Absolute Honour (8 page)

‘Remind me again,’ said Jack, weighing the balls as if
measuring two bags of manure, ‘what’s the bloody animal I count to? Is it a hippopotamus?’

The Irishman laughed, ‘You’d lose more than One-Handed Tom did with two extra syllables. It’s elephant, nice and steady, like
the beast itself. One elephant, two elephant …’ He nodded towards the deck. ‘And aren’t you going to start moving through
the herd any minute?’

Jack looked. After the smash of ships, their own crew had scattered, partly to avoid the swivel guns the French would direct
at them, partly because Red Hugh had advised them to keep well clear. Half were still aloft, scrambling like Barbary apes
on the rigging, moving marks for muskets. The rest were crouched back beneath the forecastle, forming a shelter with boards
dragged across the doorway, clutching an assortment of spears, axes, swords and pistols. Ducking under the lintel, Jack took
a swift glimpse up to the
Robuste.
Similar weapons were brandished there. He saw ropes swinging, heard the whirr of grappling hooks, the thud as they reached
the quarterdeck.

‘Ready, lad?’

What could he do save nod?

‘Match.’ Red Hugh lifted the fuse, Jack did the same, and both pressed the glowing cord to the small tuft of quick match that
stood proud of the powder.

‘One hippopot—’

‘ELEPHANT!’ yelled the Irishman.

‘Two elephant,’ they said together.

A great cheer rose from the French ship. In a rush they came, bare feet sliding down ropes, thumping onto the quarterdeck.
Directly above, Jack heard the cock of muskets, the command of ‘Fire!’ from Captain Link, the cry of victims.

‘Four elephant, five—’

‘Now
elephant!’ Red Hugh led the way out of the door, Jack at his shoulder. He’d lost the count but it didn’t matter;
he just paralleled the Irishman’s movements, bent at the knee, brought the sputtering ball back, lobbed it forward. It shot
from his sweaty hand, flew high where Red Hugh’s went low. Both arrived at the same time, Jack saw in the swiftest of glances
before he was hurling himself the other way, sliding to the bulwark, his head buried under his arms.

The explosions came hard upon each other, like a heartbeat, preceded by a cry, followed by many. Jack had twisted as soon
as he heard them, was already making to rise. But the sight through the clearing smoke stopped him.

Red Hugh had told him they would begin with hard shot grenades, not ball and scrap. Stun them, he’d said. It had done much
more than that. Of the dozen or so men who had landed on the deck, only one was standing, and that only because he’d been
flung against the rail and somehow twisted an arm around a shroud there. The rest were thrown, separately and in piles, limbs
bent grotesquely – if they were still joined to the body at all.

‘By God!’ murmured Jack. ‘By God!’

They were beaten already, he thought. And even as he thought it, he looked up and saw another group of Frenchmen massing at
the
Robuste’s
prow. Immediately he touched the fuse of his second grenade to the cord. ‘One elephant,’ he yelled.

‘Not yet, Jack! Not—’

He was moving forward, muttering the count. He had to get closer, despite the shot now pinging around him. Plant a grenade
on top of that mass of men and the fight would be over, surely.

‘Jack!’

He ignored the call. He knew what he had to do. Wasn’t he an Irish Grenadier now, to be sure, to be sure? Laughing, he lobbed
on the fourth elephant, judging the ball had further to go. He laughed again as he heard the thud of it landing on the enemy’s
forecastle.

‘Have that, bastards!’ he shouted.

He only realized what he’d done when the first Frenchman landed beside him. They were close enough to shake hands, if the
Frenchman’s hadn’t been occupied by a sword.

He didn’t even have time to curse. He’d been quite alone, now there were twenty men beside him, and more were sliding down
ropes to join them. The explosion came, some men shrieked above – the few of the enemy who hadn’t vacated their forecastle
in time. Only a few though as the majority had undoubtedly saved themselves by joining Jack on the quarterdeck of the
Sweet Eliza.
For a moment they all seemed as stunned as he was. Then that first Frenchman yelled,
‘Con!’,
raising a wide-bladed cutlass high above his head.

There could be no hesitation. Jack stepped close, caught the man’s wrist in both hands before the weapon could descend, then
dropped, using his weight to pull man and weapon to the side and down. His back met another, hard, while the man he gripped
yelled more obscenities and tried to jerk his arm free. The one behind was turning, undoubtedly also with steel in his hand,
so Jack spun out, twirling his mercifully lighter opponent, smashing the two of them together. As they met, he released his
grip, rolled away on his haunches. The cutlass banged into the deck where he’d been but now he was to the edge of the enemy
group, with two other men turning to him. His hand reached for his sabre …

‘Now!’ came the cry. ‘For England and the
Eliza.’

The crew ran from the forecastle led by Engledue, Link bringing his men down from the poop. As Jack’s opponents turned to
face the threat, he scrambled away, reached the railing, at last had time to draw his sword there. The deck filled with swirling,
yelling men. Pistols flashed, blades clashed and spears were thrust, some driving into flesh, some turned aside by axe or
sword. He had no time to
watch the scene, though, for the man whose blow he’d dodged before came for him again, the cutlass raised high; yet it was
the other hand that concerned Jack first. It held a pistol and at five paces the Frenchman screamed, raised and fired. Jack
could do no more than duck, felt heat and a sting in his left ear. There was no time to check any injury, not with the man
running at him, and Jack’s attention switched to the sword, his own rising before him. Strangely, it was the pistol that was
thrust at him first and Jack, swinging his right leg back, his sword paralleling it, brought his left hand across to push
the now harmless pistol aside.

Except it wasn’t harmless, Jack realized as the bayonet blade on the pistol’s muzzle sliced across the palm of his thrusting
hand. ‘Ayee,’ he yelled, agonized, his opponent now bringing the cutlass over in a sweep to finish what his boarding pistol
had started. But thrusting with such a short weapon had brought him close to Jack, closer than he should have been. Despite
the sudden pain, he smashed the guard of his sword into the Frenchman’s mouth.

The man staggered back, into the heart of the fray, stumbling, falling, causing one of his comrades to trip, and allowing
McRae to finish him with a cutlass. Jack looked down at his palm. It was gouting blood, the cut deep and wide. Cursing, checking
that no one was leaving the mêlée to seek him out, he whipped off the stock that tamed his hair, wrapped it around the
hand and drew his tomahawk to hold it in place. With both weapons before him, he turned back to battle.

‘Come on, then!’ he screamed, charging in.

No doubt it was the number of French bodies upon the deck, and the relatively few British among them, but no sooner had he
re-joined the fight than it suddenly ceased, the enemy seeming to give up as one, those who could running for their own ship’s
prow where it overhung the
Sweet Eliza.

‘They flee!’ cried Captain Link. ‘By God, we’ve won, boys.’

As the cheer faded, an Irish voice rose above it. ‘They flee to fight again. We must follow or they’ll stand off and blow
us from the water. Look, lads!’ Red Hugh was waving at the deck of the
Robuste.
All could see that those few who were helping their comrades back aboard were outnumbered by those backing their sails, trying
to catch the wind and haul their ship clear while others were hacking at the grapplings that bound the two vessels together.
More had picked up muskets, gone to the swivel guns that had yet to come into play. Instantly, Jack could see what was going
to happen. Greed had lured the Frenchmen in, but once clear they would be able to do what they should have done in the beginning:
reduce the ship and its crew to skeletons before boarding again to pick clean the bones.

Looking down, Jack saw that the
Eliza’s
first broadside had blasted a hole in the
Robuste’s
gundeck two portholes wide, and that some of the fleeing Frenchmen were scrambling through it three abreast.

‘There, Red Hugh,’ Jack yelled, seizing the man’s arm, turning him. ‘There lies our way.’

‘You are in the right, lad. Are you sure you’ve not fought on a ship before?’ A brief smile then the Irishman turned. ‘Can
you keep us snug to her, Captain?’

‘I can.’ Link’s florid face was further coloured with powder and blood. ‘I will.’

‘Then,’ he turned to the crew, ‘Larbollians! You’ve fought for the
Sweet Eliza,
now fight for the prize. With me!’ And thus leaving the starboard watch aboard to shoot and handle the ship, Red Hugh led
twenty drinking companions and one Jack Absolute to board the enemy frigate.

The coat-tail of the last of the enemy had only just vanished but already someone had noticed the pursuit. Pistols cracked
as Red Hugh stepped onto the
Robuste.
He drew back, turned
to Jack. ‘Lieutenant Absolute, would you be so good as to fetch us two grenades?’

‘Certainly, Captain McClune. Which rack?’

‘The bottom. Now it’s us that don’t want to damage our profits. So let’s stink these Frenchies out.’

Jack crossed to the poop between shot being given by both sides. He returned in moments, an iron globe in each hand. ‘Wrap
your scarf around your mouth.’ Red Hugh’s voice was muffled beneath his own. Each man there wore one, Jack making do with
the black stock from his neck. The Irishman, who’d taken the bombs while Jack masked himself, now handed one back. ‘And will
you wait till I throw this time?’

‘I will.’

Fuses were lit, elephants counted and, on eight, grenades lobbed into the splintered hole. Shrieks came from within, sounds
of men scattering. Then two dull crumps were heard and the world instantly filled with yellow, reeking smoke.

‘We’ll wait just a moment, lads,’ announced Red Hugh, as two Frenchmen fell out of the hole, cursing, one slipping between
the ships with a wail, the other dragged onboard the British ship and cudgelled into quietness.

‘Now, I think,’ came the soft voice, drowned by the yell as the crew of the
Sweet Eliza
stormed into the enemy’s vessel.

At first, Jack could see nothing, partly due to the foul-smelling cloud that lingered, partly because his eyes were clogged
with tears. Wiping them at least cleared the latter and he could see such Frenchmen that had survived the blast now running
between the guns for the front and rear stairs.

‘Stick close to them, lads,’ cried Red Hugh, leading as he spoke.

The enemy were choking more than their masked pursuit, and blocked the stairs in blinded panic. Several were easily cut down
and the rest chased up and onto the quarterdeck.

Jack, who’d engaged swords with one of the few
Frenchmen fighting until he too took to the stairs, paused to cough and catch breath. Most of the Larbollians had surged upwards
and, for a moment, he was alone; yet not, it seemed, entirely so.

‘Sir! Sir! For God’s sake, help us.’

Jack couldn’t for the life of him find where the voice was coming from. He looked up to the deck where the action sounded
fierce, then along the gundeck to where he’d been. Nothing. Then he glanced down and stepped back, startled.

A grating covered the stairs that led from the gundeck to the main deck below. And there were at least half a dozen faces
pressed to it.

‘Sir!’ That same voice came from a face in the middle of the grating. The one word led to a series of coughs before the gentleman
– his accent showed him to be one – spoke again. ‘Are you English, sir?’

‘I am,’ said Jack, crouching.

‘Thank God. And you wear a uniform. So it is a ship of His Majesty’s Navy that attacks?’

‘Alas, no. We are a merchantman alone. But we are doing well enough.’ He tipped his head to the sounds from above. ‘And if
you’ll excuse me … I will return when the ship is ours.’

‘Sir!’ The coughs came again, then the voice, holding him. ‘We are Englishmen here, too. Free us from this hell-hole and we
will help you take the ship.’

‘How many of you are there?’

‘Forty. From the
Constantine
out of Liverpool, taken a month ago.’

His inclination was to rush up and continue the fight. But forty! Forty could swing it. He looked at the grating. A giant
padlock held it.

‘Is there a key?’

‘They bring it when they feed us.’

Damn! Jack looked around the deck. There were a few gun
tools lying around, a hammer. But the lock and its mounting were undoubtedly strong; it would take too long and even his absence
could cost the fight. He was about to abandon them when he remembered something. Bending to the lock, he scrabbled in his
bullet pouch. ‘Have you room to retire there, sir?’

‘We have.’

‘Then do so, if you please.’

Jack laid both fuses atop the lock. To his left was a metal plate. He held this in one hand, shoved the glowing cord into
the fuses, placed the plate onto them and retired sharpish.

He didn’t count elephants. The fuses exploded smartly enough. Stepping up, Jack peered through the smoke. The grating had
been lifted by the explosion. Of the padlock there was no remnant. He called down, ‘Bring your men up, sir.’

Those who emerged from below did so shakily, as if long deprived of the use of their legs. He could see that each had the
paleness of confinement and several coughed; hardly surprising, for sulphurous smoke from McClune’s grenades yet lingered.

‘Briskly now,’ said Jack, his hand on arms pulling them up, ‘there’s weapons a-plenty lying about.’

The assembly and arming took too long for Jack’s liking. He could hear the fight was still furious above but he knew it could
end in a moment, as it had on the
Eliza’s
deck. Yet he had to wait despite his desire to rush up. One man appearing would not alter the odds. Forty could win the ship.