To Glory We Steer (38 page)

He let his eyes move up the shrouds, to the men like Allday still at work aloft, and the marines kneeling in the tops with their long muskets loaded and ready.

Then aft, here to the quarterdeck. With its nine-pounders, and Neale's tiny figure dwarfed by that of a pigtailed gunner's mate. And Proby, old Proby, waving his arms like some fat scarecrow as he gave his instructions to the helmsmen. One of the men at the wheel Bolitho recognised as Strachan, the oldest sailor in the company. Too old to work a gun to Brock's satisfaction, he was still keen enough to stand his trick at the helm, and when the hell of battle swept this very deck, Bolitho knew a man like Strachan would never falter. Not because he was brave or stupid, but because it was part of his life. The only life he had known, and had been trained for.

Bolitho saw Okes watching him, his fingers playing nervously with the scabbard of his sword. Inwardly he wished it was Herrick at his side, but the latter would have his work cut out handling the ship's firepower. And anyway, Bolitho thought with sudden irritation, Okes was now first lieutenant. Vibart was dead. Not even a memory any more.

By the cabin hatch Stockdale saw Bolitho's grave face and gave a slight nod. He saw the captain's eyes catch the gesture and then move. But Stockdale was satisfied. Bolitho knew he was there. And that was enough.

Close-hauled, and making heavy weather of the faltering breeze, the three ships tacked into line. Just as they had rehearsed it so many frustrating times under the pitiless sun and beneath the eye of this same querulous admiral.

Bolitho raised his hat as the
Volcano
's sails billowed with sudden power and the lean frigate took her station in the lead.
Cassius
followed heavily in her wake, and as more flags soared aloft, Bolitho said sharply, “Take station astern the
Flag,
Mr Okes!”

He watched the men scampering to the braces, and then looked at the two-decker, as like an elderly but experienced warrior she opened her double line of ports and ran out her guns.

A voice pealed out suddenly, “Deck there! Ships on the starboard bow!” A pause while every eye peered up at the tiny figure in the main crosstrees. “Two ship o' the line! An' two frigates!”

Bolitho tried to control his impatience. At the rear of the small line
Phalarope
would engage last. By then, it might all be decided, he thought bitterly.

The sails flapped dejectedly, and he heard the helmsmen curse as the wheel went slack. “Wind is backing to the east, sir!” Proby looked mournful.

“Very well.” Bolitho lifted his glass and tried to see the nearest enemy ships. The gunfire was louder and unending, but the main battle fleets seemed stationary as before. It was of course an illusion.

Beyond the
Cassius
's flapping main course he saw a brief picture of the ships indicated by the lookout. Two big ones very close in line. With two smaller sails, one on either beam. But the falling wind was playing havoc with his own men, he thought angrily. They had cheered, expecting to fight or die in glory. But this waiting, this agonising waiting, while all the time that slowly advancing fleet grew and grew, until the once exuberant seamen seemed too stunned to move, or drag their eyes from the smoke-shrouded ships.

Bolitho said, “I am going aloft, Mr Okes.” Without a glance at the sweating lieutenant he strode to the starboard gangway and made his way to the main shrouds. Even as a young midshipman Bolitho had never achieved a good head for heights, but after a quick look at the listless sails he started on the long climb to the maintopmast.

As he swung through the lubber's hole of the maintop the waiting marines stared at him without speaking, and then turned their eyes back to the embattled fleets. The air was dinning with noise, and Bolitho's nostrils seemed full of the smell of powder and burned wood.

He found a solitary seaman perched in the crosstrees, and waited to regain his breath before opening his glass to stare over and beyond the slow-moving
Cassius.

It was impossible to tell one line of battle from the other. The main British and French squadrons were practically ship to ship, yardarm to yardarm, their masts and sails enveloped in a dense pall of trapped gunsmoke.

He shifted the glass and tried not to look at the deck far below his dangling legs. Then he stiffened. The ships which this lookout had reported minutes earlier were breaking away from the main battle. The two ships of the line were in fact linked by a stout cable, and as he peered through the forerigging he realised that the furthest vessel, a big three-decker, was partially disabled and without either bowsprit or foremast.

The towing ship, hampered by her massive consort, yawed from side to side, her sails puffing and then falling slack in the sluggish wind. As she swung the sunlight threw strange shadows on her tall side, and on the gleaming rows of guns already run out and prepared to fight.

Bolitho nodded to the lookout. “Keep a good eye on them.”

The man grinned. “Got nothin' else to do, zur!” He leaned over to watch Bolitho's careful descent and then settled down at his post. As Bolitho made his way down the rough, vibrating ratlines he heard the man humming.

He found Okes and Rennie waiting for him beside the wheel. Bolitho said flatly, “Two big ships right enough. But one of them is disabled. Probably in a collision during the night.” He rubbed his chin. “The towing ship is flying a command flag. White over blue.” He forced a smile and called to Maynard, “What do you make of that, my lad?”

The midshipman lowered his glass for a moment. “Part of the French van, sir.” He looked uneasy.

“Right.” Bolitho walked to the rail. “De Grasse will be worried about his transports. To mount an attack on Jamaica he will need more than fighting ships. He'll have troops and supplies in other craft, like the ones we burned at Mola Island.”

Okes said, “While the fleet is engaged, de Grasse will try and force his transports this way!”

Bolitho nodded grimly. “Right again.” He snapped his fingers. “Part of the French van has been detached to clear the way for them!” He looked up at the listless sails. “And three ships only bar their way.” He turned to Rennie who was swinging his sword idly against his polished boots. “If we can turn the enemy's van, gentlemen, Sir George Rodney will do the rest!” He slapped his palms together. “Like rabbits in a trap!”

Okes stared at the slow-moving ships ahead of the
Cassius.
“In this case the rabbits are bigger than the hunters, sir!”

But Bolitho had already moved away. He paused beside the minute drummer boy and asked calmly, “Give us a tune on your fife, boy.” He spoke loudly, so that the men at the nine-pounders could hear him.

The boy peered up from beneath his shako and swallowed hard. His lips were pale, and Bolitho could see his hands shaking against his tunic. “Wh-what shall I play, sir?”

Bolitho looked around at the strained, watchful faces, “What about ‘Hearts of Oak'? We all know that, eh, lads?”

And so with the overwhelming roar of battle drumming in their ears, the
Phalarope
's sailors picked up the fife's feeble lilt.

Bolitho walked back to the weather side and lifted his glass. Even aboard the
Cassius
the men might hear the
Phalarope
's sailors singing the well-used words and gain some slight confidence.

“Come cheer up my lads,
'Tis to Glory we steer . . .”

Bolitho watched the great rolling bank of black smoke as it moved steadily towards the three British ships. It was like a living thing, he thought coldly. Writhing, and alight with angry red and orange flashes. Yet he was grateful for its presence. At least it hid the horror and the gruesome scenes beyond.

He looked down at this men, their faces momentarily engrossed in their singing.
They
would not have much longer to wait.

18 A TRADITION OF
V
ICTORY

J
OHN
A
LLDAY
tied his neckerchief tightly around his head and ears and then dashed the sweat from his face with one forearm. Right forward on the frigate's tapered forecastle he had an uninterrupted view of the
Cassius,
and ahead of her he could just see part of the
Volcano
's upper rigging. Deliberately he turned his back on them and on the smoke-shrouded tangle of ships beyond. He looked down at McIntosh, the gunner's mate, who was on his knees beside one of the carronades as if in prayer.

As Allday had slithered to the deck from the main-yard, Brock, the gunner, had halted him with a sharp. “Here you!” For a moment they had faced each other once again. Allday, the pressed seaman, whose skin still bore the scars of Brock's cane, and who had nearly hanged because of another's treachery and cunning. And the gunner, hard-faced and expressionless, who rarely showed any trace of his inner feelings, if he had any.

Brock had gestured with his cane. “Up forrard, you! Join the crews on the carronades!”

Allday had made to run off but Brock had added harshly, “I was wrong about you it seems!” It was not an apology. Just a statement of fact. “So get up there and do your best!” His thin mouth had moved in what might have been a smile. “My God, Allday, your sheep would be proud of you today!”

He smiled at the recollection and then looked round with surprise as Ferguson scrambled up beside him. His eyes were bright with fear, and he clung to the hammock nettings as if he would fall without their support.

McIntosh grunted, “What do
you
want here?”

“I-I was sent, sir.” Ferguson licked his lips. “I'm no use for anything else.”

McIntosh turned back to his inspection of the training tackles. “Christ Almighty!” was his only comment.

“Don't look at the ships, Bryan.” Allday picked up his cutlass and ran it through his belt. The hilt felt warm against his naked back. “Just don't think about 'em. Keep down behind the nettings and do as I do.” He forced a grin. “We have a fine view from here!”

Ritchie, the stolid Devon seaman, ran his fingers over the shot rack and asked vaguely, “Wot are we to shoot at, Mr McIntosh?”

The gunner's mate was edgy. “The captain hasn't told me yet! When he does, I'll tell
you!
”

Ritchie shrugged. “Us'll roast they devils!” He peered at the
Cassius.
“The Frogs'll turn an' run!”

Kemp, one of the loaders, grimaced. “When they sees
you
they will!”

Ferguson lowered his head against his arm. “It's madness! We'll all be killed!”

Allday studied him sadly. He is right, he thought. Nothing can live against such a force. He said kindly, “It's April, Bryan. Just think how it looks in Cornwall, eh? The hedgerows and the green fields . . .”

Ferguson stared at him. “For God's sake, what are you talking about?”

Allday replied calmly, “Have you forgotten already what nearly happened to us, Bryan?” He hardened his voice, knowing that Ferguson was at breaking point. “Remember Nick Pochin?” He saw Ferguson flinch, but carried on. “Well, he's dead, hanged aboard the
Cassius
with the other fools!”

Ferguson hung his head. “I-I'm sorry.”

Allday said, “I know you're afraid. And so am I. And so is the captain, I shouldn't wonder.”

At that moment Lieutenant Herrick stepped on to the forecastle and walked briskly to the carronades. “Everything well, Mr McIntosh?”

The gunner's mate stood up and wiped his palms on his trousers. “Aye, sir.” He studied the lieutenant and then added, “Mola Island seems a long time ago now, Mr Herrick.”

Herrick stared aft along the main deck to the raised quarter-deck where Okes stood stiffly beside the captain. Would Okes crack this time? he wondered. Which way would his private shame make him react? He replied, “It does indeed.”

Okes's voice, distorted by his speaking trumpet, echoed above the rumble of gunfire. “Another pull on the weather forebrace there! Mr Packwood, take that man's name!”

Herrick hid his dismay from McIntosh. Okes was so much on edge that he had to say something. Anything.

McIntosh said dryly. “Promotion does not seem to solve
everything,
Mr Herrick!”

Herrick swung round as flags broke from the
Cassius
's yards. A moment later he heard Maynard yell, “Engage the enemy, sir!” Then, in a slightly steadier voice, “Tack in succession!”

The pipes trilled. “Lee braces. Jump to it!”

Keeping time with the ponderous two-decker the frigates tacked slowly to the south-east. Herrick shaded his eyes as the sun lanced down between the sails, and saw the nearest enemy ships less than a quarter of a mile away. They were in no apparent order, but with their yards braced round were tacking on a converging course with the British squadron. The big three-decker hid her gaping ranks of guns in deep shadow as she swung slightly up wind. The two had been cast off, and the leading ship of the line, unhampered by her massive consort, heeled easily in the breeze, her command flag pointing directly at the
Cassius.

Herrick tried to clear the dryness from his throat. “Carry on, Mr McIntosh. I must attend my duties!”

He had to force himself to walk slowly down to the main deck. As he passed an open hatch where a marine sentry leaned on his musket he saw the surgeon's scarlet face grinning up at him.

“Yer 'ealth, Mr 'Errick!” He waved a tankard.

Herrick felt slightly mad. “Damn you, Tobias! You'll not have my body today!”

Some of the men at the nearest guns chuckled. “That's right, sir! You tell 'im!”

Herrick strode on to take up his position in the centre of the deck. Farquhar was below the quarterdeck, his haughty features slightly pale but determined. Herrick gave him a nod, but Farquhar did not seem to see him.

There was a crashing boom, all the more startling because every man had been expecting it. It was followed instantly by a ragged salvo, and another.

Bolitho's voice broke through Herrick's stricken thoughts. “Note it in the log, Mr Proby! We have engaged the enemy!” His voice was muffled as he turned away. “Cut those boats adrift, Mr Neale! They'll act like a damn sea anchor in this poor wind!”

Herrick looked at his hands. They were quite steady, yet he felt as if every bone and muscle was quivering uncontrollably. He could imagine the
Phalarope
's boats drifting astern, and thought of Bolitho's earlier words to the crew.

“. . . below us it is a thousand fathoms to the bottom!” Herrick winced as another thunderous broadside sent a dull vibration through the planks at his feet. A thousand fathoms, and now not even a boat to save the survivors!

He looked up and saw that Bolitho had returned to the quarterdeck rail and was staring at him. He did not speak, but gave a strange, lingering smile, as if he was trying to convey some personal message to him.

Then Bolitho called sharply, “Mr Neale, do not run like that! Remember our people are watching you today!”

Herrick turned away. The message could have been for him, he thought. He felt strangely calmed by this realisation and walked to the larboard battery and looked down the line of guns. In a few minutes every one of them would be firing. In a few minutes. He studied the faces of the men beside them and felt suddenly humble.

“Well, lads, this is better than practice, eh?”

Surprisingly they laughed at his stupid joke, and in spite of the cold fingers around his stomach Herrick was able to join them.

Bolitho blinked in the reflected sunlight and peered across the weather rail. Ahead of the
Phalarope
the flagship was holding her course, but the frigate
Volcano
which had been leading the line was pulling away to larboard, breaking the pattern as two French frigates drove down towards her.

Rennie gasped, “He's done for! We cannot give him any help!”

The sea's surface shimmered as another crashing broadside rippled along the
Volcano
's gunports. Gun by gun, each one carefully aimed and fired in rapid succession.

Undeterred, the two frigates, with the wind in their favour, swept down on either beam.

Proby said sharply, “
Volcano
's luffing!”

Bolitho breathed out painfully. Fox was no fool, and as wily as his name. As the two enemy frigates swept downwind for a quick kill the
Volcano
swung lazily into the wind, her sails flapping in violent protest. The nearest French ship realised her mistake just too late. As her yards started to swing, the
Volcano
presented her opposite side and fired a full salvo. The French ship seemed to stagger as if dealt a body blow. Across the water Bolitho could hear the crash of falling spars and the sliding thunder of overturned cannon. All else was hidden in the billowing clouds of smoke, but above it he could see
Volcano
's ensign and all three masts still standing.

“Flagship signalling! ‘Close on
Flag!'
” Maynard ran to hoist an acknowledgment.

Bolitho tore his eyes from Captain Fox's lithe frigate as it went about to take the wind's advantage from the two Frenchmen.
Cassius
was heading straight for the powerful two-decker with the command flag. She would need all the help she could get. Fox would have to manage for himself for a while.

“Starboard a point!” Bolitho ran to the rail and leaned out as far as he could. Then he saw the towering sails of the ship of the line as it drove down on a converging course with the flagship. They should pass port to port, he thought. He shouted to the main deck, “Stand by, Mr Herrick!”

Okes yelled, “The Frenchman's changing his tack, sir!” He was jumping with agitation. “God in hell, sir! He's turning across the
Cassius
's bows!”

Either the French captain was unwilling to face a gun for gun contest, or he hoped to rake the
Cassius
's bows and masts as he crossed her course, Bolitho was not quite sure which. But either way he had not allowed for the extra sail carried by Admiral Napier's elderly flagship.

Instead, the two ships crossed their bowsprits and then met at right-angles with a sickening crash. As they locked together both ships opened fire, the arrowhead of water between them erupting in a great sheet of flame and black smoke.

Bolitho watched in chilled silence as
Cassius
's foremast and main-topgallant leaned drunkenly and then smashed down into the all-enveloping smoke. He could see rigging and spars ripping away the sails and scattering men from the tops like dead fruit.

Another broadside split the air apart, and Bolitho knew that the
Cassius
's forward guns were within feet of the enemy's. Yet still they stayed locked together, their splintered bowsprits and jib-booms entangled like the tusks of two crazed beasts from a nightmare.

Bolitho cupped his hands. “Both carronades to starboard” He waved his hand at Proby. “We will put her across the enemy's stern, if we can!” He half ducked as a ball screamed overhead and slapped through the driver leaving a ragged tear. A stray shot from the giants, but just as deadly, he thought grimly.

All around him men were coughing and wiping their eyes as the smoke reached out and over the frigate's decks.

The helmsman cursed as the
Cassius
's torn sails loomed over the fog like some great spectre. But Bolitho gauged the set of the flag-ship's masts and knew he was on the right course. The fog closed in again, and he saw the double lines of flashes as both fired salvo after salvo at pointblank range. He could hear the two hulls grinding together, the screams and cries of the wounded and dying, mingled with the unbelievable sound of the admiral's drum and fife band. It was impossible to tell what they were playing, or how a man could live, let alone think of an empty tune in that holocaust.

But Bolitho shouted, “A cheer, lads! Give a cheer to the
Flag!
”

Muskets banged through the smoke, and Bolitho heard the balls thudding into the bulwarks and whining against the nine-pounders.

Rennie bellowed, “Marksmen! Shoot down those bastards!” And from aloft came an answering volley.

The wind seemed to have gone altogether, although in the dense smoke it was impossible to gauge either speed or distance. Then out of the flickering, choking fog Bolitho saw the stern of the two-decker. It seemed to hang above the
Phalarope
's starboard bow like an ornate cliff, and he could see the flash of musket fire from her stern windows as marksmen directed their attention to the frigate's forecastle.