Axes flashed in the smoky sunlight, and more wreckage was hacked free and levered over the side with handspikes.
All the relentless gun and sail drill was showing its worth. When a man fell wounded, or was dragged away to await the surgeon’s mates, another was instantly in his place from one of the opposite guns.
Now the marines could join in with their muskets, Sergeant Saxton counting out the time and tapping the deck with his boot as the ramrods rose and fell like one, and then as the muskets rose once more to the nettings he would shout, “Take aim! Every shot a Don!” The crackle of musketry from the fighting-tops showed that more marines were up there trying to mark down the enemy’s officers.
Bolitho paced this way and that, his shoe catching a jagged splinter as the other ship’s marksmen tried to hit him.
Closer, closer still, and the guns were thundering at almost point-blank range, their crews blinded and deafened as their feet and hands fought to keep control over their massive weapons.
“Cease firing!”
Quantock had to repeat the order before the last gun on the lower deck fell silent. As the enemy did likewise the other sounds broke through the stunned stillness. Men crying out in pain, voices calling for help, orders shouting for men to clear away the wreckage, to release the trapped wounded.
“Hard over!”
As the wheel went down Achates’ jib-boom swept through the other ship’s foremast shrouds like a battering ram. There was a terrible splintering sound and both hulls rocked together in a deadly embrace.
Men were running forward, leaving the guns to snatch up cutlasses and boarding pikes, axes and anything they favoured for hand-to-hand fighting.
Lieutenant Hallowes, his hat knocked awry, his hanger waving above his head, yelled, “At ’em, lads!”
With a wild cheer the seamen raced to the point of collision to hack and slash their way across a glistening sliver of water.
Some were impaled by pikes as they clung to the boarding nets, others were shot down by marksmen even before they had left their own ship. But others were through, and as more followed Bolitho saw the fourth lieutenant dashing on to the enemy’s larboard gangway, hacking down a shrieking figure with his hanger and slashing aside another before he was overtaken by his whooping, battle-crazed men, their cutlasses already reddened from the first challenge on the forecastle.
The marines were bustling to the side, their faces grim beneath their hats as they fired into the men along the enemy’s quarterdeck, reloaded with less precision than usual and fired again.
Captain Dewar drew his sword. “Forward, Marines!”
The scarlet coats and white crossbelts vanished into the smoke, the boots slipping on blood, the bayonets thrusting away any resistance as they joined the others on the enemy’s deck.
Keen had gone forward to encourage his men, and Bolitho heard the seamen cheering, “Huzza, huzza!” and even though some were falling to the enemy’s fire others were already fighting their way on to the quarterdeck.
There was a great cry from Achates’ boatswain. “Fire! She’s afire!”
Bolitho said, “I can see the smoke!”
Tyrrell gripped the rail as he stared at the enemy who were suddenly throwing away their weapons and screaming for quarter as the wild-eyed sailors tore among them.
Bolitho called, “Mr Hawtayne! Have your bugler sound the retreat! Stand by to cast off!”
A sullen explosion shook both ships and more black smoke gushed from the forecastle. If the ship burst into flames Achates would suffer the same fate.
Keen came back mopping his face, his eyes seeking out his lieutenants and master’s mates as the truth made itself felt in another deep explosion.
Dragging their wounded, and fighting off any of the enemy who tried to follow, Achates’ boarding party returned to their own ship.
With her wheel either shot away or abandoned, the enemy two-decker began to drift downwind as soon as the last line was hacked free. Corpses bobbed in the sea between them, and others hung from the rigging where friend and foe alike had been shot down.
“Get the forecourse on her! Reset the flying jib! Hands aloft and loose t’gan’s’ls!” Quantock’s harsh voice echoed through the confusion like a steadying force.
A great tongue of flame licked through the enemy’s gun deck and started an explosion among some broken charges. Men were running through the corpses and destruction and nobody appeared to be trying to save them or their ship.
As the wheel went over Achates turned slowly aside from her stricken enemy, laying bare the damage, the bloody streaks on the planking, the discarded weapons, and the guns which still smoked as if under their own command.
Another explosion boomed across the water and fragments of burning wood and rigging splashed dangerously close to Achates as she continued to gather way, her punctured and smoke-grimed sails filling to the wind.
More explosions, and this time a gout of fire and sparks spouted from the midships section and began to spread to masts and canvas, until everything was burning fiercely. Rigging and canvas became ashes in seconds, men, some on fire, were leaping into the sea, others splashed about looking for something to keep them afloat as the ship continued to blaze above them.
Bolitho watched the other ship die, but in spite of Sparrowhawk could find little satisfaction. His men were cheering, embracing each other. They had lived through it. One more time, and for some it had been the first battle.
The Spanish frigate, which had remained a silent spectator to the fight, was moving cautiously towards the burning ship.
She was going to stand between Achates and her victim, an act which made her just as guilty. Dead men tell no tales.
There was a vivid flash and a boom which stopped all the cheers like an iron door.
The other ship was turning on to her side, her gunports alight like a line of angry red eyes.
She was breaking up, her heavy artillery tearing loose to add to the horror and agony of those still trapped below.
Bolitho saw Midshipman Evans watching the other ship’s last moment. But there was no joy on his face, just tears, and Bolitho knew why.
He was not seeing the rightful destruction of a callous enemy.
It was his Sparrowhawk he was watching.
Bolitho said quietly, “Attend to Mr Evans, Adam. His storm is about to break.”
Keen joined him and touched his hat.
Bolitho said, “What is the butcher’s bill for all this?”
They both turned as the air shook to a final explosion, and like a gutted whale the enemy rolled on to her side and dipped beneath the surface.
Keen replied quietly, “That might so easily have been us, sir.”
Bolitho handed his sword to Allday. “I get your point, Val. Then our bill is not yet fully paid?”
12 THE LETTER
NAPIER, Electra’s youthful commander, stood exactly in the centre of Bolitho’s day cabin, while he completed his report.
Contrary to his orders, Napier had brought his brig to escort the battered two-decker for the last two miles of her passage into San Felipe.
Even as he had been piped aboard from his gig, Napier had seemed unable to prevent his eyes from probing around him. The sewn-up corpses awaiting burial, the tired, dirty sailors who barely glanced up from their countless tasks of splicing, stitching and hauling fresh rigging to the topmen on the yards.
Bolitho thought of those last moments. He still did not know the enemy ship’s name. But soon he would, just as he would learn who had commanded her. The Spanish frigate had been careful to stand between the victor and defeated, to prevent, it seemed, any attempt to pick up survivors.
Napier said, “Two Spanish men-of-war did stand inshore for a while. They were going to land a party at the island mission.”
He sounded surprised that Bolitho had not already questioned him about it. In fact, Bolitho was so fatigued he had barely skimmed over the commander’s neatly written report.
> Bolitho made himself stand and walk towards the open stern windows as Achates continued towards the island. He could still smell the heat and sweat of battle. The scent of death.
“What did you do?”
Napier relived his proudest moment as acting-governor.
“I warned them off, sir. Fired a shot from the battery to liven things along.”
Liven things along. Bolitho wanted to laugh, but knew if he did he might not be able to stop.
When and where would it end? Tyrrell had betrayed him, or had been about to. Now, not only the French were intent on San Felipe but the Spaniards also.
Keen entered the cabin and said, “We are about to enter harbour, sir. The wind is steady from the sou’-east.”
He looked strained and extremely tired. He was feeling the ship’s pain as if it were his own.
The pumps had barely stopped since the battle. Achates had taken two bad hits in her bilge. And a “long nine,” as a thirty-two-pounder was nicknamed, could do terrible damage. Achates was, after all, twenty-two years old. That represented a lot of miles under her keel.
“I’ll come up.” Bolitho added bitterly, “There may be some watching from the shore who will be disappointed to see us still afloat.”
He thought of the two Spanish men-of-war and their apparent intention to land men on what they still claimed as Spanish territory. But for Tyrrell’s change of heart, the two ships would have been joined by the ship which now lay below a Caribbean reef.
Napier suddenly went pale. “I—I do beg your pardon, sir. I had almost forgotten. There was a packet-ship from England.”
Bolitho stared at him and said sharply, “Continue.”
Napier fumbled inside his coat and then produced a letter.
“For you, sir.”
He seemed to shrink under Bolitho’s gaze.
Keen snapped, “Come on deck, Commander Napier, I wish to discuss certain matters about docking my ship . . .” But he paused at the door and glanced back at Bolitho. He was holding the letter with both hands, afraid to open it, afraid to move.
He turned and almost bumped into the flag-lieutenant.
“Not yet, Adam. There’s a letter.”
In the gloom between decks Allday leaned on a blistered eighteen-pounder and peered through the gunport to watch a green finger of land slide abeam. There were people there to watch the stained and battered ship sail past, but nobody waved or cheered.
To Allday it was just another landfall. He had been in so many harbours they had become merged and mixed in memory. He sighed. That letter was all that mattered for now. He could remember as if it was yesterday when together they had clambered into the overturned coach and found a beautiful woman more dead than alive. The resemblance to Bolitho’s previous wife had been too much to believe.
He cocked his head as a gun boomed out from the old fortress. Better than any mock tears, he thought. A proper welcome, though there were too many jacks who would not hear the guns now or ever again.
He straightened his back as the door opened in the cabin screen and the scarlet-coated sentry snapped to attention.
Bolitho ducked beneath the deckhead beams and then saw Allday waiting for him.
He looked at Allday’s anxious features and felt his own strength begin to ebb away. The careful composure he had tried to build up as he had read carefully through her letter, the moments of despair when his gaze had become misty, each was taking a toll now on his reserves.
He paused and listened to the guns, the jarring response from Achates’ upper deck as she returned the salute.
Then he reached out and grasped Allday’s hard hand.
Allday asked thickly, “Is all well, sir?”
Bolitho squeezed his hand. It was somehow right that he should be here. The first to know.
“We have a fine daughter, Allday.”
How long they stood like this it was hard to tell. Achates changed tack around the point, and on the poop the marine fifers and drummers struck up a lively march, Come cheer up my lads ’tis to glory we steer . . . To Bolitho it could have been anything.
Allday nodded slowly, savouring the moment as he would retell it when he eventually put his feet ashore for the last time.
“And Ma’am, sir?”
“Very well.” Bolitho walked towards the sunlight. “She asked to be remembered to you.” He quickened his pace on to the quarterdeck. Now he could face anything. Do anything. He looked at Allday’s great beaming grin. “She hopes we are not too bored by being employed in peacetime!”
Allday glanced up at the splintered cross-jack yard, the stains and marks of battle which were everywhere.
Then, despite the solemnity of the moment, a King’s ship entering harbour, the salutes and the flag which dipped to Old Katie above the battery walls, he threw back his head and laughed.
Keen looked at him and then at Bolitho.
The reward for the victor was plain to see.
Captain Valentine Keen watched his superior with unconcealed surprise and admiration. Since Achates’ return to San Felipe the work of repairs, the replacement of timbers and spars, had continued without a break. The facilities in Georgetown were poor, and they had been confronted by non-cooperation and hostility at every turn.
English Harbour at Antigua was the only suitable place for a proper refit, but Keen was resigned to seeing his ship put to rights in what amounted to primitive conditions. If Achates quit the island he had little doubt that an invasion of some kind would soon follow.
He knew that Bolitho had not spared himself. He had been ashore many times, had visited the ex-governor, Rivers, had even allowed him to return to his own home under open arrest, although Keen had voiced his disagreement on that score.
It was late August and the heat unbearable. But any day, at any hour, the fortress lookouts might report the approach of Spanish ships, French too for that matter, and Achates had to be ready for sea and prepared if need be to fight.
Electra had sailed that forenoon for Antigua. Despatches for the admiral, if he had returned, and others to be sent with all haste to the Admiralty in London. All this and a lot more had kept Bolitho working in his cabin until the middle watches, and yet he never seemed to tire or show his irritation at the delays and lack of help from the islanders.
The letter from his wife in Falmouth had done more for Bolitho than a hundred victories, or so it seemed.
Bolitho looked up from the litter of papers on his table. It had been something of a relief to send Napier to Antigua with his ideas and intentions which Sheaffe would eventually read at the Admiralty. He had committed himself. Right or wrong, he had made a decision. It was what he had veered away from previously. Now he was glad, even eager, to act with a freedom he had once found hard to express.
“Rivers has agreed not to interfere. Others can decide later what will become of him.” He saw the deep lines around Keen’s mouth and was moved to add, “It has been a difficult time for you, Val. I understand that.”
Keen shrugged. “Mr Quantock, the master, Mr Grace, the carpenter, all are in rare agreement, sir. If this ship is called on to fight without proper attention in a dockyard she may suffer severe consequences.”
Bolitho nodded. “I know that. You are also short-handed because of our losses and with no chance of replacements.”
Keen said, “If we do not get support from other ships, sir, we will be hard put to defend ourselves, let alone this island.”
“I have sent a report, Val.”
Bolitho leaned over the stern sill and took some deep breaths. The air was scalding hot and without movement. Better to be at sea, becalmed even. Anything rather than stay here and wait. He thought of Belinda’s letter which he had read at the end of each demanding day. A daughter. He could not visualize what she would be like. Belinda had written of her love, of her hopes, but he could read between the lines too. The birth had not been easy for her. It was just as well that she still believed his mission to be one of diplomacy an
d not one of danger.
Keen asked abruptly, “What about Mr Tyrrell, sir?”
Bolitho bit his lip. He had sent Tyrrell over to his brigantine as soon as Achates had moored. They had spoken very little. Guilt or defiance, it was hard to tell. Yet.
He said, “I shall see him directly, Val. I need his Vivid. She is all I can find at present.” He smiled at Keen’s surprise. “I intend to purchase her anyway, so she might as well sail under our flag for the present.”
“If you think that’s wise, sir.”
“Wise? I am not certain of anything. But what I do know is that it will take several months to complete repairs on my flag-ship. In the meantime we may be attacked by the Dons. I cannot in all sensibility agree to hand over the island to the French until we have settled this matter once and for all. If there was any last minute conflict the French would be quick to blame us, accuse us of provoking a war so that they could not take over what is rightfully theirs.”
He watched Keen’s face. He was unconvinced.
“I have this feeling, Val. That I was sent here to perform an impossible task. But if I am to be a scapegoat then I want to rest on my own decisions, not on those made by people who have never heard a shot or seen a man die.”
Keen nodded. “Well, sir, I shall back you to the limit and beyond, but that you already know.”
Bolitho sat on the stern seat and plucked at his shirt to gain an illusion of coolness.
“When you attain flag-rank, Val, I hope you will remember all this. It is far better to sail in the line of battle with every enemy muzzle trained on the flagship than to sort through the dung of diplomacy. In a moment I shall speak with Jethro Tyrrell. He is a man who lost everything, but who once gave so much for the flag he honoured. He was a true patriot, but was branded a traitor by his own people. He has lived with bitter memories, as a wolf will live off scraps. But he still cares, and at that moment when he was about to betray us he stood firm and led us to the enemy. In his eyes it was madness. What is honour to him? It has done precious little to repay his sacrifices. He thought instead of saving us from harm, so that when we returned here the island would be under Spanish colours and it would be too late for me to do anything but report failure.”
Success to the Brave Page 17
