before replacing it in the shot-garland and selecting another. In a manner born, Bolitho thought. He had often seen old gun-captains do it. To make certain the first shots would be perfect. After the opening broadsides it was usually each crew to itself and devil take the hindmost.
He heard Gulliver say, “We have the wind-gage, sir. We can always shorten sail if the enemy comes about.”
He was probably speaking merely to release his own anxieties or to await a suggestion from the captain. But Dumaresq remained silent, watching his adversary, glancing occasionally at the masthead pendant or the sluggish wave curling back from Destiny’s bows.
Bolitho looked forward and saw Rhodes speaking with Cowdroy and some of his gun-captains. The waiting was endless. It was what he expected, but he never grew used to.
“The schooners have luffed, sir!”
Dumaresq grunted. “Hanging back like jackals.”
Bolitho climbed up to peer over the gangway which ran above the starboard battery to link quarterdeck to forecastle. Even with the packed hammock nettings and the nets spread above the deck there was little enough protection for the seamen, he thought.
Almost the worst part was the empty boat-tier. Apart from the gig and the quarter-boat towing astern, the rest had been left drifting in an untidy line. In action, flying splinters were one of the greatest hazards, and the boats made a tempting target. But to see them cast adrift put the seal on what they had to face.
Henderson called, “The corpses have been cut down, sir!” He sounded hoarse from strain.
Dumaresq said to Palliser, “Like so much meat. God damn his eyes!”
Palliser answered evenly, “Maybe he wishes to see you angry, sir?”
“Provoke me?” Dumaresq’s anger faded before it could spread. “You could be right. Hell’s teeth, Mr Palliser, it should be Parliament for you, not the Navy!”
Midshipman Jury stood with his hands behind his back watching the far-off ship, his hat tilted over his eyes as he had seen Bolitho do.
He said suddenly, “Will they try to close with us, sir?”
“Probably. They have the numbers. From what we saw on the island, I would guess they outmatch us by ten to one.” He saw the dismay on Jury’s face and added lightly, “The captain will hold them off. Hit and run. Wear them down.”
Bolitho glanced up at Dumaresq by the rail and wondered. No emotion, and yet he must be scheming and planning for every possible set-back. Even his voice was as usual.
Jury said, “The other two craft could be dangerous.”
“The topsail schooner maybe. The other one is too light to risk a close encounter.”
He thought of what would have happened but for their desperate action on the island. Was it only yesterday? There would have been six schooners instead of two, and the forty-four-gun San Augustin might have had time to mount more guns, maybe those from the hill-top battery. Now, whatever the outcome, their captured schooner would carry Dumaresq’s despatches to the admiral at Antigua. Too late for them perhaps, but they would ensure that Garrick remained a hunted man for the rest of his life.
How clear the sky looked. Not yet too hot to be oppressive. The sea too was creamy and inviting. He tried not to think of that other time, when he had pictured himself running and swimming with her, finding happiness together, making it last.
Dumaresq said loudly, “They will attempt to dismast us and lay us open to boarding. It is likely that the larger of the schooners has been armed with some heavier pieces. So make each shot tell. Remember that many of their gun-crews and seamen are Spaniards. Terrified of Garrick they may be, but they’ll not wish to be pounded to gruel by you!”
His words brought a murmur of approval from the bare-backed gun-crews.
There was a ragged crash of cannon-fire, and Bolitho turned to see the San Augustin’s starboard guns shoot out long orange tongues, while the smoke rolled over the ship and partially hid the island beyond.
The sea foamed and shot skywards, as if the power was coming from beneath the surface instead of from the proud ship with the scarlet crosses on her courses.
Stockdale said, “Rough.”
Several of the seamen around him shook their fists towards the enemy, although at three miles range it was unlikely anyone would see them.
Rhodes strolled aft, his beautiful sword at odds with his faded sea-going coat.
He said, “Just to keep them busy, eh, Dick?”
Bolitho nodded. Rhodes was probably right, but there was something very menacing about the Spanish vessel for all that. Perhaps because of her extravagant beauty, the richness of her gilded carvings which even distance could not conceal.
He said, “If only the wind would come.”
Rhodes shrugged. “If only we were in Plymouth.”
Another broadside spouted from the Spaniard’s hull, and some balls ricocheted across the sea’s face and seemed to go on forever.
There was an even louder shout of derision, but Bolitho saw some of the senior gun-captains looking worried. The enemy’s iron was dropping short and was not that well directed, but as both vessels were moving so slowly on what would likely remain a converging tack, it made each barrage more dangerous.
He pictured Bulkley and his loblolly boys on the shadowy orlop deck, the glittering instruments, the brandy to take away the agony, the leather strap to prevent a man biting through his tongue as the surgeon’s saw did its work.
And Spillane, in irons below the waterline, what was he thinking as the thunder rolled against the timbers around him?
“Stand by on deck!” Palliser was staring down at the double line of guns. “Run in and load!”
This was the moment. With fixed concentration each guncaptain watched as his men put their weight on the tackles and hauled them away from the sides.
Bulky cartridges were passed rapidly to each muzzle and rammed home by the loader.
Bolitho watched the one nearest to him as he gave the cartridge in his gun two extra sharp taps to bed it in. His face was so set, so absorbed, that it was as if he was about to take on an enemy single-handed. Then the wad, followed by a gleaming black ball for each gun. One more wad rammed down, just in case the ship should give an unexpected roll and tip the ball harmlessly into the sea, and they were done.
When Bolitho looked up again, the other ship seemed to have drawn much closer.
“Ready on deck!”
Each gun-captain held up his hand.
Palliser shouted, “Open the ports!” He waited, counting seconds, as the port-lids rose along either side like reawakened eyes. “Run out!”
The San Augustin fired again, but her master had let her fall off to the wind and the whole broadside fell a good half mile from Destiny’s larboard bow.
Rhodes was striding behind his guns, giving instructions or merely joking with his men, Bolitho could not tell.
With San Augustin now lying off their larboard bow on an invisible arrowhead, it was hard to keep his crews busy and prevent them from standing to look to the opposite side to see what was happening.
Palliser called, “Mr Bolitho! Be ready to send some of your hands across to assist. Two broadsides and we will alter course to larboard and allow your guns a similar chance.”
Bolitho waved his hands. “Aye, sir!”
Dumaresq said, “Alter course three points to starboard.”
“Man the braces there! Helm a-weather!”
With her canvas flapping and cracking, Destiny responded, the San Augustin seeming to go astern as she showed herself to the crouching gun-captains.
“Full elevation! Fire! ”
The twelve-pounders hurled themselves inboard on their tackles, the smoke rolling downwind towards the enemy in a frothing screen.
