To Glory We Steer Page 8

  Pryce muttered, `Never bin in a fight like this afore.' He looked up at the billowing sails. 'Too much wind. It'll be hit hard an' run, you mark my words!'

  There was a rasp of steel as Herrick drew his sword. He lifted it above his head, the blade holding the sun like firelight.

  `Stand by in the larboard battery!'

  Ferguson moaned softly, `Oh, Grace! Where are you, Grace?'

  From aft Vibart bellowed, `Put the helm down! Hard down there!' -

  They all felt the deck begin to cant further as the seamen forward let go the headsail sheets and allowed the plunging frigate to swing wildly across the wind.

  Allday swallowed hard as the gunport suddenly darkened and the other ship's raked bow pushed across his vision. She filled the port, her guns and spray-soaked hull leaning at an angle as if to reach out and smash the Phalarope as she swung impudently towards her.

  Herrick dropped his sword. `Fire!'

  The captains jerked their lines and the whole world fell apart in the staggering, uneven broadside. Choking smoke billowed back through the ports, rasping the lungs and filling every eye as the guns lurched angrily back on their tackles. It was like hell, too terrible to understand.

  But already the gun captains were yelling like fiends, urging and hitting at their stunned gunners as the powder monkeys ran forward with fresh cartridges and new, gleaming balls were lifted from the racks.

  Pryce knocked down a man's arm and screamed, `Sponge out, you bastard! Remember what I taught you! You'll blow us all up if you drop a charge into a burning gun!' The man mumbled dazedly and obeyed him as if in a trance.

  Herrick shouted, `Reload there! Lively, lads!'

  Allday waited a few more minutes and then threw his weight on the tackles. Squealing like angry pigs the gun trucks rumbled forward again, the muzzles racing each other to be first through the ports.

  But the Phalarope was almost into the Andiron's bow. A few more feet and it seemed as if both ships would smash into each other, to die together in locked combat.

  `Fire!'

  Again the savage roar of a broadside, the deck yawing away beneath them with its force. But this time more ragged, less well aimed. Through the din of shouts and groaning spars Allday heard some of the balls strike home, and saw Maynard, one of the midshipmen, waving his hat in the streaming smoke and yelling to the sky, his words lost in the guns' roar.

  The Andiron must have fired simultaneously, with the Phalarope, her gunfire lost in the general thunder of noise.

  There was more of a feeling than a sound, like a hot wind, or sand blasted across a parched desert.

  Allday looked up as the sails jerked and twisted as if in agony. Holes were appearing everywhere, and from high aloft came a falling tangle of severed halyards and ropes. A block dropped on to the breech with a loud clang, and Pryce said without looking up from his priming, `The bastards fired too

  soon! The broadside went right over our;'eads!'

  Allday peered through the port, still dazed, but understand

  ing at last what Bolitho had done. The Phalarope had not turned away, had not offered her stern for punishment. Her sudden swing to attack had caught the enemy off balance, and rather than risk a senseless collision he had hauled off so that his first broadside had failed to make real contact.

  He heard Herrick call across to Lieutenant Okes, `By God, Matthew, that was a close thing!' Then in a wilder tone, `Look at the masthead pendant! The wind's veering!'

  There was bedlam as the enemy ship swung rapidly clear of the charging Phalarope. But so sudden or so unexpected was the attack that the Andiron's captain had failed to notice what Bolitho must already have seen even as he steered towards possible disaster.

  Instead of beating back to windward the Andiron met the full wind hard across her larboard bow. For a moment it looked as if she would rally and at worst come crashing back alongside.

  Herrick was jumping with excitement. `My God, she's in irons! She's in irons!'

  Men were standing beside their guns calling the news along the deck while across the water, framed 'in a rolling bank of gunsmoke, the Andiron rolled helplessly up wind, unable to pay off on either tack. Already men were running along her yards, and across the shadowed water they could hear the blare of commands through a speaking trumpet.

  Herrick controlled himself. `Over to the starboard battery. Jump to it!'

  Pryce touched the men he needed and scampered across the deck.

  From aft came the call, -'Stand by to go about! Man the braces!'

  Allday threw himself down beside the opposite gun and showed his teeth to the crouching men.

  Old Strachan croaked, `The cap'n can certainly 'andle the ship well enough.'

  Okes shouted, 'Silence there! Watch your frontP

  Herrick walked to the centre of the deck and watched the carpenter and the boatswain hurrying to repair the brief damage. Men were already climbing aloft to splice the severed lines, and others were at last rigging nets above the maindeck to give some protection from falling blocks or spars.

  Round came the yards once more, sails thundering, braces screaming through the blocks as the men ran like goats to obey the consthnt demands from the quarterdeck.

  It did not seem possible. Caught and surprised one instant, and the next moment they were not only attacking, but hitting the enemy again and again.

  Bolitho must have thought it all out. Must have planned and schemed during his lonely walks up and down the nightdarkened deck, waiting for just an eventuality.

  He could see him now, calm-eyed and stiff-backed behind the rail, his hands behind his back as he watched the other ship. Once during the waiting Herrick had seen him wipe his forehead, momentarily brushing away the lock of dark hair and displaying the deep, savage scar. He had seen Herrick watching him and had jammed on his hat with something like anger.

  Herrick ran his eye along his own guns, now manned by depleted crews and blind to the enemy as the Phalarope tacked round to close the range. He had heard Pochin's bitter remarks and had seen the way Allday had rallied to help the new men. It was strange how they all forgot their other worries when real danger was close and terrible.

  It was true that the ship was different under Bolitho. And it went deeper than the uniform clothing now worn by all hands, issued on Bolitho's order to replace the stained rags which had been commonplace in Pomfret's time. There was this violent uncertainty instead of sullen acceptance, as if the men wanted to draw together to match the young captain's enthusiasm, yet had forgotten how to go about it.

  Okes said sharply, `She's under way again! She's swinging round!'

  The Andiron's sails were flapping and banging in apparent confusion, but Herrick could see the difference in her outline and the new angle of her yards.

  Bolitho's voice cut through their speculations. `Another salvo, lads! Before she completes her turn!'

  Herrick breathed out_ sharply. `He's going to try and cross her stern! He'll never make it. We'll be broadside to broadside in minutes!'

  The wild confidence which their successful attack had brought him changed to the chill of uncertainty as the phalarope gathered way, her masts and spars quivering under the press of sail. He gripped his sword more tightly and gritted his teeth as once more the enemy topsails showed above the hammock nettings. The masts were no longer in line, she was swinging fast and well. There was nothing else for it but to take what had to come.

  Okes could only stare at the oncoming ship, his jaw open as the distance was swallowed up in the gap of tossing water between them. He held up his sword. `Stand by starboard battery!' But his voice was lost in a savage ripple of gunfire from the other ship as gun after gun belched fire and smoke from aft to forward as each one came to bear.

  This time there was, no mistake.

  Herrick felt the hull shudder beneath his feet and reeled against the foremast as smoke blotted out the deck and the air became full of splintering woodwork and falling rigging. Above and around him
the air quivered and shook with the crash of guns, and the nerve jarring scream of cannon balls as they whipped through the smoke like things from hell.

  The scream of passing shots mingled with closer, more unearthly sounds as flying, splinters ripped into the packed gunners and bathed the smooth decks with scarlet. Herrick had to bite his lip to retain control of himself. He had seen men bleed before. In an occasional skirmish, and under the cat. From a fall or a shipboard accident. But this was different. It was all around him, as if the ship was being painted by a madman. He could see specks of blood and gristle across his white breeches, and when he looked across at the nearest gun he saw that it had been upended and one of its crew had been pulped into a scarlet and purple mass. Another man lay legless, a handspike still gripped and ready, and two of his companions were clinging together screaming and tearing at each other's terrible wounds in the insane torment.

  The enemy frigate must have reloaded almost at once, and another ragged volley thundered and crashed in the Phalarope's side.

  Men cried and yelled, cursed and fumbled blindly in the choking smoke, while above their heads the nets jerked and danced madly to the onslaught of falling gear from aloft.

  A powder monkey ran weeping towards the magazine hatch, only to be pushed away by one of the marine sentries. He had dropped his cartridge carrier and was running below, to the safety of darkness. But the sentry yelled at him and then struck at him with his musket. The boy reeled back and then seemed to come to his senses. With a sniff he picked up his carrier and made for the nearest gun.

  There was a scream of shot, and Herrick turned biting back vomit as the eighteen-pound shot cut the boy in half. The head and shoulders remained upright on the planking for several seconds, and before he turned away Herrick saw that the boy's eyes were still open and staring.

  He cannoned into Okes who still stood with upraised sword, his eyes fixed and glassy as he gaped at the remains of his battery.

  Herrick shouted, 'Fire, Matthew! Give the order!'

  Okes dropped his sword and here and there a gun lurched back adding its voice to the dreadful symphony.

  Okes said, `We're done for! We'll have to strike!'

  'Strike?' Herrick stared at him. All at once the reality was cruel and personal again. Death and surrender had always been words, a necessary but unlikely alternative to victory. He looked towards the quarterdeck at Bolitho's tall figure and the marines beyond. The latter must have been firing their muskets for some while, yet Herrick had not even noticed. He saw Sergeant Garwood with his half-pike dressing one rank where two red-coated bodies had left gaps in the line, while he called out the time and numbers to his men as they reloaded and fired another volley into the smoke. Captain Rennie had his back to the enemy and was staring across the other rail as if seeing the sea for the first time.

  Pryce, the gun captain, gave one long scream and fell backwards at Herrick's feet. A long splinter had been torn from the deck and had embedded itself in the man's shoulder. Through the blood Herrick could see the thick stump of jagged timber sticking out like a tooth, and knew that the other end would be deep inside. The splinters were always the most dangerous and had to be cut out from the flesh in one piece.

  Herrick gestured towards the men by the main hatch. 'Take this one below to the surgeon!' They had been staring at a pulped corpse beside the hatch, its teeth white against the flayed flesh, and Herrick's harsh tone seemed to give them strength to break the spell.

  Pryce began to scream. 'No! Leave me here by the gun! For God's sake, don't take me below!'

  One of the men whispered, "Fs a brave 'un! 'E don't want to leave 'is station!'

  Pochin spat on the gun and watched the spittle hissing on the barrel. 'Squit! 'E'd rather die up 'ere than face the butcher's knife.'

  There was a splintering crack, like that of a coach whip, high overhead, and as Herrick squinted up through the drift ing smoke he saw the maintopgallant quiver, and then as the wind tore jubilantly at the released canvas it began to slide forward.

  Herrick cupped his hands. `Look alive, you men! Get aloft and cut those shrouds! It'll foul the foremast otherwise!'

  He saw Quintal and some seamen running up the shrouds and then winced as another cannon ball ploughed along the deck by his feet and smashed into two wounded gunners beside the lee bulwark. He looked away, sickened, and heard Vibart yell, 'Heads below! The t'gallant is falling!'

  With a jarring crash the long spar pitched over the bulwark and remained trapped and tangled in a mass of rigging, the torn sail ballooning in the water alongside and dragging at the ship like a sea anchor.

  To add to the horror, Herrick could see the man, Betts, the one who had first sighted the other frigate, pinned in the trailing rigging like an insect in a web.

  Vibart yelled, 'Axes there! Cut that wreckage adrift!'

  Betts stared up at the frigate with glazed eyes, his voice short and painful between his teeth. 'Help me! Don't let me go to the bottom, lads!'

  But already the axes were at work, the :men driven half mad by the din, too dazed to care for the suffering of one more seaman.

  Okes seized Herrick's arm. 'Why doesn't he strike? For Christ's sake look what he's doing to us!'

  Herrick's mind was dulled and refused to work clearly any more. But he could see what Okes was trying to show him. The heart had gone out of the men, what heart there had been. They crouched and whimpered as the enemy balls thundered all around them, and only occasionally did a single gun reply. Then it was usually a small handful of men led by one seasoned and dedicated gun captain which kept up a onesided exchange with the enemy.

  Herrick shut his ears to the screaming wounded as they were dragged below and closed his eyes to everything but the small open patch of quarterdeck where Bolitho stood alone by the rail. His hat had gone and his coat was stained with powder and blown spray. Even as he watched Herrick saw a messenger run towards the captain, only to be cut down by musket fire from the other vessel as she loomed sideways out of the smoke. Musket balls were thudding against the hammock nettings and biting across the deck, yet Bolitho never budged, nor did he alter his expression of detached determination.

  Only once did he look up, and then to glance at the large scarlet ensign which streamed from the gaff, as if to reassure himself that it still flew.

  Herrick shook his head. `He'll not strike! He'll see us all dead first!'

  5

  RUM AND RECRIMINATIONS

  The deck slewed over as the Phalarope's helm went hard down and she swung blindly on to her new course. Bolitho had lost count of the number of times his ship had changed direction or even how long they had been fighting.

  Of one thing he was sure. The Andiron was outmanoeuvring him, was still holding to windward and keeping up a steady barrage. His own gunners were hampered by yet another hazard. The wind was falling away, and his men were now firing blindly into an unbroken bank of thick smoke which rolled down from the other ship and mingled with their own intermittent firing. -The smoke seemed to writhe with many colours as the American privateer continued the attack. Once, when a freak wind had blown the smoke skywards like a curtain Bolitho had seen the Andiron's battery belching long orange flames as each gun was trained and fired singly across the bare quarter mile between the two frigates. They were firing high, the balls screaming through the rigging and slashing the remaining sails to ribbons. Ropes and stays hung from above like weed, and every so often heavy blocks and long slivers of wood would fall amongst the labouring gunners or splash in the clear water alongside.

  She intended to dismast and cripple the Phalarope. Maybe her captain had plans for using another captured ship, just as he had the Andiron.

  The long nine-pounders on the quarterdeck recoiled as one, their sharp, barking detonations penetrating the innermost membranes of Bolitho's ears as he stared through the smoke and then back at his own command. Only on the quarterdeck was there still some semblance of unity and order. Midshipman Farquhar stood by the taf
frail, his eyes bright but determined as he passed his orders to the gun captains. Rennie's marines were standing fast, too. From their smokeblinded positions behind the hammock nettings they kept up a steady musket fire whenever the other ship showed herself through the choking fog of powder smoke.

  But the maindeck was different. Bolitho let his eyes move slowly over the chaos of scarred planking and grisly remains which marked every foot of deck space. The guns were still firing, but the intervals were longer, the aim less certain.

  At first Bolitho had been amazed at the success of that opening broadside. He had known that later the lack of training would slow down the barrage, but he had not dared to hope for such a good opening. The double-shotted guns had fired almost as one, the ship staggering from the combined recoil. He had seen the bulwarks jump apart on the other frigate, had watched the balls tear through the packed gunners and gouge into her spray-dashed hull. It had seemed momentarily that the battle might still be contained.

  Through the streaming smoke he saw Herrick moving slowly aft along the starboard battery checking the gunners and aiming each weapon himself before allowing the gun captain to jerk his trigger line. It should have been Okes on the starboard side, but perhaps he was already dead, like so many of the others.

  Bolitho made himself examine each part of the agonising panorama which the Phalarope now represented. His body felt sick and numb from the constant battering, but his eye and mind worked in cold unison, so that the pain and suffering was all the more apparent.

  Small pictures stood out from the whole, so that whenever he looked there was a pitiful reminder of the cost and the price still to be paid.

  Many had died. How many he had no way of knowing. Some had died bravely, serving their guns and yelling encouragement and curses up to the moment of death. Some died slowly and horribly, their mutilated and broken bodies writhing in the blood and flesh which covered the decks as in a slaughterhouse.

  Others were less brave, and more than once he had seen men shamming death, even cowering in the stench and horror of the discarded corpses until dragged and kicked back to their stations by the petty officers.