Alexander Kent: Command a King`s Ship

Midshipman Armitage stood shaking on the gangway, his skin like chalk as he shouted, 'Follow me!' Then he, too, was dead, pushed aside and trodden underfoot as the two opposing groups surged together again.

Bolitho saw it all as he fought his way aft towards the main quarterdeck ladder. Saw it, and recorded it in his mind. But without sequence, like a nightmare. As if he were a mere onlooker.

He reached the ladder and saw the French lieutenant facing him, the one named Maurin, who had an English wife. The rest seemed to fade into a swirling, embattled fog as the two swords reached out and circled each other.

Bolitho said harshly, 'Strike, Maurin! You have done enough l'

The Frenchman shook his head. 'It is not possible, m'sieu!'

Then he lunged forward, taking Bolitho's sword on the hilt, and deftly turning it towards the sea. Bolitho let himself fall back to the next step, seeing the desperation on Maurin's face, knowing, without understanding why, that this man alone stood between victory and senseless slaughter.

'Le Chaumareys is deadl' Bolitho tested the next step with his left foot. 'Am I not right?' He had to shout at the top of his voice as more of Undine's men burst yelling on to the gun deck and attacked the French crew from behind. They must have climbed through the shattered stern, Bolitho realised dully. Again it was more of a reaction than anything. He added coldly, 'So for God's sake strike!'

Maurin hesitated, the uncertainty plain on his face, and then made up his mind. He sidestepped and raised his hilt almost level with his eyes before lunging towards Bolitho's chest.

Bolitho watched him with something like despair. Maurin had been too long in the one ship, had forgotten the need for change. It was easy. Too sickeningly easy.

Bolitho took his weight on his foot, parried the blade as it darted towards him, and struck. The lieutenant's weight was more than enough, and Bolitho almost had the sword wrenched from his grip as Maurin fell gasping to the deck below.

A pigtailed seaman raised his boarding pike, but Bolitho shouted, 'Touch him, and I'll kill you myself!'

He saw Herrick walking between the French seamen who were throwing their weapons on to the bloodied deck, the fight over. Their strength going at the sight of Maurin's last gesture.

He thrust the sword into its scabbard and walked heavily up the last few steps. He knew Allday was behind him, and Herrick took his place at his side as together they stood in silence looking at Le Chaumareys' body where it lay beside the abandoned wheel. He looked strangely peaceful, and amidst so much carnage and horror, almost unmarked. There was a dark stain below his shoulder, and a small trickle of blood from a corner of his mouth. Probably one of Bellairs' sharpshooters, Bolitho thought vaguely.

Bolitho said quietly, 'Well, we did meet, Captain. Just as you said we would.'

Lieutenant Soames knelt to unfasten Le Chaumareys' sword, but Bolitho said, 'Leave it. His was a bad cause, but he fought with honour.' He turned away, suddenly sick of the watching dead, their pathetic stillness. 'And cover him with his flag. His proper flag. He was no pirate!'

He saw Davy's body being carried to the gangway, and added, 'A moment longer and he would have seen Argus taken. Enough prize-money even for his debts perhaps.'

As they climbed across the trapped water between the drifting hulls Bolitho turned, startled, as some of the seamen gathered to cheer him. He looked at Herrick, but he shrugged and gave a sad smile.

'I know how you feel, sir, but they are glad to be alive. It is their way of thanking you.'

Bolitho touched his arm. 'Survival? I suppose it is a fair cause for battle.' He forced a smile. 'And for winning.'

Herrick picked up his hat and handed it to him. 'I'll set the people to work, sir. The pumps sound too busy for my liking.'

Bolitho nodded and walked slowly towards the stern, his shoes catching at splinters and broken cordage. By the taffrail he paused and looked wearily along his command, at the broken planking and stained decks, the figures which were picking their way amidst the debris, more like survivors than victors.

Then he leaned back and loosened his neckcloth, and shook open his best dress coat which was torn and slashed in a dozen places.

Above his head the flag was flapping more easily, the sudden squall having passed on as quickly as it had arrived to save them from Argus's great guns. But for it…

He looked round, suddenly anxious, but saw Mudge in his place near the helm, cutting at a piece of cheese with a small knife which he had fished from one of his pockets. He looked very old in the dusty sunlight. Little Penn was squatting on a gun truck, having his wrist bandaged, and dabbing at his nose which had started to bleed when a charge had exploded prematurely nearby.

Bolitho watched them with something like love. Mudge and Penn. Age and innocence.

There was Keen, speaking with Soames, and looking very strained. But a man now.

Feet crunched on the debris, and he saw Noddall approaching him cautiously, a jug of wine clasped against his chest.

'I am afraid I can't yet find the glasses, sir.' He kept his eyes fixed on Bolitho's face, and had probably had them shut as he had groped past some of the horror below.

Bolitho held the jug to his lips and said, 'But this is some of my best wine.'

Noddall dabbed his eyes and smiled nervously. 'Aye, sir. All of it. The rest was destroyed by the battle.'

Bolitho let the wine fill his mouth, savouring it. Needing it. They had come a long way since that shop in St. James's Street, he thought.

And in a few weeks they would be ready again. The missing faces would still be remembered, but without the pain which even now was getting stronger. Terror would emerge as bravado, and courage be recalled as duty. He smiled bitterly, remembering the words from so long ago. In the King's name.

He heard Penn say in his squeaky voice, 'I was a bit frightened, Mr. Mudge.' An awkward pause. 'Just a bit.'

Old Mudge looked across the deck and held Bolitho's gaze. 'Frightened, boy? Gawd, 'e'll never make a cap'n, will 'e, sir?'

Bolitho smiled, sharing the moment with Mudge alone. For he knew, better than most, that the truth of battle was not for children.

Then he looked along his command again, at the gleaming shoulder of the proud figurehead below the bowsprit.

Undine was the real victor, he thought, and he was suddenly grateful to have her to himself.

Lieutenant Thomas Herrick stepped into the stern cabin and tucked his hat beneath his arm.

'You sent for me, sir?

Bolitho was standing by the open windows, his hands on a sill, watching the weed on the sea-bed and tiny, bright fish darting around the motionless rudder.

It was afternoon, and along the shoreline of Pendang Bay the trees and green fronds waved and shone in a dozen hues to a steady breeze. Good sailing weather, he thought absently, but not for Undiae. Not just yet.

He turned and gestured to a chair. 'Sit down, Thomas.' He saw Herrick's gaze resting on the opened despatches

which had been brought aboard that day. A brig from Madras.

Orders and news.

'Another Indiaman will be arriving shortly, Thomas. This despatch is from the Admiral Commanding the Inshore Squadron. He is sending fresh hands to replace some of those we lost in battle.'

How easily said. Lost in battle. He glanced slowly around the cabin, knowing that Herrick was watching him, sharing his memories.

There was little to show of the mauling the ship had suffered under Le Chaumareys' guns. Fresh paint covered the repaired timbers, and the smell of tar and wood-shavings lingered throughout the hull. A month and two days since they had gone alongside Argus, but despite the back-breaking work, and the rewards of seeing the ship looking her old self again, the pictures of the fight hung in Bolitho's mind as if it were yesterday.