Signal Close Action (43 page)

Then he saw a flash. It came from a deep green saddle between two hills, and he knew the gunners had fired earlier to obtain a ranging shot.

It hit
Osiris
amidships, deep down and close to the waterline. The planks under Bolitho's feet rebounded, as if the ball had struck a few paces away instead of three decks down. He saw Farquhar's anxiety as he watched his boatswain dashing for a hatch with his seamen, and the wisps of dark smoke which eddied above the nettings as evidence of the gun's accuracy.

From astern he heard the controlled crash of cannon fire and knew that Javal was following his example and raking the nearest hillside in the hope of finding a target.

'Deck there! French ship o' the line at anchor beyond the transports!'

Bolitho swung the glass across the rail, seeing faces on
Osiris's
forecastle looming like visions in the lens before he found and trained on the French seventy-four. Like the packed mass of transports, she was anchored. But her sails were only loosely brailed up, and her cable shortened home in readiness for weighing. And beyond her, gliding very slowly downwind, was a frigate, setting her foresail and shining momentarily as sunlight passed along her hull. The two smaller escorts, corvettes, Plowman had said, were hidden elsewhere. It was not surprising. For the assembled fleet of supply ships overlapped in what appeared to be a hopeless tangle of masts and yards. He watched them grimly through the glass. Deep-laden. Guns, powder and shot, tents, weapons and supplies for an army.

He felt the deck stagger as another ball smashed close alongside.

The only way to avoid being destroyed slowly by the hidden guns was to set more sail, to attack and close with the anchored vessels and make accuracy impossible.

He heard Farquhar say fervently, 'Where is
Nicator?
In God's name, she should be in sight by now!'

'French seventy-four's weighed, sir.'

Bolitho looked at Farquhar, but he had not heard the report. He said, 'Thank you. Tell your starboard gun crews to prepare, Mr. Outhwaite.'

Bolitho watched the boatswain emerging from beneath the quarterdeck and waited for him to come aft.

' 'Oled in two places, sir. But no damage below the water-line yet. She's sound enough, if it gets no worse.'

Farquhar nodded abruptly. 'Yes.'

Bolitho said, 'Set the fores'l, Captain. Make to
Buzzard
, I
am
about
to
pass
through
the
enemy's
line'

Farquhar stared at him. 'We could get fouled in their moorings, sir. I'd advise - '

They ducked as another ball passed low above their heads, and Bolitho felt the breath of it across his shoulders like the wind of a cutlass blade.

Bolitho said,
'Nicator
should be in sight. At least from the masthead. Probyn must have met some opposition. If neither of us can get to grips, we
are being destroyed for nothing
'

He strode to the lee side and watched a thin waterspout rise far abeam. The French were very good, as were their new guns. At this range they could hardly miss. And yet they were biding their dme. Saving their aim for the rest of the squadron,
or to decide on the English tacti
cs.

No. It was wrong. No gunnery officer could be that confident.

He heard the wheel going over, the sudden flap and boom of canvas as the foresail was reset and its yard trimmed by the men at the braces. It made some difference. He could see the way one of the quarterdeck nine-pounders was tugg
ing at its tackles as the deck ti
lted to leeward. The sudden increase of sail might make the French gunners show their hand.

He walked as slowly as he could to the other side, peering across the crowded gun deck towards the French two-decker. Under minimum canvas, she was standing off about two miles distant. Even that was wrong. Her captain commanded the most powerful ship present. His first duty was to defend the merchantmen and supply vessels, no matter what.

Half a mile to go, and through his glass he could see the tiny figures of seamen running about the decks of the nearest transport. They probably still believed
Osiris
was a three-decker, and that they would take the first overwhelming broadside.

'Bring her up a point, Captain.'

'Aye, sir. Nor' by west.'

Bolitho looked at Pascoe. 'Any sight of
Nicator
?'

'None, sir.' Pascoe gestured towards the massed shipping. 'She's missing a promising target!'

But Bolitho knew him well enough to see through his calm remark. He saw Midshipman Breen, who was helping Pascoe, stare at him, as if to seek confirmation that all was well.

The nearest transports, anchored at the head of two separate lines, opened fire with their bow guns, the balls whimpering overhead, one forcing a neat hole in the main topsail.

The master called suddenly, 'Lee bow, sir! Looks like shallows!'

Farquhar replied tersely, 'They're well clear, man! What do you want me to do ?
Fly?'

Bolitho heard nothing for the next few seconds. Like something from his feverish dreams, he saw the larboard bulwark burst apart, the deck planking torn diagonally in a gash of flying splinters, while wreckage and the complete barrel of a nine-pounder landed with a crash on the opposite side. The primed gun exploded, and its ball upended another gun on to some of its crew, the screams and sobs lost in the explosion.

When Bolitho stared aft he saw that the great ball, probably double-shotted, had sma
shed the wheel to fragments. Tw
o helmsmen lay dead or stunned, and a third had been pulped to bloody gruel. Men and fragments of men lay scattered around the quarterdeck, and others tried to drag themselves away. Bolitho saw that Bevan, the master, had been all but cut in half by the exploding nine-pounder, and his blood was pouring across the splintered deck, while one of his hands still clawed at his exposed entrails, as if it alone still clung to life.

Plowman dashed out of the drifting smoke. 'I'll take over, sir!' He dragged a terrified seaman from behind some scattered hammocks.
'Up!
Come aft and we'll rig a tackle to the tiller head!'

Another crash, this time into the side of the poop. Several marines toppled down a ladder, and Bolitho heard the heavy balls smashing through the cabin and careering amongst the crowded gun deck.

He yelled, 'Shorten sail, Captain!' He raised his sword like a pointer. 'The French artillery judged it well.'

He felt neither fear nor bitterness. Just a sense of anger.
Osiris,
her steering gone, was falling heavily downwind. Bevan, the dead sailing master, had seen the danger without understanding what it meant. Now it was too late. The pressure of wind into her sails and against her hull was enough to guide
Osiris
into that one shoulder of hard sand.

The enemy had used their opening shots like goads on wayward cattle. A prod here, a tap there, to send the helpless beast into a carefully ranged and sited trap.

Both of the hidden guns renewed firing with sudden vigour, the shots crashing into the hull, or falling dangerously near the
Buzzard
,
which alone still headed towards the anchored ships.

Pascoe yelled, 'The enemy frigate is making more sail, sir! And I see one of the corvettes breaking clear of the anchorage!'

Bolitho trained his glass through the drifting smoke. The frigate first. Long and lean. Thirty-eight guns against Javal's thirty-two. Provided he had managed to avoid the heavy artillery, he would stand a good chance. If he could hold off the corvette.
If, if, if.
It was like hearing a taunt in his brain.

Something made a dark flaw in the side of the lens, and he swung it further to hold the French seventy-four in view. She was still under minimum canvas, and was moving very slowly towards
Osiris
on a converging tack, her guns run out, but in shadow. He considered this fact.
In
shadow.
So her captain had no intention of trying to hold the wind-gage. Even now she was steering across
Osiris's
starboard bow, her reefed topsails braced hard round, her forecastle and even the beakhead alive with waving seamen and glittering weapons. He could see her name quite clearly,
Immortalit
é
.

Farquhar shouted hoars
ely, 'How is the helm, Mr. Outh
waite ? Have they rigged emergency steering ?'

Bolitho watched the water rippling above the concealed sand-bar. Fifty yards. Less. Even if they anchored they would be unable to fight clear now, let alone do any damage to the transports.

He watched the two-decker, her tricolour very bright in the sunlight. He stiffened as he saw another flag at her mainmast. A dovetailed broad pendant.

Pascoe looked at him. 'A commodore, sir.' He tried to grin. 'It should have been a full admiral to do
us
honour!'

A ball thundered through a lower port, and Bolitho heard the attendant chorus of screams and cries for the surgeon's helpers.

He turned again to the French ship. Pascoe was wrong. It sh
ould have been Probyn, pouring h
is broadsides into the anchored transports, now completely undefended as the two-decker and her smaller consorts came down the coast to give battle.
Nicator
would have had nothing to oppose her. He felt the anger welling up like a burning flood.

The deck shuddered slightly, and with the sound of a pistol shot the fore topgallant mast plunged down and over the side, dragging broken rigging in its wake like black serpents.

Farquhar stared at him wildly.
'Aground!'
He moved a few paces to the side, his shoes slipping on blood. 'God's teeth!' He shielded his face with one arm as a ball slammed through the bulwark again, upending another gun and cutting down two men who were dragging a wounded comrade away from their port.

Farquhar asked flatly, 'What orders, sir ?'

Bolitho kept his eyes towards the transports, they seemed to be moving now, edging across the bows in one vast mass. But it was only because
Osiris
was swinging very slowly to the pressure of wind, her stem and forepart of the hull firmly embedded on hard sand.

He said slowly, 'It is my belief that we will soon be able to use the starboard guns.'

He saw Farquhar nod, his face ashen as more explosions threw spray high above the nettings. The painted strip of canvas
which had been their only decepti
on had long since gone, torn away in the hot wind of those guns. He gripped his arm tightly, dragging his mind from the threat and damage all around.

'See the Frenchman, Captain?
Now
he is making more sail.'

Farquhar's eyes widened. 'In God's name!'

Slowly, inexorably, her bow pivoting on the bar,
Osiris
was swinging away from the land. No wonder the French commodore had stayed his hand. Within half an hour, when he passed to leeward of the sand-bar and the trapped ship, he would see only
Osiris's
exposed stern. No commander could hope for a better, or a steadier target, and one broadside would sweep through the ship from stern to bow.

Farquhar said, 'Then we're done for.'

Bolitho walked past him. 'Pass the word. Engage with every gun that bears. We'll sink a round half-dozen of them with any luck.'

He heard the order being passed, the squeak of trucks as the gun captains brought their weapons round as far as they would move towards the supply ships.

They would see only the enemy, and even if they had guessed at their predicament, it was unlikely they understood its full meaning. Farquhar knew well enough.

'Fire!'

The long battery of thirty-two-pounders crashed out in a ragged broadside, and at full elevation Bolitho knew that many of the balls would find targets.

'Fire!'

The eighteen-pounders hurled themselves inboard, their crews working like madmen to sponge out and ram home new charges.

Bolitho darted a quick look at the captain. It showed on his face with each savage crash of a broadside. The recoil of so many guns was enough to edge
Osiris
still firmer aground. It told him that the ship was already finished, and that Bolitho was carrying on with the attack despite it.