The Only Victor (28 page)

Williams touched his hat, his eyes wild. “Cleared for action, sir!”

Poland looked at him coldly and then said, “That was smartly done, Mr Williams.” He looked past him and at the lines of watching gun crews, men who moments before had been thinking only of getting another tot to reward them for their efforts. “Do not load or run out as yet.” He turned and faced Bolitho. “We are ready, Sir Richard.” His pale eyes were opaque, like a man already dead.

Inskip touched Bolitho's sleeve. “Shall you
fight
them?” He sounded incredulous.

Bolitho did not answer. “You may hoist my flag at the fore, Captain Poland. I think there are no more secrets left to keep.”

Inskip's shoulders seemed to droop. It was perhaps the clearest reply of all.

As the next hour dragged remorselessly past, the sky grew clearer, the clouds breaking up as if to give every light to the scene. But the sun held no warmth, and spray when it flew over the tightly-packed hammock nettings felt like fragments of ice.

Bolitho took the big telescope from the senior midshipman and walked to the mizzen shrouds. Without haste he climbed into the ratlines and steadied himself while he waited for his mind to clear. He could see the leading French frigate quite easily, still holding on to her original converging tack, every sail spread and bulging from the wind. She was big, forty guns or more at a guess, with her Tricolour standing out like bright metal. The other vessel was slightly smaller, but well equal to
Truculent.
Very deliberately he raised the heavy glass and watched the picture sharpen. How near she looked now; he could imagine the sounds of voices and the creak of gun-tackles as the crews waited impatiently for the order to run out. Around and behind his back he could sense a silence, and knew that all eyes were on him as he studied the enemy. Measuring their chances against his confidence. Seeing death in any uncertainty. The French were taking their time despite the great press of canvas. If there was to be any chance . . . he slammed the glass shut with sudden anger.
I must never think like that, or we are already lost.

He returned to the deck and handed the telescope to the midshipman.

“Thank you, Mr Fellowes.” He did not see the pleased surprise in the youth's eyes at the easy familiarity of his name. He crossed to Poland's side where Inskip and his secretary, the lugubrious Agnew, waited anxiously for his assessment.

Bolitho avoided the others and said, “Captain Poland, make more sail if you please.” He glanced up at the braced yards and lofty sails framed by the washed-out blue sky. “The wind has eased somewhat—you will not tear the sticks out of her, I think.”

He expected a protest, even an argument, but before Poland turned away to pass his orders to the first lieutenant, Bolitho thought he saw something like relief on his set features. Calls trilled and once again hands clambered aloft with the agility of monkeys. From the quarterdeck Bolitho saw the great mainyard bending like a bow to the following wind, heard the crack and rattle of canvas as the remaining royals were freed to lend their thrust to the ship.

Poland came back breathing hard. “Sir?”

Bolitho looked at him searchingly. Not a man who would crack, no matter what he might think of the coming fight and its likely conclusion. “The French will adopt their usual tactics today. The leading ship will continue to close until she can reach us with her fire.” He saw Poland's bleak eyes following his arm as he pointed over towards the enemy, as if he could already see the lurid flash of cannon fire. “It is my belief that their senior officer will be confident, perhaps too much so.”

Inskip muttered, “So would
I
be, in his shoes!”

Bolitho ignored him. “He will try to cripple
Truculent,
doubtless with chain-shot or langridge, while his consort attempts to rake our stern. A divided attack is commonly used in this way.” He watched his words hitting home. “It must not happen.” He saw Poland flinch as a line snapped somewhere high above the deck. Like a pistol shot. “If they are allowed to board us we'll be done for.” He nodded beyond the stern. “And there is always our little scavenger waiting to lend her weight to the fight.”

Poland licked his lips. “What must we do, Sir Richard?”

Inskip snapped, “It's hopeless, if you ask me!”

Bolitho turned on him. “Well, I do
not,
Sir Charles! So if you have nothing sensible to offer I suggest you go below to the orlop and do something useful to help the surgeon!” He saw Inskip flush with anger, and added bitterly, “And
if
you ever reach London again, may I suggest that you explain to your masters, and mine, what they are asking people to do!” He waved his hand briefly over the crouching gun crews. “What
they
face each time a King's ship is called to arms!”

When he turned again Inskip and his secretary had disappeared. He smiled at Poland's surprise and said, “It were better left to us, I think, eh, Captain?” He felt suddenly calm again, so much so that there was no sensation left in his limbs. “I ordered more sail so that the French will think we are trying to run for it. They are already following suit, I see, every stitch they can muster, for this is a rich prize indeed. English
plotters
and a fine frigate to boot—no, the Frenchman will not wish to lose out on this!”

Poland nodded with slow understanding. “You intend to luff and come about, Sir Richard?”

“Aye.” He touched his arm. “Come walk awhile. The enemy will not be in useful range for half an hour at a guess. I have always found it helps to loosen the muscles, relax the mind.” He smiled at him, knowing how important it was for
Truculent
's company to see their captain at ease.

Bolitho added, “It will have to be smartly done, sails reduced instantly as the helm goes over. Then we can tack between them and rake them both.”

Poland nodded jerkily. “I have always trained them well, Sir Richard!”

Bolitho clasped his hands behind him. That was more like it. Poland rising to any sort of criticism.
He had to believe.
He must think only of the first move.

Bolitho said, “May I suggest you place your first lieutenant by the foremast so that he can control, even point each gun himself. There will be no time for a second chance.” He saw him nod. “It is no place for a junior lieutenant.”

Poland called to Williams. While they were in deep discussion, with several meaning glances towards the nearest pyramid of sails, Bolitho said to Jenour, “Keep on the move, Stephen.” He saw the flag lieutenant's eyes blink. “It will be warm work today, I fear.”

Allday massaged his chest with his hand and watched the too familiar preparations, and the way the third lieutenant stared at Williams as he passed him on his way aft. He probably saw his own removal from the forward guns as a lack of confidence in his ability. He would soon know why, Allday decided. He thought suddenly of Bolitho's offer.

Perhaps a little alehouse near Falmouth, with a rosy-cheeked widow-woman to take care of. No more danger, the scream of shot and dying men, the awful crash of falling spars. And pain, always the pain.

“Leadin' ship's runnin' out, sir!”

Poland glanced at Bolitho and then snapped, “Very well, open the ports. Load and run out the
starboard
battery!”

Bolitho clenched his fist. Poland had remembered. Had he run out the guns on either side it would have shown the enemy what he intended as plainly as if he had spelled out a signal.

“Ready, sir!” That was Williams, somehow out of place up forward instead of on the quarterdeck.

“Run out!”

Squealing like disgruntled hogs, the maindeck eighteen-pounders trundled up to their ports, each crew watching the other so that the broadside was presented as one.

There was a dull bang and seconds later a thin waterspout leapt from the sea some fifty yards from the starboard bow. A sighting shot.

Poland wiped his face with his fingers. “Stand by to come about!
Be ready,
Mr Hull!”

Bolitho saw Munro, the second lieutenant, stride to the chart-table near the companion hatch and pull aside its canvas cover.

Bolitho walked slowly past the tense group around the wheel, the marines waiting at braces and halliards, knowing that with so much canvas above them one error could crush them under an avalanche of broken masts and rigging.

The young lieutenant stiffened as Bolitho's shadow fell across the open log book, in which he had just noted the time of the first shot.

“Is there something I can do, Sir Richard?”

“I was just looking at the date. But no, it's not important.”

He moved away again and knew that Allday had drawn nearer to him.

It was his birthday.
Bolitho touched the shape of the locket through his shirt.
May love always protect you.

It was like hearing her speak those same words aloud.

Poland slammed down his hand.
“Now!”

In seconds, or so it seemed, the great courses were brailed and fisted to their yards, opening up to the sea around them like curtains on a stage.

“Helm a'lee! Hard over, damn your eyes!”

Voices and calls echoed over the deck as men threw themselves on the braces to haul the yards round while the deck swayed over to the violent change of course. Gun crews abandoned their charges and ran to the opposite side to supplement the depleted numbers there, and as the ports squeaked open they ran out their eighteen-pounders, aided this time by the steep tilt of the deck. Spray lanced through the ports and over the nettings, and some of the crew gaped in astonishment as the leading French frigate seemed to materialise right before their eyes, when moments earlier she had been on the opposite beam.

“As you bear!”
Lieutenant Williams held up his sword as he lurched along the deck by the larboard carronade. “A guinea for the first strike!”

A midshipman named Brown shouted, “I'll double that, sir!”

They grinned at one another like urchins.

“Fire!”

The battery fired as one, the deafening roar of the long eighteen-pounders completely blocking out the sounds of the enemy's response. The French captain had been taken by surprise, and only half of his guns had been brought to bear on the wildly tacking
Truculent.
The enemy's sails were in total chaos as her topmen tried to take the way off her and follow
Truculent
's example.

Aft by the compass box, Bolitho felt the deck shudder as some of the enemy's iron crashed into the hull. The sea's face was feathered with flying chain-shot which had been intended for
Truculent
's mast and rigging.

Poland yelled, “Stand by to starboard, Mr Williams!”

Men scampered back to their stations at the other battery, as they had drilled so many times. The range was much greater, and the second French ship lay bows on, her topsails rippling and spilling wind while her captain tried to change tack.

“As you bear, lads!” Williams crouched by the first division of guns, then sliced the air with his sword.
“Fire!”

Bolitho held his breath as gun by gun along
Truculent
's side the long orange tongues spat out from this carefully timed broadside. But the enemy was still almost end-on, a difficult target at a range of some two cables. He hid his disbelief as like a great tree the frigate's foremast seemed to bow forward under the pressure of the wind. But it did not stop; and with it went the trailing mass of broken shrouds and running rigging, and then the whole topmast, until the forward part of the vessel was completely hidden by fallen debris. It must have been almost the last shot of the battery. But just one eighteen-pound ball was enough.

Bolitho looked at Poland's smoke-stained features. “Better odds, Captain?”

The seamen, who were already training the quarterdeck nine-pounders with their handspikes, looked at him and gave a hoarse cheer.

Allday slitted his eyes against the funnelling smoke and watched the leading frigate as she eventually came under command. She lay down to larboard now, her maincourse brailed up, but several others punctured by
Truculent
's cannon fire. Bolitho had stolen the wind-gage from the Frenchie, but it was all they had. One thing was certain: Poland could never have done it, would never have
tried
to attempt it. He saw Bolitho glance up at the sails and then towards the enemy. As in memory. Like at The Saintes in their first ship together, the
Phalarope.
Bolitho was still that captain, no matter what his rank and title said. He glared at the cheering, capering seamen.
Fools.
They would change their tune damn soon. He gripped his cutlass more tightly.
And here it comes.

Williams raised his sword and looked aft at the captain. “Ready to larboard, sir!”