‘Now stand-to, lads, and make each ball count.’
He glanced quickly at the nearest gun crews. They could have been placed in any part of history. One seaman, standing by a sixteen-pounder immediately below the quarter-deck, was leaning on a rammer, his neckcloth tied around his ears to withstand the first deafening roar. Men like him had sailed with Drake aboard his Revenge, and had cheered as the Armada had been “drummed up the Channel”. But this time there were no cheers, not even an isolated one. The men looked grim, watching the open gun ports, or standing close to one another as if for support. He saw Farquhar’s fingers opening and closing repeatedly around his sword scabbard, his head very erect as he stared towards the wavering coastline, from where the enemy would open fire.
A light blinked from the nearest hilltop but did not reappear. A broken bottle reflecting the first ray of sunrise. The window of some concealed dwelling. Bolitho shivered. Or a ray of light catching the lens of a telescope? He imagined the signal being carried over the hill to the waiting artillery. The English are coming. As expected and predicted. He frowned. No matter what happened, they had to hold the enemy’s attention until Probyn swept down on the anchored ships from the northern channel. A few heavy broadsides amongst a crowded anchorage and the odds could change considerably.
He remembered suddenly what his father had once told him. There is no such thing as a surprise attack. Surprise is only present when one captain or another has miscalculated what he has seen from the beginning.
He glanced at Pascoe and smiled briefly. He now knew exactly what his father had meant.
*
Bolitho re-crossed the quarter-deck and trained a glass on an out-thrust shoulder of land. A few tiny dwellings were visible at the foot of a steep slope, nestling between some scrub and the nearest beach. Fishermen’s homes. But their boats lay abandoned on the coarse shingle, and only a dog stood its ground by the water’s edge, barking furiously at the slow-moving ships.
He heard Farquhar say sharply, ‘The next bay will be the one.’
Outhwaite turned and called, ‘Be ready! Hold your fire till the order, then shoot on the uproll!’
Allday muttered scornfully, ‘Uproll! Until we get clear of this headland and find some sort of wind again, there’ll be no uproll!’
‘Deck there!’ The masthead lookout’s voice seemed unusually loud. ‘Ships at anchor around the point!’
Bolitho breathed out slowly. ‘Signal the information to Buzzard.’
An acknowledgement broke from the frigate’s yards within seconds. Javal was like the rest of them. On the last edge of tension.
He glanced at his watch. Nicator should be well through the other channel by now and setting more sail to begin her vital part. Even if French pickets had sighted her, it would be too late to move artillery to the other end of their defences.
The bang, when it came, was like an abbreviated thunderclap. Bolitho saw neither smoke nor flash, but watched the ball’s progress across the swirling current. It must have been fired from a low level, for he could see its path in a line of tiny wavelets, like an unnatural wind, or a shark charging to the attack.
The crash of the ball into the forepart of the hull brought a great chorus of shouts and yells, and Bolitho saw the second lieutenant hurrying from gun to gun, as if to reassure the crews.
‘Look there, sir!’ Allday pointed with his cutlass. ‘Soldiers!’
Bolitho watched the tiny, blue-coated figures bursting from the trees and scurrying towards the point. Perhaps they believed that the second wave of attacking ships would attempt a landing, and were getting ready to repulse them. Bolitho licked his lips. If only there was a second wave.
He said, ‘Bring her up a point, Captain. Give our upper battery a target.’
Farquhar protested, ‘Eighteen-pounders against infantry, sir?’
Bolitho said quietly, ‘It will give them something to keep their minds occupied. It may also shake the enemy’s confidence up ahead. They are anticipating a squadron, remember!’
He winced as another bang echoed across the water, and he heard the ball hiss viciously overhead.
‘Stand by to larboard!’ Outhwaite pointed at the running soldiers. ‘On the uproll!’ He raised his speaking trumpet. ‘Fire!’
The long line of guns hurled themselves inboard on their tackles, the smoke rising and swirling above the packed hammock nettings. Bolitho held his glass on the land, seeing the balls whipping through trees and scrub, throwing up stones and clods of earth in haphazard confusion. The soldiers had obviously held the same ideas as Farquhar, for many were caught out in the open, and Bolitho saw bodies and muskets whirling through the air with the other fragments.
It was little enough, but it had given the gun crews some heart. He heard a few cheers, and yells of derision from the lower battery who had not been allowed to fire.
Outhwaite had caught some of the excitement. ‘Move roundly, lads! Reload! Mr. Guthrie, a guinea for the first to run out!’
From a corner of his eye, Bolitho saw the headland dropping back, the first group of anchored ships glinting in frail sunlight, their sails furled, and their unmoving rigidity suggesting that each vessel was attached to the next, and so on, making them into an unbroken barrier. He had expected the French to anchor in this manner. It had been a favourite defence since long before a revolution had even been dreamed of.
Then he saw a flash. It came from a deep green saddle between two hills, and he knew the gunners had fired earlier to obtain a ranging shot.
It hit Osiris amidships, deep down and close to the waterline. The planks under Bolitho’s feet rebounded, as if the ball had struck a few paces away instead of three decks down. He saw Farquhar’s anxiety as he watched his boatswain dashing for a hatch with his seamen, and the wisps of dark smoke which eddied above the nettings as evidence of the gun’s accuracy.
From astern he heard the controlled crash of cannon fire and knew that Javal was following his example and raking the nearest hillside in the hope of finding a target.
‘Deck there! French ship o’ the line at anchor beyond the transports!’
Bolitho swung the glass across the rail, seeing faces on Osiris’s forecastle looming like visions in the lens before he found and trained on the French seventy-four. Like the packed mass of transports, she was anchored. But her sails were only loosely brailed up, and her cable shortened home in readiness for weighing. And beyond her, gliding very slowly downwind, was a frigate, setting her foresail and shining momentarily as sunlight passed along her hull. The two smaller escorts, corvettes, Plowman had said, were hidden elsewhere. It was not surprising. For the assembled fleet of supply ships overlapped in what appeared to be a hopeless tangle of masts and yards. He watched them grimly through the glass. Deep-laden. Guns, powder and shot, tents, weapons and supplies for an army.
He felt the deck stagger as another ball smashed close alongside.
The only way to avoid being destroyed slowly by the hidden guns was to set more sail, to attack and close with the anchored vessels and make accuracy impossible.
He heard Farquhar say fervently, ‘Where is Nicator? In God’s name, she should be in sight by now!’
‘French seventy-four’s weighed, sir.’
Bolitho looked at Farquhar, but he had not heard the report. He said, ‘Thank you. Tell your starboard gun crews to prepare, Mr. Outhwaite.’
Bolitho watched the boatswain emerging from beneath the quarter-deck and waited for him to come aft.
‘’Oled in two places, sir. But no damage below the waterline yet. She’s sound enough, if it gets no worse.’
Farquhar nodded abruptly. ‘Yes.’
Bolitho said, ‘Set the fores’l, Captain. Make to Buzzard, I am about to pass through the enemy’s line.’
Farquhar stared at him. ‘We could get fouled in their moorings, sir. I’d advise –’
They ducked as another ball passed low above their heads, and Bolitho felt the breath of it across his should
ers like the wind of a cutlass blade.
Bolitho said, ‘Nicator should be in sight. At least from the masthead. Probyn must have met some opposition. If neither of us can get to grips, we are being destroyed for nothing!’
He strode to the lee side and watched a thin waterspout rise far abeam. The French were very good, as were their new guns. At this range they could hardly miss. And yet they were biding their time. Saving their aim for the rest of the squadron, or to decide on the English tactics.
No. It was wrong. No gunnery officer could be that confident.
He heard the wheel going over, the sudden flap and boom of canvas as the foresail was reset and its yard trimmed by the men at the braces. It made some difference. He could see the way one of the quarter-deck nine-pounders was tugging at its tackles as the deck tilted to leeward. The sudden increase of sail might make the French gunners show their hand.
He walked as slowly as he could to the other side, peering across the crowded gun deck towards the French two-decker. Under minimum canvas, she was standing off about two miles distant. Even that was wrong. Her captain commanded the most powerful ship present. His first duty was to defend the merchantmen and supply vessels, no matter what.
Half a mile to go, and through his glass he could see the tiny figures of seamen running about the decks of the nearest transport. They probably still believed Osiris was a three-decker, and that they would take the first overwhelming broadside.
‘Bring her up a point, Captain.’
‘Aye, sir. Nor’ by west.’
Bolitho looked at Pascoe. ‘Any sight of Nicator?’
‘None, sir.’ Pascoe gestured towards the massed shipping. ‘She’s missing a promising target!’
But Bolitho knew him well enough to see through his calm remark. He saw Midshipman Breen, who was helping Pascoe, stare at him, as if to seek confirmation that all was well.
The nearest transports, anchored at the head of two separate lines, opened fire with their bow guns, the balls whimpering overhead, one forcing a neat hole in the main topsail.
The master called suddenly, ‘Lee bow, sir! Looks like shallows!’
Farquhar replied tersely, ‘They’re well clear, man! What do you want me to do? Fly?’
Bolitho heard nothing for the next few seconds. Like something from his feverish dreams, he saw the larboard bulwark burst apart, the deck planking torn diagonally in a gash of flying splinters, while wreckage and the complete barrel of a nine-pounder landed with a crash on the opposite side. The primed gun exploded, and its ball upended another gun on to some of its crew, the screams and sobs lost in the explosion.
When Bolitho stared aft he saw that the great ball, probably double-shotted, had smashed the wheel to fragments. Two helmsmen lay dead or stunned, and a third had been pulped to bloody gruel. Men and fragments of men lay scattered around the quarter-deck, and others tried to drag themselves away. Bolitho saw that Bevan, the master, had been all but cut in half by the exploding nine-pounder, and his blood was pouring across the splintered deck, while one of his hands still clawed at his exposed entrails, as if it alone still clung to life.
Plowman dashed out of the drifting smoke. ‘I’ll take over, sir!’ He dragged a terrified seaman from behind some scattered hammocks. ‘Up! Come aft and we’ll rig a tackle to the tiller head!’
Another crash, this time into the side of the poop. Several marines toppled down a ladder, and Bolitho heard the heavy balls smashing through the cabin and careering amongst the crowded gun deck.
He yelled, ‘Shorten sail, Captain!’ He raised his sword like a pointer. ‘The French artillery judged it well.’
He felt neither fear nor bitterness. Just a sense of anger. Osiris, her steering gone, was falling heavily downwind. Bevan, the dead sailing master, had seen the danger without understanding what it meant. Now it was too late. The pressure of wind into her sails and against her hull was enough to guide Osiris into that one shoulder of hard sand.
The enemy had used their opening shots like goads on wayward cattle. A prod here, a tap there, to send the helpless beast into a carefully ranged and sited trap.
Both of the hidden guns renewed firing with sudden vigour, the shots crashing into the hull, or falling dangerously near the Buzzard, which alone still headed towards the anchored ships.
Pascoe yelled, ‘The enemy frigate is making more sail, sir! And I see one of the corvettes breaking clear of the anchorage!’
Bolitho trained his glass through the drifting smoke. The frigate first. Long and lean. Thirty-eight guns against Javal’s thirty-two. Provided he had managed to avoid the heavy artillery, he would stand a good chance. If he could hold off the corvette. If, if, if. It was like hearing a taunt in his brain.
Something made a dark flaw in the side of the lens, and he swung it further to hold the French seventy-four in view. She was still under minimum canvas, and was moving very slowly towards Osiris on a converging tack, her guns run out, but in shadow. He considered this fact. In shadow. So her captain had no intention of trying to hold the wind-gage. Even now she was steering across Osiris’s starboard bow, her reefed topsails braced hard round, her forecastle and even the beakhead alive with waving seamen and glittering weapons. He could see her name quite clearly, Immortalité.
Farquhar shouted hoarsely, ‘How is the helm, Mr. Outhwaite? Have they rigged emergency steering?’
Bolitho watched the water rippling above the concealed sand-bar. Fifty yards. Less. Even if they anchored they would be unable to fight clear now, let alone do any damage to the transports.
He watched the two-decker, her tricolour very bright in the sunlight. He stiffened as he saw another flag at her mainmast. A dovetailed broad pendant.
Pascoe looked at him. ‘A commodore, sir.’ He tried to grin. ‘It should have been a full admiral to do us honour!’
A ball thundered through a lower port, and Bolitho heard the attendant chorus of screams and cries for the surgeon’s helpers.
He turned again to the French ship. Pascoe was wrong. It should have been Probyn, pouring his broadsides into the anchored transports, now completely undefended as the two-decker and her smaller consorts came down the coast to give battle. Nicator would have had nothing to oppose her. He felt the anger welling up like a burning flood.
The deck shuddered slightly, and with the sound of a pistol shot the fore topgallant mast plunged down and over the side, dragging broken rigging in its wake like black serpents.
Farquhar stared at him wildly. ‘Aground!’ He moved a few paces to the side, his shoes slipping on blood. ‘God’s teeth!’ He shielded his face with one arm as a ball slammed through the bulwark again, upending another gun and cutting down two men who were dragging a wounded comrade away from their port.
Farquhar asked flatly, ‘What orders, sir?’
Bolitho kept his eyes towards the transports, they seemed to be moving now, edging across the bows in one vast mass. But it was only because Osiris was swinging very slowly to the pressure of wind, her stem and forepart of the hull firmly embedded on hard sand.
He said slowly, ‘It is my belief that we will soon be able to use the starboard guns.’
He saw Farquhar nod, his face ashen as more explosions threw spray high above the nettings. The painted strip of canvas which had been their only deception had long since gone, torn away in the hot wind of those guns. He gripped his arm tightly, dragging his mind from the threat and damage all around.
‘See the Frenchman, Captain? Now he is making more sail.’
Farquhar’s eyes widened. ‘In God’s name!’
Slowly, inexorably, her bow pivoting on the bar, Osiris was swinging away from the land. No wonder the French commodore had stayed his hand. Within half an hour, when he passed to leeward of the sand-bar and the trapped ship, he would see only Osiris’s exposed stern. No commander could hope for a better, or a steadier target, and one broadside would sweep through the ship from stern to bow.
Farquhar said, ‘Then we’re done
for.’
Bolitho walked past him. ‘Pass the word. Engage with every gun that bears. We’ll sink a round half-dozen of them with any luck.’
He heard the order being passed, the squeak of trucks as the gun captains brought their weapons round as far as they would move towards the supply ships.
They would see only the enemy, and even if they had guessed at their predicament, it was unlikely they understood its full meaning. Farquhar knew well enough.
‘Fire!’
The long battery of thirty-two-pounders crashed out in a ragged broadside, and at full elevation Bolitho knew that many of the balls would find targets.
‘Fire!’
The eighteen-pounders hurled themselves inboard, their crews working like madmen to sponge out and ram home new charges.
Bolitho darted a quick look at the captain. It showed on his face with each savage crash of a broadside. The recoil of so many guns was enough to edge Osiris still firmer aground. It told him that the ship was already finished, and that Bolitho was carrying on with the attack despite it.
Allday said hoarsely, ‘The hillside seems to be afire, sir!’
Bolitho wiped his eyes with his sleeve and stared across the larboard bow. Osiris had pivoted right round now, and he could see the dense wall of smoke, darting tongues of flame, too, rolling towards the sea and adding to the scene of chaos and despair.
Allday said it for him. ‘Must be Mr. Veitch. Set the hillside ablaze. It’s probably like tinder.’ He sighed. ‘A brave man. One of those guns will be blinded by smoke. They’ll not thank Mr. Veitch for that.’
A violent explosion thundered across the water, and through the thickening smoke Bolitho saw a vivid red heart.
Pascoe coughed in the smoke. ‘We have hit one of the transports, sir! Must have been loaded with powder!’
Fragments splashed down lazily and bobbed around the embattled ship. Beyond the smoke Bolitho could hear sharper notes of gunfire, and knew Javal was there, fighting probably two enemies at once.
Signal, Close Action! Page 29
