body felt sick and numb from the constant battering, but his eye and mind worked in cold unison, so that the pain and suffering was all the more apparent.
Small pictures stood out from the whole, so that whenever he looked there was a pitiful reminder of the cost and the price still to be paid.
Many had died. How many he had no way of knowing. Some had died bravely, serving their guns and yelling encouragement and curses up to the moment of death. Some died slowly and horribly, their mutilated and broken bodies writhing in the blood and flesh which covered the decks as in a slaughterhouse.
Others were less brave, and more than once he had seen men shamming death, even cowering in the stench and horror of the discarded corpses until dragged and kicked back to their stations by the petty officers.
Some had escaped below in spite of Rennie's sentries, and would now be covering their ears and whimpering in the bilges to face drowning rather than the onslaught from the Andiron's guns.
He had seen the little powder monkey cut in half, and even above the roar of battle he had heard his own words to that same boy just three weeks ago: `You'll see England again! Never you fear!'
Now he was wiped away. As if he had never been.
And there had been the seaman Betts, trapped and writhing on the severed topgallant. The man he had used to try. to prove his authority. The axes had cut the spar away, and with a sigh it had bobbed clear of the ship before moving away in the smoke in a trail of rigging. The spar had idled past the quarter-deck, and for a brief instant he had seen Betts staring up at him. The man's mouth had been open like a black hole, and he had shaken his fist. It was a pitiful gesture, but it felt like a curse from the whole world. Then the spar had rolled over, and before it had faded astern Bolitho had seen Betts' feet sticking out of the water, kicking in a futile dance.
He tore his eyes from the carnage as more balls slapped through the main course and whined away over the water. It could not last much longer. The Andiron had hauled off slightly to windward. He could see her upper yards and punctured sails moving above the smoke bank as if detached from the hidden ship beneath, and guessed she was drawing clear to pound the Phalarope into submission with slow, carefully aimed shots.
He did not recognise his own voice as he gave his orders automatically and without pause. `Tell the carpenter to sound the well! And pass the word for the boatswain to send more men aloft to splice the mizzen shrouds!' There was little point any more, but the game had to be played out. He knew no other way.
His eye fell on an old gun captain at the nearest twelvepounder below -the quarterdeck. The man showed fatigue and strain, but his hoarse voice was unhurried, even patient as he coaxed his crew through the drill of reloading. `That's right, my boys!' He peered through the haze as one of his men rammed home the cartridge and another cradled the gleaming ball into the gaping muzzle. A splinter flew from the gunport and laid open his arm, but he merely winced and tied a filthy rag around his biceps before adding, `Ram that wad well home, bucko! We don't want the bugger to fall out agin!' He saw Bolitho watching him and showed his stained teeth in what might have been either pain or pride. Then he bawled, `Right then! Run out!' The trucks squeaked as the gun lumbered up the canting deck and then roared back again as the old man pulled his trigger.
Vibart loomed across the rail, his figure like a massive blue and white rock. He looked grim but unflinching, and waited for the nine-pounders to fire and recoil before he shouted, 'No water in the well, sirl She's not hit below the waterline!'
Bolitho nodded. The American obviously felt sure of a capture. It would not take long to refit a ship in one of the dockyards left by the British retreating from the American colonies.
The realisation brought a fresh flood of despairing anger to his aching mind. The Phalarope was fighting for her life. But her men were failing her. He was failing her. He had brought the ship and every man aboard to this. All the hopes and promises were without meaning now. There was only disgrace and failure as an alternative to death.
Even if he had Contemplated flying from the Andiron's attack it was too late now. The wind was falling away more and more, and the sails were almost useless, torn like nets by the screaming cannon balls.
A marine threw up his hands, clawing at the gaping scarlet hole in his forehead before pitching back into his comrades.
Captain Rennie drawled, 'Fill that space! What the hell do you think you're doing?' To Sergeant Garwood he added petulantly, 'Take the name of the next man who dies without permission!'
Surprisingly, some of the marines laughed, and when Rennie saw Bolitho looking at ban he merely shrugged, as if he too understood it was all part of one hideous game.
The ship staggered, and overhead the sails boomed in protest as the fading wind sighed against the flapping canvas. Bolitho snapped, 'Watch your helm, quartermaster! Steady as you go!'
But one of the helmsmen had fallen, a pattern of scarlet pouring from his mouth and across the smooth planking. From somewhere another seaman took his place, his jaw working steadily on a wad of tobacco.
Vibart growled, 'The starboard battery is a shambles! If we could engage the opposite side it would give us time to reorganise!'
Bolitho eyed him steadily. 'The Andiron has the advantage. But I intend to try and cross her stem directly.'
Vibart peered abeam, his eyes cold and calculating. 'She'll never allow it. She'll pound us to shavings before we get a cable's length!' He looked back at Bolitho. We will have to strike.' His voice shook. 'We can't take much more.'
Bolitho replied quietly, 'I did not hear that, Mr. Vibart. Now go forrard and try and get the full battery into action again!' His tone was cold and final. 'When two ships fight, only one can be the victor. I will decide op the course of action!'
Vibart seemed to shrug. As if it was not his concern. 'As you say, sir!' He strode to' the ladder adding harshly, 'I said that they did not respect weakness!'
Bolitho felt Proby shaking his arm and turned to see the anxiety etched on his mournful face. 'The wheel, Captain! It don't answer! The yoke lines have parted!'
Bolitho stared dully over Proby's rounded shoulders to where the helmsmen pulled vaguely at the wheel, the squeaking spokes responding in empty mockery as the ship paid off and began to sidle sluggishly downwind.
The sudden movement brought more cries from the maindeck as the frigate rolled her gunports skyward in a dizzy, uncontrollable elevation.
Bolitho ran his fingers through his hair, realising for the first time that his hat had been knocked from his head. The masthead pendant was barely flapping now, and without power in -her sails the ship would drift at the mercy of the sea until her surrender or destruction. It would take all of an hour to re-rig the rudder lines. By then… he felt a cold shudder moving across his spine.
He cupped his hands. 'Cease firing!'
The sudden silence was almost more frightening than the gunfire. He could hear the chafe and creak of spars, the gurgle of water below the counter, and the swaying clatter of loose rigging. Even the wounded seemed quelled, and lay gasping and staring at the captain's still figure at the quarterdeck rail.
Then across the water, drifting with the smoke like a final insult, he heard a wild cheering. It was more like a baying, he thought bitterly. Like hounds closing for the. kill.
A V-shaped cleft broke in the smoke, and through it came the Andiron's raked bow and the long finger of her bowsprit. Filtered sunlight played across her figurehead and glinted on raised cutlasses and boarding pikes. As more and more of the other ship glided into view Bolitho saw the press of men running forward to the point where both ships would touch. Others were crawling out along the yards with grapnels, ready to lash the two enemies together in a final embrace. It was nearly finished.
He heard Stockdale mutter at his elbow, 'The bastards! The bastards!'
Bolitho saw that there were small tears in the man's eyes, and knew that the battered coxswain was sharing his own misery.
Above his head the flag whipped suddenly in a small breeze, and he knew that he dare not look at it. A defiant patch of scarlet. Like the red coats of the marines and the great glittering pools of blood which seeped through the scuppers as if the ship herself was bleeding before his eyes.
A new wildness moved through his mind, so that he had to lock his fingers around his swordbelt to prevent his hands from shaking.
'Get Mr. Brock! At the double!'
He saw Midshipman Maynard lope forward, and then forgot him as his glance strayed again to the watching men. They were exhausted and smashed down with the fury of battle. There was hardly a spark amongst them. His
