Mistress of Darkness (31 page)

He did not know whether to shout for joy or weep with apprehension.

Men, all around him, were scurrying about their tasks. Orders were being whispered: 'Wear ship.'

The yards were being backed, and the
Formidable
was coming about. If Matt could see nothing but the white splashes where the bluff bows cut the waves, he could feel the wind, no longer on the left side of his face, but on the right.

Arbuckle was consulting his watch. 'Two o'clock,' he said. 'Oh, aye, lads. The admiral knows what he's about.'

'By Christ,' McLeod muttered. 'By Christ, but he's a cool one.'

Even Matt was suddenly lost in admiration for the moral courage of a man who could take such a decision. For now it became clear. As the English lights had been doused, and the night was moonless, the French, not knowing where they were, would either heave to, plunge on into the darkness, or come about to beat back to the north-east. Either way, they would have been confident that the English must remain south-west of them, and downwind, only able to follow, not to dictate. But by standing away close-hauled on the port tack for six hours, and now coming about on the starboard tack, Rodney would hope to place himself upwind of the French during the darkness, and between them and the cloud of transports still making north. Tomorrow morning de Grasse must either fight, on Rodney's terms, or abandon his army and run south-west.

Suddenly he was caught by the excitement, by the confidence which seemed to be spreading through the entire ship. Their admiral was once again proving himself the boldest, and the best, fighting seaman afloat. Eagerly they peered into the darkness, dimly making out the canvas of the other vessels around them, all having altered course at precisely the same moment, as had obviously been decided during that conference yesterday evening. What would the dawn reveal, he wondered? What would the dawn bring, in fact? But half an hour ago he had been congratulating himself that there was going to be no battle. Now ... he could not say for sure what he wanted.

The light came suddenly; there was no twilight in the West Indies. One moment it was dark as pitch, the next clear enough to see twenty miles, and the glowing red ball of the sun was already peeping above the empty Atlantic to the east. But how surprising was the scene, too unexpected for Matt to grasp it, for the moment. No spray ever reached the quarterdeck, but last night it had been breaking fairly steadily on the bow as the ship had beat into the north easterly. Now the
Formidable,
and all the British fleet, once again steered north east, but there was no breaking water. Waves, certainly, and whitecaps, but running with them.

'By Christ,' McLeod whispered. 'By Christ. Can you beat that for luck. The wind's veered.'

Matt looked up, at the canvas ballooning as the wind filled it, just as the French canvas had billowed the previous afternoon. Fortune favours the brave, he thought.

Lord Cranstoun, the Scottish volunteer nobleman who had taken the place of Lieutenant Hill in charge of the guns, and who was alone on deck, the admiral and his staff having gone below to breakfast, had also observed the change in the wind direction. He ran to the companion ladder, and encountered the flag captain, Sir Charles Douglas, coming up. 'Sir Charles,' he shouted. 'Sir Charles. The wind has veered. It is fair, man. Fair.'

Douglas gave a hasty glance aloft, and then at the sea. 'God fights for us, my Lord,' he remarked, and turned back down the ladder.

Or perhaps he merely wants a battle, Matt thought, seizing the salt pork and biscuit which was being brought round by the cook's mate, chewing without tasting, staring forward. It truly was, he supposed, the most beautiful sight he would ever see. The sun was now clear of the horizon, and like the breeze, directing its light immediately down the wide passage between Dominica and Guadeloupe - some twenty miles of water. Fifteen miles away, dead ahead of the British fleet, were the scattered islets of the Saintes; and beyond even them was the blue-grey cloud of Guadeloupe, while to the south Dominica was etched on the clear morning sky. Closer yet to the north, from eight to twelve miles off, straggling somewhat and certainly lacking any close formation, was the French fleet, still steering south of west, and exactly broadside on to the British. The sun reflected from their topsides, even winked from the open gunports as the heavy brass was run out, and sparkled too from the breaking white horses which surrounded them.

And bearing down on them in line ahead were the thirty seven battleships of the British navy; in the van, as the whole fleet had gone about at two o'clock, was Admiral Drake's squadron of the blue. The white squadron was in the centre, and Hood's red squadron now brought up the rear. They ran onwards, propelled by the fresh fair wind, gunports open, pennants and flags streaming in the breeze, hurrying for the exact centre of the French fleet. And this was to be a big ship battle only; the frigates, having done their job of shadowing the enemy until contact would be assured, had hauled away, knowing that a single broadside from one of these seventy-four-gun monsters would send them to the bottom.

There came a rumble of fire from in front of them, travelling slowly towards the wind, reaching the English fleet long after the black smoke had clouded upwards into the morning air. Then there was more and more black smoke, and the white horses doubled in number as the cannon-balls plunged into the waves. But the French fire was inaccurate, and the British did not respond. There was something peculiarly menacing about the manner in which the huge ships kept silently on their way, awaiting the command to wheel into line parallel with the French, and then to return fire. The midshipman with the signal pad in his hand stood beside the admiral. But Rodney was watching the French through his telescope, as was Douglas.

'By heaven,' said the flag captain. 'By heaven.'

'Aye,' Rodney said, snapping his fingers with indecision.

Matt peered over the gunwale to see what was exciting them; the French fleet, already become disorganized during the night, had insensibly coagulated into two halves, separated by several miles of open water.

' 'Tis the way to do it, Sir George,' Douglas said.

Rodney bit his lip. It was also the way to that court-martial he feared, should he discard conventional naval tactics and then be defeated.

'The fleet waits for orders, Sir George,' Douglas said. 'It must be now, or never.'

Rodney looked through his telescope once again, then snapped it shut. 'We'll stand on, Charles. Signal no ship to wear, and no ship to give fire, until my command. We'll break their line, by God.'

The leading ship of the blue squadron, the
Marlborough
seventy-four, was already right up to the French line, and receiving shot from some four of the enemy, but still there was no answering fire. For the admiral had not given the signal. He sat in his chair, his telescope again to his eye, staring forward, while every man on board the
Formidable,
and surely every signal and gunnery officer in the entire fleet, watched him. Matt felt his palms become wet with sweat; the balls were plunging into the sea on every side, and he could remember as if it had been only a few seconds previously the explosion of three days ago.

The rhythm of the bells rang out; four couplets. It was eight o'clock in the morning, and the entire day was a cataclysm of sound. As the last stroke died away Rodney nodded his head to Captain Symonds, and the seaman who had been standing by the halliard gave it a little jerk and sent the red bunting streaming upwards.

'Fire, you hounds of hell,' shouted Lord Cranstoun. 'Fire you devils from the pit.'

The guns were already double-shotted. No doubt every gun in the fleet was double-shotted, and waiting. The noise was unlike any Matt had ever heard before. He turned his head as he seemed to leave the deck, as the ship seemed to leave the sea, and saw a vessel close by on the starboard beam, glimpsed the
fleur-de-lis
streaming from her masthead, and then lost her in the tremendous cloud of smoke which seemed to isolate him in time and space. But already Davis was pressing another ball into his arms, and he was feeding it into the smoking breech, and McLeod was pouring powder into his tube, and the breech was slamming to and the cannon was exploding again, all in a matter of seconds. Time seemed to cease, or to hasten onwards. Nothing mattered, save the sweat-wet ball and the smoking breech. He heard noise, nothing but noise, now and then interspersed by a shriek or a hoarse yell. He trod in blood and kicked his foot clear. He felt, rather than saw, a spar come crashing to the deck beside him. He blinked into the gloom and saw nothing but smoke. He scrabbled for the next ball and realized that it was no longer Davis. He took it, crammed it into the breech, turned back for the next, gazed in horror at the powder-blackened face, the powder-scorched yellow hair trailing free, the powder-encrusted white shift which was all she wore, the red blood which stained her fingers and her toes. He crammed that ball too into the breech, swung back as the day yet again exploded, watched her lips move, could not understand what was being said for a moment, stared past her at the admiral himself, leaning on his stick, his hat gone and his wig tinged with black.

'What? What?' he shouted. 'What means this, woman?'

'I could not stay below,' Sue insisted. 'In that darkness? That stench? Matt is here. I belong beside him.'

Rodney almost smiled. 'Proof enough, madam. Proof enough. Now get back to your place as a woman, or I'll set a marine to you.'

'Please,' Matt begged.

She gazed at him for a moment, and her tongue came out to circle her lips, and then she turned and disappeared into the gloom. Impossibly, a trace of musk hung on the air for just a moment.

'God damn,' Rodney said. 'You Hiltons. You Hiltons.'

She seemed to take the battle with her. A bugle rang out, and the guns fell silent. It took some moments for the smoke to clear, and even then for some minutes it was difficult to decide what had happened, what was still happening. There was still firing on every side, although most of it was distant. Closer at hand there was endless heart-rending sound, the crashing of timbers, the screams of tormented men. For the smoke was at last lifting, to reveal that the French line had been split in three places, whether by accident or design Matt could not tell. The ships were scattered, several were sinking, others were on fire, drifting helplessly while the wind carried the contending fleets apart. The
Formidable
had herself suffered, and parties of marines were taking wounded men below, but no British ship had experienced anything like the beating received by the French.

' 'Tis the speed of our firing,' Arbuckle said, his voice hoarse. 'Why lads, we sent off three to every one we took.'

'Aye,' McLeod said sombrely. 'Or we'd be taking the fate of those poor lads.'

Matt looked down at the sea, and nearly retched with horror. The
Formidable
was perhaps half a mile from the nearest French ship, which was clearly sinking. She had lost her foremast and even as he watched her mainmast went overboard, and her foredeck was already running water. Her boats being as shattered as her bulwarks, her crew were taking to the sea. But what a sea. "Wherever he looked there were black fins, carving the tortured waves, almost seeming to shout their joy at the feast which had been granted them. The men already in the water were shrieking their terror at the fate which was about to overtake them, and the very blue was turning red as the sharks started their attack.

Matt looked aloft to see if there was sufficient wind to move the
Formidable
back towards her victim, but the breeze had died, and the sails were drooping against the yards. He turned towards the cluster of officers gathered round the admiral, offering their congratulations, for there could be no question that the victory was his, even supposing there was tidying up to be done.

'Sir George,' Matt cried. 'Those men are being eaten alive.'

The officers stared at him in amazement, and Arbuckle, about to grasp him by the shoulder and drag him back to the gun, stood still, face crimson with embarrassment.

'And you would rescue them?' Rodney demanded. 'Do you imagine a boat could live in the midst of those monsters?'

‘I would try, sir.'

'You Hiltons,' the admiral muttered, and glanced at Douglas. ‘You Hiltons.'

'The battle is recommencing, Sir George,' said Lord Cranstoun, pointing to the west where the English van and the main French body were drifting back within range.

'So it is,' Rodney agreed. 'We should get over there, by whatever means we can.'

'Sir George ...' Matt said again.

Rodney turned to him. 'You are a confoundedly impertinent fellow, Matthew Hilton. Were you destined for a career in the navy I doubt it would be a very long one.' Then he smiled. 'But it might carry its share of honour. One boat. You'll command, Mr. Arbuckle.'

'Me, sir?' Arbuckle cried in consternation.

'I must have a quartermaster in a boat, sir,' Rodney said. 'But Mr. Hilton has spent his entire life in these waters. He'll know how to deal with the sharks.'

'Volunteers,' Matt shouted. 'I'll need volunteers.'

Several men came forward at once, and one of the few undamaged boats was hastily swung out.

'By Christ,' Arbuckle grumbled as he took his place in the stern. 'I hope you know what you are about.'

Matt said nothing. He was in the bows, a boarding pike in his hands, gazing in disgust as they approached the water, watching the seething, bubbling waves as the sharks coursed to and fro, listening to shriek after shriek as here a leg, there an arm, there a whole waist was taken in the gnashing jaws.

'Give way,' Arbuckle bellowed as the falls were cast free. 'Give way, as you value your lives.'

The oars thrust into the waves, and the boat surged away from the battleship's side. Now the entire gunwale was lined with men, breaking into cheers as Matt dashed his pike into the water to drive a fin to one side, and into shouts of warning as a row of serrated teeth would seize upon one of the blades. But the stout ash was too much even for the sharks, and they were hurled aside, revealing their white underbellies as they rolled over.