He snapped, “Ship’s head, Mr Knocker?”
“East-nor’-east, sir! Full an’ bye!”
Keen murmured, “If I let her fall off two points or so they’ll suspect something, that we’re trying to keep clear of them. On the other hand, sir, a change of tack would give us a few extra knots.”
A change of course away from the enemy, setting more sail, either of those would arouse the interest of any frigate captain, let alone one with a seventy-four in close company.
“Continue as we are, Val. They will be watching us too, remember.”
Keen glanced up at the masthead pendant. “But for the damned weather we’d have been at anchor by now.”
Six bells chimed out from the forecastle and Bolitho saw the purser emerge with his clerk in readiness to issue the rum to each mess. He thought of Allday, how the rum had touched him like a memory.
“I suggest you send the people to their messes, Val. The galley can serve a hot meal a little earlier today.”
Keen hurried away and spoke to Quantock by the rail, and seconds later the calls shrilled between decks and the sailors grinned at each other because of the unexpected break in routine.
Bolitho took the telescope again and sought out the other vessel. One of the newer French frigates, he decided. Forty-four guns. He could just discern her hull now as it lifted on a long roller before dropping again in a great welter of spray. She was flying.
Bolitho listened to the subdued chatter of the men on watch. The prospect of a sea-fight did not seem to be troubling them. They had already despatched a Spanish two-decker and had captured an island. A French frigate would be simple compared with that.
Keen joined him again. “They might stand away when they know our flag, sir.”
“Very well. Run up the colours.”
But when the scarlet ensign broke from the gaff nothing changed other than Mountsteven reporting that the frigate had hoisted her tricolour.
Tyrrell appeared on deck, his jaw working on a piece of salt beef.
He squinted up at the mizzen truck and asked, “D’you reckon you could get me up yonder, Cap’n?”
Keen stared at him, his mind grappling with other problems.
“Bosun’s chair, d’you mean?”
Tyrrell glanced at Bolitho and grinned. “Just had a thought. You recall that seventy-four in Boston, the one which was supposed to be doin’ the parley. Could be her. If so, she’ll likely not know about the war yet.” He grinned more widely. “Now, that’d be a terrible shame, eh?”
They had forgotten about Mountsteven but his voice made them all remember as he called, “Third ship, sir! ’Nother frigate, I think!”
Keen said softly, “Jesus!” Then to the boatswain he said, “Assist Mr Tyrrell aloft, if you please.”
Many of the watch on deck turned to stare and to follow Tyrrell’s jerking progress up the mizzen-mast, his wooden stump clicking against halliards and spars.
Keen dropped his voice. “Three to one, sir. The odds are formidable.”
Bolitho handed his glass to a boatswain’s mate. “Do you suggest we run?”
Keen said, “I’ll run from nothing, sir. But I cannot answer for the ship’s state if we are called on to fight.”
Bolitho watched the frigate’s outline alter again as she changed tack until she was pointing directly towards him.
He said quietly, “It’s another war, Val, not some petty quarrel. With half the fleet still laid up, England has never been less prepared. If our people are expected to endure a long, bitter conflict they will need victories, not leaders who turn and run away because the odds are formidable!”
He turned and studied Keen’s concern. “We’ve no choice, Val. The frigates will be round us like hounds after a stag. That would give the seventy-four time to close the range and finish the fight. If we are to be beaten, I’d prefer it to be facing the enemy, not being chased until the wind has gone out of us.”
Bolitho faced Tyrrell as he was lowered carefully to the deck.
“Damn near cut myself in half.” Tyrrell glanced at them questioningly, then added, “She’s the same one right enough. Must have gone south when she quit Boston. Rear-admiral’s flag at the mizzen.”
Bolitho said, “Then she’s the Argonaute, a new third-rate. I know her admiral from times past. Contre-Amiral Jobert. One of the few of the old Royalist navy to escape the Terror. A good officer.”
He knew that the others nearby were listening to him despite their efforts to conceal the fact. Trying to discover what was about to happen. What would become of them.
He said lightly, “I shall go aft and have a bite to eat, then we can clear for action.”
Bolitho strode beneath the poop and knew his casual comment about food would spread through the messes like wildfire. He could almost hear it. Nothing to worry about, lads. The admiral’s having his grub.
He barely saw the sentry who flung open the screen door for him and he did not stop until he reached the stern windows. When he leaned over the sill he could just discern the frigate’s topsails. An hour or more yet to wait. Maybe nothing would happen. Why must they fight if only to die? Who would blame him for standing away from the odds which were bearing down on him?
He felt his chest and the urgent hammering of his heart. Was it fear? Is this what it is like? The one action too many. God alone knew it had happened often enough to far better men.
Bolitho wiped his face with his shirt cuff and turned blindly into the cabin again.
Fear of losing something so precious he could think of nothing else beyond it.
He had been hoping too hard and too much. A weakness when so many were depending on him.
What were hopes anyway? In the roar of a broadside they counted for very little.
Ozzard entered the cabin with a tray.
He said, “Fresh chicken, sir.”
Bolitho watched him as he laid the tray carefully on the table. So the ship’s purser had had hopes too. He would not have sacrificed one of the ship’s own stock of chickens otherwise.
Ozzard watched him patiently. “A glass of something, sir?”
Bolitho smiled. Poor little Ozzard. Trusting and loyal. It never seemed to occur to him that before evening he might be dead.
He said, “Yes, Ozzard. Some of your special hock.”
As he hurried away Bolitho buried his face in his hands.
The French admiral had obviously not heard about the outbreak of war. Otherwise he would certainly have changed his formation, ready to attack from three bearings at once. Achates could fire on and possibly cripple the leading frigate before her captain realized what was happening, and then thrust on to attack the seventy-four. Still bad odds, but some improvement.
He recalled his own fury and disbelief when the Spanish two-decker had attacked Achates and destroyed Sparrowhawk, how they had all cursed her for her cowardice and deception.
Could he now bring himself to act in the same fashion?
Honour. The word seemed to echo around the cabin like a taunt.
He looked at the old family sword on its rack and remembered how his father had handed it to him instead of to Hugh. Hugh was the elder son and should have had it. But his disgrace, the shame which had followed Bolitho like an evil spirit even as far as San Felipe, which had broken their father’s heart, had put the sword into his trust.
Bolitho said, “Then so be it!” The choice had never been his, and his mistake had been to believe otherwise.
When Ozzard returned with a bottle from his cool store in the bilges he found Bolitho as he would have expected, calm and outwardly untroubled.
Things could not be so bad after all.
17 FAIR WARNING
BOLITHO stepped over some trailing lines and walked to the weather-side of the quarterdeck. The French frigate was much nearer but had shortened sail as if uncertain what to do next. He estimated that she was about half a mile from Achates’ starboard quarter.
He heard men crawling about
the deck behind him, as if the best part of the ship’s company had suddenly become cripples.
It was essential that the ship should be cleared for action without all the obvious bustle and movement which the French lookouts would immediately recognize.
Keen was saying to the boatswain, “You shall send your people aloft to rig chain-slings only when we begin to engage.”
Big Harry Rooke rumbled something in reply and Keen rapped, “They’ve no choice, man. One stupid move now and we’ll be feeding the fish before dusk!”
He turned and saw Bolitho watching him.
“Mr Quantock is sorely ashamed of his record, sir. Twenty minutes to clear for action!” His attempt to joke seemed to steady him and he added, “What are your orders for this memorable day, sir?”
Bolitho pointed. “In a moment we will alter course three points to lee’rd. It is my guess that the frigate will close the range to take station on our quarter again. But he’ll be much nearer.”
If only his heart would settle. The tension might so easily reveal itself in his voice.
Keen looked past him at the frigate’s shortened pyramid of canvas. “She’s new, like the third-rate. Probably to impress the Americans.” He did not conceal the bitterness. “Whereas our masters thought fit to send the oldest sixty-four still in service!”
Bolitho walked to the rail and glanced along the gun-deck and the black eighteen-pounders. Their crews were stripped for battle and were concealed beneath the gangways or huddled against their guns with their tools and weapons.
“It will have to be quickly done, Val. The French seventy-four is well astern of us now. But it will take time. They’ll be ready for us after we show our intentions.”
Keen nodded, his mind working on the next manoeuvre and the one after it. “The third French vessel is smaller. Mr Mountsteven thinks she is a twenty-six-gun frigate. As I recall, she will be the Diane, a real veteran by comparison.”
Knocker turned the half-hour glass by the binnacle and said, “Ready, sir.”
“Pass the word to the lower gun-deck.”
Keen looked round as Allday appeared from the poop. He was carrying Bolitho’s old sword and his features were stiff as if to conceal the pain of his wound.
Bolitho held up his arms so he could clip the sword into place. Allday muttered, “You should not be wearin’ them epaulettes today, sir.” He shrugged and gave a brief grin. “But I’ve sailed with you often enough to know better’n to argue, I suppose.”
Bolitho looked at the Frenchman’s sails. He saw sunlight lance from a levelled telescope in her foretop. At any second they might see something suspicious and beat to quarters.
But he said, “Take care of yourself, Allday. No risks today.”
He touched his arm, and two of the quarterdeck powder-monkeys nudged each other, the enemy forgotten as they shared something private.
Allday eyed him bleakly. “Don’t insult me, sir. If them buggers come at us, they’ll find me ready enough, an’ that’s no error!”
Bolitho smiled. “I also know better than to argue, old friend.”
He swung away as Keen said, “They’ve made a signal to the Argonaute, sir!”
Midshipman Ferrier lowered his big signals telescope and said, “It’s code, sir.”
Bolitho said, “Alter course.”
Ready and waiting, the helmsmen put the wheel over, and while others ran to trim the yards, Knocker reported, “Three points it is, sir! Nor’-east by north!”
Bolitho could feel the difference as the wind thrust more forcefully into Achates’ canvas.
Keen said, “Recall Mr Mountsteven from aloft. I had all but forgotten him again.”
“The Frenchie’s changin’ tack, sir.”
Bolitho held his breath as the powerful frigate turned a point or so towards Achates and at the same time spread her main course and driver.
Keen slammed a fist into his palm and exclaimed, “He’s overhauling us, sir.”
A marine dropped something on the poop as he crawled close to the hammocks and Sergeant Saxton snarled, “I’ll skin you alive if you make another move!”
Bolitho watched the frigate and saw the clear spray bursting over her beak-head and bowsprit. If she continued to overhaul them she would pass down the starboard side at less than half a cable’s distance.
He raised the telescope and saw intent faces staring across the lively water, strangely alien after the familiar ones he met every day.
“Stand by on the gun-deck!”
Keen folded his arms and stared at the enemy. As soon as Achates changed tack again she would be laid hard over to leeward by the wind. But her sudden manoeuvre would carry her across the frigate’s bows. It was now or never, for in a matter of minutes both vessels would collide once Achates began to turn.
“Man the braces!”
Bolitho gripped the old sword and pressed it against his leg.
“Now!”
The big wheel squeaked violently as the helmsmen threw their weight on the spokes, and as the yards began to shift with the wind two more ensigns were run up to the main and mizzen trucks.
“Open the ports! Lively there! Run out!”
Bolitho watched the frigate and could not take his eyes from the towering mass of sails and rigging as she swept towards Achates’ side.
He heard a trumpet and pictured the wild confusion aboard as the vessel they had been stalking suddenly turned like a lion at bay, her guns bared, each one double-shotted, every captain seeking his own target.
Keen yelled, “As you bear!” His arm flashed down. “Fire!”
For an instant Bolitho thought he had left it too long. That he should not have wasted valuable time by hoisting his battle ensigns. If their roles had been reversed . . .
His mind cringed as the eighteen-pounders of the upper battery hurled themselves inboard, while from the lower gun-deck the heavier roar of the twenty-four-pounders shook the ship from truck to keel.
Men stumbled about in the choking smoke as it was swept through the open ports and above the gangway while Achates exposed her broadside to the wind.
At such a close range the effect was immediate and terrible.
The frigate’s foremast and maintopmast staggered under the onslaught of the double-shotted guns. Then spars, sails and rigging joined together in one great avalanche of destruction which thundered over the bows and sides, hurling spray into the air and dragging the hull round.
“Sponge out! Reload!”
Keen shouted, “Stand by to come about, Mr Quantock.” He did not need telling the need for haste.
As the helm went down again and Achates surged round into the wind, Bolitho was grateful that they had not made more sail. In such a stiff wind the ship might have been in irons, or worse, dismasted.
Gun by gun along the starboard side the captains were holding up their hands as each barrel poked its muzzle through a port.
The frigate was still floundering downwind under the dragging weight of fallen spars and sails, but Bolitho was not deceived and knew what could happen once that wreckage was hacked away.
“Maintops’l braces there! Heave! Put your backs into it!”
Achates continued to turn, the frigate suddenly appeared above her starboard bow as if she and not the little two-decker was moving.
To any inexperienced eye it would look like chaos. The boatswain and his party swarming out on the topsail yards to rig the chain-slings, while below them their ship pirouetted around her masts to cross the enemy’s stern.
“Starboard battery! Ready!”
Keen had his hand in the air and did not even blink as here and there along the enemy’s side a gun fired in defiance. But for her it was already too late, and as Achates crossed the frigate’s starboard quarter even those guns fell silent, unable to traverse enough to find a target.
Bolitho saw a ripple of musket fire from the poop and mizzentop and instant response from Dewar’s sharpshooters.
He felt something lik
e sickness in his stomach as Achates’ jib-boom passed the frigate’s stern. He saw her glittering cabin windows, her name, La Capricieuse, in gold letters across her counter.
Then Achates’ starboard carronade belched fire from the forecastle and the enemy’s stern and poop appeared to open like an obscene cave. When the carronade’s massive ball burst within the crowded hull its packed charge of grape would transform the gun-deck into a slaughter-house.
Men, weapons, the rudder, everything would be blasted aside and incapable of movement for many hours.
Keen cupped his hands. “Get the royals on her, Mr Quantock!”
He had no time to wait and worry about the carronade’s harvest. The frigate was out of the fight.
Once again Achates clawed her way round to hold the wind on her quarter. It was as if nothing had changed. Not a man lost, not a scratch on wood or canvas.
Bolitho climbed the poop ladder and levelled his glass to seek the French seventy-four. Even in distance she looked fierce and enraged, he thought. She was spreading more sails, and had hoisted a signal to her yards for the benefit of her remaining companion.
He heard Knocker shout, “East-nor’-east, sir!”
The Frenchman was steering north-east. Again they were on a converging tack. But the Argonaute held the wind-gage and would probably try to cripple her enemy by dismasting or by tearing down her rigging with chain-shot while keeping at a safe distance.
Bolitho trained the glass on the dismasted frigate. It must have been a terrible shock. Bolitho remembered his time as a prisoner of war in France. Never again, he had vowed then.
Keen touched his hat. “All guns loaded and ready, sir.” He glanced aloft. “Mr Rooke has even managed to rig his nets and slings.”
Bolitho smiled. “I know it was a risk, Val.”
Keen looked away. “You gave them fair warning. They’ll not need it this time.”
He stared hard at the French seventy-four. Just over a mile distant, while the little frigate was standing away from her heavy consort and tacking downwind to be ready to dash down and harry Achates from another angle. After seeing the fate of La Capricieuse it was unlikely she would force home an attack yet.
Success to the Brave Page 24
