He wondered what had happened to her original captain when she had been captured from under him. Fourteen guns and a determined company would make her a formidable enemy. Bolitho watched her tilting towards him, revealing her main-deck, the line of guns on the opposite side. None was manned, but on this side he could see a few heads peering over the sealed gunports, and guessed they were probably loaded and ready.
Moffitt crossed the deck and said dourly, ‘You’ll be needin’ me, sir? I know how to speak to them bastards!’
‘Be ready.’
He studied the set of each sail, the lively froth around the privateer’s stem as she edged over even further, her yards moving as if controlled by one hand.
Half a mile. Not long now.
He shifted his glance inboard, seeing the quick, anxious gestures of his small company, even the wounded were craning their heads and trying to see above the weather bulwark.
‘Come down, Mr Quinn!’ Bolitho looked at Stockdale and Buller. ‘See that our people keep their weapons out of sight. When I give the word, I want those four guns run out as smartly as you like and fire at will. If we can mark down her officers we may use the surprise to fight clear.’
Quinn arrived beside him, breathing fast, his eyes towards the enemy.
‘D’you think they are on to us?’
‘No.’ Bolitho folded his arms, hoping that across the glittering pattern of waves and spray he would appear more relaxed than he felt. ‘They would have run down on us before now. They have all the advantage.’
If the wind chose this moment to change . . . He shut his mind to the possibility and concentrated on the sails and masthead pendant. The wind, which was fresh and steady, came from the north-west. The White Hills had her yards well braced, heeling on the larboard tack, the wind across her quarter. If they could just delay the other captain’s suspicions, and then hold him off until dark, they might well lose him amongst the islands when daylight returned.
And even then, if the privateer’s captain was so set on another victory and made further contact, they might be able to give him the slip further north, or in the narrows between Nevis and St Christophers. In those treacherous waters, off some deadly place like the Scotch Bonnet, they might even tempt their pursuer aground.
The only ally at this precarious stage was the wind. Both brigs were carrying the bulk of their sails, so either could tack or come about with agility if need be.
Stockdale observed, ‘She must be steerin’ almost sou’-east, sir. The wind right astern of ’er.’
Bolitho nodded, knowing Stockdale wanted to help, if only by making a professional comment.
The range had dropped to a mere quarter-mile, and it was possible to see the watching figures on the other vessel’s poop and forecastle.
‘When she tries to hail us, Moffitt, tell her captain that Tracy is sick, badly wounded after a brush with the British.’ He saw the man tighten his lips. ‘It’s no lie, so keep it simple, eh?’
Moffitt said coldly, ‘I’ll see that he don’t recover if them buggers board us, sir!’
Along the weather side the seamen were crawling on their hands and knees, like strange worshippers around the four small cannon. Ball and grape to each gun. It would not even be felt by a stately two-decker like Trojan. But one good blast across the enemy’s quarterdeck might do the trick. Time, time, time. It was like a hammer on an anvil.
Two small shadows moved on the Revenge’s side, and Bolitho heard a murmur of anxiety from some of the wounded seamen. Revenge had raised two of her forward port lids, and as he watched he saw the sunlight touch a pair of black muzzles as she ran out the guns.
Frowd muttered uneasily, ‘He knows, the bugger!’
Bolitho shook his head. ‘I think not. He would run out a broadside if he was sure of an enemy, and maybe tack across our stern.’ Again, it was like sharing his thoughts with those around him. ‘He’ll have been watching us all this time, as we have him. Tracy’s absence from the deck will have been noted. If Revenge’s captain is newly appointed, he’ll be wary of taking a chance, but unwilling to show fear or uncertainty to his men. Following a man like Tracy must be quite a task.’
He saw some of his seamen glance at each other, for support, to discover a new confidence. But he knew he was only guessing out of sheer hope.
Revenge’s captain might be even more experienced than Tracy. And at this very moment was using the White Hills’ unchanged tack for one terrible bombardment, his guns already manned and ready to fire.
Moffitt took a speaking trumpet and climbed casually into the weather shrouds. It was far too early, but it might lull the enemy’s caution.
If not, the fight would explode across this deck within fifteen minutes.
Bolitho said evenly, ‘You men, carry Mr Frowd and the other wounded below. If we have to abandon, the quarter boat will be used for them only.’
Frowd swivelled round on his hatch cover like an enraged terrier.
‘Damn your eyes, I’ll not die like a sick woman!’ He grimaced as the pain stabbed through him, and he continued in a more controlled tone, ‘I meant no disrespect, sir, but try and see it my way.’
‘And which way is that?’
Frowd swayed about like a bush in a wind as the hull lifted and sliced through the choppy water.
‘If your plan works, sir, and I pray to God it does, it will be a chase which only luck and superior seamanship can win.’
Bolitho smiled. ‘Perhaps.’
‘But, as I suspect, we may have to fight, for God’s sake let me play my part. I have been in the Navy all my remembered years. To end my time cowering below when the metal flies overhead would make my life as worthless as that of any gallows-bird.’
‘Very well.’ Bolitho looked at Couzens. ‘Help the lieutenant aft and see that he is supplied with enough powder and shot to reload the pistols and muskets to give an impression of strength and greater numbers.’
Frowd exclaimed, ‘That’s it, sir. I ask for nothing more. Those devils will outnumber us four to one, maybe more. We can take a few with us if we can maintain rapid fire.’
It was incredible, Bolitho thought. The prospect of sudden death had been made suddenly stark and inevitable by Frowd’s words, and yet the previous apprehension seemed to have gone. The waiting had been the worst part, the simple task of fighting and dying was something they all understood. It was like hearing Sparke all over again. Keep them busy. No time to moan and weaken.
He turned to watch as the Revenge’s jib and staysails quivered and flapped like tapered wings, and knew she was falling off a little more to run even closer to the White Hills. Nearer, she looked impressive and well armed.
Her hull was weatherbeaten and the sails stained and patched in several places. She must have been made to work and fight hard against her previous owners, Bolitho thought grimly.
‘We will give her a few more minutes, Stockdale, and then you can bring her round to steer due east. It will be the obvious thing to do if we are to draw close enough to speak.’
He winced as a handspike clattered across the deck and a man retrieved it under a stream of threats and curses from Buller.
He saw the cutlasses and pistols by each man, the way they kept tensing their muscles as if carrying some great load while they waited and lived out each agonizing minute.
‘Man the braces. Stand by!’ Bolitho strode to the side and added sharply, ‘Be easy, lads! Take your time.’ He saw some of them pause to stare. After serving in a King’s ship it was like a blasphemy to be told to take your time. He added, ‘You are landmen, remember?’ It was unbelievable that some of them could grin and chuckle at such a stupid joke. ‘So forget you are prime seamen.’
Buller called, ‘But not for long, eh, zur?’ Even he was laughing.
‘Now, Stockdale.’
With yards and rudder moving in clumsy unison, the little brig fell three points downwind, the Revenge’s masts appearing to slide astern until she was running on a parallel
course, her bowsprit and jib boom just overlapping the White Hills’ taffrail, and half a cable away.
Obediently, or so it appeared, the other vessel followed suit, dropping even further with the wind and leaning over on the larboard tack. Fifty yards separated the two brigs now, with the Revenge still slightly astern. Each alteration of tack had given White Hills a few more precious minutes and a tiny lead on her unwanted companion.
Frowd said between his clenched teeth, ‘Thank the good Lord they have no prepared signals this time.’
‘You sound like the Sage.’
But Frowd was right. The enemy could have examined them at leisure had they had the time to create an efficient form of signalling as in more professional navies.
Apart from the creaming water alongside, the resonant slap and boom of canvas, it was very quiet on deck.
Moffitt remarked, ‘I can see one of ’em with a trumpet, sir.’ He looked at Bolitho, his eyes calm. ‘I know what to say. I’ll not let you down.’
Rabbett said, ‘You’d better not, matey. I’ve been in too many jails to rot in one o’ theirs!’
Moffitt grinned and then waved his speaking trumpet towards the other vessel. Both brigs were moving swiftly on the same tack, and at any other time would have made a fine sight. Now, in their controlled advance, they each had a quality of menace. Like two wary beasts, the one unwilling to fall into a trap, the other afraid of showing weakness to her enemy.
It was then, even as someone waved back from the Revenge’s quarterdeck, that the tension was shattered by a terrible scream. It was like something inhuman, a soul in hideous torment.
The seamen at the braces, or hiding beside their guns, peered round, horrified and then angry as the sound got louder and wilder.
Quinn gasped, ‘What is it, in the name of God?’
Stockdale said, ‘Gallimore, sir. His wound must ’ave burst.’
Bolitho nodded, tasting the bile in his throat, as he pictured the awful gangrenous, rotting flesh which had given off such a stench that he had had to move Gallimore to the cable tier.
‘Tell Borga to silence him.’
He tried to shut out the screams, to exclude the picture of the tortured man below.
A voice came across the water, bringing Bolitho back to danger and reality.
White Hills ahoy! What in hell’s name was that?’
Bolitho swallowed hard. Poor Gallimore’s last moments of terror had unnerved the enemy as much as his own prize-crew.
Moffitt yelled, ‘Wounded man!’ He staggered as the brig pitched through a steep-sided wave, but Bolitho knew it was an act. Moffitt was as nimble as a cat. But it gave more time. ‘Had a brush with the English! Lost some good hands!’
The scream stopped with dramatic suddenness, as if the man had been beheaded.
Across the water the other voice asked, ‘An’ Captain Tracy? Is he safe? I’ve orders for him, y’see!’
‘He’s wounded right enough.’ Moffitt gripped the shrouds with his free hand, then relaxed his fingers as he whispered over his shoulder, ‘Them two guns, sir. Their crews have stood down.’
Bolitho wanted to lick his lips, to wipe the sweat from his eyes, anything to break the strain of waiting and watching the other vessel. Moffitt had seen what he had not even dared to hope for. Maybe it was Gallimore’s screams which, added to Moffitt’s outward confidence and the fact that the White Hills was the right vessel in almost the right place, had convinced Revenge’s captain that all was well.
But there was still the matter of Tracy’s new orders. Probably details of the next rendezvous, or news of a supply convoy left open to attack.
In a few moments Revenge’s captain would have to face the fact he was now in the senior position. He was the one who would have to decide what to do.
Bolitho said quietly, ‘He’ll suggest we both heave to so that he can come over to us and speak with Tracy and see how he is.’
Quinn stared at him, his face like a mask. ‘Will we go about then, sir?’
‘Aye.’ Bolitho stole a quick glance at the masthead pendant. ‘The moment he decides to shorten sail and head into the wind, we’ll use our chance.’ He called to the nearest gun crew, ‘Be ready, lads!’ He saw an over-eager seaman struggling off his knees and reaching for a slow-match. ‘Belay that! Wait for the word!’
The Revenge’s captain called, ‘We’ll heave to. I’ll be over to you as soon as –’
He got no further. Like some terrifying creature emerging from a tomb, Captain Jonas Tracy lurched through the fore-hatch, his eyes bulging from his head with agony and fury.
He carried a pistol which he fired at a seaman who ran to restrain him, the ball smashing the man in the forehead and hurling him on his back in a welter of blood.
And all the time he was bellowing, his voice stronger than most of the men around him.
‘Rake the bastard! It’s a trick, you damn fool!’
From the other brig came a series of shouts and confused orders, and then like bewildered hogs the guns began to run out through the ports along her side.
Another seaman hurried towards the swaying figure by the hatch, only to be clubbed senseless by the pistol. That last effort was more than enough. Blood was spurting through the wad of bandages around his armpit, and his stubbled face seemed to be whitening even as he tried to drag himself to the nearest gun, as if the life was flooding out of him.
Bolitho saw it all as in a wild dream, with events and sequences overlapping, yet totally separate. Gallimore’s sudden cries had lured Tracy’s guard from his post. And who could blame him? Tracy’s terrible wound should have been enough to kill almost anyone.
And Revenge’s captain’s voice calling across to Moffitt must have somehow dragged Tracy from his unconscious state to sudden, violent action.
Whatever had begun it, Bolitho knew there was no chance at all of completing his flimsy plan.
He yelled, ‘Run out!’
He watched his men hurling themselves on their tackles, the four guns squeaking to the open ports with desperation matched only by despair.
‘Fire!’
As the guns crashed out in a ragged salvo, Bolitho shouted, ‘Stockdale! Put the helm down!’
As Stockdale and a helmsman spun the spokes, Bolitho dragged out his hanger, knowing that nothing, nothing on earth could change this moment.
He heard startled shouts from his own men and musket shots from the Revenge as like a wild animal the White Hills responded to the helm and swung up into the wind, sails shaking and convulsing, as the other vessel appeared to charge right across her bowsprit.
There were several isolated shots, his or theirs, Bolitho did not know. He was running forward, his feet slipping on blood as he tore past the dying Tracy towards the point of impact.
Like a great tusk the jib boom smashed through Revenge’s rigging and stays, the impact shaking the hull and deck with the force of going aground.
And still the wind, and the White Hills’ impetus, drove them harder and faster together, until with a tremendous crash, followed by the sounds of spars splintering in half, the two brigs came together in a brutal embrace.
Bolitho’s ears were ringing to the sounds of falling rigging and thrashing sails, of Revenge’s topmast, complete with topgallant and a mountain of uncontrollable canvas, plunging down through the drifting gunsmoke to add to the destruction.
But he was angry, wildly so, and could not control himself as he waved his hanger and shouted, ‘Come on, lads! At ’em!’
He saw the dazed faces change to maddened excitement as they responded. In a small tide they charged towards the bows, while from aft Bolitho could hear Frowd and his collection of cripples firing across the arrowhead of water with every weapon they could lay hands on.
And here was the enemy’s deck right beneath his legs. Staring eyes and wild shouts, while others struggled and kicked beneath the severed rigging and splintered woodwork.
A bayonet lunged out and sent a seaman screaming d
own into the smoke, but Bolitho let himself drop, felt his feet find their balance on the other deck, while on either side of him his boarding party surged forward to the attack. The man with the bayoneted musket swung wildly to face him, but Stockdale seized him and smashed the cutlass-guard in his mouth. As the man toppled away, Stockdale hacked him across the neck and finished it.
The first shocked surprise at seeing the White Hills turn towards them and deliberately force herself into a collision would soon give way to a rage and determination to overwhelm that of the boarders. This, Bolitho knew, but at a distance, as if it were already beyond his reach.
Once, as he ducked beneath a fallen yard to slash a man across the arm who was aiming a pistol at somebody, Bolitho caught a glimpse of his brief command. With her big mainyard sprung in two like a giant’s longbow, and with the canvas and rigging piled over her forecastle like so much rubbish, she looked almost a wreck.
Beyond the debris, and licking above the thinning smoke, he saw a patch of scarlet, and realized that despite everything which had happened he had given the order to run up the colours, and yet could remember nothing about it.
‘This way, lads!’ It was Buller, brandishing a boarding axe and a pistol. ‘Fight yer way aft!’ Then he fell, his face set in an expression of complete surprise.
Bolitho gritted his teeth. Time, which they had won with such care, had run out.
From the Revenge’s quarterdeck came the crash of a swivel gun, and Bolitho realized that someone was still firing at the White Hills. Above the din of clashing steel, screams and curses, he heard answering shots, and could picture Frowd yelling defiance, and waiting to die.
Somehow they had fought their way to the midships part of the deck, where the piled debris of cordage and broken spars made every move doubly hard, but where, if you hesitated, it was asking to be killed.
He saw Dunwoody rolling over and over on the bloodied deck, struggling with one of the Revenge’s seamen, one hand cut to shreds as he tried to hold off the man’s dirk while he groped for his fallen cutlass. Another man ran from the smoke, raised a boarding pike and drove it through Dunwoody’s neck, pinioning his kicking body to the planking until the dirk stabbed him into stillness.
In Gallant Company Page 30
