Heart of Oak (34 page)

Here and there small scenes leaped out at him. A seaman seizing one of his companions at the gun below the quarterdeck, and throwing him aside as a massive block, severed from the rigging high above, smashed down beside them. Shock, obscenities, then a grin. Midshipman Hotham, the clergyman’s son, face screwed up in concentration as he loaded and examined a long pistol, flinching as more debris fell clattering nearby. Then he handed the pistol to Monteith, who took it with a curt nod.

And the men at the braces, stiff with crouching, waiting and willing the ship to complete her tack.
And hit back.
One of them, naked to the waist, was sharing his handhold with another, younger sailor, who was not even daring to open his eyes as the smoke billowed across the water. The scars of the cat were still livid on his back, as if the flogging had given Dimmock some kind of authority.

Adam thrust out his arm and heard Julyan yell,
“Ready, sir!”

Perhaps he had not dared to look aft, in case the helm was shot away or manned only by the dead.

“Steady as you go! Meet her!” The spokes were turning, but Adam was staring up at the masthead pendant, stark and clear again above the thinning smoke. Broken cordage jerking in the wind, and a blackened hole in the topsail, where two shots had missed both mast and yard by a few inches. There was blood too, drying on the canvas. One of the topmen. A face he would have known.

“Let go and haul!”

“Heave, me lads!
Heave!
” Guthrie’s voice, powerful, unhurried, ready to send or push more hands where they were needed.

Adam heard some one cry out in pain, but he kept his eyes on the yards, still swinging in response to the men at the braces.

He watched the big arrowhead of water changing shape, the
Nautilus
very bright now in the sun, her gunports empty and with every crew trying to reload and run out again, before…He shut his mind to it, surprised that he felt neither doubt nor anger. Only hatred.

“Steady as she goes, sir!”

Adam did not hear. He had drawn his sword, and held it lightly across his right shoulder. He saw a slight movement, sunlight disturbing the pattern as the first gun to reload thrust through its port.
Too late.

He brought the sword down to the rail, and thought he heard some one cheer.

“Fire!”

Every gun fired as one, recoiling from its port and brought under control before the full impact of their combined, double-shotted broadside exploded against the enemy. They were already sponging out and reloading with fresh charges, shouting and cheering like madmen, and despite the neckerchiefs tied around their ears were too deaf to hear or share the excitement and relief after hours of waiting behind sealed ports while the larboard side had bared its teeth.

Adam covered his mouth and nose as the smoke billowed inboard in a solid cloud. The roar of the full broadside seemed to hang in the air, an echo perhaps of the double-shotted onslaught which had found its target.

Men were coughing and retching, but some were peering around in the smoke for friends. Gun crews were calling to each other, throwing their weight on tackles and handspikes, their world concentrated on the open ports before them.

Adam reached for his telescope, then waved it aside as a hand offered it through the thinning smoke. He did not need it. The regular drills and the gun crews’ patience and trust had done their work today.

Nautilus
’s proud beauty was broken, disfigured. Her foremast had gone completely, dragging over the forecastle and into the water alongside, the tangled mass of spars and severed rigging already dragging her round like a giant sea-anchor. The main topmast was also shot away. He thought of Maddock the gunner, down below the waterline, sealed in his cavern of explosives and instant death. He must have heard it, felt the success of his training and hard work, and been proud.

Somebody exclaimed, “That’ll make ’em put their bloody heads together an’ think again!”

Squire sounded wary, impatient. “They’ve got plenty of
those
, for God’s sake!”

Adam walked aft to the wheel, men turning toward him, still too dazed and deafened to grasp the significance of the lieutenant’s warning.
Nautilus
was not responding to her rudder, and it seemed nothing was being done to cut away the burden of mast and sails which was dragging her further and further downwind. Squire had seen it. The wind was no longer an ally.

He looked at the smoke, drifting just above the water. The wind was dropping, biding its time. The real enemy.

Napier was beside him, as if he had expected to be called.

“Ask the first lieutenant to lay aft.” He saw him touch his hat and hurry to the larboard gangway.

He heard musket shots, far-off and ineffectual. Some of the Royal Marines of the afterguard were listening, gripping their muskets, gauging the range.

They would not have long to wait.

The wind had almost dropped, but there was still enough to carry a new sound, more threatening than the infrequent report of a musket. Voices, hundreds of them, joined together like a muffled roar.

Vincent had reached the quarterdeck, his eyes on the loosely flapping topsails, and then the men at the wheel. “If the wind returns, I can bring our guns to bear.”

Adam shook his head. “So might
Nautilus.
But she’ll need a dockyard before she can fight and win under
any
flag.”

He saw the familiar frown, the old challenge. Then he said quietly, “They’ll try to board us, sir. Their only chance. Fight or die.”

Adam turned the old sword over in his hands. “And ours, Mark.”

He stared along the upper deck, the men at their guns, others dragging away fallen rigging. There were two bodies lying by the empty boat-tier, already covered. Wasted.

“So be it.
Close quarters!
”

Julyan called, “She’s swingin’, sir!”

Adam laid the sword on the rail and took his telescope.

Onward
was answering the helm again, the quartermaster peering at the compass as a gust of air lifted the big ensign above the poop defiantly, and another volley of musket fire made some of the seamen duck for cover.

Adam stood motionless, the telescope hot against his skin.

Nautilus
was turning very slowly, the sun suddenly like a mirror across the quarter, and then more slowly still over the poop itself. He felt something crack against the deck and saw splinters blown aside. More shots, this time from the maintop, some of Gascoigne’s marksmen returning fire.

Adam wiped his eye and steadied the glass again. Figures running along
Nautilus
’s gangway, above the entry port, where Marchand had welcomed him aboard. More were already clambering around the cathead, trying to hack away the remaining shrouds which held the fallen mast alongside.

“As you bear!”
He heard Napier, then another voice passing the order to the guns.

More shots, and a louder bang: a swivel gun, he thought. The glass remained steady, but he could feel sweat running down his spine like blood.

It was now.
The crash of the first eighteen-pounder seemed sharper, louder, not double-shotted this time. The stern windows were blown aside, pieces of carved “gingerbread” splashing and resurfacing beneath the counter even as the next gun fired, blasting through
Nautilus
’s stern.

Adam picked up the sword, the stench of smoke and charred timber searing his throat and eyes. He saw a marine reloading his musket, and pausing to fix the bayonet, before running to join his section. He was shouting, but Adam could barely hear over the gunfire.

Julyan shouted, “You got your wish, sir!” and turned to say over his shoulder to the quartermaster, “Watch your helm, Carter!” Then he stepped over the man’s body and added his own weight to the wheel. The quartermaster had been a trusted friend. But there was no time to think about him, even as he was trying to drag himself to his feet.

He shook his fist, swearing as more shots pounded the deck and clanged aside from one of the nine-pounders.

Adam saw the
Nautilus
looming over the side, and felt the two hulls shudder together. On deck, the gun crews were reloading, some falling, wounded or dying, as grapnels clattered on to the gangway above them.

“Repel boarders! At ’em, lads!” The marines ran to obey, bayonets gleaming, as others fired down from the main and mizzen tops. A mob was clambering on to the gangway and reaching for shrouds and ratlines, only to be trapped by the loosely rigged boarding nets.

Blade against blade, teeth bared: almost inhuman as they tried to hack the stout netting aside. No time to reload; it was man to man. Some were through the defenses, to be met by cutlass and boarding axe, and sometimes fists, as they fought and struggled above the guns.

The boatswain was using a cutlass; it looked like a dirk in his massive fist. “They’m runnin’, th’ bastards!” Then, like a great tree, he fell, his own men still cheering as they ran across him in pursuit.

Adam hurried to the midships part of the gangway, where the nettings had been hacked away completely. Men were shouting and cursing, some too exhausted even to cry out if they were cut down. There were bodies fallen and trapped between the two hulls, and Adam saw some of the attackers wilt and retreat in confusion as they were confronted by some marines and their cherished musketoon.

Wild cheers now: Vincent was running along
Nautilus
’s quarterdeck with some of his seamen, climbing back to
Onward
after pursuing the attackers.

Too late, Adam became aware of his own danger, and found himself face to face with a strongly built figure brandishing a double-bladed sword as if it were weightless. Perhaps he had seen the uniform, or maybe he was too crazed by the fighting and death all around him, that it was merely a final spur to his madness or his courage. Their blades locked, and Adam thought he heard Squire yell,
“No heroics!”
then he drove his own sword into the man’s ribs.

He staggered as his shoe slid on blood, and yelled to the gun crews below him. The attackers had fallen back to
Nautilus
’s deck, but they were rallying, being led or driven by the same relentless chanting.

“More men!”
Adam waved his sword. Monteith should be ready with a party of seamen and the last loaded swivel gun on the opposite gangway. But he was lying on the main deck, his uniform impeccably clean amidst the blood and filth of fighting.

Adam saw Napier coming to join him, a hanger drawn and ready, and shouted, “Fall back! Watch
yourself
, David!”

He pushed two struggling men aside, but another had climbed on to the gangway, a long knife clenched between his teeth. Napier lost his balance, and the hanger slithered out of reach. His attacker leaped on to his shoulders, dragging him down, gripping the knife as two more of his companions hauled themselves on to the gangway.

“No, you don’t, you bastards!”
Some one was running from the side, a boarding pike held like a lance as he charged across the deck.

The pike struck Napier’s attacker in the back, with such force that Napier could see the bloodied tip protruding from his chest as he went down and over the side. He staggered to his feet, staring with shock and dismay as his rescuer threw up both hands and fell after the man he had killed. He was bleeding badly, probably hit by a stray shot even as he watched the boarder fall from view between the hulls.

“Did you see
that?
”

Adam grasped his shoulder, guiding and pushing him toward the quarterdeck. Just a brief glimpse, as he had tried to wrench the pike free of its victim. Mouth wide in a shout or a laugh of jubilation, even as he had been shot down. Jeff Lloyd, one of the sailmaker’s crew, who had repaired his old uniform.

Adam shouted, “Stand by, on deck!” There was a gap now between the two ships, widening and gaining colour even as he watched. He could feel it on his face, and wanted to yell it aloud. The wind was returning, and not only in his mind. Or his prayers.
Nautilus
was already further away. He could see broken timber and corpses floating free.

More men running along
Nautilus
’s deck, but confused now, perhaps leaderless.

Adam saw a gunner’s mate peering up at him while Midshipman Simon Huxley continued to tie a bandage around his arm, taking his time.

“As you bear, lads!”
He saw the gunner’s mate acknowledge it.

Adam walked along the gangway and saw Jago coming to meet him. The crash of the first gun seemed to swamp everything as the two ships continued to edge apart, the water clearer, reflecting the smoke like harmless clouds.
Nautilus
was turning again, and would soon expose her side, ready to reopen fire. There was more smoke swirling from her stern, from the great cabin itself.

He saw the eighteen-pounder standing inboard, its crew sponging out and tamping home another charge, a fresh ball already held, ready to follow. The gun captain was gazing at
Nautilus
, and the smoke that marked his last shot. But there was no cheering this time.

Jago turned as Napier muttered to himself, “He saved my life,” and touched his sleeve, as he had seen his captain do many times.

“We needs you, for better days!” But the habitual wry grin had deserted him.

The gun was already being run up to its port, its captain staring over the breech. He did not even turn his head as the next gun crashed and recoiled, and was being sponged out before the smoke had cleared.

Adam glanced up at the topsails. They were still filled and steady.
Onward
could break off the fight and go with the wind. Who would blame him?

“Standing by, sir.” That was Squire, who was watching the gun crews impassively as they stared aft, waiting for his signal.

Adam was studying
Nautilus
’s line of ports, still at an angle, but they would soon come to bear again. No jury-rig as yet, nor any attempt to hoist one. But the wreckage had been cut away. Already drifting clear. He saw two boats close by,
Onward
’s own cutters, unlikely witnesses to a necessary killing on both sides.