Enemy in Sight! (8 page)

“Fire!”
He sliced the air with his sword, and down the length of the main deck gun captain after gun captain jerked his trigger line, and the sea faded in a great wall of billowing brown smoke, the air torn apart by the detonations.

Bolitho yelled, “Again, lads!” He wiped his streaming eyes and felt the deck quiver to the squeal and rumble of trucks as the first guns were sponged, loaded and run out once more.

“Fire!” The smashing explosions shook the hull like earth tremors, and when the quarterdeck nine-pounders hurled them- selves inboard on their tackles Bolitho saw the frigate's fore- topmast quiver and then stagger drunkenly into the smoke.

He shouted, “
Reload,
damn you!” Some of the men had left their stations and were capering and cheering through choking smoke as they tried to see the extent of their bombardment.

“Larboard your helm!” He saw the smoke gush and writhe in long yellow tongues as the Frenchman fired for the first time.

The balls were puny by comparison, but Bolitho felt them strike hard into his ship's hull and shouted, “Close the range, Mr Gossett!”

The main deck gunners had stopped cheering, and as Stepkyne dropped his sword and the guns hurled themselves inboard again, many must have been surprised that a mere frigate could hit back and survive such punishment.

A ball crashed into the starboard gangway and a man fell shrieking, a jagged wood splinter driven into his back like an arrow. Some of his companions left their gun to help the writhing figure towards the hatch but Bolitho yelled, “Get back to your station!” Another ball ploughed through an open port and smashed into the hesitant seamen like an axe. One second a group of dazed confused men. The next there was a tangle of limbs and blood which seemed to be everywhere amongst the thrashing remains.

Bolitho tore his eyes away and noticed that the frigate's main- topmast had vanished also, and when a freak wind drove away the smoke he saw what his broadsides had done.

Her sails were in ribbons, and the low lying hull was battered almost beyond recognition. Here and there a gun still fired, but as
Hyperion'
s lower battery roared out across the narrow strip of water Bolitho saw the blood seeping from the frigate's scuppers, watched ice-cold as corpses fell from the splintered tops and yards to join the flotsam and wreckage which floated unheeded between the two ships.

Great pieces of the Frenchman's bulwark and gangway were flying skyward, and even without a glass Bolitho could see the carnage strewn around the littered deck, like the interior of a slaughterhouse.

He snapped, “Cease firing!” As silence fell over the dreadful scene Bolitho stared at the frigate with something like dismay. Then he cupped his hands and yelled, “Strike your colours!
Strike!
”

The frigate might still be repaired and used to replace
Ithuriel.
A prize crew could take her to Plymouth or Cadiz, where her papers and documents would yield further information about her.

Below his feet he felt the deck murmuring to the rumble of guntrucks as the men completed reloading before running out once more to face the enemy across less than seventy yards of water.

No guns fired from the frigate, but there was a sudden rattle of musketry from her poop, and a marine beside Inch threw his hands to his face and screamed like an animal as the blood gushed between his fingers. He was still screaming when he was seized and dragged below to the surgeon.

Gossett took off his hat and stared at a gobbet of blood which had splashed it like a cockade. He said, “The Frog cap'n still 'opes 'e can slip past us, sir.”

Bolitho peered forward above the crouching gun captains. It was true. Following the frigate in a wide arc, the
Hyperion
was now pointing straight at the opposite headland. He would have to go about soon, and that would enable the Frenchman to slip past.

The Tricolour still flapped from the gaff, and the musketry was a clear answer to his plea to end the onesided fight.

Yet he could not give the order to fire. Without leaning out over the nettings he could picture that double line of guns, with each port filled with watching eyes and a gaping muzzle. Every gun aboard the frigate's engaged side was either upended or smashed, and she was already so low in the water that she could not last much longer without more men to assist her. He could not let her escape, nor could he risk his own men's lives in an attempt at boarding. The French captain must be a fanatic. He smiled half to himself, and the naked-backed seaman at his side seeing the curve of his lips shook his pigtailed head in wonder- ment. But Bolitho's smile was one of pity and sadness. He was remembering himself as a young frigate captain matched against a ship of the line. The “ifs” and “whys” had been on his side that day, or maybe he had just been lucky, he thought dully.

Two feet hit the deck with a loud crash, and for a moment he imagined a wounded man had fallen from the yards. But it was Gascoigne. Bolitho had forgotten all about the young mid- shipman until this moment.

“Well, boy, why have you left the masthead?” It was a stupid question, but it was giving him a few more seconds to think and decide what to do.

Gascoigne rubbed his sore hands. “Couldn't make myself heard, sir.” He swung his arms towards the estuary. Beyond the sandbars and the remnants of offshore mist Bolitho saw the dark outline of land and the once busy waterway to Bordeaux.

He blurted, “
Masts,
sir! The mist is so thick up there I could- n't see too much, but masts there are and plenty!” He recovered himself and blushed. “Three or four ships, sir, and coming our way!”

Bolitho saw Inch's face across the boy's shoulder. “Now we know, Mr Inch!” He walked to the rail and pointed at Lieutenant Stepkyne. “Go along each gun in turn. I want every ball to hit!” He looked impassively at the slow moving frigate. There were sandbars beyond her, and
Hyperion
was near the centre of the main channel. “I want her sunk where she is
now,
Mr Step- kyne.” He removed his hat and did not even flinch as a musket ball struck a nine-pounder and whined away over the poop.

Stepkyne walked to the first gun. A midshipman stood at the main hatch ready to pass the word to the lower battery, so that each weapon would have a twin for the final act.

“Fire!” Bolitho looked away as the frigate's mizzen fell in a great welter of fractured spars and tangled rigging.

“Fire!” A whole section of the main deck erupted in splin- ters, amidst which corpses and dying men were thrown about like bloodied rag dolls.

In between each remorseless pair of explosions he could hear men screaming and sobbing, as if the ship herself was pleading for mercy. He gripped the rail, willing the frigate to sink and end the slaughter.

“Fire!”

Bubbles were already churning the bloodstained water around the ship into a miniature whirlpool, and here and there a despair- ing survivor was leaping overboard, only to be carried away on the swift current.

Gossett said thickly, “She's goin', sir!” He was looking at Bolitho as if seeing a stranger.

Two last shots bellowed from the
Hyperion'
s ports, and as the order to cease fire reached the lower battery Bolitho said harshly, “We will wear ship, Mr Gossett!”

He tore his eyes from the shattered, listing hull and looked at Gascoigne by his side. “You did well, my lad.”

He tried to smile but his lips felt frozen. Even Gossett thought he had slaughtered helpless men to no purpose. He snapped, “Carry on!”

Sails slapping and cracking to the fresh wind, the ship swung her stern slowly across the wind. Bolitho waited, counting sec- onds, then said, “Steer nor' nor'-west.”

Gossett faltered under Bolitho's eyes. “Beg pardon, sir, but we'll need to 'ead more west'rd to clear the 'eadland.”

Bolitho ignored him. “Shorten sail, Mr Inch. We are going to anchor directly.”

If he had uttered some dreadful obscenity he could not have cause greater consternation.

He did not wait for anyone to speak. “Mr Gascoigne has seen what that frigate was hiding from us. And why it was necessary to take the
Ithuriel
before she could warn us.” He pointed across the starboard quarter. “There are ships putting to sea, gentlemen! There is no frigate for us to send to the commodore for help, and
we
do not have the speed for such business.” He looked around their tense and shocked faces. “We will anchor in the centre of the channel.” He turned his head to watch as the frigate dipped and rolled over in a great welter of bubbles and swirling wreck- age. “Any large ship must pass us. The other channel will be blocked by the wreck.”

Inch said in a small voice, “But we are alone sir!”

“I know that!” He softened his tone slightly. “Pelham-Martin may send someone to see what we are about.” He looked away. “In the meantime we must do all we can to stop or cripple as many as we are able!”

Then he walked back to the rail and stood in silence as the ship glided purposefully towards the first headland. He could feel no anger at Pelham-Martin's foolish optimism or the hopeless- ness of the next few hours. Below deck some of the men were cheering again, as if they had just won a great victory. The ship was all but unmarked, and but for the bright splash of blood below the nettings, they could have been at manoeuvres.

Inch said wearily, “Shall I stop them cheering, sir?”

Bolitho stiffened as a lookout pealed, “Two ships on the star- board quarter, sir!”

Inch stared fixedly at the topsails of the leading vessel. They were moving above the low bank of mist, detached and imper- sonal, and all the more threatening.

Bolitho replied at length, “Let them cheer.” He raised his voice above the din. “Helm a-lee!”

Slowly the
Hyperion
swung into the wind.

“Tops'l clew lines!”

The bowsprit was seeking the land again. Bolitho gripped his hands behind him to control his rising despair.

“Let go!”

As a shaft of watery sunlight painted the topmast of the lead- ing ship like a golden crucifix, the last of the mist cleared from the sea as if a curtain had finally been lifted.

All cheering aboard the
Hyperion
ceased, and over the whole ship there was a silence you could feel.

Bolitho lifted his glass and studied the approaching vessels. The first was a two-decker, so too was the second. Rounding the side of a jutting spur of land came the third, her hull shining as she swung slightly in the current. A three-decker with a vice- admiral's command flag at the fore. Bolitho tried not to lick his lips. It was hopeless. No, it was worse even than that.

He wondered briefly what the leading captain must be think- ing at this moment in time. At last the order to sail had been given. The watching English frigate had been overpowered before the alarm could be passed, and after months of waiting, the French were on the move again.

There was the open sea, with a bright if blurred horizon as the prize.

But alone in the centre of the channel was a single ship, anchored and ready for a fight to the finish.

Allday crossed the deck and held out Bolitho's sword. As he clasped the belt around his waist he said quietly, “It's a fine day for it, Captain.” Their eyes met as he added, “First really good one since we left England!”

There were, as Gascoigne had indicated, four French ships in all, and as the minutes dragged by it seemed to the watching British seamen that the whole channel was filling with sails and masts.

Bolitho made himself walk aft to the poop ladder where Roth, the
Hyperion'
s fourth lieutenant, was standing as if mesmerised beside his nine-pounders. Roth had proved to be a competent officer and quick to learn the implications of his first appoint- ment to a ship of the line. But as he stared at the oncoming ships his face was the colour of parchment.

Bolitho said evenly, “Should I fall, Mr Roth, you will assist the first lieutenant on the quarterdeck to the best of your ability, do you understand?” The man's eyes moved and settled on his face. “Stay with your guns, and give your people every encour- agement, even if . . .”

He swung round as Inch called hoarsely, “The leading ship's dropped anchor, sir! By the living God, so has the second one!”

Bolitho thrust past him and climbed into the mizzen shrouds. It was incredible, but true. Even as he watched he saw a feather of white spray beneath the bows of the stately three-decker, and knew that she, too, had followed suit. The last ship was too well hidden by her consorts, but he could just make out the flurry of activity on her yards as first one then another sail vanished as if by magic. The French had chosen the last and only place to anchor in safety. The widest part of the channel, before the treach- erous sandbars which guarded the final passage to the open sea.

He swung himself back to the deck, only half hearing the excited shouts and the incredulous voices from the lower gundeck as word flashed through the ship that the French had anchored rather than fight.