In Gallant Company (30 page)

Coutts seemed surprised at the outburst. ‘Well said, Captain. But I think the lieutenant is well aware of what he has done, and where he stands.'

Bolitho watched, fascinated, hoping Pears would not notice him and order him down to the gundeck.

A private drama which excluded everyone else, and yet which could decide their future.

Cairns said quietly, ‘Here is a problem for the admiral, Dick. Is it a real stalemate? Or shall we force our views on the Frenchman?'

Bolitho watched Coutts' youthful profile. He was no doubt regretting his shift of flag now. His ninety-gun
Resolute
would be more than a match for the French seventy-four.
Trojan
had no such advantage. About the same size, and with just two more guns than the
Argonaute
, she was undermanned and lacking experienced officers.

If Contenay was typical of
Argonaute
's wardroom, she would be an adversary to reckon with. What the hell was Cunningham doing? A sloop-of-war was far too frail to match iron with the line of battle, but an extra show of strength, no matter how small, would be doubly welcome.

‘Take the prisoner down. I may require him presently.' Coutts beckoned to D'Esterre. ‘Attend to it.' To Bolitho he said, ‘Warn the masthead to report what
Spite
is doing the instant he sights her.'

Bolitho hurried to the quarterdeck ladder. The masthead look-out, like everyone else above deck, was probably more interested in the French two-decker than in
Spite
.

Trojan
maintained her set course, every telescope trained on the other ship as she moved at right angles across the bows, nearer and nearer to the headland.

Coutts must be worried. He could not anchor, and if he continued past the entrance he would lose the wind-gage and it might take hours to beat back again. If he stood out to sea, the same must apply. His only course was to follow the Frenchman, who obviously intended to ignore
Trojan
's intentions, to treat her as if she did not exist.

The headland was sloping more quickly now, to reveal the one on the opposite side of the entrance. Two green arms reaching out to receive them.

Bolitho felt the mounting glare from the sun, the sudden dryness in his throat as the look-out yelled, ‘Deck there!
Spite
's aground, zur!'

Something like a sigh ran along the
Trojan
's decks.

Of all the bad luck, this was it. Cunningham must have misjudged his entrance, or had been deceived by the currents. It was humiliating enough for Coutts. For Cunningham it must be the end of the world, Bolitho thought.

Stockdale whispered, ‘The Frenchie can do as 'e pleases now, sir.'

The anchorage was opening up with every dragging minute. Bolitho could see the sheltered water beyond the turbulence at the entrance.
Spite
's three masts, slightly angled and stiffly unmoving. Beyond her the deeper shadows, and a schooner at anchor, close inshore.

The look-out shouted, ‘They're tryin' to tow 'er off, zur!'

Bolitho could not see without a telescope, and like the seamen around him, fretted and waited for more news from aloft. Cunningham had boats down and would probably lay out an anchor to kedge his ship free from the ground.

Quinn asked, ‘What is the Frenchman doing?' He sounded beside himself with worry.

‘He'll no doubt anchor, James. He has beaten us to the island. To attack him there would be a sure way of starting a war.'

He looked away, confused and bitter. Whatever they did, no matter how right the cause, fate seemed to be against them.

The
Argonaute
was quite likely bringing another great cargo
of ordnance and powder. Some to be loaded into the schooner, more to be stacked in a safe hiding place to await the next privateer or transport. Contenay must have sailed from here more than a few times. No wonder he found Fort Exeter without any trouble.

As if to bear out his ideas, another look-out shouted wildly, ‘Sail on the starboard quarter, sir!'

Figures bustled across the quarterdeck, sunlight glinting on raised telescopes, as the look-out continued, ‘Brig, sir! She's goin' about!'

Bolitho looked at Quinn's pale features. ‘I'll bet she is, James! Just the sight of us will be enough. She must have been coming here to collect her cargo from the French!'

‘Is there nothing we can do?'

Quinn looked up, startled, as Buller yelled again, ‘Deck there!
Spite
's come off, zur! She's shakin' out 'er tops'ls!'

Quinn gripped Bolitho's arm as the news brought a wild burst of cheering from the watching seamen and marines.

They looked aft as Midshipman Weston's signals party burst into life and sent a hoist of bright flags flying to the yards.

Bolitho nodded. In the nick of time. Coutts had signalled
Spite
to leave the anchorage and give chase. Even the delay at hoisting her boats would not mean much to Cunningham. With a following wind, and his honour very much at stake, he would overhaul and take the brig before noon.

And there was still the schooner. If she was a privateer, the French could not prevent Coutts taking action against her if she attempted to leave.

He shaded his eyes, seeing more sails breaking out from the sloop's yards, imagining the excitement and relief pushing all disappointment aside.

‘
Spite
's acknowledged, sir!'

Midshipman Couzens bounded past on some mission or other, his freckled face alive with anticipation.

‘Now it's the Frenchman's turn to be an onlooker, sir!'

Bolitho turned sharply as the anchorage echoed violently to the crash of cannon fire. He saw the gunsmoke hit the calm water and burst skyward, eddying across the pale sunlight like a cloud.

Everyone was yelling and shouting at once, stricken by the unexpected turn of events.
Spite
was turning to one side, still reeling from a savage broadside at extreme range. Like a hurricane the
Argonaute
's iron had ripped through her masts and rigging, reducing her to an unmanageable wreck in seconds. Her foremast had gone, and while they watched, her maintop-mast fell alongside in a welter of spray and tangled cordage.
Spite
stopped moving, and Bolitho guessed she had run aground again on an extension of the same sand-bar. Seeing her go from movement to sudden stillness was like watching something beautiful die.

The
Argonaute
had made certain the brig would not be captured, and even now was coming about, her long jib boom swinging through the smoke of her one, murderous broadside.

Quinn said in a choking voice, ‘God, they're coming out!'

Bolitho looked aft as Cairns' voice boomed through his speaking trumpet.

‘Hands aloft and shorten sail! Mr Tolcher, rig your nets!'

A bright scarlet ensign rose to the gaff, and Stockdale spat on his hands. Coutts had shown his colours. He was going to fight.

Nets were already being spread above the gundeck, the men working without thought, as they had so often at their drills.

Bolitho watched the
Argonaute
's shape shortening as she completed her turn towards the entrance.

She too had run up her colours. The white flag of France. No more pretence or bluff.

Later, higher authorities might argue over excuses and deceptions. But now, today, each captain had his own clear reason to engage an enemy.

‘Open your ports!'

Tackles squeaked, and along either side a double line of port lids lifted in time with the lesser quarterdeck batteries.

‘Run out!'

Bolitho drew a deep breath, forcing himself to watch as his own guns trundled noisily to their ports, thrusting out their black muzzles like snouts in the strengthening sunlight.

Two ships of the line, without aid, not even a spectator to watch their ponderous strength as they manoeuvred towards each other, in no haste, and in total silence.

Another glance aft and he saw Coutts lifting his arms to allow the captain's coxswain to buckle on his sword for him.

Bolitho realized that Coutts would never give in. He dare not. It must be victory today. Or nothing.

‘Starboard battery,
stand by!
'

Bolitho tugged out his hanger and pulled his hat over his eyes.

‘Ready, lads!'

He glanced to left and right, the familiar faces passing his vision, merging, then disappearing as he faced the enemy.

‘On the uproll!'

Somewhere, a man started to cough violently, another was pounding a slow, desperate tattoo on the deck beside his gun.

‘Fire!'

AS THE UPPER
battery, followed instantly by the thirty-two-pounders on the lower gundeck, roared out in a full broadside,
Trojan
gave a tremendous shudder, as if she would wrench herself apart.

Even though every man had been expecting it, the deafening crash of gun-fire was beyond imagination, the sound going on and on as each cannon hurled itself inboard on its tackles.

Bolitho watched the dense smoke being forced downwind from the starboard bow and stared towards the French ship as the sea around her became a mass of leaping white feathers. The
Argonaute
was steering on a converging tack, her yards braced hard round to carry her away from the nearest spit of land. Without a telescope it was impossible to see if they had hit her, although with such a massive broadside they should have found some targets. But
Trojan
had fired at the first possible moment, and Bolitho estimated the range to be at least eight cables.

On either side of him the gun captains were yelling like demons, the crews ramming home charges and fresh balls, while others stood with handspikes in readiness to control their ponderous weapons.

It sounded blurred, unreal, and Bolitho rubbed his ears rapidly to restore his hearing. The deck tilted very slightly as Pears ordered an alteration of course towards the other ship. How invulnerable she looked. With topsails and forecourse flapping to retain the wind, the French captain was trying to gain sea-room, to escape the blanketing shelter of the land across his quarter.

What was he up to, he wondered? What motive did Coutts'
opposite number have in mind? Perhaps he wished to draw
Trojan
away from the island to allow the schooner time to escape. Or maybe, having put the
Spite
out of action, all he wanted to do was slip away himself and avoid further conflict. Perhaps he had other orders, to find a second rendezvous and unload his cargo without delay.

It was incredible that he could think at all. He peered along the deck, seeing the captains raise their fists, their faces masked in concentration.

He looked aft. ‘Ready, sir!'

Again, the senior midshipman of the lower gundeck bobbed through the hatch and yelled, ‘
Ready
, sir!'

Couzens went past at the run, carrying a message from the forecastle to Cairns on the quarterdeck.

As he passed Midshipman Huss he shouted, ‘You were slow that time!' They grinned at one another as if it were a huge game.

Bolitho turned towards the enemy again. Nearer now, her deck angled over to the wind, the lines of guns shining in the sunlight like teeth.

He knew in his heart that the French admiral had no intention of telling his captain to haul off. He was going to fight. What the world said later mattered little out here. Justification would be sought and found by both sides, but the winner would have the real say in things.

The side of the French ship vanished in a writhing bank of smoke, broken by darting orange tongues, as she delivered her reply to
Trojan
's challenge.

Bolitho gritted his teeth, expecting to feel the hull quiver to the crash of the broadside. But only a few balls hit the tumblehome, while above the decks the air became alive with screaming, shrieking chain-shot.

Bolitho saw the boatswain's hastily spread nets jumping with fallen blocks and severed rigging, and then a marine fell headlong from the maintop, struck the gangway and vanished over the side without even a cry.

Bolitho swallowed hard.
First blood
. He looked aft, seeing Pears watching the enemy while his hand rose level with his shoulder.

Bolitho said quickly, ‘Ready, lads!'

The captain's arm fell, and once more the air was blasted by the thunder of guns.

‘Stop your vents! Sponge out!
Load!
'

The seamen, who had cursed their captain and officers as they had drilled again and again in every kind of condition, went through the motions without even pausing to watch some of their companions hurrying aloft to make repairs.

Bolitho saw the great rent in the main-topsail spreading and ripping as it was pushed by the wind, and knew that the enemy was following a reguar French tactic. To cripple the adversary first, render her useless and impossible to handle so that she would fall downwind and present her stern to another murderous broadside. Cleared for action, a ship of the line was open from bow to stern, and a well-timed bombardment through the poop and counter could change the gundecks into a slaughter-house.

The
Argonaute
was showing some signs of damage, too. Shot-holes in her canvas, and a savage gash in her larboard gangway where two balls had struck home together.

Five cables. Just half a mile between them, and both ships gathering speed as they thrust clear of the land.

Again the writhing bank of smoke, and once more the shriek of chain-shot overhead. It was unbelievable that no spar was hit, but the terrible sound made more than one man gasp with alarm as he worked at his gun.

Stockdale paused at his efforts and shouted, ‘We're holdin' the wind, sir!' His battered features were stained with smoke, but he looked unbreakable.

‘On the uproll!'

Bolitho heard Midshipman Huss repeating the order to Dalyell below.