Alexander Kent - The Only Victor

"Segrave? Stay with me." His voice was clipped, sharp. He was usually one of the easiest of the lieutenants. "Gunner's Mate! See to Mr Segrave! " He dismissed him and turned back to his little port.

Segrave's eyes were getting used to the darkness and he could see the individual guns nearest him, the black breeches resting on the buff-painted trucks, men crowded around them as if in some strange ceremony, their backs shining like steel.

The gunner's mate said, "'Ere, Mr Segrave." He thrust two pistols into his hands. "Both loaded. Just cock an' fire, see?"

Segrave stared at the closed gunports. Would the enemy come swarming in here? Into the ship herself?

The gunner's mate had gone, and Segrave jumped as somebody touched his leg and murmured, "Come to see 'ow the poor live, Mr Segrave?"

Segrave got down by the gun. It was the man he had saved from a flogging, the one Vincent had discovered in the hold below them at this moment.

He exclaimed, "Jim Fittock! I didn't know this was your station! "

A voice barked, "Silence on the gundeck! "

Fittock chuckled. "You got yer pieces then?"

Segrave thrust them into his belt. "They'll not be allowed to get that close! "

Fittock nodded to his mates on the opposite side of the great thirty-two-pounder. It said that this young officer was all right. The reasons were unnecessary.

"Aye, we'll rake the buggers after what they done! " He saw a sliver of sunlight glance off one of the pistols and gave a bitter smile. How could he explain to such an innocent that the pistols were for shooting any poor Jack who tried to run when the slaughter began?

A whistle shrilled and a voice piped from the companion ladder, "Right traverse, sir! "

Someone growled, "She's that close, eh?" Handspikes rasped across the deck to move the guns to a steeper angle; this division would be firing directly from the larboard bow.

Lieutenant Flemyng had drawn his hanger. "Ready lads! " He peered through the darkness as if he were seeing each of his men. "They've been calling to us to heave-to! " His voice sounded wild. "All nice and friendly! " As he turned back to look through his observation port, the sunlight, which had held his face suspended against the darkness like a mask, was cut off. It was as if a great hand had been laid across the port like a shutter.

Fittock hissed, "Keep with us! "

Segrave heard no more as the whistles shrilled and Flemyng yelled, "Open the ports! Run out! "

The air was filled with the squeak of trucks as the seamen threw themselves on their tackles and ran the great, lumbering guns up to the waiting sunshine. Gun-captains crouched and took the slack from their trigger-lines, faces, eyes, hands in various attitudes of hate and prayer while they cringed and waited for the order; it was like one vast incomplete painting.

Segrave stared with disbelief at the high beakhead and ornate gilded carving-a ship's tall side already smoke-stained from bombardment and conquest.

It was like being held in time. No voice, nor motion, as if the ship, too, was stricken.

Flemyng's hanger slashed down. "Fire! "

As each gun came lurching inboard to be seized, sponged out and reloaded in the only fashion they knew, Segrave stood gasping and retching, the smoke funnelling around him and blotting out everything. And yet it was there. Frozen to his mind. The lines of enemy guns pointing at him, some with men peering around them watching their latest capture until the massive weight of iron smashed into them at less than fifty yards' range.

The ship was swaying over as deck by deck the full broadside was fired across the smoky water. Men were cheering and cursing, racing one another to run out the guns and hold up their hands in the swirling mist of powder smoke.

"Run out! Aim! Fire! "

A ragged crash thundered against the side and somewhere a gun rolled inboard and overturned like a wounded beast. Men screamed and fell in the choking mist and Segrave saw a severed hand lying near the next gun like a discarded glove. No wonder they painted the sides red. It managed to hide some of the horror.

"Cease firing! " Flemyng turned away as another midshipman was dragged towards the hatchway which would take him to the orlop. From what he could see he had lost an arm and a leg. There was not much point. Segrave also tore his eyes away. The same age as himself. The same uniform. A thing. Not a person any more.

"Open the starboard ports! "

Fittock punched his arm. "Come on, sir! The Cap'n's comin' about and we'll engage the buggers to starboard! " They scrambled across the deck, stumbling over fallen gear and slipping on blood as sunlight poured through the other ports and the enemy seemed to slide past, her sails in complete disorder. Unless engaged on both sides together, the gun crews usually helped each other to keep the broadsides timed and regular.

"Ready, sir! "

"On the uproll, lads! " Flemyng was hatless and there was blood splashed like paint on his forehead. "Fire! "

Men were cheering and hugging each other. "'Er bloody foremast's comin' down! "

By one of the guns a seaman held his mate in his arms, and frantically pushed the hair from his eyes as he babbled, "Nearly done, Tim! The buggers are dismasted! " But his friend did not respond. Together they had lived and yarned by this one gun. Every waking hour it had been here-waiting.

A gunner's mate said roughly, "Take that man an' put 'im over! 'E's done for! " He was not an unduly hard man, but death was terrible enough without seeing it lingering on.

The seaman clutched his friend closer to him so that his head lolled across his shoulder as if to confide something. "You won't put 'im over, you bastards! "

Segrave felt Fittock's hard hand helping him to his feet as he called, "Leave them, Gunner's Mate! " He did not recognise himself. "There is enough to do! "

Fittock glanced across at his own crew, his teeth very white in his grimy face.

"Told you, eh? Right little terrier! " Then he guided Segrave to the curve of one great timber so that the others should not see his distress. He added, "One of the best! "

Throughout the ship men stood or crouched at their tasks, bodies streaked with sweat, ears bandaged against the deafening roar of cannon fire, fingers raw from hauling, ramming and running-out again and again.

It took time for the marine's trumpet call to penetrate each deck, and then the cheering clawed its way up towards the smoky sunlight, that other place where it had all begun.

Bolitho stood by the quarterdeck rail and watched the enemy ship. As she drifted downwind she turned her high stern towards him, the name San Mateo still so bright in the sunlight. He had thought it would never stop, and yet he knew that the whole action, from the time the Danish flag had been hauled down and his own run up to the fore, had lasted barely thirty minutes.

He said, "I knew we could do it." He felt Allday near him, heard Keen yell, "Stand by to starboard! "

There had been casualties. Men killed when seconds before they had been waiting to start the game.

"Nicator's signalling, sir! " Jenour sounded hoarse.

Bolitho raised a hand in acknowledgment. Thank God. Jenour was safe too. Black Prince must have fired three broadsides before the enemy had gathered wits enough to return a ragged response. By then it was already too late.

He said. "Signal Nicator to close with the convoy. Make certain that she tells the boarding parties that if they try to scuttle our ships or harm the crews, they will have to swim home! " He heard men muttering with approval and knew that had he so much as suggested it, they would have run every French prisoner up to the mainyard.

It was what war dictated. A madness. A need to hurt and kill those who had brought fear to you.