Flag Captain Page 38

  Musket balls ricocheted and whined around the exposed quarterdeck, and Meheux peered at the maintop where the swivel gunners were firing towards the enemy’s poop.

  He yelled, “Shoot down those marksmen!” But the noise was so great they did not hear. Desperately he climbed on to the gangway and cupped his hands to try again. A marine, wild-eyed and grinning, peered down at him and then swung the swivel towards the other ship’s maintop. Even as he jerked the lanyard Meheux took a ball full in the stomach, and with his eyes already glazing in stunned surprise he rolled over the rail and fell unseen beside one of his beloved twelve-pounders.

  Broughton watched the French marksmen as they fell to the vicious cannister. Some hung kicking across the enemy’s main yard and others, more fortunate, fell to the deck below and died instantly.

  Then he said calmly, “Our people are not holding them off.”

  Bolitho looked along the larboard gangway and saw the enemy boarders already overflowing on to the forecastle, while others swayed back and forth between the two hulls, steel against steel, pike against musket.

  Here and there a man would fall out of sight to be ground between the two massive bilges, or a solitary figure would find himself isolated on his enemy’s deck to be hacked down with neither thought nor mercy.

  A marine officer dropped screaming, his white crossbelt already soaked in blood, and Giffard snarled, “Cox is gone!” Then with an oath he was charging along the gangway, soon to be lost in the packed mass of figures.

  The two hulls were grinding closer and closer, and with a violent jerk Euryalus’s bowsprit splintered and tore free, the jib flapping uselessly above the confusion like a banner.

  More men were clambering across from the other ship, and Bolitho saw some of them fighting their way steadily aft towards the quarterdeck. A young lieutenant appeared as if by magic on the ladder, his sword swinging as he hurled himself across the deck. Bolitho tried to parry him to one side, but saw the French officer’s eyes wild with triumph as he knocked the blade away and turned on his heels for the fatal blow.

  Calvert thrust Bolitho aside, his face calm as he snapped, “This one is mine sir!” His blade moved so fast that Bolitho did not see it. Only the Frenchman’s face slashed from eye to chin as he reeled gasping against the rail. Calvert’s wrist turned deftly and then he lunged, taking the Frenchman in the heart.

  He said, “Amateur!” Then he was down amongst more of the attackers, his hair flying as he sought out another officer and fought him back against the ladder.

  Keverne staggered through the smoke, blood dripping from his forehead. “Sir!” He ducked beneath a swinging cutlass and fired his pistol into the man’s groin, the force of the shot hurling him bodily amongst the others. “We must get clear!”

  His voice was very loud, and Bolitho realised dazedly that the guns had ceased firing. Through open ports on both ships men jabbed at one another with pikes or fired pistols in a madness of hatred and despair.

  Bolitho gripped Keverne’s arm, his sword hanging from his wrist on its lanyard. “What is it, man?”

  “I—I’m not sure, but . . .”

  Keverne pulled Bolitho against him and thrust at a yelling seaman with his sword. The man faltered, and Bolitho saw Allday run from aft, his cutlass driving forward and down with such force that the cutlass’s point appeared through his stomach.

  Keverne retched and gasped, “The Frenchman’s afire, sir!”

  Bolitho saw the admiral slip to his knees, groping for his sword, and watched helplessly as a French petty officer charged towards him with a bayoneted musket.

  A slim figure blocked his path and Bolitho heard himself yell, “Adam! Get back! ”

  But Pascoe stood his ground, armed only with a dirk, his face a mask of stricken determination.

  The bayonet lunged, but at the last second another figure jumped through the smoke, his sword dark with blood as he parried the blade up and clear of the boy’s chest. The musket exploded, and Pascoe stood back, horrified as Calvert crumpled at his feet, his face blown away. With a sob he struck at the petty officer with his dirk, hurting him sufficiently to make him recoil. Allday’s cutlass finished it.

  Bolitho tore his eyes away and hurried to the side. Beyond the enemy’s mainmast he could see a steady plume of black smoke. Figures darted down the hatchway, and he heard sudden cries of alarm, the urgent clatter of pumps.

  Perhaps in the confusion a lantern had been upended, or a blazing wad from one of the guns had found its way through an open port. But there was no mistaking the signs of fire, nor the desperate urgency now needed to get clear.

  He shouted, “Pass the word. Lower battery reload. Fire on the order!”

  He stared round at the shattered planking, the sprawled corpses and sobbing wounded. It was a faint hope, but it was all he had. Unless they got away from Le Glorieux’s embrace they would become one inferno together.

  A midshipman yelled, “Ready, sir!” It was Ashton.

  “Fire!”

  Seconds later the lower battery erupted in a great, blasting roar. It felt as if the ship would fall apart, and as smoke and pieces of wreckage flew high above the nettings Bolitho saw the other ship reel drunkenly under the full weight of the lower battery’s broadside.

  The French flagship’s sails were still drawing and quivering in the wind, and as she idled clear she began to move slowly towards the Euryalus’s bows. The smoke was rising thickly from her main hatch, and Bolitho felt himself shaking uncontrollably as the first tip of flame licked above the coaming like a forked tongue.

  All resistance had ceased on Euryalus’s deck, and the French boarders left behind by their ship watched in silence, their hands in the air, as Le Glorieux continued to draw away.

  Broughton said hoarsely, “They’re finished!” There was neither pride nor satisfaction in his voice. Like the others, he sounded completely crushed by the ferocity of the battle.

  Tothill limped to the rail. “ Zeus is signalling, sir.”

  When Bolitho looked down at him he saw the midshipman was grinning even though uncontrollable tears were cutting sharp lines through the grime on his face.

  He asked quietly, “Well, Mr Tothill?”

  “Two of the enemy have struck to us, sir. One has sunk, and the rest are breaking off the action.”

  Bolitho sighed and watched with silent relief as the enemy flagship began to drift more swiftly downwind. As the smoke of battle faded reluctantly away he saw the other ships scattered across the sea’s face, scarred and blackened from conflict. Of Impulsive there was no sign, and he saw the sloop Restless, which must have arrived unseen in the battle, drifting above her shadow, her boats in the water searching for survivors.

  He felt a sudden heat on his cheek, and when he turned saw the French three-decker’s sails and rigging ablaze like torches. The lower gunports were also glowing bright red, and before a man could speak the air was torn apart with one deafening explosion.

  The smoke surrounded the destruction, changing to steam as with a jubilant roar the sea surged into the shattered hull, dragging it down in a welter of bubbles and terrible sounds. Guns crashed from their tackles, and men trapped below in total darkness ran in madness until caught by either sea or fire.

  When the smoke finally cleared there was only a great, slow-moving whirlpool, around which the flotsam and human fragments joined in one last horrible dance. Then there was nothing.

  Broughton cleared his throat. “A victory.” He watched the wounded being carried or dragged below. Then he looked at Calvert and added, “But the bill is greater.”

  Bolitho said dully, “We will commence repairs, sir. The wind has eased slightly . . .” He paused and rubbed his knuckles into his eyes, trying to think. “ Valorous looks in a bad way. I think Tanais can take her in tow.”

  He heard distant cheering and saw the men on the Zeus’s battered forecastle waving and yelling as they edged past. They could still cheer after all that. He turned to watch as some of
his own company scrambled into the shrouds to return the cheers.

  He said quietly, “With men like these, Sir Lucius, you never need fear again.”

  But Broughton had not heard him. He was unbuckling his beautiful sword, and with a small hesitation handed it to Pascoe.

  “Here, take it. When I needed it, I dropped it.” He added gruffly, “Any damn midshipman who tackles the enemy with a dirk deserves it!” He watched the astonishment on the boy’s dark features. “Besides, a lieutenant must look the part, eh?”

  Pascoe held the sword and turned it over in his hands. Then he looked at Bolitho, but he was standing rigidly by the rail, his fingers gripping it so tightly that they were white.

  “Sir?” He hurried to his side, suddenly fearful that Bolitho had been wounded again. “Look, sir!”

  Bolitho released the rail and put his arm round the boy’s thin shoulders. He was desperately tired, and the pain in his wound was like a branding iron. But just a little longer.

  Very slowly he said, “Adam. Tell me.” He swallowed hard. He could barely risk speaking. “That boat!”

  Pascoe stared at his face and then down into the sea nearby. A longboat was pulling towards the Euryalus’s shot-scarred side, crammed to the gunwales with dripping, exhausted men.

  He replied hesitantly, “Yes, Uncle. I see him, too.”

  Bolitho gripped his shoulder more tightly and watched the boat’s misty outline as it nudged alongside. Beside its coxswain he saw Herrick peering up at him, his strained face set in a grin while he supported a wounded marine against his chest.

  Keverne came striding aft, an unspoken question on his lips, but paused as Broughton snapped, “If you are to have Auriga, Mr Keverne, I would be obliged if you would take command here until such time as a transfer is possible!” He looked at Bolitho with his arm round the boy’s shoulder. “I think my flag captain has done enough.” He saw Allday hurrying down to the entry port. “For all of us.”

  EPILOGUE

  THE ADMIRALTY messenger ushered Bolitho and Herrick into a waiting room and closed the door with hardly a glance. Bolitho walked to a window and looked down at the crowded highway, his mind conscious only of sudden anticlimax. It was very quiet in the waiting room, and through the window he could feel the late September sunlight warm against his face. But down below, the people who hurried so busily about their affairs were well wrapped, and the many horses which trotted with carriages and carts in every direction gave some hint of the coming winter with their steaming breath and bright blankets.

  Behind him he heard Herrick moving restlessly around the room, and wondered if like himself he was preparing for the coming interview with resignation or anxiety.

  What an unnerving place London was. No wonder the messenger had treated them with such indifference, for the entrance hall and corridors had been crammed with sea officers, few of them lowlier than captains. All intent on their own worlds of appointments, ships, or the mere necessity of appearing busy in the centre of Britain’s naval power.

  Nearly three months had passed since the French flagship had blasted herself apart in one terrible explosion, during which time he had been more than fully occupied getting the battered squadron to Gibraltar without further losses, and there await orders.

  As the many wounded had died or made some kind of recovery, and the ships’ companies had worked without respite to repair as much of the damage as possible under the Rock’s limited resources, Bolitho had waited for some acknowledgement of their efforts.

  Eventually a brig had arrived with despatches for Broughton. Those ships ready and able to set sail would do so immediately. Not to join Lord St Vincent off Cadiz, but for England. After all they had achieved and endured together it was hard to see the small squadron scattered.

  Valorous was almost beyond repair, and with Tanais, which was in not much better state, had remained at Gibraltar. With the two French seventy-fours taken as prizes the remainder had sailed, and in due course anchored at Portsmouth. There again, the necessary business of dispersal and repair was continued. But it meant bidding farewell to many more familiar faces. Keverne, who had received his just promotion to commander, had been given Auriga. Captain Rattray had been carried ashore to Haslar Hospital, where with only one leg and half blinded by splinters he would probably end his days.

  Furneaux had died in the battle, and Gillmor had received separate orders to take his Coquette and join the Channel Fleet, where as always there was a shortage of frigates.

  As day had followed day in Portsmouth harbour Bolitho had found time to wonder how Broughton’s report had been received at the Admiralty.

  With the span of time behind him, their findings and hardships at Djafou, the last desperate battle with twice their number of the enemy seemed to fade and become less real. Broughton had appeared to feel much as he did, for most of the time he had remained aloof in his quarters or paced alone on the poop resisting every contact but the requirements of duty.

  Then, just two days ago, the summons had arrived. Broughton and his flag captain were to report to the Admiralty. One unexpected addition had been for Herrick. He too was to accompany them. He had already confided that it was probably to explain more fully the loss of his Impulsive, but Bolitho thought otherwise. It was more likely that Herrick, being the only captain not completely involved in the squadron’s previous affairs, was being called as an impartial witness and to give his own assessment. It was to be hoped he would not allow blind loyalty to damage his own position with his superiors.

  But whatever happened, Adam’s step on the first real rung of the ladder was secure. He had received his commission with an ease which had apparently surprised him, and even now was aboard Euryalus, probably fretting about his uncle’s future, or lack of it.

  A door opened and Broughton walked through the room towards the corridor. Bolitho had not seen him since he had left the ship, and said quickly, “I hope all went well, Sir Lucius?”

  Broughton seemed only then aware of his presence. He eyed him flatly. “I have been appointed to New South Wales. To manage the vessels and affairs of our naval administration there.”

  Bolitho tried to disguise his dismay. “That would appear to be quite a task, sir.”

  The admiral’s eyes flickered to Herrick. “Oblivion.” He turned away. “I hope you fare better.” Then with a curt nod he was gone.

  Herrick exploded, “By God, I know little of Broughton, but that is damned cruel! He’ll rot out there while some of these powdered poppinjays in London grow fat on the efforts of such men!”

  Bolitho smiled sadly. “Easy, Thomas. I think Sir Lucius expected it.”

  He turned back to the window. Oblivion. How well it described such an appointment. Yet Broughton had a name and power. A man of influence.

  He thought with sudden bitterness of the Auriga’s chief mutineer, Tom Gates. He could see him sitting across the table in the little inn at Veryan Bay, and again confronting Captain Brice in his cabin.

  Almost the first sight he had witnessed at Portsmouth Point had been the weathered remains of Gates swinging from a gibbet as a grisly reminder of the price of revolt. How strange was fate. Auriga’s second lieutenant had been released by the French in exchange for one of their own officers. His appointment had taken him to another frigate, where hiding under a false name he had discovered Gates. All hopes and ambition gone, and left only with the need to hide amongst his own sort, Gates had ended on a halter like so many others after the mutiny.

  The door opened again and a lieutenant said, “Sir George will see you now.” When Herrick hung back he added, “Both of you, please.”

  It was a fine room, with many pictures and a large bust of Raleigh above a lively log fire.

  Admiral Sir George Beauchamp did not rise from his desk but gestured briefly to two chairs.

  Bolitho watched him as he leafed through some papers. Beauchamp, distinguished for his work on reorganisation at the Admiralty since the outbreak of war. A man noted fo
r his wisdom and humour. And his severity.

  He was thin and rather stooped, as if bowed down by the weight of his resplendent gold-laced coat.

  “Ah, Bolitho.” He looked up, his eyes very cold and steady. “I have been studying the reports and your findings. It makes interesting reading!”

  Bolitho heard Herrick breathing heavily beside him and wondered what Beauchamp would say next.

  “I knew Sir Charles Thelwall, your previous admiral.” Beauchamp eyed him calmly. “A fine man.” He turned back to the papers again.

  Still no mention of Broughton. It was almost unnerving.

  The admiral asked, “Do you still believe what you did and that which you discovered was worthwhile?”

  Bolitho replied quietly, “Yes, sir.” The question had been casually put, yet he believed it summed up all that had gone before. He added, “The French will keep trying. They must be held. And stopped.”

  “Your action at Djafou and handling of what must have appeared a hopeless situation was good. Sir Lucius said as much in his report.” He frowned. “As well he might.”

  “Thank you, sir.”

  The admiral ignored him. “New tactics and ideas, fresh objectives, all are necessary if we are to survive, let alone win this war. But the knowledge and understanding of the people who have to fight and die for our cause is vital! ” He shrugged wearily. “You have that understanding. Whereas . . .” He left the rest unsaid, but in Bolitho’s brain the word returned. Oblivion.

  Beauchamp peered at a gilt dock. “You will remain in London for a day or so while I arrange your new orders, understood?”

  Bolitho nodded, “Yes, sir.”

  The admiral walked to a window and studied the passing carriages and townspeople with apparent disdain. “Captain Herrick will leave for Portsmouth immediately!”