Honour This Day (31 page)

Keen must have read his thoughts. “May I suggest we break the line astern of the third or fourth ship, as it may present itself?”

Bolitho smiled. “The further away from that beauty the better. Until we have lessened the odds anyway.”

Jenour was standing near the signals party and heard Bolitho's casual comment. Was it all a bluff, or did he really believe he could win against so many? Jenour tried to concentrate on his parents, how he would word his next letter. His mind reeled when he realised that the concept eluded him. Perhaps there would
be
no more letters. He felt a sudden terror and stared up at the wispy clouds directly above Bolitho's flag at the foremast truck.
He was going to be killed.

Midshipman Springett, who was the youngest in the ship, appeared on deck. His station was on the lower gun deck, to relay messages back and forth to the poop. In the bright sunlight he had to blink several times after the gloom of the sealed gun deck.

Bolitho saw the boy turn, watched his expression as he gazed at the enemy ships, seeing them probably for the first time.

For those few moments his uniform and the proud, glinting dirk at his belt meant nothing. He drove his knuckles into his mouth as if to hold back a cry of fear. He was a child again.

Jenour must have seen him, and strode across. “Mr Springett, isn't it? I could do with you assisting me today.” He gestured to the two signals midshipmen, Furnival, the senior, and Mirrielees, who had red hair and a face covered with freckles. “These
old men
are getting past it, I fear!” The two in question grinned and nudged one another as if it were all a huge joke.

The boy stared at them. Mesmerised. He whispered, “Thank you, sir.” He held out a paper. “Mr Mansforth's respects, sir.” He turned and trotted back to the ladder without once looking at the imposing ranks of sails.

Keen said quietly, “Your flag lieutenant just about saved that lad from bursting into tears.”

Bolitho watched more flags rising and dipping above the
San Mateo.
To himself he said, “And it saved Stephen Jenour, I suspect.”

Even across the expanse of glistening swell you could hear the slow rumble of gun trucks, while something like a sigh came from the waiting sailors as shadows painted the
San Mateo
's tall side. All her larboard battery had been run out. It was like looking into the mouth of every one of them.

Bolitho heard the blare of a trumpet, and pictured the enemy gun crews at their quarters. Eyes peering over the muzzles, the next shots and charges already to hand.

“Hoist
Benbow
's number.” Bolitho took Keen aside as the flags were swiftly bent on to the halliards. “I dare not wait too much longer, Val.” They both stared at the converging lines of ships, like one great arrowhead which must soon meet at some invisible westerly point.

There was a dull bang and Bolitho saw a puff of smoke drifting away from
San Mateo
's side. The ball hit the sea, rebounded and smacked down, flinging a ragged waterspout half a cable clear. A ranging shot? Or was it merely to raise the spirits of the Spanish seamen who had been sharing the same agony of suspense as
Hyperion
's?

“
Benbow
's acknowledged, sir!”

Make the signals as few as possible.
Bolitho had always believed it a good idea in principle. It was not difficult for an enemy to guess or determine the next move from another's signals. It was likely too that the prize,
Intrépido,
had been captured with some secret signals still intact.

When poor Captain Price had run his ship aground he could never have visualised any of this.

Bolitho looked at Keen and his first lieutenant. “We will alter course in succession.
Hyperion
and
Benbow
will lead the two divisions.” He saw them nod; Parris was watching his lips as if to read what he had not said.

“It will be as close to the wind as she can lie, so it will reduce our progress.” He saw their understanding. It might also mean that it would give the enemy more time to traverse his guns. Bolitho walked to the starboard side and stood on the truck of a quarterdeck nine-pounder, his hand gripping the bare shoulder of one of its crew.

He could see
Benbow
's masts beyond the others astern, Herrick's flag rippling out from the mizzen.
Benbow
was still flying her acknowledgement, just as
Hyperion
had kept her number hoisted close-up. Like a trumpet signalling a cavalry charge into the jaws of hell. A charge which cannot be halted once it has been urged to attack. Bolitho felt the man's shoulder tense as he turned to stare up at him. Bolitho looked at him. About eighteen. The sort of face you saw around the farms and lanes of Cornwall. But not in times of war.

He said, “Naylor, am I right?”

The youth grinned while his mates winked at each other. “Aye, Sir Richard!”

Bolitho kept his eyes on him, thinking of the terrified midshipman, and Jenour, who was more frightened of showing fear than of fear itself.

“Well, Naylor, there is our enemy. What say you?”

Naylor stared at the nearest ships with their trailing banners and curling pendants, some of which almost touched the water. “I reckon we can take 'em.” He nodded, satisfied. “We can clear the way for t'others, Sir Richard!”

Some of the gun crews cheered and Bolitho climbed down, afraid that his eye might choose this moment to betray him.

Just an ordinary sailor, who if he survived today, would likely end in another battle before he was a year older.

He thought suddenly of the grand London house, and Belinda's scathing words to him.

He nodded to the bare-backed seaman called Naylor. “So we shall!” He turned quickly. “Captain Keen!” Again, time seemed to stop for both of them. Then Bolitho said in a more level tone, “Alter course three points to starboard, steer nor'-by-west!” He waved to Jenour.
“Now! Execute!”

Every man in Herrick's flagship must have been poised for the moment. For as the flags were hauled down
Benbow
appeared to swing immediately out of the line, as if she, and she alone, was mounting a solitary attack on the enemy.

Keen watched closely, as pursued by Parris's speaking trumpet the scrambling seamen hauled on the braces, while others freed the big main course even as the yards creaked round.

Penhaligon spread his legs while the deck leaned to larboard, as the wind explored the braced sails and thrust the ship over.

Then Keen was at the compass, although Bolitho had not seen him move.

“
Meet her!
Steady as you go!”

The sails boomed and thundered in protest, and the driver rippled from peak to foot as if it was about to tear apart. She could stand no closer to the wind, and from the Spanish line it must appear as if all her sails were overlapping fore-and-aft.

Bolitho clutched the rail and stared at the enemy. Someone was firing, but the nets rigged above the main deck gunners, and the huge billowing main course hid the flashes.

Bolitho saw
Benbow
drawing level abeam, barely three cables away. The others astern of her were already following round, with
Tybalt
tacking wildly to take station as the last of the line.

Keen exclaimed, “The Dons are taken aback, by God!”

Bolitho looked at the Spanish flagship. Now she seemed to be heading away from
Hyperion
's larboard bow, two others still following her as before.

Bolitho shouted, “Load and run out, Captain Keen!”

The order was repeated to the deck below, and it seemed barely a minute had passed before each gun captain was faced aft, his fist above his head.

“All loaded, sir!”

“Open the ports! Run out!”

Squeaking noisily, the guns were hauled up to their ports. On the lee side the sea appeared to be curling up to the black muzzles as if to drive them inboard again.

Hyperion
's deck shivered violently as the nearest enemy ships opened fire. But the two small divisions had taken the Spanish admiral by surprise, and most of his guns could not be brought to bear. Several tall waterspouts shot above the gangways, and Bolitho felt the tell-tale crash of a ball hitting
Hyperion
's lower hull.

“Brail up the courses!”

Shots whimpered overhead, and the gun crews crouched even lower, their faces running with sweat as each group peered through their open port, waiting for a target.

As the forecourse was brailed up the scene opened on either bow as if a giant curtain had been raised.

Bolitho heard one of the midshipmen gasp with alarm as the stern of the nearest Spaniard appeared from nowhere, or from the depths—her high, ornate gallery, stabbing musket fire from above, and her name,
Castor,
reflecting the spray beneath her counter.

“Stand by to larboard!” Lovering, the second lieutenant, was striding inboard from the first division of guns. “As you bear!”

Keen raised his sword, then sliced it down.
“Fire!”

The larboard carronade on the forecastle hurled its huge ball into
Castor
's stern with terrible effect. Bolitho heard the roar of its explosion within the other ship's hull, could imagine the scything horror of the packed grape as it swept through the ship. Cleared for action, any man-of-war was most vulnerable when an enemy was able to cross her stern.

The ship on the other side was looming through the smoke, her guns shooting out vivid orange tongues.

“Fire!”

Bolitho was deafened by the roar of guns as both sides vanished in swirling smoke and charred fragments from the charges. The ship to starboard was already being engaged by
Obdurate,
and Bolitho could see just her mastheads rising above the dense smoke like lances. He felt the deck jar again and again, Parris yelling, “On the uproll, lads!” Then the next division fired as one, and Bolitho saw the
Castor
's mizzen-mast topple, suspended momentarily in the rigging and stays before going over the side with a sound like thunder.

“Fire!”

Keen strode across the quarterdeck, his eyes streaming, as the upper battery recoiled singly and in pairs on their tackles, the crews leaping forward with sponges and rammers, ready to tamp home the next ball. To do what they had been taught, to keep on firing no matter what was happening about them.

Jenour coughed in the smoke, then shouted, “
Obdurate
is in collision with a Spaniard, Sir Richard!” He winced as a musket ball slammed into the deck nearby and added, “She requests assistance!”

Bolitho shook his head.

Keen said tersely,
“Inability!”

The flags bearing Keen's curt signal lifted and vanished into a great pall of smoke which came surging inboard as the lower battery roared out to starboard.

Parris shouted, “We're through, we're through!” He waved his hat wildly. “Huzza, lads!
We've broken the line!
”

More sails loomed like giant ghosts astern.
Crusader,
and
Redoubtable,
the latter almost colliding with another Spaniard which had either lost her steering or had her helmsmen shot down.

“Stand by to alter course to larboard!” Bolitho tossed his telescope to one of the midshipmen. “I don't need this now!” He could feel his lips set in a grin.

“Deck there!” Someone up there above the smoke and shrieking iron was keeping his head. “
Benbow
's through the line!”

There were more wild cheers and coughs as the larboard battery fired a full broadside through the smoke, some into the
Castor
's side, while the rest fell on and around the second ship in the enemy column.

“Lay her on the larboard tack, Mr Penhaligon! Afterguard, man the mizzen braces there!” Selected marines put down their muskets and ran to help, while some of their comrades squinted above the hammocks, their weapons cradled to their cheeks, seeking a target.

Bolitho looked up and saw lengths of severed cordage dangling on the protective nets, while above it all there was still the same peaceful sky.

A ball slammed into the larboard side, and crashed amongst the men by one of the forward eighteen-pounders. Bolitho gritted his teeth as two were smashed to bloody ribbons, and another rolled across the deck, his leg held on by a thread of skin.

He tried to concentrate. All his ships must be engaged now. The roar of battle seemed to roll all around, as if vessels were on every hand, masked from each other by their own smoke. Sharper gunfire, like the staccato beat of drums, echoed over the water, as if it were another part of destiny.