corpses and a few frantic swimmers as if to suck them under.
Somewhere through the din and smoke Bolitho heard the fore-topsail filling to the change of tack, and saw the land loom dangerously close while Tempest continued to turn.
The planks bucked beneath him, throwing up splinters like jagged darts as a ball smashed through the poop and explored the semi-darkness between decks in a trail of destruction and terror.
In disbelief Bolitho saw the sun glinting on clear water, a distant island very green in the untroubled light. In the opposite direction the trailing smoke from his ship mingled with that of the inlet and glowed above the burning village.
One more ball struck the hull right aft, a great hammer-blow, as if to mark the final seal of defeat.
Bolitho listened to voices resuming command and order, the cries of the wounded becoming fainter as men died or were carried below to the orlop for Gwyther and his mates to tend as best they could.
The broken mast and spars were drifting clear of the stern, and he saw one man sitting astride the crosstrees, staring after his ship, too stunned to know what was happening.
Borlase lurched towards him. “We are out of range, sir.” It seemed as if he had to speak, although his voice was thick and unsteady.
Midshipman Swift was on his knees beside one of his men.
“Hold on, Fisher!”
He peered round desperately for aid, his powder-grimed face streaked with sweat, or perhaps they were tears, Bolitho thought.
The wounded seaman was one of the older hands, and had been put in the signals party because of his inability to swarm aloft as he had once done. Two bad falls had rendered him almost a cripple, and by rights he should have been ashore with his family, if he had one.
Now he lay staring up at the trailing rigging, his face ashen as he gripped Swift’s hand between his as if in prayer.
He asked in a strong voice, “Be Oi goin’, zur?”
Swift stared blindly at Bolitho. Then he seemed to draw on an inner reserve and pulled a flag up and over the man’s waist. A ball, split in half by striking an upended gun, had almost severed one of his legs, and had laid open his groin like a cleaver.
Swift said haltingly, “You’ll be all right, Fisher, you’ll see.”
Fisher tried to grin. “Oi don’t feel all right, zur.” Then he died.
Swift stood up violently and vomited on the deck.
Bolitho glanced at Allday. “See to him. He was worth six men today!”
“Aye.” Allday sheathed his cutlass and walked to the midshipman’s side.
Swift did not look at him. “All these men. We never stood a chance.”
“Look at Fisher, Mr Swift.” Allday’s voice was calm but firm. “He could have been any of us.” He waited for the youth to face him. “Or all of us. He did his best. Now there are other poor fellows who need help.” He turned as the midshipman hurried to the quarterdeck rail. Then he said, “He’ll do, Captain. Just give him something to bite on.”
He watched Bolitho’s face, seeing the strain clouding over it like pain. He’d not heard a word of it.
Lakey asked. “What orders, sir?”
Bolitho looked past Allday towards the island and its pall of smoke.
He said, “We could enter and re-enter that place with little change in result. Until-” he thrust his hands behind him, gripping his fingers until the pain steadied him “-until our damage became fatal. Then, we would lie aground or sinking until we agreed to terms, or until we were all killed.”
He forced himself to look up at the men who were already climbing up the shrouds towards the gap left by the lost topgallant mast. They were moving slowly. The confidence and the will gone out of them.
Almost to himself he said, “They have the upper hand.”
In his brain a voice insisted. They beat you… you… you. Until he thought his mind would burst.
“We will rejoin the schooner and anchor, Mr Lakey.” He turned to Borlase. “I want a list of dead and wounded. Soon as possible.”
They were all looking at him. Accusing, sympathizing, hating? He could not tell any more.
Lakey murmured, “Very well, sir.” Then in a louder voice, “Watch your helm, damn your eyes!”
Bolitho crossed to the weather gangway and took several deep breaths. In a moment more he would step inside his role again. Plan a suitable approach, lay his scarred ship on her rightful tack to rejoin Herrick with least delay. Bury the dead, attend the wounded. See to the repairs, discover the reason for failure no matter how painful it was to swallow.
But first… He let his gaze move over the quiet shore. The huts were hidden as were the dummy masts. It was a savage lesson. What he had seen as his last moments on earth might now be viewed as a last chance to redeem a terrible mistake. He made himself turn away from the land and examine his ship, as if to punish himself even further.
Borlase asked, “Secure guns, sir?”
He nodded. “Then have the galley fire lit and see that the people are fed directly.” He looked at the dangling rigging, the long smears of blood on the decks, already brown in the sunlight. “There is a lot to be done.”
Allday said awkwardly, “I’ll fetch something to drink, Captain.”
Bolitho looked at him sharply, something in Allday’s tone dragging him from his own despair.
The big coxswain added, “That last ball, Captain. It did for poor Noddall.” He looked away, unable to watch Bolitho’s eyes. “I’ll fetch it for you.”
Bolitho took a few paces, hesitantly and then with sudden urgency. Poor, defenceless Noddall. Loyal and uncomplaining, who despite his terror of the din of battle had always been ready to serve, to watch over him.
It seemed impossible he was not below now. Hands like paws. Shaking his head and fussing.
Lakey watched him grimly, while from nearby Jury, the boatswain, paused in his work with the scrambling, grimy seamen to study Bolitho. He had heard Allday’s words, and marvelled that with all this hell the captain could find time to mourn just one man.
Bolitho’s eyes lifted suddenly and settled on him. “Your men are doing well, Mr Jury. But not yet well enough to idle, I think.”
Jury sighed. It was a relief to see Bolitho returning from inner hurt, no matter how bad the consequences might be.
10. Too Much Courage
“FIX your bayonets!”
Herrick gritted his teeth to contain his impatience as Prideaux brought the marines into a single line, while further along the uneven slope Finney’s militia were following their example, faces tight with concentration.
The air shook to the sudden boom of cannon, and Herrick knew the hidden battery had opened fire. The gunners would be able to see Tempest beyond the point, even though it still hid all but her topmasts from Herrick.
Prideaux snapped, “Advance!” His slim hanger shone in the sunlight, moving from side to side like a steel tongue as he strode through the scrub and sun-dried stones.
More shots, and before he followed the main part of his men towards the burning huts Herrick turned and watched the waterspouts rising like spectres on the frigate’s shadow as she continued to force the inlet.
His mind repeated warnings and dreads, so that for precious seconds he could only stand and punish himself with what he saw. The inlet was too narrow. The ship would strike. She might be pounded into submission without even sighting her executioners.
He swore savagely. He was here, not on the quarterdeck where he belonged.
He shouted, “Fast as you can!”
Then with the others he was running and stumbling down the slope, the marines starting to cheer like madmen as they charged into the drifting smoke and sparks.
