Poland stared from the masthead to Bolitho. “I am sorry, Sir Richard. I spoke too soon!” He was probably seeing his only command already slipping away from his grasp.
Inskip swallowed hard. “You’re both wrong, dammit!” He wiped his eyes with his handkerchief. “I’ll wager Zest makes that damned Frenchie show a clean pair of heels!”
“Deck there!” The foremast lookout’s voice was suddenly loud as wind spilled from the topsails. “She’s a French frigate, sir!”
Bolitho saw faces turn to look towards him, not at their captain this time. So Zest was not waiting for them. Instead, the trap was about to be sprung. Bolitho looked at Inskip’s flushed face and kept his voice calm. “No, Sir Charles, I fear we were both right.” He swung on Poland. “Clear for action, if you please!”
“Deck there!” Someone by the wheel gave a groan as the lookout yelled, “Second sail astern of t’other, sir!”
“The corvette has run up her colours, sir!”
Poland licked his lips. Two ships closing on a converging tack, another still hounding them from astern. To starboard was the full power of the wind, on the opposite beam and still out of sight was the Danish coast. In those fleeting seconds he could see it all. Jaws closing around his ship. Be run ashore in a hopeless stern-chase, or stand and be destroyed by overwhelming odds. He looked at his first lieutenant, his eyes dull. “Beat to quarters, Mr Williams, and clear for action at your convenience.”
The marine fifers ran to the stations, adjusting their drums until they received a curt nod from the Royal Marines sergeant.
Bolitho saw Allday striding across the deck, his cutlass wedged carelessly through his belt. Jenour too, fingering his beautiful sword, his face suddenly determined as the drums commenced their urgent rattle to arms.
Inskip gasped, “Maybe Zest will be here yet?” Nobody spoke, and his voice was almost drowned by the rush of bare feet, the stamp of marines across the poop and the thud and clatter of screens being torn down to clear the ship of obstructions. “Why such a show of force?” He was almost pleading.
Bolitho watched Truculent’s big ensigns mounting to gaff and masthead. A challenge accepted.
He said, “They knew, Sir Charles. One of His Majesty’s most important emissaries and a senior officer for good measure! Exactly the excuse the French have been looking for. If we are taken, Napoleon will have all he needs to discredit the Danes for their secret discussions with us, and so weaken Sweden’s and Russia’s resolution to stand against him! Good God, man, even a child should see that!”
Inskip did not rise to Bolitho’s angry contempt. He stared around at the gun crews, the bustle with tackles and handspikes as each weapon was prepared to fight.
Then he peered overhead at the nets which were being rigged across the decks from gangway to gangway to protect these same crews from falling spars and debris. Even the boats were being swayed out and made ready to lower and cast adrift for the victors to recover.
Boats represented survival to most sailors, and Bolitho saw some of them turn from their work to watch, and the grim response from the scarlet squads of marines who fingered their Brown Bess muskets and fixed bayonets. If so ordered, they would shoot down anyone who created a panic or provoked any sort of disorder.
It was always a bad moment, Bolitho thought. Survival perhaps; but the peril of razor-sharp splinters hurled from tiered boats once battle was joined was far more dangerous.
Williams touched his hat, his eyes wild. “Cleared for action, sir!”
Poland looked at him coldly and then said, “That was smartly done, Mr Williams.” He looked past him and at the lines of watching gun crews, men who moments before had been thinking only of getting another tot to reward them for their efforts. “Do not load or run out as yet.” He turned and faced Bolitho. “We are ready, Sir Richard.” His pale eyes were opaque, like a man already dead.
Inskip touched Bolitho’s sleeve. “Shall you fight them?” He sounded incredulous.
Bolitho did not answer. “You may hoist my flag at the fore, Captain Poland. I think there are no more secrets left to keep.”
Inskip’s shoulders seemed to droop. It was perhaps the clearest reply of all.
As the next hour dragged remorselessly past, the sky grew clearer, the clouds breaking up as if to give every light to the scene. But the sun held no warmth, and spray when it flew over the tightly-packed hammock nettings felt like fragments of ice.
Bolitho took the big telescope from the senior midshipman and walked to the mizzen shrouds. Without haste he climbed into the ratlines and steadied himself while he waited for his mind to clear. He could see the leading French frigate quite easily, still holding on to her original converging tack, every sail spread and bulging from the wind. She was big, forty guns or more at a guess, with her Tricolour standing out like bright metal. The other vessel was slightly smaller, but well equal to Truculent. Very deliberately he raised the heavy glass and watched the picture sharpen. How near she looked now; he could imagine the sounds of voices and the creak of gun-tackles as the crews waited impatiently for the order to run out. Around and behind his back he could sense a silence, and knew that all eyes were on him as he studied the enemy. Measuring their chances against his confidence. Seeing death in any uncertainty. The French were taking their time despite the great press of canvas. If there was to be any chance . . . he slammed the glass shut with sudden anger. I must never think like that, or we are already lost.
He returned to the deck and handed the telescope to the midshipman.
“Thank you, Mr Fellowes.” He did not see the pleased surprise in the youth’s eyes at the easy familiarity of his name. He crossed to Poland’s side where Inskip and his secretary, the lugubrious Agnew, waited anxiously for his assessment.
Bolitho avoided the others and said, “Captain Poland, make more sail if you please.” He glanced up at the braced yards and lofty sails framed by the washed-out blue sky. “The wind has eased somewhat—you will not tear the sticks out of her, I think.”
He expected a protest, even an argument, but before Poland turned away to pass his orders to the first lieutenant, Bolitho thought he saw something like relief on his set features. Calls trilled and once again hands clambered aloft with the agility of monkeys. From the quarterdeck Bolitho saw the great mainyard bending like a bow to the following wind, heard the crack and rattle of canvas as the remaining royals were freed to lend their thrust to the ship.
Poland came back breathing hard. “Sir?”
Bolitho looked at him searchingly. Not a man who would crack, no matter what he might think of the coming fight and its likely conclusion. “The French will adopt their usual tactics today. The leading ship will continue to close until she can reach us with her fire.” He saw Poland’s bleak eyes following his arm as he pointed over towards the enemy, as if he could already see the lurid flash of cannon fire. “It is my belief that their senior officer will be confident, perhaps too much so.”
Inskip muttered, “So would I be, in his shoes!”
Bolitho ignored him. “He will try to cripple Truculent, doubtless with chain-shot or langridge, while his consort attempts to rake our stern. A divided attack is commonly used in this way.” He watched his words hitting home. “It must not happen.” He saw Poland flinch as a line snapped somewhere high above the deck. Like a pistol shot. “If they are allowed to board us we’ll be done for.” He nodded beyond the stern. “And there is always our little scavenger waiting to lend her weight to the fight.”
Poland licked his lips. “What must we do, Sir Richard?”
Inskip snapped, “It’s hopeless, if you ask me!”
Bolitho turned on him. “Well, I do not, Sir Charles! So if you have nothing sensible to offer I suggest you go below to the orlop and do something useful to help the surgeon!” He saw Inskip flush with anger, and added bitterly, “And if you ever reach London again, may I suggest that you explain to your masters, and mine, what they are asking people to do!” He waved
his hand briefly over the crouching gun crews. “What they face each time a King’s ship is called to arms!”
When he turned again Inskip and his secretary had disappeared. He smiled at Poland’s surprise and said, “It were better left to us, I think, eh, Captain?” He felt suddenly calm again, so much so that there was no sensation left in his limbs. “I ordered more sail so that the French will think we are trying to run for it. They are already following suit, I see, every stitch they can muster, for this is a rich prize indeed. English plotters and a fine frigate to boot—no, the Frenchman will not wish to lose out on this!”
Poland nodded with slow understanding. “You intend to luff and come about, Sir Richard?”
“Aye.” He touched his arm. “Come walk awhile. The enemy will not be in useful range for half an hour at a guess. I have always found it helps to loosen the muscles, relax the mind.” He smiled at him, knowing how important it was for Truculent’s company to see their captain at ease.
Bolitho added, “It will have to be smartly done, sails reduced instantly as the helm goes over. Then we can tack between them and rake them both.”
Poland nodded jerkily. “I have always trained them well, Sir Richard!”
Bolitho clasped his hands behind him. That was more like it. Poland rising to any sort of criticism. He had to believe. He must think only of the first move.
Bolitho said, “May I suggest you place your first lieutenant by the foremast so that he can control, even point each gun himself. There will be no time for a second chance.” He saw him nod. “It is no place for a junior lieutenant.”
Poland called to Williams. While they were in deep discussion, with several meaning glances towards the nearest pyramid of sails, Bolitho said to Jenour, “Keep on the move, Stephen.” He saw the flag lieutenant’s eyes blink. “It will be warm work today, I fear.”
Allday massaged his chest with his hand and watched the too familiar preparations, and the way the third lieutenant stared at Williams as he passed him on his way aft. He probably saw his own removal from the forward guns as a lack of confidence in his ability. He would soon know why, Allday decided. He thought suddenly of Bolitho’s offer.
Perhaps a little alehouse near Falmouth, with a rosy-cheeked widow-woman to take care of. No more danger, the scream of shot and dying men, the awful crash of falling spars. And pain, always the pain.
“Leadin’ ship’s runnin’ out, sir!”
Poland glanced at Bolitho and then snapped, “Very well, open the ports. Load and run out the starboard battery!”
Bolitho clenched his fist. Poland had remembered. Had he run out the guns on either side it would have shown the enemy what he intended as plainly as if he had spelled out a signal.
“Ready, sir!” That was Williams, somehow out of place up forward instead of on the quarterdeck.
“Run out!”
Squealing like disgruntled hogs, the maindeck eighteen-pounders trundled up to their ports, each crew watching the other so that the broadside was presented as one.
There was a dull bang and seconds later a thin waterspout leapt from the sea some fifty yards from the starboard bow. A sighting shot.
Poland wiped his face with his fingers. “Stand by to come about! Be ready, Mr Hull!”
Bolitho saw Munro, the second lieutenant, stride to the chart-table near the companion hatch and pull aside its canvas cover.
Bolitho walked slowly past the tense group around the wheel, the marines waiting at braces and halliards, knowing that with so much canvas above them one error could crush them under an avalanche of broken masts and rigging.
The young lieutenant stiffened as Bolitho’s shadow fell across the open log book, in which he had just noted the time of the first shot.
“Is there something I can do, Sir Richard?”
“I was just looking at the date. But no, it’s not important.”
He moved away again and knew that Allday had drawn nearer to him.
It was his birthday. Bolitho touched the shape of the locket through his shirt. May love always protect you.
It was like hearing her speak those same words aloud.
Poland slammed down his hand. “Now!”
In seconds, or so it seemed, the great courses were brailed and fisted to their yards, opening up to the sea around them like curtains on a stage.
“Helm a’lee! Hard over, damn your eyes!”
Voices and calls echoed over the deck as men threw themselves on the braces to haul the yards round while the deck swayed over to the violent change of course. Gun crews abandoned their charges and ran to the opposite side to supplement the depleted numbers there, and as the ports squeaked open they ran out their eighteen-pounders, aided this time by the steep tilt of the deck. Spray lanced through the ports and over the nettings, and some of the crew gaped in astonishment as the leading French frigate seemed to materialise right before their eyes, when moments earlier she had been on the opposite beam.
“As you bear!” Lieutenant Williams held up his sword as he lurched along the deck by the larboard carronade. “A guinea for the first strike!”
A midshipman named Brown shouted, “I’ll double that, sir!”
They grinned at one another like urchins.
“Fire!”
The battery fired as one, the deafening roar of the long eighteen-pounders completely blocking out the sounds of the enemy’s response. The French captain had been taken by surprise, and only half of his guns had been brought to bear on the wildly tacking Truculent. The enemy’s sails were in total chaos as her topmen tried to take the way off her and follow Truculent’s example.
Aft by the compass box, Bolitho felt the deck shudder as some of the enemy’s iron crashed into the hull. The sea’s face was feathered with flying chain-shot which had been intended for Truculent’s mast and rigging.
Poland yelled, “Stand by to starboard, Mr Williams!”
Men scampered back to their stations at the other battery, as they had drilled so many times. The range was much greater, and the second French ship lay bows on, her topsails rippling and spilling wind while her captain tried to change tack.
“As you bear, lads!” Williams crouched by the first division of guns, then sliced the air with his sword. “Fire!”
Bolitho held his breath as gun by gun along Truculent’s side the long orange tongues spat out from this carefully timed broadside. But the enemy was still almost end-on, a difficult target at a range of some two cables. He hid his disbelief as like a great tree the frigate’s foremast seemed to bow forward under the pressure of the wind. But it did not stop; and with it went the trailing mass of broken shrouds and running rigging, and then the whole topmast, until the forward part of the vessel was completely hidden by fallen debris. It must have been almost the last shot of the battery. But just one eighteen-pound ball was enough.
Bolitho looked at Poland’s smoke-stained features. “Better odds, Captain?”
The seamen, who were already training the quarterdeck nine-pounders with their handspikes, looked at him and gave a hoarse cheer.
Allday slitted his eyes against the funnelling smoke and watched the leading frigate as she eventually came under command. She lay down to larboard now, her maincourse brailed up, but several others punctured by Truculent’s cannon fire. Bolitho had stolen the wind-gage from the Frenchie, but it was all they had. One thing was certain: Poland could never have done it, would never have tried to attempt it. He saw Bolitho glance up at the sails and then towards the enemy. As in memory. Like at The Saintes in their first ship together, the Phalarope. Bolitho was still that captain, no matter what his rank and title said. He glared at the cheering, capering seamen. Fools. They would change their tune damn soon. He gripped his cutlass more tightly. And here it comes.
Williams raised his sword and looked aft at the captain. “Ready to larboard, sir!”
“Fire!”
The ship staggered to the thunder and recoil of the guns, while the pale smoke billowed downwind
towards the enemy.
It was like grinding over a reef or running into a sandbar, so that for a long moment men seemed to stare at one another as the enemy’s broadside crashed into the hull or screamed through the canvas and rigging overhead. The spread nets jumped with fallen cordage and blocks, and a scarlet-coated marine dropped from the maintop before lying spreadeagled above one of the gun crews.
Bolitho coughed out smoke and thought briefly of Inskip down in the reeling gloom of the orlop. The first wounded would already be on their way there. He looked at the marine’s corpse on the nets. It was a marvel nothing vital had been shot away.
He saw Jenour wiping his eyes with his forearm, dazed by the onslaught.
“Captain Poland, prepare to alter course, if you please. We will steer due west!” But when he looked through the thinning smoke he saw that Poland was down, one leg doubled under him, his fingers clutching his throat as if to stem the blood which flooded over his coat like paint. Bolitho dropped on his knee beside him. “Take him to the surgeon!” But Poland shook his head so violently that Bolitho saw the gaping hole in his neck where a fragment of iron had cut him down. He was dying, choking on his own blood as he tried to speak.
Lieutenant Munro joined him, his tanned face as pale as death.
Very slowly, Bolitho stood up and looked towards the enemy. “Your captain is dead, Mr Munro. Pass the word to the others.” He glanced down at Poland’s contorted features. Even in death his eyes were somehow angry and disapproving. It was terrible to see him die with a curse on his lips, although he guessed that he had been the only one close enough to hear it.
His last words on earth had been, “God’s damnation on Varian, the cowardly bastard!”
Bolitho saw Williams staring aft towards him, his hat gone but the sword still gripped in his hand.
Bolitho watched a seaman cover Poland’s body with some canvas, then he walked up to the quarterdeck rail as he had done so many times in the past.
He thought of Poland’s despairing curse and said aloud, “And my damnation too!” Then he dropped his hand and felt the ship’s anger erupt in another savage broadside.
The Only Victor Page 24
