his face, had seen the effect of his callous remark on his youthful lieutenants and midshipmen.
Keen had seen Bolitho in almost every situation and if he loved any man he would look no further. But at moments like this he felt as if he knew him not at all.
Tuson wiped his fingers individually on a small towel and regarded Bolitho sternly.
“Much more of this, Sir Richard, and I cannot answer for your sight.”
He expected a sharp retort but was more shocked to see that Bolitho did not seem to notice. He had moved to the stern windows and sat staring at the glittering water astern, listless, the life drained out of him.
The ship echoed and quivered to the bang of hammers, the squeal of tackles as fresh cordage was run up to the yards to replace that lost or damaged in the swift battle.
There was almost a carefree atmosphere throughout the ship. It was their victory. Five men had been killed and two more had been badly wounded. Tuson had described the rest as mere knocks and scrapes. The fierceness of their attack had cut down their losses more than Bolitho had believed possible. He had heard what Tuson had said; there was no point in arguing or disputing it.
Through the thick glass he could see the misty outline of Icarus, her topsail almost white in the noon sun. Rapid was on station ahead and, apart from the repairs and the five burials, there was little to show for the destruction of a French third-rate. Keen had noted that her name was Calliope before the terrible Smasher had reduced her stern to boxwood.
Tuson was saying, “If you want my advice, sir—”
Bolitho looked towards him. “You are a good man. But what advice? When I try to walk I lose my footing like a drunken sailor, and I can scarcely tell one man from another. What advice?”
“You won a battle despite these things, sir.”
Bolitho gestured vaguely towards the screen. “They won it, man.”
“You could request another flag-officer—” Tuson persisted stubbornly as Bolitho turned on him, “so that you could obtain better treatment.”
“I do not command in the Mediterranean, and I’ll not ask favours even of Nelson. The French will come out, I know it,” he touched his chest. “Here, I feel it.”
“And the girl? What of her?”
Bolitho leaned back and felt the sun deceptively hot through the glass against his shirt.
“I shall make arrangements.”
Tuson gave the nearest thing to a smile. “You do not wish to involve me, is that it, sir?”
There was a tap at the door and Keen stepped into the cabin. In the three days since the battle he had barely been off his feet, but, like his company, the swift victory had removed the strain, the earlier uncertainty.
Keen did not look at the surgeon in case he should discover bad news.
He asked, “Are you well, sir?”
Bolitho gestured to a chair. “No worse, anyway.”
Keen watched him, the way Bolitho tapped one foot on the canvas deck covering.
“Rapid has signalled a vessel to the sou’-west, sir. Small one closing under all sail.”
“I see.”
Keen tried to conceal his concern. Bolitho sounded uninterested. All the fire and determination he had shown when they had dished up the Frenchman seemed to have vanished.
The marine sentry shouted, “Midshipman-o-th’-Watch, sir!”
Keen sighed and walked to the screen door. He looked at the small untidy figure and asked, “Well, Mr Hickling, don’t keep me in suspense.”
The boy screwed up his face as he tried to remember his message, word for word.
“Mr Paget’s respects, sir.” His eyes moved past Keen to the other cabin, to Bolitho framed against the glittering seascape. Hickling was only just thirteen, but had been on the lower gun deck throughout the engagement and had seen one man cut down by splinters. And yet he seemed unchanged, Keen thought.
Midshipman Hickling continued, “The sail is reported as the brig Firefly, sir.”
Bolitho lurched to his feet and exclaimed, “Are they sure?”
Hickling watched his admiral curiously and without awe. He was even too young for that.
“Mr Paget says that Rapid is quite certain of it, Sir Richard.” Bolitho touched the midshipman’s shoulders. “Good news.” Hickling stared at his hand, not daring to move as Bolitho added, “Your lieutenant spoke highly of your behaviour under fire. Well done.”
The midshipman hurried away and Keen said quietly, “That was good of you, sir. Not many would care.”
He watched Bolitho return to the bench seat, noticed the way he took deliberate steps, as if feeling the ship’s movement, looking for a trap.
Bolitho knew Keen was watching him, feeling for him. How can I share it? How can I tell him that I am beside myself with worry? Hate, revenge, callousness, they should play no part in my life, and yet—
He said, “I care because I have not forgotten, Val. When I was his age, you too, remember it? Kicked and bullied, neither respected nor trusted, when one kind word could make all that difference?” He shook his head. “I hope I never forget while I breathe.”
The surgeon walked past with his bag. “Good day, gentlemen.” He looked at Keen. “I trust, sir, now that young Mr Bolitho is drawing near, we may get an ally in this trying situation.”
Bolitho frowned. “Bloody man!”
Keen closed the door. “He makes good sense.”
The sudden shock made Bolitho start. Adam did not know. What would he think?
Keen said gently as if he had read his thoughts, “Your nephew is already proud of you. So am I.”
Bolitho did not reply and was still staring astern when Keen left to go on deck.
Keen nodded to his officers and studied the clear sky. Bright but cool. He walked to the rail and glanced down at the main deck, the marketplace as Bolitho called it. The sailmaker and his crew were busy with their needles and palms, repairing, preserving. The boatswain and the carpenter were conferring on their stocks of timber, and there was a heady smell of tar in the air.
But Keen was thinking of the aftermath to the battle. Holding her in his arms, the relief, the unbelievable happiness which each gave to the other, like something pure and bright being lifted from a blacksmith’s furnace.
She had buried her face in his chest while he had held her so closely that he had felt the remains of the scar on her back through the shirt.
The last terrible explosion had bellowed against the hold like a thunderbolt, Ozzard had told him. The girl had held his hand and that of Millie the maid. She had more courage than any of them, Ozzard had insisted.
Keen saw Allday by the restacked boats on their tier. He looked angry, his face inches from the second coxswain’s. It looked bad. Like the surgeon, Keen was beginning to regret Bankart’s presence in the ship.
“Deck there! Sail, fine on th’ larboard bow!”
Keen glanced at Paget and nodded. Firefly’s arrival could not have been better timed. Young Hickling had no idea how welcome his news had been.
News from home, perhaps a letter for the admiral. There would be no time yet for anything from London about Zenoria. But at least things were being done, war or no war. He thought of her in his arms, how right it had felt, and how he longed for her.
Paget watched him and turned away satisfied.
The captain looked happy. To any first lieutenant that was more than enough.
Bolitho stood up yet again as familiar sounds thudded overhead and voices murmured near the skylight. The hands had been piped to the braces and the flagship was preparing to heave-to and receive the brig’s commander.
How he wanted to be there at the entry port when Adam came aboard. But that was Keen’s privilege, one captain greeting another.
Bolitho heard the side party being mustered, some marines falling in to do Adam his rightful honours.
It was not just tradition which k
ept him away, and Bolitho knew it. He was afraid of what his nephew would say and think when he met him.
Allday moved from the sleeping cabin and held out his coat for him. Bolitho was so preoccupied that for once he did not sense Allday’s grim mood.
There might be a letter from Belinda, and she—
He raised his head as Paget’s voice echoed along the deck.
Argonaute’s helm went over and, with her sails flapping noisily, she swung heavily into the wind, swaying steeply for a while until the remaining sails were reset.
For a brief moment he had seen the brig through the streaming windows, her ensign making a dab of colour, like metal in the wind.
He wondered if Firefly’s arrival had been noted by some unseen fishing boat, her purpose already known by a spy at Gibraltar or a traitor in London?
He heard a boat passing close by, the bark of an order as the coxswain steered her towards the chains. Command. Adam had earned it twice over.
Allday watched him dully. He could not bear to see him so helpless and unsure. He had tried to shield him when they had engaged the Frenchman, fearful for Bolitho’s safety as he had stood there, unwilling or unable to move away.
Bolitho said, “It’s good to have him back if only for a moment, eh, Allday? Inch will rejoin us in a day or so, then we will go and seek out Jobert together!”
Allday took down the old sword. He hated Jobert, what he had made Bolitho become.
Pipes trilled and the marines slapped their muskets. Bolitho saw it clearly, as he had a thousand times, for others and for himself.
It seemed to take an age before Yovell opened the outer screen door and Bolitho walked to greet him, careful to stay where he could reach support from a table or chair, desperate not to show it.
But there were two visitors, not one.
He grasped Adam’s hands and knew that he already had the news.
“How is it, Uncle?” He did not try to hide his anxiety.
“Well enough.” He shied away from it. “You are failing in your duty, sir, who is our visitor?”
Adam said, “Mr Pullen.” He sounded uncomfortable. “From the Admiralty.”
The man had a bony handshake. “On passage for Malta, Sir Richard.” He sounded as if he was smiling. “Eventually.”
Colours Aloft! Page 16
