The range had dropped to a mere quarter-mile, and it was possible to see the watching figures on the other vessel's poop and forecastle.
'When she tries to hail us, Moffitt, tell her captain that Tracy is sick, badly wounded after a brush with the British.' He saw the man tighten his lips. 'It's no lie, so keep it simple, eh?'
Moffitt said coldly, 'I'll see that he don't recover if them buggers board us, sir!'
Along the weather side the seamen were crawling on their hands and knees, like strange worshippers around the four small cannon. Ball and grape to each gun. It would not even be felt by a stately two-decker like Trojan. But one good blast across the enemy's quarterdeck might do the trick. Time, time, time. It was like a hammer on an anvil.
Two small shadows moved on the Revenge's side, and Bolitho heard a murmur of anxiety from some of the wounded seamen. Revenge had raised two of her forward port lids, and as he watched he saw the sunlight touch a pair of black muzzles as she ran out the guns.
Frowd muttered uneasily, 'He knows, the bugger!'
Bolitho shook his head. 'I think not. He would run out a broadside if he was sure of an enemy, and maybe tack across our stern.' Again, it was like sharing his thoughts with those around him. 'He'll have been watching us all this time, as we have him. Tracy 's absence from the deck will have been noted. If Revenge's captain is newly appointed, he'll be wary of taking a chance, but unwilling to show fear or uncertainty to his men. Following a man like Tracy must be quite a task.'
He saw some of his seamen glance at each other, for support, to discover a new confidence. But he knew he was only guessing out of sheer hope.
Revenge's captain might be even more experienced than Tracy. And at this very moment was using the White Hills' unchanged tack for one terrible bombardment, his guns already manned and ready to fire.
Moffitt took a speaking trumpet and climbed casually into the weather shrouds. It was far too early, but it might lull the enemy's caution.
If not, the fight would explode across this deck within fifteen minutes.
Bolitho said evenly, 'You men, carry Mr Frowd and the other wounded below. If we have to abandon, the quarter boat will be used for them only.'
Frowd swivelled round on his hatch cover like an enraged terrier.
'Damn your eyes, I'll not die like a sick woman!' He grimaced as the pain stabbed through him, and he continued in a more controlled tone, 'I meant no disrespect, sir, but try and see it my way.'
'And which way is that?'
Frowd swayed about like a bush in a wind as the hull lifted and sliced through the choppy water.
'If your plan works, sir, and I pray to God it does, it will be a chase which only luck and superior seamanship can wim?
Bolitho smiled, 'Perhaps.'
'But, as I suspect, we may have to fight, for God's sake let me play my part. I have been in the Navy all my remembered years. To end my time cowering below when the metal flies overhead would make my life as worthless as that of any gallows-bird.'
'Very well.' Bolitho looked at Couzens. 'Help the lieutenant aft and see that he is supplied with enough powder and shot to reload the pistols and muskets to give an impression of strength and greater numbers.'
Frowd exclaimed, 'That's it, sir. I ask for nothing more. Those devils will outnumber us four to one, maybe more. We can take a few with us if we can maintain rapid fire.'
It was incredible, Bolitho thought. The prospect of sudden death had been made suddenly stark and inevitable by Frowd's words, and yet the previous apprehension seemed to have gone. The waiting had been the worst part, the simple task of fighting and dying was something they all understood. It was like hearing Sparke all over again. Keep them busy. No time to moan and weaken.
He turned to watch as the Revenge's jib and staysails quivered and flapped like tapered wings, and knew she was falling off a little more to run even closer to the White Hills. Nearer, she looked impressive and well armed.
Her hull was weatherbeaten and the sails stained and patched in several places. She must have been made to work and fight hard against her previous owners, Bolitho thought grimly.
'We will give her a few more minutes, Stockdale, and then you can bring her round to steer due east. It will be the obvious thing to do if we are to draw close enough to speak.'
He winced as a handspike clattered across the deck and a other vessel. Moffitt had seen what he had not even dared to hope for. Maybe it was Gallimore's screams which, added to Moffitt's outward confidence and the fact that the White Hills was the right vessel in almost the right place, had convinced Revenge's captain that all was well.
But there was still the matter of Tracy 's new orders. Probably details of the next rendezvous, or news of a supply convoy left open to attack.
In a few moments Revenge's captain would have to face the fact he was now in the senior position. He was the one who would have to decide what to do.
Bolitho said quietly, 'He'll suggest we both heave to so that he can come over to us and speak with Tracy and see how he is.'
Quinn stared at him, his face like a mask. 'Will we go about then, sir?'
'Aye.' Bolitho stole a quick glance at the masthead pendant. 'The moment he decides to shorten sail and head into the wind, we'll use our chance.' He called to the nearest gun crew, 'Be ready, lads!' He saw an over-eager seaman struggling off his knees and reaching for a slow-match. 'Belay that! Wait for the word!'
The Revenge's captain called, 'We'll heave to. I'll be over to you as soon as -'
He got no further. Like some terrifying creature emerging from a tomb, Captain Jonas Tracy lurched through the forehatch, his eyes bulging from his head with agony and fury.
He carried a pistol which he fired at a seaman who ran to restrain him, the ball smashing the man in the forehead and hurling him on his back in a welter of blood.
And all the time he was bellowing, his voice stronger than most of the men around him.
'Rake the bastard! It's a trick, you damn fool!'
From the other brig came a series of shouts and confused
orders, and then like bewildered hogs the guns began to run
out through the ports along her side.
Another seaman hurried towards the swaying figure by the hatch, only to be clubbed senseless by the pistol. That last effort was more than enough. Blood was spurting through the wad of bandages around his armpit, and his stubbled face seemed to be whitening even as he tried to drag himself to the nearest gun, as if the life was flooding out of him.
Bolitho saw it all as in a wild dream, with events and sequences overlapping, yet totally separate. Gallimore's sudden cries had lured Tracy 's guard from his post. And who could blame him? Tracy 's terrible wound should have been enough to kill almost anyone.
And Revenge's captain's voice calling across to Moffitt must have somehow dragged Tracy from his unconscious state to sudden, violent action.
Whatever had begun it, Bolitho knew there was no chance at all of completing his flimsy plan.
He yelled, 'Run out!'
He watched his men hurling themselves on their tackles, the four guns squeaking to the open ports with desperation matched only by despair.
'Fire!'
As the guns crashed out in a ragged salvo, Bolitho shouted, 'Stockdale! Put the helm down!'
As Stockdale and a helmsman spun the spokes, Bolitho dragged out his hanger, knowing that nothing, nothing on earth could change this moment.
He heard startled shouts from his own men and musket shots from the Revenge as like a wild animal the White Hills responded to the helm and swung up into the wind, sails shaking and convulsing, as the other vessel appeared to charge right across her bowsprit.
There were several isolated shots, his or theirs, Bolitho did not know. He was running forward, his feet slipping on blood as he tore past the dying Tracy towards the point of impact
