To Glory We Steer (37 page)

Still deep in thought he clambered over the bulwark and walked along the gangway. The gunners were standing below him, their faces upturned as he passed. The marine marksmen high in the tops and the little powder monkeys by the magazine hatch, all stood and stared at the slim solitary figure framed against the torn sails of the vanquished Frenchman.

It had been a swift and incredible victory. Not a man injured let alone killed in the attack, and no damage to the
Phalarope
at all. Some good men had died in the fight aboard the enemy ship, but the success far outweighed any such loss. A frigate taken as a prize, the
Witch of Looe
revenged if not saved, and all within an hour.

Yet Bolitho thought of none of these things. In his mind's eye he could see his well-worn chart, and the enemy's fleet moving in an irresistible tide towards the open sea, and Jamaica the prize.

Then a voice yelled out from the main deck and Bolitho turned startled and caught off guard.

“Three cheers, lads! Three cheers for our Dick!”

Bolitho stared round at the quarterdeck as the air was split with wild, uncontrollable cheering. Herrick and Rennie were openly grinning at him. Neale and Maynard waving their hats to the men on deck below. Bolitho felt confused and entirely unprepared, and as the three cheers extended to a frenzied shouting Herrick crossed to his side and said, “Well done, sir! Well
done!
”

Bolitho said, “What is the matter with everyone today?”

Herrick replied firmly, “You've given them more than a
victory,
sir! You've given 'em back their self-respect!”

The cheering died away as if from a signal, and Herrick said quietly, “They want you to tell them, sir.” He dropped his eyes.

Bolitho moved to the rail and stared slowly around the familiar faces. These men. His men. The thoughts chased one another through his mind like shadows. Starve them, beat them. Let them face scurvy and disease, and death a hundred different ways. But still they could cheer. He gripped the rail hard and stared above their heads. When he spoke his voice was quiet, and those men furthest away leaned forward to hear it better.

“This morning we fought and beat a French frigate!” He saw some of the men nudging each other and grinning like children. “But more important to me is the fact that we fought as a single unit, as a King's ship should, and must, fight!” A few of the older seamen nodded soberly, and Bolitho tried to steel himself for what he had to tell them.

It was no use just telling men to fight. They had to be led. It was an act of mutual trust. He cleared his throat. “When you see an enemy ship abeam and the balls begin to fly overhead, you all fight for many reasons.” He looked around their tanned and expectant faces. “You fight out of comradeship, to protect each other, and avenge well-loved friends who have already laid down their lives. Or you fight out of fear, a fear which breeds a power of hatred for the enemy who is always faceless yet ever present. And above all we fight for our ship!” He waved his arm around him. “This is our ship, and will remain so, as long as we have the will to live and die for what is right!”

Some of the men started to cheer again, but he held up his hand, his eyes suddenly sad. “But this short fight today was only a beginning. I cannot tell you how our small deeds will fit into the great pattern of battle, for I do not know. I only know that it is our common duty to fight today, and to fight as we have never done before!”

He had their full attention now, and he hated himself for the truth which had to be told. “This morning we had luck on our side. But before this day dies we will need much more than that.”

As he paused the air seemed to give a sullen shudder, which as every man turned to stare across the captured ship alongside extended into a low, menacing rumble, like thunder across distant hills.

Bolitho continued steadily, “Over there, lads, lies the enemy!”

He watched each man in turn, his heart suddenly dreading what was to come. He had brought them all to this. For no matter what reason, or how justified his efforts might be seen by others, he had committed his ship and his men to the inevitable.

He felt a sudden gust of warm wind at his neck, and as he watched, the low, writhing bank of morning mist began to move clear. One minute the two frigates with the sinking wreck of the
Witch of Looe
between them made up their own small world. To one beam lay the sun-tinted mist, and to the other the open sea, where night had already crossed the hard horizon, and the topsails of the labouring
Cassius
showed above its edge, gleaming in the sunlight like a pink shell. Then, as the mist rolled away that small world broke up for ever.

Shrouded in haze to the south-east Bolitho could see the low wedge of Dominica, while away to the north the scattered islands which were called the Saintes. But between these two there was no horizon. It was a sight so vast and so terrible that nobody said a word. From side to side, as far as the eye could reach, the blue water was topped with an unbroken line of ships. There seemed to be no gap between each towering crop of sails, and as the growing sunlight reflected across the apparently motionless panorama of armed might, Bolitho was reminded of an old painting he had seen as a child. The armoured knights at Agincourt, their great horses bedecked in standards and gleaming mail, the proud pennants and banners streaming from lances as they gathered to charge the flimsy line of English archers.

Almost desperately he looked down at his spellbound men. “Well, lads, what do you say?” He pointed towards the great shimmering line of ships. “Beyond that fleet lies England, across five thousand miles of open sea. At our back is Jamaica.” He pointed down between his feet. “And below us is a thousand fathoms to the bottom!” He leaned forward, his eyes flashing with sudden urgency. “So which is to be, lads?”

The new sound of distant gunfire was drowned in the sudden wave of wild and uncontrolled cheering which swept across the
Phalarope
's main deck, to be caught and carried by those aboard the captured frigate. Even wounded men who were being carried below shouted with the rest, some not knowing why, or even having heard Bolitho's words. It was as if all the bitterness and pent-up frustrations were being swept away by their great chorus of voices.

Bolitho turned away, and Herrick who was nearest saw the strange sadness and disbelief in his eyes. He said quickly, “There's your answer, sir!” He was excited like the others, even jubilant.

When Bolitho turned to look at him he studied the lieutenant as if he was a stranger. “Tell me, Mr Herrick, have you ever seen a sea battle?” He waved towards the horizon. “Like this one will be?” He did not wait for a reply. “
I
have. There is no dash and madcap victory. No hit-and-run when the game gets too rough.” He gripped his hands behind him and stared unseeingly past the other officers. “The sky is so dark with smoke that it is like hell. Even the ships cry out, did you know that?” His voice became harsher. “They cry because they are being torn apart, like the fools who man them!”

He swung round as Midshipman Maynard said hoarsely, “Flagship's signalling, sir.”

Bolitho walked to the weather side and stared down at the listing brig. The water was already lapping over her bulwark, and only discarded corpses lolled on her battle-torn deck. He snapped, “Do not acknowledge, Mr Maynard!” To Herrick he added, “Cast off from the brig and get under way.” He looked up at the masthead. “We will steer due east!”

Herrick asked, “What of the flagship, sir?”

“Sir Robert is a gallant gentleman, Mr Herrick. But his seniority will have made him more careful than I.” He gave a short smile. “And
his
men may not be so keen to die on this fine day!” His smile vanished. “Now get those men to their stations, and stop this damn cheering!”

The
Phalarope
idled clear from the wreckage, and as the captured frigate cast off her grappling irons the little brig rolled slowly on to her beam, the bursting air bubbles tinged with scarlet as the creeping water surged triumphantly across her battered hull.

Bolitho lifted his glass as the yards went round and the deck canted slightly to the wind. He could see the frigate
Volcano
's top-masts beyond the
Cassius,
and wondered how her captain would react to this awesome sight. Sir Robert Napier still had time to retire. One definite signal would take them all out of danger, mute witnesses as the French burst from the battle and headed for their goal.

Bolitho made up his mind. “Mr Maynard, make a signal to the
Flag.
” He saw Herrick look at Rennie and shrug, as if his captain's actions were now quite beyond his ability to keep up. “Enemy in sight!”

He did not watch the flags soaring up the yards, but made himself walk back and forth across the quarterdeck, followed by the eyes of Rennie's square of marines. This was the decisive moment. Sir Robert was an old man, and past his best. To try to delay the French ships would give him nothing but glory he would never see. It might even be so futile that his action would be remembered with scorn which could overshadow and despoil his whole career.

Maynard called, “
Flag
has acknowledged, sir!”

Bolitho bit his lip and continued his pacing. He could imagine the admiral's rasping voice as he dictated his signals, the uncertainty of the flag-captain, and the cautious confidence of Fox in the
Volcano.

Maynard said suddenly, “I can just make out her hoist, sir!” His eye was pressed to the end of the big telescope. “
Flag
to
Volcano.
Prepare for battle!”

The word flashed along the quarterdeck and down to the men waiting by the guns. Again the cheering, and again the cheer taken up across the water aboard the French ship. Bolitho waved absently as he saw Lieutenant Dancer's limping figure by the taffrail as the captured ship braced her yards and spread her tattered sails abreast the low wind.

Herrick said excitedly, “
Cassius
is making all sail, sir! My God, what a sight!” He seemed more impressed by the flagship's sudden activity than the fleet at his back.

Bolitho said, “Have every man armed, Mr Herrick. Put cutlasses and tomahawks at each gun. There will be plenty of fighting before long!”

Maynard lowered his glass, his voice shaking as he stared across at his captain. “From
Flag,
sir! General signal.” He sounded as if he was trying to feel each word.
“Form line of battle!”

Bolitho nodded slowly. “Shorten sail, Mr Herrick. We will bide here and allow the
Cassius
to meet up with us.” He sniffed the air. “I feel we will lose the wind very soon. Dominica will act as a lee, I am afraid.”

He moved to the weather side and raised his glass across the nettings. Very slowly he moved the lens from side to side. In the small magnified picture he could see the dull flash of cannon fire, the brave flags and the gleam of sails as ship after mighty ship wheeled ponderously into line. He could feel the sweat at his spine, as he had after his nightmare. But this was real, yet harder to comprehend. God, there were three-deckers in plenty, perhaps sixty sail of the line, British and French, gliding together for a first, inexorable embrace.

He said sharply, “Pass the word for Mr Brock!” He did not lower his glass until the gunner reached the quarterdeck.

“Mr Brock, I want both carronades taken to the forecastle. Put your best hands in charge of them, and see that their slides are freshly smeared with tallow.” He closed the glass and studied the gunner's dour face. “The carronades are the only weapons we possess which the French lack.” He stared down at the nearest weapon, snub-nosed and ugly, and lacking either the grace or the proportion of a proper deck gun. Yet a carronade could throw a massive sixty-eight-pound shot at short range, the power of which was devastating. Each circular shot burst on impact to deluge everything nearby with murderous cast-iron balls. One shot had the lethal quality of grape, added to which was the weight of a much heavier weapon.

He walked slowly to the rail and looked down at the neat decks. Had he forgotten anything? He ignored Brock and his stripped working party struggling and cursing the heavy carronades. He had to concentrate his full being on the task ahead. He must trust each officer and man. If they failed now, it was his fault for some earlier lapse in judgement.

Suddenly the restless, crowded figures below each gangway took on another meaning. Bolitho felt the pain of loss, as if he was looking at faces already dead. Quintal, the boatswain, spitting on his hands and pointing aloft for the benefit of the men who waited to sail the ship into action. Farquhar, slim and self-contained, walking abreast his battery of guns, his eyes moving over each weapon and every man in its crew. And the seamen themselves. Tanned and healthy in spite of their discomforts. Some faces standing out more than others. Here a man who had done well at Mola Island. There another who had fled from his station when they had met the
Andiron.