A Tradition of Victory (19 page)

He glanced at Wolfe, at Grubb’s great lump of a figure in his shabby watchcoat, at the youthful Midshipman Stirling who had unknowingly touched his heart with his admiration for Bolitho, a man he had never met. His eyes moved on past them, unblink-ing despite the heavy droplets of spray, as he looked at his command, the
Benbow
and all her tightly-sealed world of people and memories.
His ship.
He would certainly lose her too.

Wolfe watched him, knowing it was important to all of them without understanding why.

Grubb, the sailing-master who had played the old
Lysander
into battle with his tin whistle while all hell had exploded around him,
did
understand.

He said gruffly, “If we brings ’er about now, sir, and lays ’er on th’ larboard tack …”

Herrick turned and faced him. Once the decision was made, the rest was simple.

“I agree.” He looked at his gangling first lieutenant. “Call all hands, Mr Wolfe. We shall make sail at once. Hands aloft, if you please, and loose tops’ls.” He stared abeam as more gunfire followed the wind. “We will go and see what
Ganymede
has uncovered, eh?”

Herrick walked aft to the poop as calls shrilled and seamen and marines bustled to obey the pipe.

He paused by the wheel as Grubb gestured with a great fist to his master’s mates to be ready to alter course. Young Midshipman Stirling was scribbling on a slate beside the chart table and waiting for a ship’s boy to swing the half-hour glass.

He looked up from his writing as Herrick drew near, and could not restrain a smile.

Herrick eyed him with a calmness he did not feel. “What amuses you, Mr Stirling? May I share it?”

Stirling’s smile faded as Grubb glared at him threateningly for disturbing the captain.

Then he said, “You spoke of Lady Luck, sir. Perhaps she is still with us after all?”

Herrick shrugged. “We shall see. In the meantime, take yourself to the foremast crosstrees and carry a glass with you. Let us see if your eyes are as sharp as your wits!”

Grubb watched the midshipman run for the weather gangway, a telescope bobbing across his shoulder like a quiver.

“Gawd, sir, I really don’t know! These young varmints ’ave got no respect, no understandin’ of facts an’ responsibilities.”

They faced each other gravely, and Herrick said softly, “Not like us, eh, Mr Grubb? Not like us at all.”

Grubb grinned broadly as Herrick moved away. Then he saw the nearest helmsman watching him and roared, “Stand by, you idle bugger! Or I’ll be about yew with a pike, so ’elp me Gawd!”

Moments later, with her yards braced almost fore and aft, her lee gunports awash as she tilted heavily to the wind,
Benbow
came slowly about.

Herrick smiled with quiet satisfaction as topmen dashed about the upper yards, whilst on the deck below others ran to assist, to throw their weight on braces and halliards to make their ship turn deliberately towards the land.

It would be a slow and wearing process, with miles of tacking this way and that to gain a cable’s advance.

But as Herrick watched his men, and studied the set of each sail, the strain of each piece of standing rigging, he was glad he had acted against his saner judgement.

“Full an’ bye’ sir!” A master’s mate shouted excitedly, as if he too was sharing Herrick’s mood. “South by east!”

Herrick looked across at Wolfe who was directing his men through his long speaking trumpet. With his wings of bright red hair poking beneath his salt-stained hat he looked more like a Viking warrior than a King’s officer, Herrick thought.

Perhaps it would be too late, or all a waste of time. But if A

they could capture a French ship, or even seize a few of her people, they might learn something of
Styx
’s survivors. Just a hint, the tiniest shred of information, would make it all worthwhile.

Wolfe lowered his speaking trumpet and called, “We’ll shake out another reef if the wind allows, sir.”

Herrick nodded. Wolfe understood now. “Aye. And to hell with the consequences.”

Wolfe raised his eyes to the men working high above him and glanced at the scarlet broad-pendant which streamed from the masthead.

The captain had spoken of consequences. And there was the biggest one of all.

Bolitho pressed his shoulders against the frigate’s timbers and winced as the ship yawed and plunged deeply into another trough.

It was as if the hull would never rise again, and when the keel struck the side of the trough Bolitho felt the blow run through his body as if the vessel had driven hard aground.

He tried again and again to picture what was happening on deck and across the water where another ship was preparing to fight. The
Ceres
would have the wind-gage, but with such a deep swell running that could hinder as much as help. He heard distant shouts, the occasional rasp of spray-swollen rigging through blocks as the
Ceres
’ captain worked his ship with every skill he knew to discover some advantage.

Allday made his way to a water cask and took his time filling a mug for Neale. He darted a glance up the nearest ladder and tried to understand what the Frenchmen were saying. The preparations for battle he understood of old, the quick, stooping shadows of powder-monkeys, the squeak of gun tackles, and above all the drumming force of wind into the reefed canvas.

He waited for the deck to settle and then hurried towards the side again. As he clung to the cot and held the mug to Neale’s

lips he said, “Still a big sea running, sir. I can hear the water swill-ing about the gun-deck.” He forced a grin. “Give the Frogs somethin’ to sweat on!”

Browne drew his knees up to his chin and examined his manacles with disgust.

“If only we could get away somehow.”

Bolitho lifted his eyes to the deckhead as more thuds and the clatter of handspikes told of the gun crews’ difficulties. The wind was driving them away from safety, and they would have to fight whether they wanted to or not.

He looked at the surgeon and his assistants. They were standing or squatting around their makeshift table like patient ghouls.

It was a sight which never failed to unnerve him.

“Listen!”

They strained forward on their chains as a metallic voice penetrated the sounds of sea and wind like a trumpet.

“Rassemblez-vous à la batterie de tribord!”

Browne nodded jerkily. “They’re engaging to starboard first, sir!”

Allday gritted his teeth. “Here we go. Up she rises!”

The broadside was violent and unexpected in spite of the warning. Bolitho felt the hull buck like a wild thing, saw the deck planking shiver as the guns crashed out in unison, the yells of their crews lost in the squeal of trucks, the urgent commands from aft.

Again. The
Ceres
seemed to fall steeply to one side as the guns roared out, the sound magnified and compressed into the orlop until Bolitho thought his ears would burst. Dust spurted from the planking, and he saw smoke drifting down the companion ladders like a moorland fog.

Some of the surgeon’s men were flinching and staring at the smoke, others busied themselves with their instruments and buckets.

Browne said huskily, “Two broadsides, sir. Nothing in return.”

Bolitho shook his head, not wishing to comment in case he missed something. He recognized all the sounds as well as Allday, the rammers and sponges, the scampering feet of shot-carriers, disjointed yells from individual gun-captains as they laid on their target.

What sort of ship was she? Large or small?

Once more the broadside flung them about, the guns riding inboard on their tackles like maddened beasts as their crews fought to control them and reload. Firing to leeward would make it difficult in these seas, Bolitho thought. The ports would be almost awash, and it would be hard to obtain full elevation if the other ship kept her wits about her.

There was some haphazard cheering, and then a slower broadside, pairs of guns firing from bow to stern with seconds between each shot.

Allday muttered bitterly, “Our lads must be standing off, sir.

Either that or the Frenchies have dismasted ’em.”

Bolitho watched the circle of lanterns around the table swing towards the deckhead and remain there as if held by invisible hands as the ship tilted over and then came slowly upright again.

The captain had changed tack and was running more smoothly now with the wind under his coat-tails, Bolitho decided. He had found his confidence, and was using the full force of the gale to quit the shelter of the land and go for the enemy. Bolitho tried to hide his disappointment. That meant the other ship was crippled or that her captain had found himself outmanœuvred and probably outgunned.

The crash and thunder of iron against the hull was like an avalanche.

Bolitho gasped with pain as he was flung to the full extent of his manacles and chains, his head swimming as the orlop exploded in smoke and noise.

He felt the deck shiver as rigging and spars fell from aloft,

and a deeper thunder as if a gun had been overturned. Men were shouting in the din, and other voices screamed pitifully as a second broadside smashed into the hull within minutes of the first.

Partly hidden by smoke, figures slithered and groped down the ladders, and others were dragged bodily into the lanterns’

glow as the surgeon’s mates came to life, roused by the sight and smell of blood.

The deck was swaying over again, and the French crews were returning fire. Balls slammed into the lower hull, and Bolitho heard the clank of a pump as the other ship’s iron smashed home.

Above the table the surgeon’s shadow rose and fell, the lanterns glinting on a knife and then on a saw as he struck at the writhing, naked shape which his men were struggling to hold still.

Another man darted forward, and Bolitho saw the wounded sailor’s arm tossed aside like so much meat.

More sobbing, protesting men were dragged and carried down to the orlop. Time had lost all meaning, and even the early daylight was blanketed now by swirling smoke and the fog of battle.

The surgeon seemed to dominate the place with his merciless energy. Bodies came and went, the more fortunate already unconscious as he went to work while his assistants stripped the next victim for his butcher’s hands.

The gunfire was less controlled now, but louder, and Bolitho guessed that the other ship was very near, the roar of cannon trapped between the two antagonists, the pace so hot that the end must surely be soon.

Browne watched the surgeon, his eyes wide with fascinated horror. He was not a young man, but he moved with the speed of light. Fleshing, sawing, stitching and discarding each of the wounded without even pausing as more shots slammed into the hull and the sea alongside. His hands and apron were bright red.

It was a scene from hell.

Browne said thickly, “If I die, please God let it be on deck, and spare me this murder!”

There were warning cries, a brief chilling silence and then a prolonged thunder as a mast carried away and plunged down to the deck. The hull shook as if trying to free herself from the great mesh of fallen rigging and wildly flapping canvas, and even as the ring of axes echoed through the smoke, Bolitho heard the sharper bangs of swivel guns and muskets and said quickly, “They’re almost up to us!”

Shouts and screams filtered through the sounds of battle, and more wreckage fell across the upper deck, the dragging clatter of broken shrouds reminding Bolitho of
Styx
’s last moments when she had been dismasted.

Neale struggled up in the cot, his eyes wild as he shouted,

“To me, lads!
Stand fast!
” He tried to strike out at Allday but the blow was that of a child.

Allday said harshly, “I’m going to get you out, Cap’n Neale!

So you behave yourself!”

He ducked into some shadows where two wounded seamen lay apparently overlooked by the surgeon’s mates. Allday rolled one of them on to his back. The Frenchman had a wood splinter the size of a dirk in his throat and was staring at Allday in agonized terror. Unable to speak, and barely capable of breathing, he watched Allday as he dragged a cutlass from his belt and thrust it through his own.

The second man was already dead and unarmed, so Allday made to move away. But something held him in spite of his anger and his hatred.

The eyes were staring at him, filling the man’s face, as all the while his life ebbed away. He seemed to be pleading, asking the unknown man with the cutlass to spare him the terrible agony of his wound.

Allday bent down, and after a further hesitation drove the guard of his cutlass into the Frenchman’s jaw.

“Die in peace,
mounseer!
”

He rejoined Bolitho and started to prise with the cutlass at the ring-bolt which secured his chain.

“I saw that.” Bolitho watched him, moved by Allday’s rough compassion in spite of the nearness of death for all of them.

Allday said between his teeth, “Might have been me, sir.”

Voices, confused and frightened, announced more arrivals on the orlop, but this time it was different. Bolitho saw an outflung arm, the spreading red stain on the man’s side where a heavy ball had smashed through his ribs, but more than that, he saw the captain’s gold epaulettes.

Two soldiers also came down the companion ladder. Bolitho recognized their uniforms as those of a maritime regiment.

They stood apart from all the rest, their hands gripping their bayoneted muskets as they looked at the shackled prisoners, their intentions obvious.

The surgeon cut open the French captain’s shirt and then gestured to his men.

“Il est mort.”

Stricken wounded men peered through the smoke, unable to accept what had happened.

Overhead there was less firing, as if everyone who had survived was still shocked by the loss of their commander.

Then came the slithering impact of the other ship grinding alongside.

The deck swayed steeply, and Bolitho guessed that the other captain had allowed the crippled
Ceres
to drift down to him, and now with rigging and spars entangled they were held firmly in a last embrace.