Command a King's Ship (38 page)

A dull bang echoed across the water, and a man yelled, “They've opened fire, sir!”

Bolitho reached out for a telescope, seeing the grim faces of the seamen by the nearest guns. Waiting, behind closed ports. Hoping. Dreading.

He trained the glass with difficulty, his legs well braced on the swaying, slippery planking. He saw the schooner's masts swim past the lens, the patch of scarlet which had not been there before. He felt himself smiling, although he wanted to weep, to plead unheard words across those two miles of tossing white-horses. Herrick had hoisted his own ensign. To him, the schooner was not merely a floating bomb, she was a ship,
his
ship. Or perhaps he was trying, with that one simple gesture, to explain to Bolitho, too. To show he understood.

Another bang, and this time he saw the smoke from the bat- tery before it was whisked away. A feather of spray lifted well out beyond the schooner to mark where the massive ball had fallen.

He kept his glass on the schooner. He saw the way the deck was leaning over, showing the bilges above the leaping spray, and knew Herrick could not lash the tiller for the final, and most dan- gerous, part of the journey.

Davy yelled, “That ball was
over,
sir!”

Bolitho lowered the glass, Davy's words reaching through his anxiety. The fortress lookout must have sighted
Undine
and not Herrick's little schooner. And by the time Muljadi's men had realised what was happening, Herrick had tacked too close inshore for the gunners to depress their muzzles sufficiently to hit him.

He looked again as a double explosion shuddered across the water. He saw the flashes only briefly, but watched the twin water- spouts burst skyward directly in line with the schooner, but on the seaward side of her.

Captain Bellairs forgot his usual calm and gripped the sergeant's arm and shouted, “By God, Sar'nt Coaker, he's goin'
to sail her aground himself!
”

It took a few more seconds before the truth filtered the length and breadth of the frigate's decks.

Then, as the word moved gun by gun towards the bows, men stood and yelled like maniacs, waving their neckerchiefs, or capering on the sanded decks like children. From the tops and the forecastle others joined, and even Midshipman Armitage, who moments earlier had been gripping a belaying pin rack as if to stop himself from falling, waved his hat in the air and yelled, “Go on! You'll show them!”

Bolitho cleared his throat. “Ask the masthead. Can he see the frigates?”

He tried not to think of the schooner's crammed holds. The fuse, perhaps already hissing quietly in the peace of the lower hull.

“Aye, sir! He can see the yards of the first one around the point!” Even Davy was wild-eyed, indifferent to the fight still to come, overwhelmed by Herrick's sacrifice.

There was more cannon fire now, and he could see splashes all around the schooner's hull. Probably from the nearest anchored frigate, or some smaller pieces on the spit of land which guarded the entrance. Bolitho found he was gritting his jaw so hard it was hurting badly.

The French were at last aware that something was happening, but they would not have guessed the full extent of the danger.

There was a combined groan from the watching hands. Bolitho raised the glass and saw the schooner's maintopmast buckle and then plunge down in a flailing mass of canvas and rigging.

Half to himself he whispered, “Fall back, Thomas! In God's name, come about!”

Allday said, “She's hit again, Captain. Badly this time.”

Bolitho dragged his mind away, knowing he must not think of Herrick.
Later
. But in minutes those guns would be ranging on
Undine
as she made that last desperate dash into the channel.

He drew his sword and held it above his head.

“See yonder, lads!” He only vaguely saw their faces turn to- wards him. It was like looking through a mist. “Mr. Herrick has shown us the way!”

“She's struck!” Davy was almost beside himself. “Hard and fast!”

The schooner had hit, lifted and then plunged firmly across the litter of broken rocks and stones. Exactly as they had pictured it. Had planned it with Conway's silver inkwells.

Even without a glass it was possible to see some small boats moving from the fortress's pier towards the stranded hull which now lay totally dismasted, the spray leaping over it like some old hulk. Occasional stabs of fire showed where marksmen were firing into the wreckage, and Bolitho prayed that the fuse was still alight, that Herrick would not be captured alive.

The explosion when it came was so sudden, so violent in colour and magnitude that it was hard to face, harder still to gauge. A solid wall of orange flame exploded from the rocks and spread out on either hand like huge fiery wings, engulfing the circling boats, searing away men and weapons and reducing them into ashes.

And then the sound came. When it reached the frigate it was with a steadily mounting roar which went on and on, until men stood clutching their ears, or staring stupefied at the miniature tidal wave which rolled past the frigate's hull, lifting it easily before dissipating itself astern in the last departing shadows.

Then it died away, as did the fires, leaving only tiny, glowing pinpricks of red and orange, like slow-matches, to show where gorse and brush still smouldered on the hillside.

Once again, the sea and wind, the sounds of tackle and canvas returned, and Bolitho heard men talking, almost whispering, as if they had just witnessed an act of God.

He said harshly, “Brail up the forecourse, Mr. Davy!” He walked to the rail, each step like physical pain. “Mr. Shellabeer! Cast all but the quarter boat adrift!” He must keep talking. Get them moving again. Clear that dreadful pyre from his own brain.

He saw Soames watching him and shouted, “Load and run out, if you please!”

His words were almost lost in the flap and thunder of rebel- lious canvas as the big forecourse was brailed up to its yard. Like a curtain, he thought dully. Pulled away for the final scene. So that nothing should be missed.

He heard the port lids squeaking in unison, and then, as Soames barked his command, the gun crews threw themselves on their tackles, and with increasing haste the black muzzles rumbled towards the daylight, thrusting out above the creaming water on either beam.

Davy touched his hat. “All guns run out, sir!” He looked strained.

“Thank you.”

Bolitho kept his eyes on the dark hump astride the channel. No flashes from those great muzzles. It had worked. Even if the garrison managed to manhandle some of the guns from the far side of the fortress it would be too late to fire on
Undine
as she surged into the drifting curtain of smoke.

He shaded his eyes and stared towards the spit of land, the dark lines which marked the masts and yards of the first anchored ship.
Soon. Soon.
He gripped the sword until his knuckles showed white. He could feel the hurt and the anger. The rising madness, which only revenge for Herrick would control.

And there was the sunlight, growing stronger every dragging minute. He climbed into the weather shrouds, heedless of the wind and leaping spray which dappled his coat like bright gems. Abeam he could see
Undine
's shadow reaching away across the broken water, his own blurred outline like part of the fabric itself.

He looked down at Mudge. “Get ready to alter course once we are past that spit!”

He waited while those at the braces took the strain, each man an individual now as the sunlight found his naked back, or a tattoo, or some extra long pigtail to mark a seasoned sailor. He jumped down to the deck, tugging at his neckcloth, as if it were strangling him.

“Marines, stand to!” Bellairs had drawn his elegant hanger and was watching while his men nestled their long muskets on the closely packed hammock nettings.

At every open port a gun captain crouched with his lanyard almost taut as he watched for the first sign of a target.

The spit of land reached out as if to touch the bilges as the ship swept inshore, her bow wave causing a ripple amongst some jagged rocks which Bolitho remembered from his other visit.

“Braces there!”

Mudge shouted, “Put the wheel to larboard! Lively now!”

Like a thoroughbred,
Undine
heeled round under pressure of canvas and rudder, the yards swinging together as she turned into the sunlight.

“Steer nor'-east by east!” Mudge heaved his ungainly bulk to assist the helmsmen. “
'Old 'er,
you buggers!”

There were several muffled bangs, and a ball cracked through the foretopsail with the sound of a whiplash.

But Bolitho barely noticed it. He was staring at the anchored frigate, the scrambling activity along her yards and deck where her company prepared for sea.

Davy echoed his dismay. “She's not the
Argus,
sir!”

Bolitho nodded. It was the other frigate. The one which had been abandoned by her crew. He screwed up his eyes, trying to watch every movement, still attempting to accept what had hap- pened.

Le Chaumareys had gone. By chance? Or had he once again proved his superiority, a cunning which had never been out- matched?

Almost savagely he lifted the old blade over his head and yelled, “Starboard battery! As you bear!” The sword caught the glare as it cut down.
“Fire!”

The broadside roared and flashed along
Undine
's starboard side, gun by gun, each captain taking his aim while Soames strode past every recoiling breech, yelling and peering towards the enemy. Bolitho watched the smoke spouting from the ports and rolling towards the other ship which seemed suspended in the fog, her hull lying almost diagonally across the starboard bow.

Here and there a gun flashed out in reply, and he felt the deck planking jerk under his feet as at least one ball smashed into the side.

The quarterdeck gun crews were all shouting and cursing as they, too, joined in the battle. The stocky six-pounders hurled themselves inboard on the tackles, the wild-eyed seamen sponging out and ramming home fresh charges within seconds.

Overhead, and splashing violently into the channel on either beam, came a fusilade of smaller shot, from fortress or frigate Bolitho neither knew nor cared. As he paced briskly athwart the deck by the quarterdeck rail he saw nothing but the other ship's raked masts, the patch of colour from the prancing beast of her flag, the rising pall of smoke as again and again
Undine
's broadside thundered into her.

Once he chilled as he saw some charred flotsam bobbing past the quarter, a headless corpse pirouetting in
Undine
's crisp bow wave, tendrils of scarlet moving around it like obscene weed.

Herrick had known the
Argus
had gone. He must have seen the anchorage long before anyone in
Undine.
He would never have faltered. Bolitho felt his eyes stinging again, the hatred boiling inside him as the quarterdeck guns cracked out, their sharp deto- nations making his mind cringe even as their crews scrambled with handspikes to edge their weapons round for another salvo.

Herrick would have accepted it. As he had in the past. It was what he had lived for.

Bolitho shouted aloud, heedless of Mudge and Davy nearby. “God damn them for their plans and their stupidity!”

Keen called, “They've cut their cable, sir!”

Bolitho ran to the nettings, feeling a musket ball punch into the deck by his feet. It was true, Muljadi's frigate was yawing slug- gishly in wind and current, her stern swinging like a gate across
Undine
's path. Someone must have lost his nerve, or perhaps in the confusion of the exploding schooner and
Undine
's savage attack an order had been misunderstood.

He yelled, “We'll go alongside her! Stand by the tops'l hal- liards! Put the helm a'lee!”

As men dashed to the braces again, and topsails flapped and thundered wildly to their sudden freedom,
Undine
turned deliber- ately to larboard, her jib-boom sweeping round until it pointed to the distant pier and the litter of smouldering craft left by the ex- plosion.

Soames bellowed, “Point! Ready!” He was peering, red- eyed, along his panting gun crews, his sword held out like a staff. “Drag that man away!” He ran forward to help pull a wounded seaman from a twelve-pounder. “Now!” His sword flashed down.
“Broadside!”

This time, the whole battery exploded in a single wall of flames, the long tongues darting into the smoke, making it rise and twist, as if it, too, was dying in agony.

Someone gave a hoarse cheer. “There goes th' bastard's fore!”

Bolitho ran to the gangway, marines and seamen pounding behind him.

High above the smoke the nimble topmen were already hurling their steel grapnels, jeering at one another as they raced even here to beat their opposite numbers on the other masts. An- other cheer, as with a shuddering lurch
Undine
drove alongside the drifting frigate, her bowsprit rising above the poop. While the impetus carried them closer and closer together, the guns still bel- lowed, louder now as their fury matched across a bare thirty feet of tormented water.