enemies would not let them die easily.
Palliser snapped, “I’m going to steer for the brig. With our men and her guns there’s still a chance.” He looked steadily at Bolitho. “Now be a good fellow and get below.”
Bolitho hurried to the companion, his quick glance taking in the splintered deck planking and stark bloodstains. They had fought here before. Surely that was enough? Perhaps fate had always intended they should end thus?
He called to Jury, “Come with me.” He peered down into the darkness, dreading the thought of being trapped below if the ship went down. He spoke carefully to hide his anxiety. “We will examine the damage together. Then if I fall…” He saw Jury gasp. So he had not yet accepted the idea of death. “… you will relay the details to Mr Palliser.”
Once down the companion ladder he lit a lantern and led the way forward, careful to avoid some of the jagged splinters which had been smashed through from the deck above. The sounds were muffled but filled with menace as the ship shook and bucked to the bombardment.
The two attacking vessels were working round on either beam, heedless of the danger of hitting each other in their eagerness to destroy the little ship with the scarlet ensign at her peak.
Bolitho dragged open a lower hatch and said, “I can hear water.”
Jury whispered, “Oh, dear God, we’re foundering!”
Bolitho laid down and dipped his lantern through the hatch. It was a scene of complete chaos. Shattered casks and remnants of canvas floated amongst splintered wood, and as he watched he imagined he saw the water rising still further.
He said, “Go to the first lieutenant and tell him there’s no hope.” He restrained Jury, feeling his sudden surge of fear as more balls cracked into the hull. “ Walk.Remember what I said. They’ll be looking to you.” He tried to smile, to show that nothing mattered. “All right?”
Jury backed away, his eyes moving from the open hatch to Bolitho.
“What will you do?”
Bolitho turned his head sharply as a new sound echoed through the listing hull like a giant’s hammer. One of the anchors had broken free and was smashing into the bows with every roll. It could only speed their end.
“I’ll go to Olsson. We must release the prisoners.”
And then Bolitho was alone. He swallowed deeply and tried to keep his limbs from shaking. Then very slowly he groped his way aft again, the regular boom of the anchor against the hull following him like an execution drum.
There was another thud against the hull, but it was followed instantly by a loud crack. One of the masts, or part of it, was coming down. He tensed, waiting for the final crash as it hit the deck or plunged over the side.
The next instant he was spread-eagled in the darkness, the lantern gone from his hand, although he did not feel anything, nor did he recall the moment of impact.
All he knew was that he was pinned beneath a mass of wreckage and unable to move.
He pressed his ear to a ventilation grating and heard the surge of water as it battered through the bilges and lower hold. He was on the edge of terror, and knew that in seconds he could be screaming and kicking in a hopeless attempt to free himself.
Thoughts crowded through his mind. His mother as she had watched him leave. The sea below the headland at Falmouth where he and his brother had first ventured out in a fisherman’s boat, and his father’s wrath when he had discovered what they had done.
His eyes smarted, but when he tried to move his fingers to his face the fallen debris held him as cruelly as any trap.
The anchor had stopped its incessant boom against the hull, which meant it was probably under water with the forepart of the vessel.
Bolitho closed his eyes and waited, praying that his nerve would not break before the end.
8. Palliser’s Ruse
BOLITHO felt a growing pressure against his spine as some of the fallen timber shifted to the brigantine’s motion. He heard a scraping sound somewhere overhead, the clang of metal as one of the guns broke free and tumbled across the deck. The angle was more acute, and he could hear the sea piling against the hull, but much higher than before as the vessel continued to settle deeper and deeper.
There was still some shooting, but it seemed as if the victors were standing off to wait for the sea to complete their work for them.
Slowly, but with mounting desperation, Bolitho tried to wriggle free from the debris across his body. He could hear himself groaning and pleading, gasping meaningless words as he struggled to rid himself of the trap.
It was useless. He only succeeded in dislodging some more broken woodwork, a piece of which ploughed past his head like a spear.
With something like panic he heard sounds of a boat being manned, some hoarse cries and more musket shots.
He clenched his fists and pressed his face against the deck planking to prevent himself from screaming. The vessel was going fast and Palliser had ordered her to be abandoned.
Bolitho tried to think clearly, to accept that his companions were doing what they must. It was no time for sentiment or some useless gesture. He was already as dead as the others who had been shot down in the heat of the fighting.
He heard voices and someone calling his name. Needles of light probed through the tangled wreckage, and as the deck gave another lurch Bolitho shouted, “Go back! Save yourselves!”
He was shocked and stunned by his words and the strength of his voice. More than anything he had wanted to live until he had realized someone had cared enough to risk death for his sake.
Stockdale’s throaty voice said, “’Ere, work that spar clear!”
Somebody else said doubtfully, “Too late, by the looks of it, mate. We’d best get aft.”
Stockdale rasped, “Take ’old like I told you! Now, together, lads! ’Eave!”
Bolitho cried out as the pain pushed harder into his spine. Feet moved down from the other side of the pile and he saw Jury on his knees peering though a gap to look for him.
“Not long, sir.” He was shaking with fear but trying to smile at the same time. “Hold on!”
As suddenly as it had smashed him down the weight of broken planking and one complete spar were levered and hoisted clear.
A man seized Bolitho’s ankles and dragged him roughly up the sloping deck, while Stockdale appeared to be holding back a wall of wreckage all on his own.
Jury gasped, “Quickly!” He would have fallen but for a seaman’s ready grip, and then they were all staggering and lurching like drunks running from a press-gang.
On deck at last, Bolitho forgot the pain and the lurking moments of bare terror.
In the strengthening light he saw that the Heloise was already a total wreck, her fore-topmast gone completely and her main nothing more than a jagged stump. Her canvas, broken spars and an entangled mesh of fallen rigging completed the scene of devastation.
To drive it home, Bolitho saw that both boats were manned and standing clear, and the nearer of the two was already higher than the Heloise’s lee side.
Palliser stood in the cutter directing some of his men to use their muskets on one of the schooners. The dying brigantine acted as a barrier, the only thing which still stood between the enemy and their chance to run down on the boats and finish the one-sided fight.
Stockdale grunted, “Over th’ side, lads!”
His mind reeling, Bolitho saw that two of the men who had come back for him were Olsson, the mad Swede, and one of the farm-workers who had volunteered to his Plymouth recruiting party.
Jury kicked off his shoes and secured them inside his shirt. He looked at the water as it came swirling over the bulwark and exclaimed huskily, “It’s a long swim!”
Bolitho flinched as a musket ball smacked into the deck and raised a splinter as high as a goose quill within feet
