every black muzzle added its havoc to the bombardment.
Bolitho watched the smoke rolling away, trying to see the enemy, his eyes streaming, his mouth like sand.
The sky had gone, even the sun, and the world was confined to a thundering nightmare of flame and earsplitting noise.
He felt the hull shiver, heard muffled screams from far below as enemy iron came through a port and sliced amongst the crowded gun deck. He tried not to. think of Pascoe lying hurt or crippled, the horror that a great ball could do in such a confined place.
He saw a flag making a small patch of colour in the smoke, and realised there was no other mast near it. Some of the gun crews started to cheer, their voices strangely muffled after the din of a full broadside. He watched grimly as the other ship showed herself through the fog, her stem and quarter smashed and almost unrecognisable. Only her foremast remained, and some brave soul was risking death to climb aloft and fix a new tricolour to the foretop.
Herrick shouted incredulously, 'Nicator's not following!'
He fell back as a man was hurled from a gun, his scream dying in his throat. Herrick lowered him to the deck, his hands spattered with blood. As he scrambled up again he said savagely, 'Probyn's not going to help!'
Bolitho glanced at him and ran to the larboard side, seeking the rest of the enemy line, and saw that the remaining two were holding on the same course, while the one which had swung round after Lysander was still trying to overhaul, her forward guns firing towards the quarter.
Bolitho shouted, 'Direct your fire on that one!'
He winced as men fell kicking from a pair of guns.
Splinters and charred hammocks burst' across the boat tier, and he saw a ship's boy smashed to the deck and almost decapitated by a jagged length of planking.
'Fire!' Lieutenant Kipling was still walking up and down, but his hat had gone, and his left arm hung useless at his side. 'stop your vents! Sponge out! Load!' He stooped to drag a wounded man from the path of a gun. 'Run out!'
Thuds along the gangway and decks made some duck away, and Bolitho saw bright darting flames from the enemy's tops as the sharpshooters tested their aim. 'Fire!
There was a ragged cheer as the enemy's fore topgallant mast toppled, steadied and then plunged into her own gunsmoke. Some of her marksmen would have gone with it. But she was still firing, and Bolitho could feel the balls slamming into the side and poop, the crash and whine of metal, the dreadful screams.
A midshipman ran across the deck, his eyes fixed on Bolitho.
'sir! Immor-Immor-' He gave up. 'Captain Javal's ship is breaking through, sir! Mr. Yea's respects, and he saw her thrusting across the third Frenchie' s bowsprit!'
Bolitho gripped his shoulder, feeling him jump with alarm as a ball crashed through the quarterdeck rail and killed two men at a nine-pounder. They fell in a bloody heap at the midshipman's feet, and it was then that Bolitho realised it was Breen, his ginger hair almost black with smoke.
'Thank you, Mr. Breen.' He held his shoulder tightly until he could feel some of the terror ebbing away. 'My compliments to the boatswain.' As the midshipman started to run for the ladder he said, 'Take your time, Mr. Breen!' He saw his words holding him, steadying him. 'Our people are looking to their' 'young gentlemen' today!' He saw the boy grin.
Herrick called, 'I can see Nicator, sir! She's still disengaged!'
Bolitho looked at him. Probyn was well clear. He could apply his strength to the rearmost French seventy-fours which were now exchanging shots with Immortalite. Or he could set more sail and come after Lysander.
He said, 'General signal. Close action.'
He turned as Herrick hurried away and stared across the nettings. He saw Nicator's topsails, her hoisted. acknowledgement very bright against the smoke.
Bolitho coughed and retched as more smoke funnelled through the ports.
'Mr. Glasson! Tell your men to keep that signal flying, no matter what!'
Herrick shouted, 'Glasson's dead, sir.'
He stepped' aside as some marines lifted the acting-lieutenant clear of the guns. His face was screwed into a petulant frown, his mouth open as if about to reprimand the marines who carried him.
'I’ll attend to it, sir!'
Bolitho turned and saw Saxby staring up at him. He had forgotten all about him.
'Thank you.' He tried to smile, but his face felt stiff and unmoving. 'I want the signal, and our Colours to be seen. If you have to tie them to the bowsprit!'
He heard a chorus of groans, and then Major Leroux shouted from the poop, 'Captain Javal's having a hard fight, sir! His mizzen is gone, and he seems to be trying to grapple!' Bolitho nodded. The French would have recognised Javal's ship as one of their own. They would try to recapture her first. It was a natural instinct.
He said, 'More sail, Thomas! Set the t'gallants! I want to get amongst the supply ships!'
A seaman fell from an upper yard and lay with an arm thrust through the net. The dead reaching for the living.
But others were responding to the orders, and under more sails Lysander forged ahead of the French two- decker.
Herrick wiped his grimy face with his sleeve and grinned. 'Always was a fast sailer, sir!' He waved his hat, the desperation of battle in his eyes. 'Huzza, lads! Hit 'em, lads!'
