With All Despatch

The damage was hidden from view, but Paice saw rigging curling and parting, then, slowly at first, the tall mainmast began to reel down into the smoke. In the sudden lull of firing he heard the thundering crash of the mast and spars sweeping over the forecastle, tearing men and guns in its wake of trailing shrouds and rigging until with a great splash it swayed over the bows like a fallen tree. Tiny figures appeared through the wreckage where nobody should have been left alive, and in the weak sunlight Paice saw the gleam of axes as Vatass's men hacked at the broken rigging, or fought their way to mess-mates trapped underneath.

Some of the corvette's larboard battery must have been trained as far round in their ports as they could bear. Paice watched through his glass and saw the shadows of the enemy's guns lengthen against the hull as they were levered towards the quarter. He shifted his horrified stare to Snapdragon. It was impossible to see her as another graceful cutter. She was a listing, mastless wreck already down by the bows, her shattered jolly-boat drifting away from the side amidst the flotsam of planking and torn canvas.

Triscott exclaimed in a strangled voice, 'They'd not fire on her now!'

The after divisions of guns belched out flame and smoke together. It was like a single, heart-stopping explosion. Paice could even feel the weight of the iron's strength as Snapdragon was swept from bow to stern, timber, decking, men and pieces of men flung into the air like grisly rubbish. When it finally fell it pock-marked the sea with white feathers, strangely gentle in the pale sunlight.

Snapdragon began to capsize, her broken hull surrounded by huge, obscene bubbles.

Paice watched with his glass. He did not want to forget it, and knew he never would.

He saw the deck tilting towards him, a corpse in a lieutenant's coat sliding through blood and splinters, then rising up against the bulwark as if to offer a last command. Then Snapdragon gave a groan, as if she was the one who was dying, and disappeared beneath the whirlpool of pathetic fragments.

Paice found that he was sucking in the bitter air as if he had just been running. His head swam, and he wanted to roar and bellow like a bull. But nothing came. It was too terrible even for that.

When he spoke again his voice was almost calm.

He said, 'All guns load, double-shotted!' He sought out Triscott by the mast; his face was as white as a sheet. 'Did you see that? The Frenchie made no attempt to bear up on-' he hesitated, unable to say the name of the ship he had just seen destroyed. Vatass, so keen and unworldly, hoping for promotion, wiped away like the master's calculations on his slate. Because of me. I forced him to put to sea. He faced Triscott again. 'She'd have been in irons if she had. I reckon her running rigging is frozen as solid as a rock!'

Triscott wiped his lips with the back of his hand. 'But how long-'

He was close to vomiting.

'It don't matter, and it don't signify, Mr Triscott! We'll rake that bugger an' maybe Captain Bolitho can put a ball or two through him!'

Triscott nodded. 'Prepare to shorten sail!' He was glad of something to do. Anything which might hold back the picture of Snapdragon's terrible death. It was like watching his own fate in a nightmare.

Paice moved aft and joined Chesshyre beside the helmsmen. From here he could see the full length and breadth of his small command. Within the hour she might share Snapdragon's grave. He was surprised that he could face the prospect without pain. His fate, his lot would be decided for him. There was no choice open to any one of them.

He saw the master-at-arms and Glynn, a boatswain's mate, passing out cutlasses and axes from the chest, and below the raked mast another handful of men were loading muskets under the watchful eye of a gunner's mate. It kept them busy as the enemy vessel grew in size, lying in their path like a glistening barricade. He saw the gunner's mate gesturing towards the mast, doubtless explaining that a good marksman could play havoc with men crowded together on a ship's deck. He had picked the men himself, each one an excellent shot.

Paice nodded as if in agreement; a seaman called Inskip had held up his fist and then hurried to the weather shrouds. A good choice. Inskip had been a poacher in Norfolk before he had found his way into the navy by way of the local assizes.

Chesshyre said dryly, 'Better him than me, sir.'

Paice knew that Inskip would be more than mindful of Snapdragon's mast plunging down into the sea. Nobody working aloft or around it would have survived. The corvette's captain had made certain of those who had.

Chesshyre muttered, 'My God!'

Paice walked to the side as Telemachus's stem smashed through some drifting wreckage. A torn jacket, what looked like a chart, splinters as thick as fingers, and the inevitable corpses, bobbing and reeling aside as Telemachus surged through them.

He said roughly, 'I'll lay odds you wish you was in the East India Company!'

A puff of smoke drifted from the corvette's side, and seconds later a ball sliced across the sea before hurling up a waterspout half-a-cable beyond the bows.

Paice growled, 'Close enough, Mr Chesshyre.' He crossed to the compass box and peered at the card. 'Bring her up two points.' He eyed him impassively. 'We'll go for his flanks, eh?'

Chesshyre nodded, angry with himself because his teeth were chattering uncontrollably.

He said, 'Ready aft! Put the helm down! Steer South by West!' Then he watched as the corvette showed herself beyond the shrouds as if she had only now begun to move.

Paice watched the enemy loose off another shot, but it was well clear.

Shorten sail or stand and fight.

He saw Wakeful's jib and foresail hardening on the new tack, the canvas clean and pale in the early sunshine.

Chesshyre called, 'We don't even know why we're here!'

Paice did not turn on him. He knew Chesshyre was afraid, and he needed him now as never before.

'D'you need a reason, then?'

Chesshyre thought of Snapdragon, the corpses bobbing around her like gutted fish.

Paice was right. In the end it would make no difference.

17. Ships of War

BOLITHO mopped his streaming face for the hundredth time and watched Wakeful's seamen sheeting the mainsail home, while others swarmed aloft in the freezing wind to execute the next command.

Yet again Wakeful had fought round in a tight arc to her original course, with the approaching corvette lying directly across the starboard bow. The enemy would have the wind-gage, but for Wakeful's small guns it might be their only advantage.

'Loose tops'l!' Queely was everywhere, never more acutely aware of Kempthorne's loss.

Bolitho could see it, the gangling lieutenant swinging around, the gaping hole in his throat. Then nothing. He plucked the sodden shirt away from his skin, another reminder of the man who had stopped a ball which had been intended for him.

Queely came aft again, his chest heaving. 'What now, sir?'

Bolitho pointed to the scarred jolly-boat. 'Drop it outboard.'

The boatswain glanced at Queely as if for confirmation. Queely nodded curtly. 'Do it!'

Bolitho watched the spare hands hoisting the boat up and over the lee bulwark. Like all sailors they were reluctant, fearful even of letting go of their only boat. Bolitho knew from experience it would have been the same had there been ten times as many people in the company, and still only one boat. Always the last hope.

Queely understood although he lacked experience of it.

He was saying, 'We'll have enough splinters flying about before too long, man!'