Alexander Kent - Success to the Brave

Bolitho heard the muffled cheers from below. They had hit her. If one of Crocker's eighteen-pound balls struck the Diane's slender hull it could be serious.

Adam exclaimed, 'Look, sir! Argonaute's setting her main-course!'

The seventy-four seemed to puff herself up as with sail upon sail she leaned over to the wind, her lower gun-ports almost awash as she changed tack towards Achates.

Bolitho heard Keen shout, 'Let her fall off three points again, Mr Knocker! Steer nor'-east by north!'

Even as the hands hauled at the braces and Knocker stood over the binnacle like a watchful hawk, Crocker fired yet again, and this time one of the frigate's jib sails was cut away to join its ragged companion.

Quantock was yelling, 'Mr Mountsteven! Another pull at the weather-forebrace there! Now belay, dammit, sir!'

Men bustled about at the braces and halliards, while only the crews of the starboard guns, which pointed towards the enemy, remained at their stations.

Bolitho gripped the nettings as the deck tilted to the thrust of the canvas overhead.

The French captain would have to close the range whether he wanted to or not. Unless he ordered his frigate to stand away, in which case Achates would be able to meet his challenge gun to gun. Bolitho smiled. Well… almost.

One of the marines who was leaning against the hammocks, his musket already cradled against his cheek, saw Bolitho's smile and dared to say, 'Us'Il teach them Frogs a lesson, sir!'

He seemed to realize he had spoken to a vice-admiral uninvited and lapsed into confused silence.

Bolitho glanced at him. He did not even know his name.

In a while they would be fighting for their very lives. The heaviest casualties were usually aft on the unprotected poop and quarterdeck. This marine might be one of them.

He said, 'I am relying on it.' He looked at their expectant faces, hating his own words. 'So give your best, lads.'

There was a jarring crash as Crocker laid and fired another gun. The frigate had changed tack very slightly, but it had not passed unnoticed by the grotesque gun captain. As her shape lengthened momentarily Crocker pulled his trigger-line and the ball smashed through the enemy's larboard gangway, hurling planks and splintered wood high into the air.

There were more cheers, and Bolitho held his breath as the frigate paid off down-wind, her torn canvas still whipping above the deck as she opened the range between them.

Then he ran down the poop ladder and strode to the rail above the gun-deck.

It would be very soon. He glanced quickly abeam and saw the seventy-four's bows edging into view, her canvas bulging to the wind as she changed tack still further towards the Achates.

'Stand by!'

The cheering ceased instantly and gun crews crouched beside their eighteen-pounders, staring through the ports. 'As you bear!'

The French ship had the wind-gauge, but so strong was the pressure in Achates' sails that her gun muzzles were elevated to maximum advantage by the slanting decks.

‘Fire!'

Deck by deck, gun by gun, the carefully aimed broadside flashed along Achates' side from stern to forecastle. Some of the forward guns were traversed to full extent, their crews leaning on their handspikes until they too could train on the enemy.

Bolitho watched intently as the Argonaute's topsails danced wildly, the wind ready and eager to explore the holes punched by the double-shotted guns.

Along and beyond her hull he saw the sea alive with flung spray as more balls slammed down with terrible impact.

It was impossible to determine if they had hit anything vital. But the range was still closing, the French captain just as aware as Keen of the danger of a lucky shot. One ship knocked out of the fight, another driven off by Crocker's two stern-chasers, the French captain would feel the humiliation too with his admiral breathing down his neck.

Bolitho saw the flashing line of bright tongues from the seventy-four's side, tensed for the sickening shriek of iron, the crash of shots slamming into timber. Instead he heard the insane whine of chain-shot and saw long streamers of broken rigging floating from the upper yards, the forward topgallant sail ripped apart like a handkerchief in the invisible onslaught.

'Ready!' Keen had his hand up high. 'Fire!'

Again the guns recoiled madly on their tackles, their crews leaping forward to sponge out and ram in fresh charges while the muzzles were still spewing smoke.

'Ready!' Keen wiped his streaming face with his forearm. 'Fire!'

The gunnery was superb. All the drills, the demanding discipline, were paying off now. Two broadsides to Argonaute's one.

They were hitting her too. Her mizzen-topmast was dangling like a fallen bridge, and her sails were pock-marked by shot and flying splinters.

Bolitho held his breath again as the guns flashed along the enemy's side.

He felt the jarring thud of balls hitting the hull, and saw the fore-course punctured in several places at once. The wind did the rest, and soon the fore-course was little more than rags.

‘Fire!'

The pace was slower, the response more irregular, as the gun captains jerked their lines and jumped clear as each great breech charged inboard again.

There was a great crack and then amidst a writhing tangle of stays and rigging Achates' main-topgallant mast thundered down. It ploughed into the larboard gangway like a battering ram, tearing aside the protective nets as if they were cobwebs before toppling overboard.

Rooke and his men were there in an instant, axes flashing as they cut the wreckage away. Two seamen were down too. Dead or knocked unconscious by falling rigging, Bolitho did not know.

The guns roared out once more, the din scraping at his mind, as fallen cordage and great strips of canvas fell over the sweating gun crews while they reloaded and then fired again.

Keen shouted, 'Argonaute's coming at us, sir!'

He looked wild-eyed, his hat knocked from his head in the turmoil which surged around him.

Bolitho wiped his eyes and looked at the enemy. The trick had worked. The Argonaute was charging down-wind with every available sail set, her forward guns firing haphazardly, some hitting, but others, because of the fine angle of approach, ripping through wave-crests far astern.

The little frigate had made no attempt to press home her attack, and was probably grateful to be a mere spectator. She was too far away now to be of any use. It was already too late for last-minute strategy.

Bolitho heard himself shout above the crash and recoil of the guns, 'It's men not ships, Val! They're what count in the end!'

Smoke belched over the gangway and a marine fell from the main-top, his scream lost in the bombardment. One of the forward eighteen-pounders was on its side, two men down and bleeding badly beside it, another writhing and screaming, pinned to the deck by its overheated muzzle.

Men from the disengaged side ran to replace the dead and injured, others obeyed Quantock's speaking-trumpet and hurried to splice hasty repairs and set the big main-course. It was too close to the fighting, too great a risk if fire should spread from sparks or a burning wad from a gun.

Bolitho gauged the distance. The French ship was a cable away, her guns firing intermittently, but at this range she was hitting Achates again and again.

Keen was right to set the bigger sails. If Achates lost steerage-way now through lack of canvas, she would fall down-wind and present her unprotected stern to the Frenchman's heavy guns and suffer the same fate as the frigate. If the enemy got the chance to fire through Achates full length, both decks would suffer crushing losses.

Bolitho raised his smarting eyes to the foremast and saw his flag flying above the smoke and destruction. As the French admiral would see it. The additional spur to drive him on, to bring both ships together regardless of consequences.