Signal Close Action (53 page)

Bolitho wiped his eyes, feeling the pain for Javal and his men.

Then as the smoke swirled down again he heard Grubb yell, 'Rudder, sir!'

He crossed the deck, ignoring the occasional thud of a ball by his feet as he stared at the helmsmen who were swinging the big wheel from side to side.

Grubb added thickly, "That bugger's chaser 'as shot the rudder lines away!' He pointed at the fore topsail beyond the quarterdeck rail. 'She's payin' off!'

Bolitho shouted, 'Get some men aft! Rig new lines!' He saw Plowman call for seamen from the nearest guns. 'Fast as you can!'

Herrick stared despairingly at the flapping s
ails. 'We must shorten at once!
' 'Aye, Thomas.'

He tried not to think of their following Frenchman. One lucky shot had hit
Lysander's
steering gear, and
now, as the wind turned her gentl
y downwind, she was swinging her stern towards her enemy. It would be
Osiris
all over again. He tried not to curse aloud. Except that this time there was no
Lysander
coming to the rescue.

On every side he saw or heard the chaos caused amongst the supply ships. De Brueys might have soldiers and horse artillery in plenty with his main fleet, but he would never have a single siege gun like the one which had sent
Osiris
to her death.

Then, as now,
Nicator
had kept away. Held off by a man so embittered, so twisted by his hatred that he would see his own people die, and do nothing to help.

More crashes came from below, and there was a chorus of yells as
Lysander's
main topgallant mast came splintering down through the smoke, taking men and sail with it into the water alongside with a mighty splash.

As more seamen ran with axes to hack it away, Bolitho saw Saxby hurrying to the shrouds, another broad pendant wrapped around his waist like a sash.

As he hauled at the halliards he shouted, 'Thought I might need an extra one, y'see, sir!' He was laughing and weeping, his fear gone in the horror which surrounded him. Later, if he survived, it would be harder to bear.

Bolitho looked past him towards the Frenchman's topsails and beakhead as they towered above the larboard quarter. Guns hammered back and forth between them, and he felt the deck lurching, heard some of his men still able to cheer as they saw their own shots slamming home.

But it was no use.
Lysander
was still swinging helplessly, her tattered sails streaming through the smoke, her guns barely able to keep firing for want of men to supply their need.

The smoke writhed and blossomed scarlet, and Bolitho reached out for support as the first of the enemy's iron smashed through the poop. Marines and seamen fell dead and dying in its path. Lieutenant Nepean dropped his sword and fell choking on blood, and when Leroux yelled for his sergeant, he, too, was unable to reply, but sat holding his stomach, his eyes glazing as he tried to respond to his major as he had always done.

Allday drew his cutlass and thrust his body behind Bolitho like a shield.

Through his teeth he said, 'One more broadside, an' I reckon they'll try to board us!' He pushed a dying marine away and pointed his cutlass through the smoke. 'Just one man I'd rather kill than any Frog today!'

Herrick walked past, hands behind him, his face very composed.

He said, 'Mr. Plowman says it will take all of ten minutes more, sir.'

It might as well be an hour, Bolitho thought. Herrick looked at Allday. 'And
who
is that ?' 'Cap'n bloody Probyn, that's who!'

The French ship was barely feet away from the quarter, although with so much smoke it could have been any distance. What guns would bear were pouring shots into
Lysander's
poop and lower hull, and from the bowsprit and spritsail yard marksmen were shooting at
Lysander's
quarterdeck as fast as they could aim.

Bolitho shouted to Herrick, 'How are the supply ships ?'

Herrick bared his teeth. 'Six done for, and maybe the same number crippled!'

Bolitho turned to see a body dragged clear of the poop.

Moffitt, his clerk, his thin grey hair marked with a bright touch of scarlet where a splinter had cut him down. Like Gilchrist's father, he had known the misery of a debtor's prison, and now lay dead.

He had to force the words out. 'I am ordering you to haul down our Colours, Thomas.'

Herrick stared at him, his mouth tight with strain.
'Strike,
sir ?'

Bolitho walked past him, feeling Allday close at his back. Protecting him as always.

'Aye. Strike.' He looked at the upended guns, the blood, some of which had splashed as high as the tattered forecourse. 'We did what we intended. I'll not see another man die to save my honour.'

'But, sir!'

Herrick hesitated as Veitch lurched over to join him, his arm wet with blood, his face like wax.

Veitch gasped, 'We'll fight 'em, sir! We've still got some good lads!'

Bolitho looked at them wearily. 'I know you'd fight.' He turned towards the enemy. 'But then our men would die for nothing.'

He looked for Saxby and saw him crouching by the bulwark.

'Haul down the Colours!' He shouted, 'That is an order!'

The guns fell silent, and above the crackle of a blazing supply ship and the mingled cries of the wounded they heard the beginning of a French cheer.

They're
getting
ready
to
board.
Bolitho sheathed his sword and looked at those around him. At least their lives would be spared.

The smoke lifted again to a tremendous roar of cannon fire, and Bolitho imagined for an instant that the French were making certain of a victory with one last murderous broadside at point-blank range. He saw some of
Lysander's
shrouds tearing away like weeds as balls shrieked above the deck, and then turned as Herrick shouted wildly, 'It's
Nicator
!
She's firing into the Frenchma
n from t'other beam!
'

Because of the smoke and the drifting supply ships, some of which were adding their own pyres to the surrounding fog, nobody had seen
Nicator
's
slow and careful approach. Every gun was firing on the Frenchman, which pivoting between the savage broadsides and
Lysander
's
starboard quarter, could do nothing to escape.

Bolitho said, 'Tell our people to stay off the gangways I'

He heard some of
Nic
ator
's
shots lashing through the rigging above him.

Herrick pointed at Saxby, who was capering around the halliards which held Bolitho's broad pendant. Neither it nor the ensign had been hauled down.

It was soon over, and as the cheering seamen and marines surged on to the French ship's deck, the tricolour vanished into the smoke.

One of
Nicator
's
lieutenants arrived aboard some fifteen minutes later, as grappled the three vessels drifted downwind, the victors and vanquished working together to help the wounded.

The lieutenant looked around
Lysander
's
decks and removed his hat.

'I -
I
am
deeply
sorry, sir. We were late again.' He watched the wounded marines being carried down from the poop.
I
have never
seen
a fight like yours, sir.'

Herrick said harshly, 'And Captain Probyn?'

'Dead, sir.' The lieutenant lifted his chin. 'Brought down by a marksman.
He died instantl
y.'

A man cried out in terror as he was carried to the orlop, and Bolitho remembered Luce, and Farquhar, and Javal. And so many others.

He asked, "Was that before or after you came to our aid

The lieutenant looked wretched. 'Before, sir. But I'm certain that
...'

Bolitho looked at Herrick.
Nicator
had been too far off to be reached by any musket. At an enquiry it would be hard to explain, impossible to prove. But someone, driven by shame and anguish, had shot Probyn down as he had stood watching
Lysander
and
Immortalité
fighting unsupported.

He smiled gravely at the pale-faced lieutenant. 'Well, you came.'

The young officer turned as Pascoe
appeared on the quarterdeck. ‘
We had to, sir.'

As Bolitho crossed the d
eck and clasped his nephew tightl
y, the unknown lieutenant looked up at a clearing patch of blue sky and at Bolitho's signal which was still flying.

He said quietl
y, 'We saw the signal.
Close
action.
That was enough.'

Bolitho looked at him. To Herrick he said, 'Cast off the French ship as soon as Mr. Grubb's hands have repaired our steering. She fought well, and I've no use for another prize with De Brueys and his fleet so near.'

Herrick walked to the rail and repeated his order to Lieutenant Steere who had emerged from the lower gun deck.

Grubb shambled beneath the poop, his ruined face smudged in smoke and grime.

'She'll answer the 'elm now, sir! Ready to get under way!'

Herrick said quietly, 'He won't hear you, Mr. Grubb.' He looked sadly towards Bolitho. 'He's looking at the signal and thinking of those who
can't
see it, and never will now. I know him so well.'

As the sailing master moved away to his helmsmen, Herrick said to Pascoe, 'Go to him, Adam. I can manage without you for a while.' He watched Pascoe's face and was moved to add, 'Try and tell him. They didn't do it for any signal. It was for him.'

Epilogue

C
aptain
T
homas
H
errick
entered the cabin and waited for Bolitho to look up from his table.

'The masthead has just sighted the Rock to the nor'-west, sir. With luck we should be anchored under Gibraltar's battery before sunset.'

'Thank you, Thomas. I did hear the hail.' He sounded distant. 'You had better prepare a gun salute for the admiral.'

Herrick watched him sadly. 'And then you'll be leaving
Ly
sander,
sir.'

Bolitho stood up and walked slowly to the windows. There was
Nicator
about half a mile astern, her topsails and jib very pale in the sunlight. Beyond her he could see the untidy formation of captured supply ships, and a French frigate which they had taken in tow until some of her damage could be put right.

Leaving
Lysander.
That was the very crux of it. All the weeks and months. The disappointments and moments of elation or pride. The heartbreaking work, the horrors of battle. Now it was behind him. Until the next time.

He heard the bang of hammers and the crisp sound of an adze, and pictured the work continuing about the ship. As it had from the moment that Grubb had reported the helm answering once more and they had cast off the French two-decker. It still seemed like some sort of miracle that the main French fleet had continued south-east towards Egypt. Perhaps de Brueys had still believed that Bolitho's little force had attacked his well-defended supply convoy as a further delaying tactic, and that some other fleet was already gathering across his path to Alexandria.

Battered and holed, her hull filling with water with each painful mile,
Lysander
had sa
iled with the wind, doing make
shift repairs, burying her dead, and tending the wounded, of whom there were many.

Then, with
Nicator
in company, they had sailed westward again, dreading another series of squalls almost as much as an enemy attack. But the French had other things on their minds, and days later when
Lysander's
lookouts had sighted a small pyramid of sails, Bolitho and the companies of both ships had watched with a mixture of awe and emotion as
Harebell
had run down towards them. In her wake, black and buff in the bright sunshine, had followed not a squadron but a fleet.