A Tradition of Victory (28 page)

The corporal sank slowly from view as Hoblin muttered,

“Bloody bullocks, beggin’ your pardon, gentlemen, but they’d take the wooden leg off a cripple to kindle a fire!”

Browne looked at Searle and grinned. “I could manage a drink myself!”

Searle turned aside. Browne was his superior, but obviously had not been trained in the ways of the lower deck, or the barracks either for that matter. He loosened his hanger at his side.

It would certainly be a sharp end to their mission if they arrived amongst the enemy with half of the crew dead-drunk.

He said, “Bring her up another point.” He mopped his streaming face with his sleeve. “Sharp lookout, everyone!”

There were about thirty fishing vessels, as far as Browne could see. By skilful use of helm and wind, the master’s mate held the boat clear of the others, while on the cluttered deck the sailors dragged tackle and floats about as if they had been fishermen all their lives.

“Don’t see any soldiers. Not on deck anyway.” Searle banged his hands together. “If only I dared to use a glass on them!”

Above the deck, swinging from his shaking perch, Midshipman Stirling peered at the other vessels and allowed his legs to dangle in the rain. Like most fourteen-year-old midshipmen, Stirling was untroubled by heights. The fishing boat’s mainmast was like a pike after
Benbow
’s dizzy topgallant yards. What a story he would have to tell the others when he returned to
Benbow.

Like the moment when the commodore had allowed him to take down and hold Bolitho’s sword. Even if his fellow midshipmen had not altogether believed a word of it, it was still one of the greatest things which had happened in his young life.

He watched the rain passing away from the hull and across the nearest boat which was sailing a cable’s length to starboard.

He continued with the pretence of stitching although he had lost the sailmaker’s needle within minutes of climbing from the deck.

Below him the boat yawed unsteadily in a trough, and Stirling heard the squeak of a block as he was swung against the mast like a bread sack.

And there they were, shining in the grey light, their rigging and crossed yards glistening from the downpour.

He called, “Larboard bow, sir! Five, no
six
sail of the line!”

He was almost incoherent with excitement. “All at anchor!”

On deck the lieutenants and Hoblin exchanged questioning glances. The master’s mate said, “They wasn’t there two days back, sir! Must have slipped out of Lorient. They’d have been seen else.”

Browne looked up at the dangling figure. “Any more?”

“Can’t tell, sir. I think it’s raining again over there! But there are some small ships at anchor, I—I’m certain of it!”

Browne looked at Searle and exclaimed, “Remond’s flying squadron, it must be.” He clapped his new friend on the arm. “It’s strange. We came to discover something, but now that we’ve found it, the shock is almost greater.”

“What now?”

Browne stared across the spray. Stirling had good eyes, he

thought. As far as he could see there was just the cruising ranks of white crests with a blurred image of land far beyond.

“We must rejoin the squadron. The French are out, and Rear-Admiral Bolitho will need to know it.”

“Steady, sir!”

A seaman jabbed a tarred thumb towards the other boats.

One which they had not previously noticed was on a converging tack, and as the rain moved clear Browne saw two uniforms, and worse, a swivel gun mounted above the stem.

Searle called hoarsely, “Pass the word! Take no notice!”

Browne saw the immediate change. Even Stirling had wrapped one arm around the mast as if to protect himself.

“Let her fall off two points.”

Hoblin murmured, “No use. The bugger’s seen us.”

“Damn!”
Searle looked at Browne. “What do you want me to do?”

Hoblin said, “They can head us off. We’ve no chance.”

Browne stared at the other vessel. Two more uniforms had appeared. There had after all been four soldiers originally in this boat.

“No chance to run, but we can fight.”

Searle nodded. “If we board her and put her out of action before they range that swivel on us, we might be able to run for it.” He shivered. “Anyway, I’m not being taken prisoner like this!”

Hoblin grimaced as a beam of pale sunlight touched the sails as if to betray them to the enemy.

“When we need the sun we get rain! Now it’s t’other way round, blast it!”

Searle licked his lips. “They’ll be in hailing distance soon.”

Without looking up he said, “Mr Stirling! When I give the word get down from there on the double! Corporal Coote! Marksmen ready!”

Boots scraped in the hold, and Browne heard the clatter of A

equipment as the marines prepared themselves. It was what they knew best, no matter what the odds might be.

Browne called, “You can have all the wine you can drink after this, Corporal!”

Somebody actually managed a laugh.

“They’re shortening sail, sir.”

Browne saw the men on the other boat taking in the sails, and one of the soldiers making his way forward to the gun. The soldier appeared quite relaxed, and one of his companions was smoking a pipe while he watched the fishermen fisting the rough canvas into submission.

“They’re calling us alongside!” Hoblin sounded as if he was speaking through his teeth. “Ready, sir?”

Searle glanced at Browne and then barked, “Stand by, lads!”

He watched the other boat’s shadow writhing across the crested water, the sudden uncertainty as they drew nearer and nearer, an arrowhead of water trapped between them like something solid.

“Now!
Helm a-lee!
”

The boat swayed over to the unexpected thrust, and even as the seamen ran to shorten sail the hulls collided, surged away and then struck again.

Midshipman Stirling slithered to the deck and almost pitched between the two boats as Hoblin swung the tiller bar and nursed the bows into the other vessel’s bulwark.

Corporal Coote yelled, “Ready! Take aim!” The four muskets poked over the hold’s coaming like lances.
“Fire!”

On the opposite deck four men, including two soldiers, dropped where they stood. The swivel exploded with a deafening bang, but the man who held the firing lanyard was also dead, while the full charge of canister scythed harmlessly into the air.

Grapnels held the boats together, and yelling like madmen a handful of boarders leapt on to the Frenchman’s deck, boarding

axes and cutlasses painting the scattered rigging and tackle with daubs of scarlet.

Searle shouted wildly, “Cut her adrift! Get back on board, lively, you mad bastards!”

He had seen Hoblin’s frantic signals, and now as the others turned away from the dead soldiers and cowering fishermen they saw the stiff pyramid of sails cleaving from the rain like some terrible dorsal fin.

“Cast off!
Make sail!
”

Searle dragged a seaman headlong over the gunwale as the two hulls drifted apart.

Browne watched the desperate preparations, the previous excitement changing into something like panic. But for the unexpected meeting with the other boat and its soldiers they would have escaped undetected.

He turned and stared across the quarter as the boat plunged over the crests and pointed her bows seaward once more. It had all taken a few minutes. It would not take much longer to end it.

The pursuing ship was changing tack with neat precision, her yards swinging together as she headed towards her quarry.

Hoblin remarked, “French corvette. Seen plenty round here.”

He spoke with nothing more than professional interest, as if he realized the hopelessness of it.

The other fishing boats had scattered in disorder, like spectators stampeding away from a mad bull.

Browne unfastened his borrowed coat and then threw it over the side. It would make no difference, but he felt better for it.

He heard Stirling talking to himself, in prayer, or to hold up his pretence of courage, he did not know.

“How long?”

Searle looked at him calmly. “Thirty minutes. Her captain will try to work round astern of us. There are some shallows near his larboard side, and he’ll want all the sea-room he can get to perform A

his execution!” Even he spoke without anger or bitterness.

The French man-of-war was small and agile, and from the deck of the fishing boat looked as big as a frigate. She was carrying so much sail it made Browne feel that their own boat was unmoving, and as the distance fell away he thought of Bolitho, waiting for the news he could no longer give him.

He blinked and realized that a tongue of flame had flashed from the Frenchman’s forecastle. Then came the bang and a fore-shortened whistle as a ball slapped down to starboard and ricocheted across the waves like a mad thing.

“Ranging shot, sir.”

Searle said sharply, “Alter course two points to starboard.”

The fishing boat responded slowly, and when the next ball sliced through the water it hurled a cascade of spray halfway across the deck.

Corporal Coote lay full length on the deck and tried to aim his musket at the pursuing ship.

Then disgustedly he said, “Can’t do it. I’ll wait a bit longer.

Might take a couple with me.”

Midshipman Stirling jammed his knuckles in his mouth and bit on them as another ball punched through the mainsail and threw up a tall waterspout a full cable away.

Searle said, “Trying to dismast us. Wants us taken alive.” He drew his hanger. “Not me.”

The game could not be prolonged for ever. As the land and all the other boats dropped back astern the corvette’s commander must have realized it was taking too long.

He altered course several points to larboard to present three of his forward gunports. Before he resumed his original course each gun fired a carefully laid shot, one of which smashed through the fishing boar’s counter with the force of a reef.

Hoblin lurched back on his feet and gasped, “Helm’s still answering, sir!”

Browne heard water gurgling and sluicing through the hold.

It was madness, pathetic and proud at the same time.

Searle nodded sharply, “Steady as you go then!”

Crash.
The corvette’s bow-chaser struck home with devastating effect. A marine who had been hurrying to help the seamen with the foresail spun round like a top, one leg severed by the ball before it ploughed on to kill two of the sailors and smash them into a broken, bloody shambles. Wood splinters flew everywhere, and the hull was so deep in the water it was a wonder they were making headway.

Browne stared at the dying marine with dismay. They were all being killed like dumb animals. What was the point? What did it prove?

Another waterspout shot above the bulwark, and Midshipman Stirling spun round, his hand clutching his arm where a feather of jagged wood stood out like a quill.

He gasped, “I’m all right, sir!” Then he stared at the blood which ran through his fingers and fainted.

Browne looked at Searle. “I can’t let them die like this!”

Corporal Coote lurched aft to join them and pointed through the smoke from the last shot.

“Mebbee they won’t ’ave to, sir!”

Browne turned and stared, unable to accept it, or that the corvette was going about, still wreathed in her own gunsmoke.

“It’s
Phalarope!
”

Nobody spoke, and even the dying marine lay silent as he stared up at the sky and waited for the pain to end.

With her gilded figurehead shining in the weak sunlight, the old frigate was shortening sail, her topmen spread along her yards like birds on perches as they stood inshore towards the sinking hulk.

Then Hoblin exclaimed, “Gawd, she’s taking a chance! If the Frogs come out now …”

“Never mind.” Browne stooped down and lifted the midshipman to his feet. “Get ready to abandon. Help the wounded.”

It could not be happening.

A voice echoed across the water. “We’re coming alongside!”

Browne watched the frigate’s yards swinging again, the way her deck lifted to the pressure of canvas as she was steered further and further into the wind.

There would not be much time.

Corporal Coote picked up a fallen musket and looked at the marine who had lost his leg.

“You won’t need this any more, mate.” He turned away from the dead marine, his eyes blank. “Be ready, lads!”

Phalarope
towered above them, and faces bobbed on the gangways to reappear on the chains or at the gunports, anywhere a man could be hauled to safety.

The next moments were like the climax of the same nightmare. Startled cries, the splintering of wood and the clatter of falling spars as the frigate drove unerringly against the listing boat.

Browne felt Searle thrust him towards some waiting seamen, and to his astonishment saw that he was half laughing, half sobbing as he shouted, “I’m last off. Only command I’ve ever had, y’see?”

Then Browne felt himself being dragged over hard and unyielding objects before being laid face upwards on the deck.

A shadow covered his eyes and he saw Pascoe looking down at him.

Browne managed to gasp, “How did you manage to get here?”

Pascoe smiled sadly. “My uncle arranged it, Oliver.”

Browne let his head fall back to the deck and closed his eyes.

“Madness.”

“Didn’t you know?” Pascoe beckoned to some seamen. “It runs in the family.”

BOLITHO stood with arms folded and watched his flag-lieutenant swallow a second glass of brandy.

Herrick grinned and said, “I think he needed that, sir.”

Browne placed the glass on the table and waited as Ozzard moved in like a dancer to refill it. Then he looked at his hands as if he was surprised they were not visibly shaking and said,

“There were some moments when I thought I had misjudged my abilities, sir.”

“You did well.”

Bolitho recalled his feelings when he had received the signal from
Phalarope.
The fishing boat had sunk, but all except three of the prize crew were safe.