Sloop of War

by Alexander Kent

  He heard the boat grind alongside and saw Tyrrell and the others being dragged through the entry port, being clapped on the shoulders and bombarded with questions and cheers.

  Bolitho strode towards him and saw with sudden despair that Tyrrell was carrying Midshipman Fowler. It must have been his body across his legs in the boat.

  Tyrrell looked at him steadily and gave a tired grin. “He’s all right, sir. He was crying fit to break his heart, an’ then fell asleep in th’ boat.” He handed the midshipman to some seamen. “Worn out, poor little bugger.” He saw Graves and added flatly, “But he’s got guts. Plenty of ’em.” Then he strode forward and gripped Bolitho’s hands. “He’s not th’ only one, it seems.”

  A new voice drawled, “ ’Pon my word, I knew we’d meet again!”

  It was Colonel Foley. A bandage round his throat, his uniform in tatters, but somehow remaining as impeccable as Bolitho remembered him.

  Bolitho said, “I, too.” He looked at Tyrrell. “We are in for some warm work today, I fear. Lucifer’s done for, and we must leave quickly if we are to avoid her fate.”

  “Aye.” Tyrrell limped towards the wheel. “I’d guessed as much.”

  A cry from aloft brought every eye towards the headland. Very slowly, their yards braced round in the sunlight, a frigate and a deep-hulled transport were passing level with the wrecked schooner.

  Bolitho said simply, “Sooner than I thought.” He looked at Heyward. “We will cut the cable.” To Tyrell he added, “Then you may pass the word to load and run out.”

  The cutter and its dead oarsmen drifted away from the side, a discarded reminder of their sacrifice.

  Bethune hurried aft, his face glowing with excitement.

  Bolitho said, “Well done. I’ll see you a lieutenant yet, despite what you do to the contrary.”

  He felt suddenly composed, even relaxed. “Run up the colours! We’ll show the army we’re not leaving them to no purpose!”

  The cable cut, and with her topsails bellying to the wind, Sparrow tilted round in a tight arc, the thunder of her canvas drowning the gunfire from the trees, her seamen too busy even to think beyond their work and the need to reach the open sea.

  By the time Sparrow had gone about and settled on her course towards the capes, there could be no doubt in anyone’s mind as to the enemy’s intentions. Even as Tyrrell reported all guns loaded and run out, Bolitho raised his glass to examine yet another ship as she rounded the southern headland. One more heavy transport, and beyond her he could see the billowing topsails of a protective frigate.

  Tyrrell said, “God’s teeth, a fleet and nothing less!”

  Buckle called, “Steady as she goes, sir! Sou’ by west!”

  The first transport had already dropped anchor, and through his glass Bolitho saw her boats being lowered with swift precision, the glint of sunlight on weapons and uniforms as soldiers clambered down ladders and nets in a manner which spoke of much practice. He shifted his glass to the second large vessel. She, too, was crammed with soldiers, and there were limbers on her upper deck, and her yards were festooned with heavy tackles, the kind used for lowering horses into boats or lighters.

  Colonel Foley drawled, “We heard Rochambeau was expecting reinforcements. It would appear they have arrived.”

  Bolitho glanced at him. “What is your mission now?”

  “If you can get me to New York I have despatches for General Clinton. They may not help Cornwallis, but he will be glad to know what is happening here.” He gave a brief smile. “I heard that you dealt severely with our old friend Blundell? Not before time.” He raised one eyebrow. “You met his niece again, I understand?”

  Bolitho watched the jib-boom swing very slightly and settle on the outthrust wedge of headland. How could they speak so calmly and detachedly when death lay so close at hand?

  He replied, “Yes. She will be in England now.”

  Foley gave a sigh. “I am relieved. I recognise all the signs, Captain. She wanted you to quit the Service and join her train of admirers, eh?” He held up one hand. “Do not bother to reply! It is plain on your face, as it must have been on mine.”

  Bolitho smiled gravely. “Something of the sort.”

  “When she tired of me I was sent to serve under Cornwallis. A favour as it turned out. And you?”

  Tyrrell stepped back from the rail. “She almost had him killed!”

  Foley shook his head. “A formidable woman indeed.”

  “Deck there! Ship-o’-the-line roundin’ the cape!”

  Bolitho felt a chill on his spine as he thought of Odell’s dash from the south. Day by day and at each dawn he would look astern at the pursuing ships. It must have been a nightmare for every man aboard.

  The boats from the two transports were pulling towards the land now, and he could see the hulls deep in the water as testimony of the numbers they carried.

  “Set the t’gallants, Mr. Tyrrell. We will need all our wind today.”

  Foley drew his sabre and turned it over in his hands. “You are not merely running away, I take it?”

  Bolitho shook his head. “Those two frigates are shortening sail, Colonel. They intend to rake us when we attempt to clear the middle-ground.” He pointed towards the anchored transports. “There is our course. Close inshore, where we’ll be least expected.”

  Foley grimaced. “Or welcome, I suspect.”

  Bolitho looked at Buckle. “When we go about you must lay her as close as you can to Cape Henry.”

  “Aye, sir.” Buckle was peering through shrouds and stays, his eyes fixed on the ships.

  Bolitho raised his glass again. The two frigates were under minimum canvas standing before the wind with some difficulty as they waited for the small sloop to dash past them. Less than a mile now. He watched them narrowly, noting their drift, the sun gleaming on their broadsides and on the raised telescopes of their officers.

  He snapped, “How many boats in the water?”

  Bethune called, “At least thirty!”

  “Good.”

  Bolitho imagined the packed soldiers who would be watching Sparrow’s apparent dash for safety. A spectacle to drive away their own doubts and fears of what lay ahead on the American mainland.

  Bolitho drew his hanger and held it above his head. Along the gun deck he saw the crews crouching at the tackles, each captain peering aft, a slow-match held ready. In the maintop two swivels were training this way and that, a seaman squatting on the barricade with fresh canister cradled to his chest. Curiously, as he ran his eyes quickly over his command, he was reminded of Colquhoun’s words so long ago. When all others are looking aft at you.

  He heard a sharp bang, and seconds later the highpitched whine of a ball whipping overhead. One of the frigates had fired a ranging shot. But he kept his eyes on the nearest transport as she swung to her cable, her high poop towards the beach. Aboard the frigates the gun crews would be betting with each other. How many balls would they get off before the Sparrow was overwhelmed by their cross-fire or she struck her colours?

  He brought down his hanger with a flourish. “Now!”

  The wheel creaked noisily, and as men hauled at the braces to retrim the yards, Sparrow’s stem began to turn. Bolitho held his breath, watching the frigates slipping further and further down the larboard bow, while the nearest transport and then the great spread of oared boats swam across the jib-boom, and beyond them the land opened up as if to receive their onrushing charge.

  “Hold her!”

  Bolitho ran to the nettings, his mind hanging on to Tyrrell’s words of Lynnhaven Bay, the depths and currents, the dangers and margin of survival.

  Buckle’s helmsmen cursed and spun the wheel against the opposite thrust of wind and sea, and as spray leapt above the beakhead Bolitho saw the nearest boats careering off course, the realisation and horror of his intentions at last only too clear.

  Gunfire thudded across the bay, and balls whimpered and splashed very near to the hull. But the two frigates had be
en taken by surprise, and as Sparrow lunged towards the shore, Bolitho knew that within minutes she would be screened from their fire by the first transport.

  He could feel the madness surging through him like fever, and as he yelled down at the gun deck he knew it was infectious, saw the men poised at their open ports like half-naked demons.

  “Stand by!” The hanger was above his head again. “Full depression!”

  He saw the nearest muzzles dipping towards the creaming water, the gun captains dancing from side to side while their men stood ready with charges and fresh shot for the next barrage, and the one after that.

  “As you bear!” The hanger hovered, holding the fresh sunlight like gold. “Fire!”

  The air was blasted apart by the ragged broadsides from either beam. As the dense smoke swirled inboard, and the gun crews yelled and cheered above the squeak of trucks, the clatter of handspikes and rammers, Bolitho saw the next spitting tongues from forward, the double shotted charges smashing into boats and soldiers, the whirl of splinters and spray. Above the decks the braced topsails quivered to each explosion, the smoke fanning out on either side in a choking fog while the guns roared out again and again.

  Sharper cracks from muskets, the metallic bangs of swivels, made words impossible. It was a nightmare, a world in torment. Boats lurched into the hull and Bolitho felt the deck shake as

  Sparrow’s stem smashed into a launch, breaking it in two and spilling out the overloaded soldiers in a kicking, screaming profusion.

  A transport was firing now, her upper tier cutting over the scattered boats and slapping through Sparrow’s canvas like great fists.

  A ball burst through the nettings, and Bolitho heard shrill screams as two seamen were pulped against the opposite side. He saw Fowler walking dazedly past the dismembered corpses, his face set as if in deep thought. He noticed that he was snapping his fingers.

  The hull gave another great lurch, and below his feet he felt the enemy’s iron smashing through the gun deck, the attendant rumble of a twelve-pounder being overturned.

  Another longboat lurched down the starboard side, some men firing with their muskets, others scrambling over the frantic sailors at the oars. Balls thudded into the rail and bulwark, and a seaman fell choking on blood as one took him in the throat.

  Bolitho ran to the side and wiped his streaming eyes to peer astern. The surface was littered with smashed boats and drifting woodwork. Men, too, some swimming, others fading beneath the water under their weight of weapons and equipment.

  Foley was reloading a musket and shouting, “A few less for our boys to fight!” He leaned over the nettings and shot down a soldier even as he stood to fire at the sloop.

  Bolitho strained his eyes towards the shore. It was near enough. Almost too close.

  “Bring her about!” He had to repeat the order before Buckle understood.

  With blocks screaming and her yards braced round once more, Sparrow heeled dangerously on the larboard tack, her bows seemingly pointed straight at the land.

  And there was the second transport, swinging drunkenly across the bow, her gun-ports already flashing and tearing the air apart with shot.

  A ball ripped through the quarterdeck rail, splitting it apart like matchwood, and cutting down a master’s mate who was yelling to the hands at the mizzen braces. Blood splashed across Bolitho’s breeches, and he saw other men falling on the gun deck, the protective nets above it jerking with fallen cordage and torn canvas.

  A quick glance aloft told him the masthead pendant was streaming almost abeam. They were as close to the wind as they could be. Enough or too little made no difference now. There was no room to go about, nor time to change tack.

  Tyrrell yelled, “Rake that bastard’s poop!” He gestured to the nearest gun captains. “Grape! Bring them down!”

  He stared at Bolitho, his eyes glazed with fatigue, the fury of battle.

  “She’s coming round!” He caught a seaman as he dropped from the nettings, his face a mask of blood. “Another for th’ surgeon!” He turned to Bolitho again and then gave a short cry, his hands to his thigh as he fell.

  Bolitho knelt beside him, holding his shoulders as more balls blasted splinters from the deck. Tyrrell stared up at him, his eyes dark with pain.

  “ ’S’all right.” He gritted his teeth. “It’s th’ same bloody leg!”

  Bolitho saw Dalkeith stooping and running across the deck, some of his men at his back.

  Tyrrell added weakly, “I knew it had to come off. Now there’s no excuse, eh?” Then he fainted.

  From the littered gun deck Graves watched him fall, although his mind was cringing to the noise and the stench of death.

  He screamed, “Run out!” He thrust at a wild-eyed seaman. “Point! Ready!” He stared fixedly at the towering sails of the transport as it rose ponderously abeam. “Fire!”

  The deck lurched beneath his feet, and he saw two men blasted into crimson fragments, their screams cut short before they reached the stained planking. But somewhere in his reeling mind he was thinking of Tyrrell. He must be dead , God rot him. His sister would be all alone now. One day, maybe sooner than the others realised, he would find her. Take her for himself.

  A gunner’s mate gaped up at him, his mouth like a black hole as he bellowed, “Look out, sir! For Christ’s sake . . .” His words were lost in the grating crash of timber as the main topgallant yard plunged through the nets like a great tree. It gouged into the planking and further still to the deck below. As its trailing rigging and severed halliards thundered between the blazing guns Graves died, his body impaled under the broken spar.

  At the quarterdeck rail Bolitho saw him die, and knew that the months of patrol duty, the storms and the fights, had at last broken the yard which they had once fished so carefully after another battle, a thousand years ago.

  But Heyward was there, his voice rallying the gun crews as the anchored transport faded into the smoke, her hull pitted with holes from the bow-chaser’s merciless bombardment.

  The wind fanned the smoke aside, and with something like disbelief he saw the sheer of Cape Henry pulling back like a huge door, the horizon glittering beyond it in welcome.

  Fowler slipped and fell on some blood and sobbed, “It’s no use! I can’t . . .”

  Bethune strode towards him. “You can and you damn well will!”

  The young midshipman turned and blinked at him. “What?”

  Bethune grinned, his face black with powder smoke. “You heard me! So jump to it, boy!”

  “Mr. Buckle!” Bolitho winced as some stray shots shrieked through the shrouds and brought down more lengths of cordage. “I want you to . . .”

  But the master took no notice. He was sitting with his back to the hatchway, hands to his chest as if in prayer. His eyes were open, but the spreading pattern of blood around him told its own story.

  Glass and a solitary seaman stood at the unprotected wheel, their eyes wild, their legs straddled amidst dead and dying.

  Bolitho snapped, “As close as you can. Lucifer’s remains will guide you clear of the shoal.”

  As sunlight enveloped the sloop from stem to stern, and her yards swung yet again to take her out of the bay, Bolitho saw the great array of ships coming down from the southern horizon and filling the sea. It was a fantastic spectacle. Squadron by squadron, the ships-of-the-line appearing to overlap as they headed purposefully towards the Chesapeake.

  Foley murmured, “De Grasse. I have never seen such a fleet.”

  Bolitho tore his eyes away and hurried to the taffrail. There was no sign of pursuit from the bay, nor had he expected one. The two frigates would be guarding their new anchorage and trying to rescue some of the soldiers who had escaped Sparrow’s fury. He turned towards the wheel where Heyward and Bethune stood watching him.

  “We will wear ship directly.” He saw Dalkeith and called, “Tell me!”

  Dalkeith eyed him sadly. “It’s done. He’s sleeping now. But I am confident.”

&
nbsp; Bolitho wiped his face and felt Stockdale steady his arm as the ship pitched heavily to the freshening wind.

  So much still to do. Repairs to be carried out even as they avoided the oncoming might of France. To find Admiral Graves and tell him of the enemy’s arrival. To bury their dead. His mind felt numb.

  Yule, the gunner, clattered up a sagging ladder and barked, “Any spare hands, sir? I need’em for the pumps!”

  Bolitho faced him. “Get them elsewhere.”

  He looked around at the sprawled bodies caught in their various attitudes of death.

  “Only the brave lie here.”

  He looked up, startled, as from high above the deck he heard someone singing. Beyond the pitted canvas and dangling rigging, to where the topgallant yard had splintered apart before falling to kill Graves, he saw a solitary seaman working in the sunlight, his marlin spike glinting as he spliced a broken stay. The sounds of sea and booming sails were too loud for him to hear the words, but the tune seemed familiar and strangely sad.

  Foley joined him and said quietly, “If they can sing like that, after what they’ve done.” He turned away, unable to watch Bolitho’s face. “Then, by God, I envy you!”

  EPILOGUE

  TWO DAYS after fighting out of the bay, Sparrow’s lookouts sighted the van of Admiral Graves’s fleet bearing down the coast of Maryland. The occasion was both exciting and bitter, for with many of her company wounded or killed it was hard not to feel emotion. Well ahead of the fleet, her signal flags rippling in the sunlight, Heron stood before the wind, a small symbol of what they had endured and achieved together.

  Bolitho could remember the moment exactly, as with his men he had waited on the splintered quarterdeck while his signals were passed to Heron and repeated to the flagship.

  When the reply had been received, Bethune had turned, his face suddenly matured.

  “Flag to Sparrow, sir. You will lead. Yours is the honour.”

  For an admiral who disliked superfluous signalling, Admiral Graves had done them proudly.