Alexander Kent - A Tradition of Victory

On their converging approach they were now within a cable of the nearest craft, and from the bows Odin’s leadsman yelled, “Deep six!”

Inch looked anxiously at Bolitho. “Far enough, sir?”

Bolitho nodded. “Bring her about.”

“Stand by to come about!”

All available hands sprang to braces and halliards, some still gasping and rubbing their streaming eyes from the gun smoke.

“Ready ho!”

“Put the wheel down!”

The spokes glittered in the sunshine as the helm was put hard over, and then M’Ewan shouted, “Helm’s a-lee, sir!”

Bolitho watched the panorama of drifting and shattered vessels as they began to swing slowly across Odin’s bows until it appeared as if the jib-boom was right above them. The sails flapped and thundered, while petty officers added their own weight to the braces to haul the yards round and lay the ship on the opposite tack.

Inch shouted, “Stand by on the larboard battery! On the uproll, Mr Graham!”

“Steady as you go!”

M’Ewan waited until the last sail was brought under control, hard-bellied in the wind.

“Sou’-east by east, sir!”

“Fire!”

The larboard guns hurled themselves inboard for the first time, the smoke funnelling back through the ports as the whole broadside crashed and blasted amongst the invasion craft with terrible effect.

Bolitho watched Phalarope’s shape lengthening, her sails in confusion as she followed the flagship’s example and tacked across the wind. She was even closer to the enemy, and Bolitho could imagine the terror those carronades would create.

The guard-ship was no longer under control and from her mainmast to forecastle was ablaze, the flames leaping up the sails and changing them to ashes in seconds.

Bolitho saw her shake and a topgallant mast fall like a lance into the smoke. She must have run aground, and several figures were floundering in the water, while others were swimming towards some rocks.

“Cease firing!”

A silence fell over the ship, and even the men who were still sponging out the guns from the last broadside stood up to the gangways to watch Phalarope’s slow and graceful approach.

Allday said thickly, “Look at her. Moving closer. I could almost feel sorry for the mounseers.”

Emes was taking no chances, either with his aim or with the effect on his ship’s timbers. From bow to stern the carronades fired one by one. Not the echoing crash of a long gun, but each shot was hard and flat, like a great hammer on an anvil.

The carronades were hidden from view, but Bolitho saw the shots slamming home amongst the remaining invasion craft like a great gale of wind. Except that this wind was tightly packed grape contained in one huge ball which burst on contact.

If one ball from a “smasher” exploded in the confines of a gun-deck, it could turn it into a slaughterhouse. The effect on the smaller, thinly-planked invasion craft would be horrific.

Emes took his time, reefing all but his topsails to give his carronade crews an opportunity to reload and fire one last broadside.

When the echoes faded, and the smoke eventually eddied clear, there were barely a dozen craft still afloat, and it seemed unlikely that they had escaped some casualties and damage.

Bolitho shut the telescope and handed it to a midshipman. He saw Inch slapping his first lieutenant on the shoulder and beaming all over his long face.

Poor Inch. He looked up as the masthead lookout yelled, “Deck there!”

“Sail on the lee bow!”

A dozen telescopes rose together, and something like a sigh transmitted itself along the upper deck.

Allday stood at Bolitho’s shoulder and whispered, “He’s too bloody late, sir!” But there was no pleasure in his voice.

Bolitho moved his glass very carefully across the glittering wave crests. Three ships of the line, bunched together by the distance, their pendants and ensigns making bright patches of colour against the sky. Another vessel, probably a frigate, was just showing herself around the headland.

He heard the marines shuffling their boots and standing up to the hammock nettings again as they realized their work had not even begun.

Allday had understood from the beginning. Inch too in all probability, but he had been so engrossed in his ship’s behaviour that he had put it from his mind.

He saw Midshipman Stirling shading his eyes to peer ahead towards the pale array of sails. He turned and saw Bolitho watching him, his eyes no longer confident but those of a confused boy.

“Come here, Mr Stirling.” Bolitho pointed to the distant ships. “Remond’s flying squadron. We’ll have given him a rude awakening this morning.”

Stirling asked, “Will we stand and fight, sir?”

Bolitho looked down at him and smiled gravely. “You are a King’s officer, Mr Stirling, no less than Captain Inch or myself. What would you have me do?”

Stirling tried to see how he would describe this to his mother. But nothing formed in his mind, and he was suddenly afraid.

“Fight, sir!”

“Attend the signals party, Mr Stirling.” To Allday he added softly, “If he can say that when he is terrified, there is hope for us all.”

Allday eyed him curiously, “If you say so, sir.”

“Deck there! Two more sail of the line roundin’ the point!”

Bolitho clasped his hands behind him. Five to one. He looked at Inch’s despair.

There was no point in fighting and dying for nothing. A brutal human sacrifice. They had done what many had thought impossible. Neale, Browne and all the others would not have died in vain.

But to order Inch to strike his colours would be almost as hard as dying.

“Deck there!”

Bolitho stared up at the lookout in the mizzen crosstrees. He must have been so dazed by the sight of the oncoming squadron he had failed to watch his own sector.

“Glass!”

Bolitho almost snatched it from the midshipman’s hand, and ignoring the startled glances ran to the shrouds and climbed swiftly until he was well clear of the deck.

“Three sail of the line on the lee quarter!”

Bolitho watched the newcomers and felt a lump rise in his throat. Somehow or other, adverse winds or not, Herrick had managed it. He wiped his eye with his sleeve and steadied the glass for another look.

Benbow in the lead. He would know her fat hull and thrusting figurehead anywhere. He saw Herrick’s broad-pendant writhing uncomfortably as ship by ship the remainder of the squadron tacked for what must be the hundredth time as they struggled to beat upwind and join their admiral.

He lowered himself to the quarterdeck and saw the others watching him like strangers.

Then Inch asked quietly, “Orders, sir?”

Bolitho glanced at Stirling and his colourful litter of flags.

“General signal, if you please, Mr Stirling. Form line of battle.”

Allday looked up as the flags broke stiffly to the wind. “I’ll lay odds mounseer never expected that! ”

Bolitho smiled. They were still outnumbered, but he had known worse odds. So had Herrick.

____________________Page 278____________________ A TRADITION OF VICTORY 277

He looked at Stirling. “You see, I took your advice!”

Allday shook his head. How did he do it? In an hour, maybe less, they would be fighting for their very breath.

Bolitho glanced up at the masthead pendant and formed a picture of the battle in his mind. If the wind held they might fight ship to ship. That would offer Remond the advantage. Better to allow his captains to act individually after they had broken the enemy’s line.

He looked along the deck, at the bare-backed gun crews and the boatswain’s party who were preparing to hoist out the boats and drop them astern. A tier of boats only added to the splinter wounds, and these were not low-hulled invasion craft they were preparing to fight.