Badge of Glory (1982) (41 page)

Blackwood ran to the poop ladder and joined Major Brabazon who was pointing down into the water as it lifted against the tumblehome like a tide.

Survivors from the Russian frigate were clinging to broken spars and an upended cutter. Others, torn and bloody, or blackened by powder burns, rolled in the swell like so much grisly flotsam.

Brabazon yelled above the din of gunfire and shouting, ‘The frigate broke up, Philip! God, it must have been a terrible end!’

Blackwood winced as a musket-ball slapped into the packed hammocks. Were they that close? And who was brave or foolhardy enough to bother with a musket as the two giants drove towards each other?

Brabazon yelled, ‘Look! There’s her poop!’

The frigate’s battered stern was riding above the water with over a dozen men clinging to its gilded scrollwork like seals on a rock. Others splashed and pleaded for help among the tossing wreckage, and Blackwood thought he saw a woman amongst them, probably the wife of one of the officers.

‘
Reload!
’

One of the enemy shots had come through a forward port and yet aft on the quarterdeck they had not even seen it. A gun had been knocked away from the side and two men lay motionless on the planking. As the other guns roared out again Blackwood saw some blood run across the deck and quiver in the sunlight as if it still clung on to life.

Some of the marines growled angrily and thrust their rifles over the nettings and trained them on the swimmers.

Sergeant Quintin snarled, ‘Belay that! Save yer ’ate fer later!’

‘
Cease firing!
’ Jervis stared round fiercely, his eyes red from smoke. ‘Tell them to hold their fire, damn you!’

A whistle shrilled somewhere and voices intruded through the din of canvas and creaking spars as the order was repeated to the lower decks.

The masthead lookout, marooned and without hope if his perch was shot from under him, must have been calling for some time but his voice had gone unheard.

Blackwood snatched a telescope from one of the midshipmen and trained it towards the bows. Through the rigging and past the thin funnel and its thrusting smoke until he had found the sea directly ahead. It was like something from a nightmare. As Brabazon had surmised, the enemy frigate must have broken her back under the crushing weight of
Tenacious
’s bombardment and the forepart had plunged to the bottom. Perhaps the shock of hitting the sea bed had torn out her remaining mainmast so that it had risen to the surface again like a missile. Now, as it reared out of the waves it seemed as if the whole ship would follow it. What made it worse were the sodden corpses which still hung in the trails of torn rigging, their drowned mouths wide open as if to scream for vengeance.

Captain Jervis shouted, ‘
Helm amidships!
Pass the order to stop engine immediately!’ He tried to remain calm, not to transmit his anxiety to his immediate subordinates.

There was a sudden and terrible silence as even the enemy stopped firing. The Russian had not understood the reason for
Tenacious
’s unexpected change of course, but used the delay to try and extricate his own ship from her menacing broadside.

The broken mast had fallen back in the water again, its drowned seamen watching intently as the
Tenacious
’s long jib-boom and bowsprit cast a shadow above them. When the
mast hit the flagship’s bows it was little more than a nudge to the men on her upper deck. She was a new ship, well-found and constructed of the best oak.

‘Engine’s stopped, sir!’

Jervis clenched his fists until the knuckles shone like bones. ‘Raise the screw!’

Ashley-Chute stared at him. ‘We’ll lose command of her, man!’ He looked up at the furled sails, the streaming flags pointing towards the land which was creeping out on either bow like giant jaws.

The broken mast reached the propeller shaft and hit it a smashing blow. This they did feel, and once again as it reeled and plunged beneath the rudder.

A breathless messenger gasped, ‘Chief engineer’s compliments, sir, an’ to tell you the screw is out of action!’ His face went even paler as he grasped the meaning of his own message.

Captain Jervis strode quickly to the quarterdeck rail.

‘Mr Cuttler! Prepare to anchor!’

Men dashed to the forecastle and Blackwood heard the boatswain yelling at the anchor party to cut all the lashings rather than waste another second.

The admiral’s voice was shrill as he shouted, ‘
Anchor?
Under those damned guns?’

Jervis jerked round. ‘Hard over!’ He saw the bows swing reluctantly in response to the rudder. The way had all but gone from the ship. She was too close inshore now to beat clear, and without an engine she would soon be hard and fast.

‘
Let go!
’ He waited only for the great anchor to splash down before he said, ‘We’ve no choice, sir.’

The first lieutenant said quietly, ‘The Russian ship is coming about, sir.’ He sounded almost apologetic. ‘I think she intends to engage us.’

Jervis nodded heavily. ‘Very well, Mr Irving. Tell the Chief to do what he can with the shaft and let me know how serious it may be. In the meantime –’

But Ashley-Chute had recovered his composure. ‘Colonel
Fynmore, your people will have their chance after all it seems.’

Fynmore seemed to grow in stature. ‘Yessir.’ He glared at Blackwood. ‘Marines stand to, if you please.’

Blackwood beckoned to his half-brother. ‘Sharpshooters aloft!’

He saw understanding and determination on Harry’s face. Everything had happened so suddenly. Now bad luck or over-confidence had placed them in real danger. As the ship swung to her cable Blackwood could feel the despair transmitting along the gun crews who moments earlier had been cheering their victory.

He saw Jervis speaking with the commander and the sailing master. If the wind changed in their favour, if the screw could be got turning again, if more ships came to their aid . . . There were far too many ifs for any sort of confidence.

Alone and separate from his officers, Ashley-Chute stood and watched the Russian three-decker as she tacked round to begin a slow and careful approach. She would open fire at extreme range to give herself room to claw away if the wind turned her into another victim.

Colour-Sergeant M’Crystal joined Blackwood and said, ‘They’re all in position, sir. I sent two sections below to reduce casualties.’ He watched the oncoming pyramid of tan-coloured sails. ‘Don’t like it much myself, sir. Sitting target we are.’

Blackwood saw Smithett hurrying towards him with his pistols.

Sarpedon
was barely capable of staying afloat, and the small gunboat could do little against a powerful first-rate. And there was still one Russian frigate to contend with.

He took the pistols and said, ‘So much for the age of steam.’

Admiral Sir James Ashley-Chute folded his arms and studied the oncoming three-decker impassively.

Blackwood stood near him, ready to order a detachment of marines to any part of the flagship where it would be most needed. He wondered if the admiral regretted his hasty action, his eagerness to win a victory without waiting for aid or superior guidance. The Russian
Rostislav
was approaching on almost the same course which
Tenacious
had used in her first sortie. She had brailed up all but her fighting sails, and even without a glass it was possible to see the gleam of metal in her tops as marksmen gathered in readiness for close action.

Ashley-Chute snapped, ‘Make to
Sarpedon
and
Rupert. Attack and harass the enemy.
’

Blackwood saw the flag-lieutenant’s apprehension as he hurried to the signals party.
Sarpedon
was in no fit state to fight, but she might provide a diversion. Anyway, she and the gunboat were all they had.

The
Rostislav
heeled heavily to the wind, her shape lengthening as she changed tack to cross
Tenacious
’s bows. The range was about half a mile, Blackwood thought. But time was more important than accuracy, and the Russians had all the time they needed.

The flag-lieutenant returned. ‘Signal acknowledged, sir.’

The Russian fired a slow and deliberate broadside, the darting orange tongues flashing from bow to stern as gun by gun found its target.

Blackwood felt the hull stagger beneath him as the enemy’s shots crashed into it or seared along the side like bolts of lightning.

Voices yelled orders, and men scampered below to assist the boatswain’s party and to help those already working at the pumps.

Blackwood saw a marine corporal lift his cheek from his levelled rifle and stare along the deck as if to reassure himself.
Tenacious
was more than a magnificent ship of the line, to him she was home. It was not possible that they could be penned in and destroyed by one arrogant Russian.

Blackwood could see all of it on his face, the shock and the
anger, when this corporal had moments before been cheering with the rest of them.

Captain Jervis raised his speaking-trumpet. ‘Bow-chasers!’

The forward guns recoiled on their tackles and Blackwood saw two splashes close to the enemy’s stern. It was not enough. She was already firing again even as her yards started to change direction in readiness for a different tack.

The shore battery too had reopened fire, and one shot smashed through
Tenacious
’s starboard quarter and exploded in a torrent of iron splinters.

‘Sir!
Sarpedon
’s heading for the enemy!’ The flag-lieutenant sounded as if he no longer believed anything.

Blackwood ran to the poop ladder and stared abeam. The steam-frigate was not making for the anchored ships or the motionless Russian frigate, but was pointing straight for the
Rostislav.

Jervis shouted, ‘Signal her to stand away, Flags!’

But the admiral’s voice stopped the lieutenant in his tracks.

‘Belay that!’

He folded his arms again and watched coldly as the
Sarpedon
’s forward guns opened fire. Like
Satyr
, she mounted two massive bow-chasers on her forecastle, but one had obviously been knocked out when she had been straddled by the shore battery.

A great gasp rose from the deck as the shot crashed down by the enemy’s bow, the sea cascading over her beakhead and bowsprit in a solid sheet of water.

The Russian captain was already setting his foresail and trying to beat back into more open water. But his gun crews were too engrossed in their work to care for the listing, smoke-blackened
Sarpedon.
Flashes ripped along the gun-ports and
Tenacious
gave a great shiver as iron smashed into the hull and screamed through the rigging.

There was one great crack and the sound of cordage being torn apart, and faces stared wide-eyed as the whole mizzen-mast, complete with spars and furled sails, came staggering
through the smoke. It smashed over the side, the trailing shrouds and stays tearing blocks and bolts from the woodwork as if they were nothing, entangling men where they stood and carrying them bodily over the side, their screams lost in the pandemonium and the roar of another enemy salvo.

Smoke billowed from the poop and through open hatchways. Seamen hacked at the treacherous rigging with their axes and tried to shut their ears to the cries from their messmates who were being dragged into the sea or cut apart by the remaining lines.

Jervis yelled, ‘Mr Irving!’ But the first lieutenant lay dead, a speaking-trumpet still gripped in one hand.

Blackwood looked round for Fynmore but there was no sign of him. Brabazon had already gone below with some marines to help with the dead and wounded there.

More shots crashed and splintered into the side, and a thirty-two-pounder lurched on to its side, pinning down two of its crew, while the others tried to shift the massive gun with handspikes.

Jervis looked at the admiral with desperation.

‘We can do nothing, sir! In God’s name, we’ll lose every man-jack!’

Ashley-Chute tore off a glove and dabbed a cut on his cheek with it.

‘Continue firing! That’s an order! I’ll not strike to a bloody Russian!’

Jervis swung away and then stood stock still, his eyes staring.

Blackwood hurried to his side. He had imagined that the captain had been hit by a splinter.

But Jervis seized his arm and pointed wildly.

‘Look at
that
!’

The
Sarpedon
was drifting downwind, signal flags making a small bright pattern above her splintered deck. She must have fired several shots from her big bow-chaser, but in the chaos and horror aboard the flagship it was doubtful if anyone
had seen them. One shot must have smashed through the Russian’s stern and destroyed the steering gear. She was out of command, her additional canvas already carrying her broadside-on towards
Tenacious.

Jervis said harshly, ‘
Sarpedon
’s done it, by God.’

Those last shots must have opened up all the previous night’s repairs, for with her engine stopped and her list even more pronounced the
Sarpedon
was little more than a hulk. Blackwood saw the gunboat
Rupert
thrashing towards her, to take her consort in tow or lift off the people–he did not know or care.

Ashley-Chute snapped, ‘Captain Blackwood, the Russian will be down upon us very soon. The guns won’t bear. You know what to do!’

Blackwood realized that the little admiral was right beside him, his eyes desperate as he watched the enemy getting nearer and nearer. It was no use looking for Fynmore now. There was no time left. Like those other days in New Zealand and Africa.

Blackwood touched his hat. ‘Very well, sir.’ He tugged out his whistle and blew on it.

Then, as several red-coated figures ran from the line of crouching marines by the nettings, he swung himself on to the main-shrouds and began to climb. Without the mizzen-mast the afterpart of the ship seemed exposed and vulnerable. He climbed faster, and saw Sergeant Quintin peering down from the maintop barricade, his face split into a grin.