Success to the Brave - Bolitho 15

by Alexander Kent

  The main-topsail lifted and cracked with sudden impatience.

  Bolitho said, 'Be ready to get the ship under way again, Mr Knocker. We have a few minutes yet.'

  Quantock said, 'The frigate's holding on the same course, sir.'

  Bolitho felt his mouth run dry as something moved beyond and through a long bank of trees. Like a serpent's tail, yellow and red in the sunlight. The masthead pendant of a large ship, the remainder of her still hidden as she edged slowly through the concealed channel towards open water.

  Then her tapering jib-boom and figurehead, blazing gold, and her forecastle and a tightly reefed topsail, her jib barely flapping as she moved sedately into the glare.

  Another few moments and they would have lost her. They must have been holding their breaths as Achates had sailed past, laughed at their pathetic efforts to find them. Bolitho clenched his fists behind his coat tails. They would not laugh much longer.

  The cutter was less than a cable away, and Keen said, 'Grapnel ready. No time to hoist the boat now!'

  He tore his eyes from the other vessel as it moved from cover until she seemed to fill the shoreline.

  'Hell's teeth, she's the one right enough!"

  Bolitho lifted the old sword two inches from its scabbard and then snapped it down again.

  'Finally, Captain Keen, you are convinced."

  He heard shouts as the boat's crew were hauled bodily up the side while the wounded were hoisted on bowlines, their anguished cries ignored in the haste to get them to safety.

  Achates heeled more firmly in the wind, her hull brushing away the cutter like a piece of flotsam. Tyrrell remained standing at the tiller, his sole companion a dead seaman who crouched over an oar as if temporarily exhausted.

  Bolitho exclaimed, 'Throw him a line! I'll not leave him!'

  In his heart he knew Tyrrell intended to remain in the boat, to be carried away by the current. He had purposefully guided Achates from one false scent to another, and had even suggested that the boats should examine a cove directly alongside the other ship's real hiding-place. Nobody would ever have known. But something at the very last moment had persuaded him to act as he had.

  Now the truth would come out. He would be lucky to escape with his life for what he had done.

  Bolitho saw a heaving-line snake over the drifting boat, watched Tyrrell's uncertainty and anguish before he caught the line and took two turns around the abandoned swivel-gun.

  Keen waited only long enough for Tyrrell to be seized by the waiting hands at the entry port before he yelled his orders and sent his men rushing aloft again to set the topgallant sails in what seemed like a rising wind.

  Bolitho felt the ship shudder, the urgent clatter of blocks and rigging as Achates responded to the pressure.

  Keen stared at him and said, 'What was the damn fool trying to do anyway? What chance will — ' But the rest of his words were lost in the jarring roar of gunfire.

  Along the other ship's side the heavy muzzles were jerking back into their ports and suddenly the air above Achates' decks was filled with deadly iron. Several holes appeared in the tightly braced sails, and Bolitho felt the familiar jerk through his shoes as other balls struck hard into the hull.

  He watched as Knocker's helmsmen took control and very slowly at first, and then more confidently, the ship pointed her bowsprit towards the land, the wind pushing her over with an invisible hand. The other ship was following suit to take the maximum advantage of the wind.

  Had Bolitho ordered Keen to beat up the Mona Passage to take advantage of this same wind on the other side of the islands, it would have taken days to reach San Felipe. The ship which was now almost bows on as she clawed away from the shallows would have beaten them with time to spare. The little Electra would have fought to the finish, but nothing could have stopped the inevitable.

  Keen held out his arm. 'Easy, Mr Knocker! Easy now!'

  Achates continued to turn, her sails bulging hard on the opposite tack as the seamen on braces and halliards threw their weight against the swing of the yards.

  The master grunted over his shoulder and the helmsmen slowed the great spinning spokes of the wheel.

  'Steady, sir! West by north!'

  Bolitho licked his lips. The enemy's ports were at too extreme an angle to fire. She had made her challenge prematurely. But she was a well-handled ship and was already responding to the wind as she came about.

  'Starboard battery!' Keen's sword came out of its scabbard with a hiss. 'On the uproll!'

  Down the Achates' side and on the deck below the gun captains would be peering through their ports, trigger lines taut, as they watched their target swim into view.

  The bright blade flashed down in the sunlight, and with a drawn-out roll of thunder the eighteen- and twenty-four-pounders of both decks hurled themselves inboard on their tackles.

  The smoke billowed towards the bows and Bolitho watched as the enemy's rigging and canvas danced wildly under the onslaught. Tall waterspouts lined the enemy's bilge as other balls slammed hard down alongside, but she returned the fire even as she completed her manoeuvre.

  Bolitho felt the deck shake and heard a terrible shriek from one of the hatchways.

  Every gun crew was working like madmen, sponges, charges and rammers moving like parts of the men themselves. Finally those shining black balls from the shot-garlands, rammed home with a last tap for good measure. Each crew was racing its neighbour, and as every captain held up his hand Keen shouted hoarsely, 'Broadside! Fire!'

  This time there was no mistake, and at a range of barely two cables it was possible to see Achates' weight of iron smashing into the other ship's hull, splintering a gangway and bringing down a tangled heap of rigging from the mizzen.

  But the enemy's heavier thirty-two-pounders were already reloaded and poking through their ports like angry snouts. Again the stabbing line of orange tongues, the terrible commotion and crash between decks as many of the balls found their mark.

  Bolitho saw a man hurled from his gun, his face a mask of blood. He also saw Midshipman Evans standing stiff and unmoving as he stared at the other ship. If he was afraid of the din of battle he did not show it, but in his pale features Bolitho saw the enemy through the boy's own eyes. He was remembering her as he had last seen her, when his ship had been smashed and set ablaze, when Duncan had died beside him.

  Bolitho called, 'Walk about, Mr Evans!' He saw the boy look at him without understanding and added, 'You are small but still a prime target.'

  Evans gave what might have been a smile and then went to aid the fallen seaman.

  The guns rolled inboard again on their tackles, the air cringed to their explosions and men gasped in the dense smoke and charred fragments which surrounded them.

  Hallowes, the fourth lieutenant, strode behind the forward division of guns, his hanger across his shoulder as he peered at his crews.

  'Stop your vents!'

  'Sponge out!'

  Several men ducked as hammocks burst from the nettings and metal screamed against one of the guns on the opposite side. Two men fell, another limped away and crouched below the gangway like a frightened animal.

  Load!'

  Hallowes pointed at the crouching seaman and shouted, 'Back to your station, now! 'Run out!'

  Again the squeaking rumble of trucks as gun by gun the ship presented her full broadside to the enemy. The latter had changed tack slightly and was converging on Achates, her guns firing again and again.

  Bolitho watched Keen moving from one side of the quarterdeck to the other. More shots hammered the side, and there was a great chorus from the lower gun-deck and Bolitho knew that a twenty-four-pounder had been upended or, worse still, had broken away from its tackles.

  Both ships were evenly matched. Achates mounted more guns, but the enemy's heavier broadside was taking a terrible toll. One lucky shot was all it would take. He stared at Keen's shoulders, as if to will him to act. Close the range, Val. Get to grips before he dismasts you. />
  More cries and screams echoed through the crash and recoil of cannon, and a marine staggered away from the poop nettings, his hands to his face, his chest punctured by flying wood splinters.

  'Jesus, what a mess!' Tyrrell limped between the trailing tackles and pieces of torn rigging which had found their way through the nets overhead.

  Bolitho said, 'Get below. You're a civilian.'

  Tyrrell winced as a ball shattered on the breech of a quarterdeck nine-pounder and splinters cracked around them and flung two more seamen into a puddle of their own blood.

  Keen turned round and glared at Tyrrell. 'What the hell are you doing here?'

  Tyrrell showed his teeth. 'Get that bugger alongside, Captain, your people can't keep up this pace!'

  Keen looked at Bolitho. 'They'll know it's your flagship, sir!'

  So that was it. Bolitho pulled out his old sword. 'Put the helm over. We'll give them a fight,' he raised his voice, 'eh, lads}'

  He turned away as they cheered him. Half-naked, blackened by powder smoke, their sweat cutting channels through the grime, they were hardly the romantic heroes portrayed in the fine paintings he had seen in London.

  He felt the madness welling up inside him. 'Lively there!'

  The yards swung slightly as the helm went over, and within minutes the range had fallen to a cable, then half as much; then as the other ship's sails rose high above the nettings and muskets joined in the deafening onslaught, it was down to fifty yards and still closing.

  The other captain had no choice. He could not turn and run. The land which had hidden him was now a deadly enemy, with breakers in plenty to show the lie of the reefs. If he tried to come about he would be all aback for those vital moments when Keen's gun crews would rake him from end to end.

  There was a loud, splintering crack and voices yelled, 'Heads below there!' Part of the mizzen cross-jack yard ploughed through the nets, rebounded and crashed down in a welter of rigging, blocks and trailing canvas.

  Bolitho felt a blow on the shoulder like an iron fist, then he was face down on the deck. His first thought was near to terror. Another wound. Fatal. Then he cursed into the smoke which had almost blinded him when his presence would be most missed.

  He felt Adam holding his arm, his grimy face set in a grim stare, then Allday dragging something away from his back and easing him over on to his knees, then to his feet. A huge block, cut down by a shot through the mizzen rigging but swinging on its cordage like a bludgeon, had laid him low. He was not even cut, and he managed to force a grin as someone gave him his hat and another yelled, 'You'll show them buggers, sir!'

  Bolitho faced the enemy, his eyes smarting, his shoulder throbbing from the blow. If it had struck his skull he would be dead at this very instant.

  Musket shots punched into and through the packed hammocks, and wooden splinters flew from the quarterdeck or stood motionless like quill pens.

  Axes flashed in the smoky sunlight, and more wreckage was hacked free and levered over the side with handspikes.

  All the relentless gun and sail drill was showing its worth. When a man fell wounded, or was dragged away to await the surgeon's mates, another was instantly in his place from one of the opposite guns.

  Now the marines could join in with their muskets, Sergeant Saxton counting out the time and tapping the deck with his boot as the ramrods rose and fell like one, and then as the muskets rose once more to the nettings he would shout, 'Take aim! Every shot a Don!' The crackle of musketry from the fighting tops showed that more marines were up there trying to mark down the enemy's officers.

  Bolitho paced this way and that, his shoe catching a jagged splinter as the other ship's marksmen tried to hit him.

  Closer, closer still, and the guns were thundering at almost point-blank range, their crews blinded and deafened as their feet and hands fought to keep control over their massive weapons.

  'Cease firing!'

  Quantock had to repeat the order before the last gun on the lower deck fell silent. As the enemy did likewise the other sounds broke through the stunned stillness. Men crying out in pain, voices calling for help, orders shouting for men to clear away the wreckage, to release the trapped wounded.

  'Hard over!'

  As the wheel went down Achates' jib-boom swept through the other ship's foremast shrouds like a battering ram. There was a terrible splintering sound and both hulls rocked together in a deadly embrace.

  Men were running forward, leaving the guns to snatch up cutlasses and boarding pikes, axes and anything they favoured for hand-to-hand fighting.

  Lieutenant Hallowes, his hat knocked awry, his hanger waving above his head, yelled, 'At 'em, lads!'

  With a wild cheer the seamen raced to the point of collision to hack and slash their way across a glistening sliver of water.

  Some were impaled by pikes as they clung to the boarding nets, others were shot down by marksmen even before they had left their own ship. But others were through, and as more followed Bolitho saw the fourth lieutenant dashing on to the enemy's larboard gangway, hacking down a shrieking figure with his hanger and slashing aside another before he was overtaken by his whooping, battle-crazed men, their cutlasses already reddened from the first challenge on the forecastle.

  The marines were bustling to the side, their faces grim beneath their hats as they fired into the men along the enemy's quarterdeck, reloaded with less precision than usual and fired again.

  Captain Dewar drew his sword. 'Forward, Marines!'

  The scarlet coats and white cross-belts vanished into the smoke, the boots slipping on blood, the bayonets thrusting away any resistance as they joined the others on the enemy's deck.

  Keen had gone forward to encourage his men, and Bolitho heard the seamen cheering, 'Huzza, huzza!' and even though some were falling to the enemy's fire others were already fighting their way on to the quarterdeck.

  There was a great cry from Achates' boatswain. 'Fire! She's afire!'

  Bolitho said, 'I can see the smoke!'

  Tyrrell gripped the rail as he stared at the enemy who were suddenly throwing away their weapons and screaming for quarter as the wild-eyed sailors tore among them.

  Bolitho called, 'Mr Hawtayne! Have your bugler sound the retreat! Stand by to cast off!"

  A sullen explosion shook both ships and more black smoke gushed from the forecastle. If the ship burst into flames Achates would suffer the same fate.

  Keen came back mopping his face, his eyes seeking out his lieutenants and master's mates as the truth made itself felt in another deep explosion.

  Dragging their wounded, and fighting off any of the enemy who tried to follow, Achates' boarding party returned to their own ship.

  With her wheel either shot away or abandoned, the enemy two-decker began to drift down-wind as soon as the last line was hacked free. Corpses bobbed in the sea between them, and others hung from the rigging where friend and foe alike had been shot down.

  'Get the fore-course on her! Reset the flying jib! Hands aloft and loose t'gan's'ls!' Quantock's harsh voice echoed through the confusion like a steadying force.

  A great tongue of flame licked through the enemy's gun-deck and started an explosion among some broken charges. Men were running through the corpses and destruction and nobody appeared to be trying to save them or their ship.

  As the wheel went over Achates turned slowly aside from her stricken enemy, laying bare the damage, the bloody streaks on the planking, the discarded weapons, and the guns which still smoked as if under their own command.

  Another explosion boomed across the water and fragments of burning wood and rigging splashed dangerously close to Achates as she continued to gather way, her punctured and smoke-grimed sails filling to the wind.

  More explosions, and this time a gout of fire and sparks spouted from the midships section and began to spread to masts and canvas, until everything was burning fiercely. Rigging and canvas became ashes in seconds, men, some on fire, were leaping into the sea, others spl
ashed about looking for something to keep them afloat as the ship continued to blaze above them.

  Bolitho watched the other ship die, but in spite of Sparrowhawk could find little satisfaction. His men were cheering, embracing each other. They had lived through it. One more time, and for some it had been the first battle.

  The Spanish frigate, which had remained a silent spectator to the fight, was moving cautiously towards the burning ship. She was going to stand between Achates and her victim, an act which made her just as guilty. Dead men tell no tales.

  There was a vivid flash and a boom which stopped all the cheers like an iron door.

  The other ship was turning on to her side, her gun-ports alight like a line of angry red eyes.

  She was breaking up, her heavy artillery tearing loose to add to the horror and agony of those still trapped below.

  Bolitho saw Midshipman Evans watching the other ship's last moment. But there was no joy on his face, just tears, and Bolitho knew why.

  He was not seeing the rightful destruction of a callous enemy. It was his Sparrowhawk he was watching.

  Bolitho said quietly, 'Attend to Mr Evans, Adam. His storm is about to break.'

  Keen joined him and touched his hat.

  Bolitho said, 'What is the butcher's bill for all this?'

  They both turned as the air shook to a final explosion, and like a gutted whale the enemy rolled on to her side and dipped beneath the surface.

  Keen replied quietly, 'That might so easily have been us, sir.'

  Bolitho handed his sword to Allday. 'I get your point, Val. Then our bill is not yet fully paid?'

  12

  The Letter

  Napier, Electro's youthful commander, stood exactly in the centre of Bolitho's day cabin while he completed his report.

  Contrary to his orders, Napier had brought his brig to escort the battered two-decker for the last two miles of her passage into San Felipe.

  Even as he had been piped aboard from his gig, Napier had seemed unable to prevent his eyes from probing around him. The sewn-up corpses awaiting burial, the tired, dirty sailors who barely glanced up from their countless tasks of splicing, stitching and hauling fresh rigging to the topmen on the yards.