The Only Victor (44 page)

Bolitho watched the sky, his eye at ease in the darkness. First light was not far off, but for the present it was only anticipation, a sense of uneasiness like the sea's deceptive smile before a raging gale.

He tried to imagine the ship as the enemy would gauge her. A fine big three-decker with her rightful Danish ensign flying directly beneath the English one, to announce her true state to the world. But it needed more than that. Bolitho had used many ruses in his time, especially when employed as a frigate captain, and had been caught out by almost as many triggered against himself. In a war which had lasted so long and killed so many men on all sides and of all beliefs, even the normal could not be accepted at face-value.

If the day went against them, the price would be doubly high. Keen had already passed his orders to the boatswain—no chain-slings could be rigged to yards and spars to prevent them from falling to the deck, to cripple the ship or crush the men at the guns. It would put an edge to their spirits when the time came. There had been no protest from the boatswain about keeping all the boats stacked in their tiers. Bolitho had expected none. For despite the real danger from flying splinters, some like sawtoothed daggers if tiered boats were caught in an attack, most sailors preferred to see them there. The last lifeline.

Keen came up to him. Like all the officers who would be on the upper deck he had discarded his tell-tale captain's coat. Too many clues. Too many easy targets.

Keen stared at the sky. “It's going to be another clear day.”

Bolitho nodded. “I had hoped for rain—cloud at least with this nor'-easterly.” He looked towards the empty blanket beyond the bows. “We shall have the sun at our backs. They must sight us first. I think we should shorten sail, Val.”

Keen was peering around for a midshipman. “Mr Rooke! Tell the first lieutenant to pipe the hands aloft, to take in t'gan's'ls and royals!”

Bolitho smiled in spite of his dry tension. Two minds working together. If they were sighted first, any enemy would be suspicious of a prize-ship being driven under full sail when there was nothing to fear.

Keen looked at the vague shapes of men rushing aloft up the shrouds, to take in and fist the heavy canvas to the yards.

He said, “Major Bourchier knows what to do. He will have marines on the forecastle, aft here, and up in the maintop, just as he would if he were controlling a prize with her original company still aboard.”

There was nothing more they could do.

Cazalet called, “Sailmaker, sir!”

Fudge and one of his mates came through the shadows and held out the makeshift Danish flag between them.

Bolitho said, “True to your word. A fine job.” He beckoned to Jenour. “Help Fudge to run up our new flag—
his
should be the honour!”

It would have been something to see it, he thought. But even in the raw darkness, with the spray occasionally pattering over the decks like rain, it was a moment to remember. Men crowding inboard from the guns to peer at the strange flapping ensign as it mounted up to the gaff beneath the ship's true colours.

Someone called out, “Yew musta used all yer best gear fer that 'un, Fudge!”

The old sailmaker was still staring at the faint, curling shape against the black sky. Over his shoulder he said dourly, “Got enough to sew you up in after this day's over, mate.”

Keen smiled. “I've put one of our master's mates in the mast-head, sir. Taverner—used to be with Duncan. Eyes like a hawk, mind like a knife. I'll see him made sailing-master even if it does mean losing him!”

Bolitho licked his dry lips. Coffee, wine, even the brackish water from the casks would help just now.

He shut it from his mind. “We shall soon know.”

Keen said, “Rear-Admiral Herrick could have taken another course, sir. He may have turned the convoy towards England where he could expect to meet with the patrolling squadron.”

Bolitho imagined he could see Herrick's round, honest features. Turn the convoy? Never. It would be like running away.

Tojohns, the captain's coxswain, was kneeling on the deck to secure Keen's curved hanger, the lightweight fighting sword he always carried in battle. As he had when
Hyperion
had gone down under him.

Bolitho touched the hilt of the old family sword at his hip and shivered. It was like ice. He felt Allday watching him, caught the heady scent of rum as he released a great sigh.

Keen was busy again with his master and lieutenants and Bolitho asked, “Well, old friend, what say you about this?”

For just a few seconds the darkness was gone, the night torn apart by one great, searing explosion which laid bare the whole ship, the men caught at their guns like statues, the rigging and shrouds sharpened by the glare like the bars of a furnace. Just as suddenly the light vanished, as if snuffed out by a giant's hand. Then, it seemed an eternity later, came the volcanic roar of the explosion, and with it a hot wind which seemed to sear the canvas and throw every sail aback.

Voices called out in every direction as the silence, like the darkness, hemmed them in once more.

Allday said harshly, “One o' the vessels carryin' powder an' shot, I've no doubt!”

Bolitho tried to imagine if any one had known, be it only for a split second, that his life was ending in such a terrible way. No last cry, no handshake with an old friend to hold back the scream or the tears.
Nothing.

Keen was shouting, “Mr Cazalet, send midshipmen to each gundeck to tell the lieutenants what has happened!”

Bolitho looked away. Keen had managed to remember even that, as his ship sailed blindly on . . . into what?

Keen was heard to say, “God, they must have felt that like a reef on the lower gundeck!”

A small figure emerged from somewhere, groping past the helmsmen and officers, the men at the braces, as if he did not belong here at all.

Allday growled, “What th' hell are you doin' on deck?”

Bolitho turned. “Ozzard! What is it? You know your place is below. You were never a Jack Tar like poor Allday here!” But the old joke fell flat as he realised that Ozzard was quivering like a leaf.

“C–can't, s–sir! In the dark . . . down there. Like last time . . .” He stood trembling, oblivious to the silent men around him. “Not again. I c–can't do it!”

Bolitho said, “Of course. I should have thought.” He glanced at Allday. “Find him a place close to hand.” He knew the words were not reaching the terrified little man. “Near to us, eh?” He watched their shadows merge with the greater darkness and felt it like an old wound.
Hyperion
again.

Allday returned. “Snug as a bug, Sir Richard. He'll be all right after what you just said.”
If only you knew the half of it,
he thought.

There were whispers as the upper yards and masthead pendant suddenly appeared against the sky, as if caught in another explosion, or even separate from the ship.

From the foremast crosstrees the master's mate's voice: “Deck there! Land on the larboard bow!”

Keen exclaimed, “Excellent, Mr Julyan—that must be The Skaw! Be prepared to alter course to the west'rd within the hour!”

Bolitho could share the excitement in many ways. They would soon be out and into the Skagerrak with sea-room which had no bottom, where it was said wrecks and drowned sailormen shared the black caverns with blind creatures too terrible to imagine.

Be that as it may . . . when the jib-boom pointed west again, nothing stood between them and England.

The light was spreading down on them to reveal each deck like a layer of a cake. Following astern, the seventy-four
Nicator
was completely laid bare in the weak sunlight, when minutes earlier she had been invisible.

Taverner the master's mate, who was sharing the lookout, yelled,
“Deck there! Ships burnin'!”
He seemed choked for words.
“God, sir, I can't count 'em!”

Keen snatched a speaking-trumpet.
“This is the Captain!”
A pause, to give the slender link time to fasten, the months of training and years of discipline to reassert themselves. “What of the enemy?”

Bolitho walked to the quarterdeck rail and watched the upturned faces, the stark contrast with the almost cheerful air when Keen had explained what he had intended for this very moment.

“Two sail of the line, sir! One other dismasted.” He broke off and Bolitho heard the master murmur, “That's not like Bob. It must be bad then.”

The speed with which daylight was ripping away their de-fences made every moment worse. The enemy must have stumbled on the convoy before dusk yesterday, while they had been crawling out of the Sound with no thought but rescue in their hearts.

They must have taken or destroyed the whole convoy, leaving the clearing up to do until daylight. Until now.

Keen said in a tired voice, “Too late after all, sir.”

The sudden echo of cannon fire vibrated over the sea and sighed through the masts and flapping canvas like an approaching squall.

Taverner called, “Dismasted ship has opened fire, sir! She's not done in after all!” Discipline seemed to leave him and he yelled,
“Hit 'em, lads! Hit th' buggers! We'm comin'!”

Keen and Bolitho stared at one another. The mastless, helpless ship was
Benbow.
There was no other possibility.

Bolitho said, “Hands aloft, Val. Full sail. Just as we would if we were a prize and escort.” He saw the eagerness and despair in Keen's eyes and said, “There is no other way. We must hold the surprise, and we must keep the wind-gage.” He felt his muscles harden as a responding broadside overlapped another and knew that the enemy would divide
Benbow
's remaining firepower, then board and take her. The ship could not even be manœuvred to protect her stern from a full broadside. He clenched his fists together until they ached. Herrick would die rather than surrender. He had already lost too much.

Black Prince
leaned steadily under the mounting pressure in her sails, and began to turn towards the western horizon beyond the blurred finger of land, a sea where the darkness still lingered.

With every minute the daylight revealed the awful evidence of a lost fight. Spars, hatch-covers, drifting boats, and further out, the long dark keel of a vessel which had capsized under the bombardment. As the darkness continued to retreat they sighted other ships. Some were partly dismasted, others outwardly undamaged. All flew the French Tricolour above their English flags, mocking patches of gaiety in a panorama of disaster.

Of the second escort which Tyacke had described there was no sign at all. Under Herrick's flag she would have gone down, too, rather than strike.

Taverner's voice was controlled again. “Deck there! They've discontinued their fire!”

Keen raised his speaking-trumpet almost desperately. “Have they struck?”

Taverner was watching from his private eyrie. All his years in ships under every kind of captain; but always learning, stowing it all away like rhino in a ditty-box.

He called, “The big ship's standin' away and makin' more sail, sir!”

Bolitho gripped Keen's arm. “They've sighted us, Val.
They're coming!
”

He saw his nephew, Midshipman Vincent, staring wildly over the nettings as far-off screams ebbed and flowed through the lengthening pall of dense smoke from one or more of the wrecks.

Tojohns said between his teeth, “What's that, in Hell's name?”

Keen looked at him and answered flatly, “Horses. Caught below decks when their ship was torn apart.”

He saw Bolitho touch his injured eye. Remembering too. The awful cries of army mounts dying in terror and in darkness until the sea finally ended it.

Bolitho noticed some of the seamen staring at each other with anger and sick dismay. Men who would barely turn a hair when they saw an enemy fall, or even one of their own if the time was wrong. But a helpless animal—that was always different.

“May I, Val?” Then all at once he found himself at the rail again, his voice surprisingly level and controlled as every man turned aft towards him.

“That ship is coming for us, lads! Whatever you may think or feel, you must stay your hand! Behind each port is a double-shotted gun with Englishmen to use them when I give the word!” He hesitated as he saw Ozzard's tiny shape scurrying along the starboard gangway towards the forecastle with one of the big signals telescopes over his shoulder like a mace.

He dragged his mind away from what it must have been like here. Helpless ships; Herrick standing like a rock between them and impossible odds. Perhaps Herrick was dead. In the same breath he knew he was not.

“
Stand together!
This is our ship and those people yonder were our kin! But this is not revenge! It is justice!”