Alexander Kent - THE INSHORE SQUADRON

Bolitho shouted, 'It will have to be quick or the galleys will outpace us before we can rake them!'

By turning downwind and away from the remaining enemy two-decker it might seem that Benbow was withdrawing from the fight. And by ordering Keen and Inch to attack the rest of the enemy formation he knew he might be sacrificing them and every man under their command.

But he had to hit the galleys and destroy their confidence. Otherwise his whole squadron would be overwhelmed. No blame would lie with Damerum, for the Inshore Squadron would have served its purpose even in the blood of its own destruction. Nelson was at the gates of Copenhagen, and nothing which the galleys or anyone else could do would change that now.

Bolitho saw Pascoe walking between the guns, his borrowed hat gone, his black hair blowing across his face as he spoke to some of the seamen. He must be feeling the shock more deeply now, Bolitho thought, and even along the length of the deck he could see his unnatural stiffness.

He heard Herrick explaining to Wolfe and Grubb exactly what he wanted, saw the seamen manning the braces and staring aloft at the sails, most of which were patterned with shot holes.

'Stand by on the quarterdeck!'

More shots hit the hull, but in the tension nobody cried out.

Gun crews stood by their tackles, the captains testing the trigger lines and picturing their targets.

`Now! Put up your helm! Lee braces there! Roundly, lads!' Bolitho felt the deck begin to tilt, saw an upended fire-bucket spill water across the pale planking as once again Benbow res ponded to her masters.

The galleys are reforming, sir!' Browne broke off choking in gunsmoke as the upper batteries crashed inboard once more from their ports.

Bolitho strode to the nettings, seeing Nicator and Odin, their hulls overlapping as they dosed the range with the Danish ships. Galleys milled around them, sweeps pulling and then backing with equal precision as their commanders handled them as if they and the guns were one weapon.

Odin was pouring smoke from her side and poop, but Keen's Nicator was firing at point-blank range at her adversary, so that as a full broadside smashed into the Danish ship she appeared to rock over as if struck by a mountainous sea.

Benbow's alteration of course had not only taken her away from the squadron, but had also isolated her amongst the galleys. Her first massive broadsides as she had swung downwind had taken the galleys completely by surprise, and seven of them had been sunk or smashed beyond. recognition. Figures floundered amongst floating timbers and broken spars, and Bolitho guessed that some were survivors from the Lookout which had foundered without anyone seeing her final moments.

Bolitho stared along the upper deck at the seamen and marines who had been working and firing, pulling wreckage and wounded men aside without a break since the opening shots. The hull was being hit again and again, and despite the din he could hear the occasional dank of pumps.

'Odin's signalling, sir! Require assistance!'

Bolitho glanced across at Herrick and said, `Inch will have to hold on, Thomas.'

He turned as a man fell kicking and choking on his own blood, cut down by a fragment of iron.

Someone found the breath for a cheer as another galley rolled over, gutted by a packed charge of round-shot and grape.

Falling further and further astern of her flagship, the Indomitable was fighting off attacks from both bow and quarter, the great balls slamming through the stem and forecastle, upending guns and forcing their crews to cower down for protection.

Herrick, his hat gone, a pistol gripped in his hand, peered through the smoke and shouted, 'Two more of 'em are dosing astern!'

There was a great crash, and Grubb yelled hoarsely, 'Steerin' carried away, sir!'

A wildly flapping shadow swept overhead, and Bolitho felt himself being dragged roughly aside as the mizzen-topmast, spars and trailing creepers of cut rigging clattered and thundered over the larboard side.

It was like being left naked. Guns crashed and recoiled as before, but as Benbow swung helplessly out of control the aim was lost. Men lay buried beneath great coils of fallen rope and blocks, others crept about on hands and knees like terrified dogs. There were many dead, too, including the marine lieutenant, Marston, an overturned cannon had crushed his chest and stomach to bloody pulp.

Swale, the boatswain, was already there with his men, axes flashing, more concerned with freeing their ship from the trailing anchor of wreckage than with their fallen comrades.

Herrick assisted Bolitho to his feet, his eyes wild as he shouted at his first lieutenant.

'Send a master's mate below, Mr Wolfe! Rig emergency steering tackle!'

Bolitho nodded to Allday who had pulled him away from the splintered topmast as it fell.

Major Clinton at the head of some marines charged aft and up to the poop to reinforce his men there as four and then five galleys dosed around the Benbow's unprotected stern. Again and again the deck jumped and quivered as ball after ball slammed through the counter and quarter gallery, against which the crack of Clinton 's muskets sounded puny and useless.

A swivel blasted canister from the maintop, and Bolitho realized that the first Danish ship, which had been totally disabled by Benbow's broadsides, had drifted down towards them and was barely fifty yards away. Shots banged back and forth across the narrowing arrowhead of water, and marksmen joined in to try and seek their enemy's officers and add further to the confusion and death.

The midshipman named Keys staggered and toppled sideways, but Allday caught him before he hit the deck.

He stared past Allday at Bolitho, his eyes glazing rapidly as he managed to whisper, 'Number… sixteen… still… flies… sir!' Then he died.

Bolitho looked up blindly, seeing another midshipman swarming up the main-topgallant mast with his rear-admiral's flag trailing behind him like a banner.

Wolfe jumped back as the last of the mizzen's severed rigging slithered across the deck and vanished over the side.

But he pivoted round again as Major Clinton shouted, `They're boarding us, sir!'

Herrick waved his pistol, but Bolitho shouted, `Save your ship, Thomas!' Then he beckoned to the gun crews at the disengaged side and added, 'With me, Benbows!'

Whooping and yelling like demented beings they charged through the poop and down the companion, half of which had been reduced to splinters. Steel clashed on steel, and in the semi-darkness men staggered and reeled through the smoke, cutlasses and boarding axes painting the deckhead and timbers in shining patterns of blood.

A pistol banged out, and through the wardroom's shattered stern windows Bolitho saw men leaping up from the galleys which were hooking on to the counter and fighting their way inboard. Many fell to Clinton 's muskets, but still more appeared, yelling and cursing as they grappled with Benbow's seamen. Even in the cruel madness of battle they would be well aware that the only way to stay alive now was to win.

Lieutenant Oughton aimed his pistol at a Danish officer, pulled the trigger and gaped at the weapon in horror as it misfired.

The Danish officer parried a sailor's cutlass aside and drove his blade through Oughton's stomach once, and then again; before he had time to cry out.

As Oughton fell the Danish officer saw Bolitho, his eyes widening as in those brief seconds he took in his rank and authority.

Bolitho felt the man's blade slide across his own, saw the Dane's first determination give way to desperation as the hilts locked and Bolitho twisted his wrist as he had done so often in the past.

But as he took the weight on his wounded leg it seemed to weaken under him, the pain making him gasp as he lost the advantage a rid fell back against the press of men behind him.