Tide of War (26 page)

“Pull!” Nathan roared now, leaning forward as if he could propel the boat with all the suppressed energy of his fury and self-loathing.

How far? A mile? A little less perhaps. He prayed that it might be less and that he might reach her in time. If not to save her, then at least to be there at the death and to die with her, for it was preferable, far preferable to contemplate his own extinction than to face the living shame of losing his ship when he was not aboard her.

Pym had done the right thing. In the circumstances. Which was to say he had done nothing. He had kept the
Unicorn
at her anchorage, on spring cables, across the narrow deepwater channel with her bows pointing towards the island and the shoal water at her stern, and all her crew—all that Nathan had left him—manning her starboard guns.

The
Virginie
was about two cables' lengths to windward with her fore- and mainsails counter-braced so that she drifted slowly down upon her quarry. For there was no doubt who had become the hunter. With no room to manoeuvre—both ships reduced to mere floating batteries—it was all down to rate of fire and number of guns. And the
Virginie
was winning on both counts. As Nathan's boats crept across the sea towards them it became clear than she was firing at twice the rate of the
Unicorn.
Firing high, in the French manner, double shotted and with chain. Nathan watched in anguish as the main topmast came crashing down into the waist and the mizzen followed shortly after, like two great trees felled in a storm. Within minutes she was a dismasted hulk and the French changed to round shot, firing directly into her hull and at almost point-blank range. Nathan dreaded to think of the slaughter that had been done to her crew, for the
Unicorn's
fire was spasmodic now, a single gun going off every minute or so while the fire poured into her was more or less continuous. His ship was being battered to death before his eyes.

It was a wonder she had not lowered her colours. Nathan could still see the blue ensign hanging limply at her stern. Had Pym, or whoever was in command, seen the boats closing on them to leeward? They were barely a cable's length from her, racing up on her larboard side, partly shielded by the clouds of smoke that drifted down upon them: all five boats in a ragged line with Nathan's barge fractionally in the lead. They could no longer see the
Virginie
now, hidden behind the looming bulk of the
Unicorn,
but they could hear the relentless pounding of the broadside and the uglier sounds of the shot hitting home. In those last two hundred yards Nathan could almost feel every blow landing, as if on his own body.

But at last they were at the frigate's side, the crew shipping their oars and Nathan leaping for the shrouds and tumbling his body over the rail, landing on all fours and staring up at the bloody shambles they had made of his ship.

The maintop had gone, bringing the mainyard down with it and all of the sails and most of the rigging. The mizzenmast, too, was down, and most of the foretop which had caught up in the starboard shrouds and hung at a crazy angle, like a broken branch clinging to what remained of the tree. The effect was rather as if a violent gale had torn through a forest, the whole of the waist filled with debris, an impossible tangle of canvas and rope and timber, and half of it hanging over the side, shrouding what was left of the guns. Two were dismounted, two more buried under the heap of wreckage and their crews, it must be presumed, with them. Other guns were still firing from forward and aft but how many or how few Nathan could not guess for the fire from the
Virginie
was relentless. There was a great gap where two of the gun ports had been knocked into one and this was where most of the bodies were lying.

Yet some men were still alive, still on their feet, hacking away at the wreckage with axes and knives. And commanding them, it seemed, was young William Place, hatless, bloodied but still alive, yelling orders and almost capering in what you might take for excitement or glee but was probably frustration at not being able to get at the guns
for he was pointing at what he could see of one of them, lost under a heap of cordage and canvas. He half turned as Nathan's men came scrambling over the larboard rail, reaching for the dirk at his belt but then his expression turned from alarm to joy as he saw who they were and his eyes met Nathan's for a moment and he gave him a big boyish grin and shouted something unheard across the deck—and then a cannonball took his head off.

Shocked, stunned beyond belief, Nathan stared at the boy's headless body, still upright, almost posed in the act of drawing his dagger and then the blood came and it tumbled forward to join the carnage on the deck.

Nathan tore his eyes away and stumbled towards the quarterdeck. It was almost as much of a wreck as the waist, with the jagged stump of the mizzenmast like a tree on a blasted heath, still smoking from the lightning strike, the helm shattered and the bodies all around as if they too had been smitten down by the same bolt from heaven.

But it was not the whole picture. For all her wounds she was still a fighting ship. There were figures moving in the smoke. A boy running past him with powder for the guns. Another breaking open a cartridge box and struggling to carry it to the gunners. A gun captain crouched over the breech of a 6-pounder and a midshipman—Lamb—roaring soundlessly at the crew of one of the carronades—the
only
carronade on this side of the deck for the other had been taken by the cutter.

Nathan threw a glance to larboard where the other two stood unmanned, calculating how quickly they could drag one of them across the deck and then he saw Francis Coyle. He was propped up against one of the gun trucks, his chest soaked in blood but his eyes still open, one hand pressed to the wound, the other still clutching the dirk Nathan had given him. Their eyes met and Nathan saw the life in them.

He half turned. Gabriel was at his heels.

“Get that boy below,” he said, surprised at how calm his voice sounded, and then he saw Pym.

The first lieutenant was standing by the shattered helm as if posed
for a painting. His hands clasped behind his back and his chin thrust belligerently forward; his hat, his overlarge hat, crammed firmly down upon his head and the blood trickling down his face from under it, spreading out across his cheek and pooling on his throat where it was damned by the tight collar. He had rigged a net to protect against falling tackle but most of it had come down with the wreck of the mizzenmast and a spar had fallen across the wheel: possibly it was this that had struck him. He looked at Nathan without recognition, apparently in a state of shock or wonder, or with his wits addled by the blow. Nathan called to him, went right up to him and spoke directly into his face but he did not respond. Just stood there, his hands clasped behind his back, his jaw clamped, his eyes screwed up as if staring into a blinding storm.

Nathan looked for Tully. But he had already taken command in the waist and he had most of the men from the boats hacking and heaving at the wreckage. Nathan saw the Irish giant Connor among them, picking up a great piece of spar and chucking it overboard as if it were a log or a lump of peat you might throw on the fire.

Where was Maxwell, the second lieutenant? His station was with the guns directly below the quarterdeck and Nathan could hear them firing still; he could even feel the reverberations under his feet, if it was not the shock of French round shot hitting the hull.

“Mr. Lamb!” Nathan called over to the youngest of his midshipmen, who appeared to be commanding the quarterdeck guns, though it was doubtful if the men could hear a word he said and did not need to; they all knew what they had to do and at near point-blank range it was no more astonishing than to load and fire, working like automata, white eyes staring from smoke-blackened faces, kerchiefs tied around their ears against the noise, worming and sponging, breaking open the cartridges from the wooden cases and ramming them down the muzzles of the guns, ramming the shot down after them and then standing back for the gun captains to do their work before they ran forward again. And the guns so hot, the sweat sizzled and spat off them and the slush on the wheels of the trucks all melted, so they
screamed like banshees on a night out. Nathan raised his voice to its maximum level.
“Mr. Lamb!”

At last he heard and looked about him—a brief expression of pure astonishment—and then came running up touching his hat.

“I'm sorry, sir, I didn't know you were back.”

As if Nathan had been on a stroll ashore.

“My compliments to Mr. Maxwell and I would be obliged if he would give me a damage report.” Then as he turned away: “Mr. McGregor, I would be obliged if you would distribute half your men among the guns and set the rest to help clear the decks. Mr. Holroyd, let me know the state of the forecastle guns and who is commanding them.”

And all the time wondering if he should haul down their colours that were still flying at the stern, still remarkably immune from the mayhem on the decks and in the rigging. Was that not the most useful, honest thing to do: to bring this slaughter to an end?

But first he crossed to the rail to see what the
Virginie
was up to.

At first he could see nothing for the smoke but then a window opened and there she was in a glare of blood-red sun, apparently unharmed and most of her sails set, her hull apparently intact and all her guns pointing towards him but not firing any more, not a single one and … By God she was turning away! Incredibly. Her yards coming round and dropping off from the wind.

Why?
When she had them at her mercy. But his relief was premature and he damned himself for a fool. It could only be to wear round and come across his stern. One raking broadside to finish them off. And it would, too. But did she have the space to do it? The
Unicorn
was moored in about twenty-five feet of water in a kind of trench with her bows pointing towards the westernmost edge of the island and the seabed rising steeply at her stern so that in calm, clear water you could see the bottom. Was there room for a frigate to get past without grounding? Nathan strongly doubted it—but she was going to try. He would have to swing round on the spring cable to meet her—but how had Pym moored her? He looked for the hawser and
saw it leading off through one of the after gun ports on the larboard side. If Pym had used a dolphin or a kedge anchor they could pivot the stern round it …

But what if the French had a different plan? To wear round and come alongside. Fire one more broadside at point-blank range and then board. That is what Nathan would have done. He looked back at her, calculating the distance, expecting to see her bows crossing the wind and swinging back towards them but she was leaving it very late, impossibly late. All he could see was her stern. Why was she not coming round? And then a chink of light appeared in the dark storm clouds of his brain. She was not turning. She was running.

Impossible. He said it again, shook his head at such an absurdity. But still she ran on. Out into the open sea. The gap between the two ships visibly widening. And then as he stared, clutching the rail in an anguish of hope, her sternchasers fired. Two blossoms of orange flame flowering almost simultaneously. Aiming high again at what was left of the
Unicorn's
foremast. A parting shot.

But why had she run?

Nathan looked to the southeast, looking to find a sail, a fleet of sails: the only possible explanation for this sudden withdrawal on the point of victory. And then he knew. No sail. No fleet. Just the biggest, blackest cloud he had ever seen. It filled the horizon to the southeast, reaching towards them and climbing high, so high and vast it was like the mushroom cloud of a genie he had seen emerging from a bottle in one of his childhood story books. Save that it was shaped more like an anvil than a mushroom: a massive black anvil advancing towards them as if Vulcan himself had hurled it across the ocean.

“Hurricane.” Pym's voice, almost conversational, at his ear. Then, in case Nathan did not know the meaning of the word, “Tropical storm. Had one a month or two ago, off Cuba. Never thought to see the like of it.” Staring at the great black wedge of cloud as if it was of only passing interest. A diversion from darker thoughts.

“Mr. Pym …” Nathan's voice was a stranger to him, oddly husky, his tongue felt as if it was stuck in his throat. But Pym had turned
away and walked back to his station by the shattered wheel where he stood, as before, with his hands clasped behind his back and his chin jutting forward.

“Please sir, Mr. Maxwell sends his compliments.” Young Lamb was back, breathless from his mission below. “And wishes you to know he has nine guns that are still capable of firing, but that he can use all the men you can spare him, sir.”

“Thank you, Mr. Lamb.” It meant nothing now. The guns did not matter any more. Only the sails.

He looked aloft, knowing it was hopeless. The mainmast stripped of its yards, the mizzenmast and the foretop gone, the bowsprit alone intact, pointing like a spear towards Ship Island, their likely graveyard.

They still had the fore course. That last salvo from the sternchasers had missed its target. He supposed if they rigged a staysail they could just about run before the wind but they would be running the wrong way—straight for that Devil's Jigsaw of a coastline to the north.

Their only chance was to head for the open sea, as the
Virginie
had. That was why she had so abruptly broken off the battle, to give herself a faint chance of finding sea room, leaving her crippled adversary to the mercy of wind and waves.

Lamb was still there, waiting for his orders.

“Tell Mr. Maxwell he is to cease firing and to join me on the quarterdeck with as many men as he can muster.”

“Sir.” Another voice. Baker, the sailing master with his head bandaged and his arm in a sling.

“You are hurt, Mr. Baker.”