Command a King's Ship (39 page)

“Boarders away!”

Bolitho waited, gripping the main shrouds, gauging the mo- ment as Soames roared, “Cease firing! At 'em, lads! Cut the bastards down!”

Then he was across, clinging to the enemy's boarding nets, which had been rent in great holes by the broadsides. Muljadi's own plans must have been ready, for there seemed to be hundreds of men surging to meet the cheering, cursing rush of boarders.

Muskets and pistols, while from somewhere overhead a swivel banged out, the packed canister tearing across the enemy's quarter- deck, hurling wood splinters and bodies in all directions.

A bearded face loomed out of the smoke, and Bolitho slashed at it, holding to the nets to keep from falling outboard and being crushed between the hulls. The man shrieked and dropped from view. A marine thrust Bolitho aside, screaming like a madman as he pinned a man with his bayonet before wrenching out the blade and ramming the musket's butt into a wounded pirate who was trying to crawl out of the fight.

Allday ducked under a cutlass and caught his attacker off- balance. He even pushed the man away with his left fist, giving himself room for a proper stroke with his own blade. It sounded like an axe on wood.

Bellairs was striding in the centre of a squad of marines, snap- ping unheard commands, his elegant hanger darting in and out like a silver tongue as he forced his way aft towards the enemy's quarterdeck.

Another wave of insane cheering, and Bolitho saw Soames leading his own boarding party up and over the frigate's main shrouds, muskets barking point-blank into the press below him, his sword crossing with that of a tall, lank-haired officer whom Bolitho remembered as Le Chaumareys's first lieutenant.

Soames slipped and sprawled across an upended cannon, and the Frenchman drew back his arm for the fatal thrust. But a marine was nearby, the musket ball taking away most of the lieutenant's skull and hurling him from the deck like a rag doll.

Bolitho realised that Allday was shaking him by the arm, try- ing to make him understand something.

He yelled, “The
hold,
Captain!” He jabbed at the wide hatch- ways with his cutlass. “The bastards have set her afire!”

Bolitho stared at it, his brain and mind reeling from the screams and cheers, the grate of steel, the madness of close action. The smoke was already thicker. Perhaps Allday was right, or maybe a burning wad from one of
Undine
's guns had found its way into the hull when Soames had sent his last broadside crashing home. Either way, both ships would be destroyed unless he acted, and at once.

He yelled, “Captain Bellairs!
Fall back!
”

He saw Bellairs gaping at him, blood dripping unheeded from a gash on his forehead.

Then he, too, seemed to get a grip on his own lust of battle and shouted, “Sound the retreat!” He sought out his sergeant whose massive frame had somehow avoided both steel and musket ball. “Coaker! Take that fool's name if he don't do as I ask!”

Coaker gripped a small marine drummer boy, but he was dead, his eyes glazed and unseeing as Coaker wrenched the trumpet from his hands and blew it with all his might.

It was almost harder to discontinue the battle than to board the other frigate. Back and back, here and there a man falling, or being hauled bodily across the gap between the hulls to avoid cap- ture. The pirates had at last seen their own danger, and without the French lieutenant in command they seemed intent only on aban- doning their ship as quickly as they could.

The first tongue of flame licked through a hatch, bringing a chorus of shrieks from the abandoned wounded, and within sec- onds the gratings and surrounding boat tier were well ablaze.

Bolitho gripped the ratlines and took a last look as his men threw themselves on to
Undine
's gangway. Forward, Shellabeer's men were already cutting the lashing which held the hulls together, and with the topsails once more braced round, and the helm over,
Undine
began to sidle clear, the wind holding the smoke and sparks away from her own canvas and vulnerable rigging.

Mudge panted, “What now, sir?”

Bolitho watched the frigate slipping past, a few crazed men still firing across the widening gap.

He shouted, “A final broadside, Mr. Soames!”

But it was already too late. A great sheet of flame burst upwards through the vessel's gun deck, setting the broken foremast and sails alight and leaping to the mainyards like part of a forest fire.

Bolitho heard himself reply, “Get the forecourse on her, and smartly with it. We'll not be able to beat back the way we came. That ship's magazine will go at any moment, so we will try the eastern channel.”

Mudge said, “May be too shallow, sir.”

“Would you burn, Mr. Mudge?”

He strode to the taffrail to watch the frigate as the blaze en- gulfed the poop. An English ship. It were better this way, he thought vaguely.

He turned and added harshly, “Mr. Davy, I want a full report of damage.” He waited, seeing the wildness draining from his eyes. “And the bill for all this.”

Bolitho saw the yards edging round, the sails, pockmarked and blackened by the fight, hardening to the wind. The channel seemed wide enough. About a cable to starboard, more on the other side. He had managed worse.

“Boat in the water, sir!” Keen was standing in the shrouds with his telescope. “Just two men in it.”

Mudge called, “I'll 'old 'er steady, sir. We're steerin' almost nor'-east again, but I dunno—”

The rest of his words were lost as Keen yelled, “Sir!
Sir!
” He stared down at Bolitho, his face shining with disbelief.

Davy snapped, “Keep your head, Mr. Keen!”

But Keen did not seem to hear. “It's Mr. Herrick!”

Bolitho stared at him and then clambered up beside him. The boat was a wreck, and the scrawny figure who was now standing to wave a scrap of rag above his head, looked like a scarecrow. Lying in the bottom of the boat, half-covered with water, was Herrick.

As he held the telescope Bolitho could feel his hands shaking violently, and saw Herrick's face, ashen beneath a rough bandage. Then he saw his eyes open, imagined the other man shouting the news to him, his words as plain as if he could hear them himself.

He said, “Pass the word to the bosun. I want that boat grappled alongside.” He gripped the midshipman's wrist. “And tell him to be careful. There'll be no second chance.”

Allday had gone below for something. Now he was back, his eyes everywhere, until Bolitho said quietly, “The first lieutenant is coming aboard. Go forrard and bid him welcome for me, eh?”

As the frigate slipped past another shelving hump of land the sun came down to greet them, to warm their aching limbs, to hold the shock of battle at arm's length a while longer. A deep explosion came from the main channel, and more smoke spouted high above the nearest land to show the wind which awaited them in open water, and to sound the other vessel's final destruction.

Muljadi may or may not have been aboard, and the real fight was still ahead.

Bolitho heard shouts from forward, and then a cheer as some seamen clambered into the sinking boat to pluck Herrick and his companion back on board.

But whatever was waiting beyond the green humps of land, no matter how hopeless their gesture might be, they would be together.

18
IN
THE
K
ING
'
S
NAME

“A
LTER
course two points.”

Bolitho tried to pace along the littered deck, but was unable to overcome his anxiety. It was an hour since they had edged into the eastern channel, under minimum canvas and with two leadsmen in the chains they had felt their way towards the sea.

An hour of answering demands and listening to reports. Ten killed, fifteen wounded, half of them seriously. Considering what they had done, it was a small enough bill, but as he watched the familiar bundles awaiting burial, or heard occasional cries from the main hatch, he found little comfort in it.

If only Allday would come on deck and tell him about Herrick. He had already questioned the surviving seaman. It had been the little man called Lincoln, the one with the permanent grin made by a grotesque scar.

Bolitho had watched him reliving it as he had stammered out his description, oblivious to his captain and officers crowding around him, and seemingly only half aware he was actually alive.

It had been much as Bolitho had imagined. Herrick had de- cided to destroy the battery, drive his schooner aground regardless of risk and the inevitability of death. At the last moment, with the fuse lit and the vessel being fired on from a hillside, Herrick had been struck by a falling block from the mainmast. The little sea- man had said in a whisper, “Then up comes Mister Pigsliver, as cool as you please. ‘Take to th' boat,' he shouts. ‘I've an old score to settle,' though 'e didn't say wot 'e meant like. By then there was only three 'ands left. So me an' Jethro lowers Mr. 'Errick into the dory, but t'other bloke, the little sailmaker named Potter, 'e decides to stay with the Don.” He had given a great shudder. “So off we goes. Then the schooner blows up like the gates of 'ell, an' poor Jethro was lost overboard. I just kept paddlin', and prayin' that Mr. 'Errick would stir to 'is senses an' tell me wot to do.” He had paused, sobbing soundlessly. “Then I looks up, an'
there she is,
large as life, th' old
Undine.
I shakes Mr. 'Errick and calls to 'im, ‘look alive, sir, the ship's a' comin' for us,' an' 'e— well— 'e just looks at me an' says, ‘an' wot did you expect?' ”

Bolitho had said quietly, “Thank you, Lincoln, I shall see you do not go unrewarded.”

The little man had added, “An' you'll not forget to mention a piece about Mister Pigsliver, sir? I—I mean, 'e may be a Don, sir, but, but . . .” Then he had broken down completely.

Now, as he moved restlessly past the six-pounders where the gun captains knelt in the sunlight, checking their equipment, test- ing the tackles, their bodies stained with smoke and dried blood, Bolitho said to himself, “No, I will not forget.”

“Deck there!”

He looked up, his eyes smarting in the glare.

“Open water ahead, sir!”

Shoes scraped by the cabin hatch and he swung round.

“Allday, where the
devil
have you been?”

But it was not Allday.

Bolitho strode across the deck and held out both hands. “Thomas!” He gripped Herrick's hands in his, oblivious to the watching faces on every side. “I don't know what to say!”

Herrick smiled sadly. “I am the same, sir.”

“You should remain below until—”

“Deck there! Ship to the east'rd!”

Herrick withdrew his hands and replied quietly, “I am the first lieutenant, sir.” He looked slowly around the quarterdeck, at the protruding splinters and the flapping edges of torn hammocks where musket balls had ripped home. “My place is here.”

Davy crossed the deck and touched his hat. “Beat to quarters again, sir?”

“Yes.”

Davy looked at Herrick and smiled. “It seems you had no bet- ter luck in holding on to the schooner than I.” He added, “I am relieved you are here, and that's the truth.”

Herrick touched the fresh bandage on his head and winced. “If it had not been sworn otherwise, I would have said that Don Puigserver struck me down himself. He was that eager to finish what we had begun.”

He fell silent as the drums rattled out their tattoo and the loll- ing figures by guns and braces stirred themselves into life.

Bolitho was watching the last shoulder of land sliding away, the expanse of blue water and lively wavecrests growing and spreading to reveal an endless, dazzling horizon.

To larboard, her hull and spars black against the glare, lay the
Argus
. She appeared to be moving very slowly, her yards well braced to hold her on a converging tack.

Herrick muttered, “Four miles, I'd say.”

“About that.”

Bolitho studied the other ship, unable to look away. She re- minded him of a wild cat, the way she edged across the busy, white-capped waves. Stealthy, purposeful. Lethal.

He imagined he could hear the squeak of trucks as her smooth sides became barbed by gun muzzles. Le Chaumareys was taking his time. Waiting for Bolitho to make the first move.

He looked away at last, feeling the tension returning, but heavier than before. Perhaps Le Chaumareys had planned it this way, distrusting his ally Muljadi, guessing that Bolitho might bring off a stalemate, if not a victory, if he chose his own method of attack.

The
Undine
's company had fought hard. He looked search- ingly at the shot holes and punctured sails, heard the hammers as Pryke, the portly carpenter, and his mates got busy on repairs in the lower hull, and knew it was asking much of them to fight yet again, and to win against this great, black-hulled veteran of the French navy.

Then he glanced at those nearest him. He needed every bit of skill and experience they possessed, not least their courage.

“Well, Mr. Mudge, what of the wind now?”

“It'll get up, sir.” Mudge took out his handkerchief and blew his great nose violently. “Might back a bit.” He gestured up at the masthead pendant. It was stiff, like a spear. “I'd suggest, beggin' yer pardon, sir, that you fights under topsails only.”

Bolitho turned to Herrick. “What do you say?”

Herrick was watching the other ship, his eyes like slits. “Get to grips, sir. He'll pound us to pieces with those long guns otherwise.”

The deck lifted across the first true roller, and spray drifted high above the nettings.

“Let's be about it then.” Bolitho licked his parched lips. “Get the forecourse off her.” He dropped his voice. “And have those corpses buried directly. It does no good to see where some of us will end this morning.”

Herrick watched him calmly. “I can think of better reasons for dying.” He glanced at the motionless seamen by the guns. “But no better place for it.”

Bolitho walked to the rail and watched the
Argus
for several minutes. Le Chaumareys had a good position. He had probably considered it very carefully. He was over there now, watching him, expecting him to act. To try and take the wind-gage, or to alter course and attempt to cross his stern and cripple him with one good broadside as he passed.

The French frigate dipped to the swell, showing her copper for several seconds. The wind was tight across her exposed side, but Le Chaumareys was holding back, keeping on
Undine
's larboard bow, barely making headway.

Bolitho bit his lip, his eyes running in the sun's fierce stare. His men would find it hard to shoot well into the blinding sunlight.

When he looked at the gun deck again he saw that the corpses were gone.

Herrick came aft and said, “All done.”

He saw Bolitho's intent features and asked quietly, “Is some- thing wrong, sir?”

“I think I am starting to understand Le Chaumareys.” He could feel his heart beginning to pound again, the familiar chill at his neck and spine. “I think he
wants
us to have the wind-gage.”

“But, sir . . .” Herrick's blue eyes darted to the
Argus
and back again. “Is the sun in our eyes of greater value to him?” Understand- ing spread across his round face. “It might well be. He can stand off and use his heavy artillery to better result.”

Bolitho turned, his eyes flashing. “Well, it's not to be, Mr. Herrick! Get the t'gallants on her directly!” He added, “I am sorry, Mr. Mudge, but if we lose the sticks out of her to your damned wind it may be better than losing them the other way!”

Herrick was already raising his speaking trumpet. “Hands aloft! Loose t'ga'n's'ls!” When he looked at Bolitho again there was little to show what he had so recently endured. “By God, sir, what we miss in weight we can show that bastard in agility today!”

Bolitho grinned at him, his lips painful. “Alter course two points to starboard. We'll run for his bows.”

Allday folded his arms and watched Bolitho's shoulders, and then glanced up at the flag as it rippled in the freshening wind.

“And that is
all
the running you'll be doing, I'm thinking.”

“East nor'-east, sir!” Carwithen had one hand resting on the pol- ished spokes as the helmsmen concentrated on the compass and the set of the sails overhead. “Steady as she goes!”

Mudge rubbed his hands on his coat. “She's movin' well, sir.”

Bolitho lowered his telescope and nodded thoughtfully. The extra power of the topgallants was laying
Undine
firmly in line across the other ship's path.
Argus
had not set any additional sail. Yet. He winced as the sunlight lanced down from the lens. Le Chaumareys still held the best position. He could alter course to lee'rd and present his broadside as
Undine
tried to pass him. Equally, he could allow her to cross his bows, and while she lost time in changing tack, he could take the wind-gage, sun's glare or not, and attack him from the other side.

Herrick said hoarsely, “He's holding the same course. He may have let her fall off a point, but there's nothing in it.” He breathed out slowly. “She makes a fair sight, God rot her!”

Bolitho smiled tightly.
Argus
had barely changed her bearing, but that was because
Undine
had altered course to starboard. She was much closer now, a bare two miles, so that he could see her red and yellow figurehead, the purposeful movement of figures about her sloping quarterdeck.

There was a sudden bang, and seconds later a thin waterspout rose lazily amongst the tossing wavecrests, slightly ahead of
Undine
's path, and half a cable short. Ranging shot, or merely to unnerve
Undine
's own gun crew. Another of Le Chaumareys's little ruses.

Herrick muttered fervently, “If I know the Frogs, he'll try and dismast us with chain-shot and langridge. Another prize for his bloody ally!”

“You don't know
this
Frenchman, Mr. Herrick.” Bolitho re- called Le Chaumareys's face when he had spoken of home, his France which he had been denied for so long. “My guess is he'll want a complete victory.”

The word made him feel uneasy. He could even picture
Undine
dismasted and wallowing amongst her own dead and dying before her final plunge. Like the one he himself had just destroyed. Like
Nervion
, and so many he had watched crumble and perish.

The stage was set. Two ships, with not even a seabird to watch their manœuvres, their dedicated efforts to outwit each other.

“There, sir! He's setting his t'gallants!” Carwithen's voice jarred him from his thoughts.

Herrick exclaimed, “He intends to outreach us after all.”

Bolitho watched intently as the
Argus
's upper yards filled with freshly-set, bulging canvas. He could see the instant effect it had around her raked stem as she bit into the waves and thrust forward with sudden haste.

From his position behind the rail it looked to Bolitho as if the other ship's jib-boom was actually touching his own, although she was still over a mile away. Smoke wreathed above her hull, and he held his breath as the bright tongues of fire licked from her exposed ports.

The sea boiled and shot skywards as the heavy balls ploughed into the wind-ruffled water, or ricocheted away far abeam. One ball smashed hard down alongside, the shock transmitting itself to the very mastheads.

“Trying to rattle our wits!”

Herrick was grinning, but Bolitho saw the anxiety behind his eyes.

Le Chaumareys had not seemed the kind of man who wasted gestures on the wind. He was preparing his gun crews, showing them the range, probably telling them right now in his resonant voice exactly what he expected of them.