But the salvos were more ragged and less well aimed, and the delay between each shot was growing longer. By comparison the enemy seemed to be firing rapidly and with greater accuracy, and the spread nets above the gunners were jumping madly with severed cordage and ripped sailcloth. And there were more than a dozen bodies across the nets, too. Some limp and jerking to the vibrating crash of gunfire, others twisting and crying out
like trapped birds in a snare while they struggled and died unheard and unheeded.
Captain Dawson was waving his sword and yelling to his men in the tops. The marines were shooting as rapidly as before, and here and there a man would drop from the enemy's rigging as proof of their accuracy. Even when a marine fell dead or wounded another would step up to fill his place, while Munro, the huge sergeant, would call out the timing for loading and aiming, beating the air with his half-pike as Bolitho had seen him do at the daily drills since leaving Plymouth.
The French captain was not it seemed prepared to accept the new challenge, but with yards swinging round he steered his ship away yet again, until he had the wind immediately under his stem.
Hicks had fired his other carronade, but again it was a poor shot. It struck the enemy's side and burst below the main deck gunports to leave a ragged gash in the shape of a giant star.
Bolitho looked down at his own men and bit his lip until the skin almost broke. The heart was going out of them. They had acted and fought better than -he had dared hope, but it could not go on like this.
A great chorus of voices made him look up, and with sick horror he saw the main topgallant and royal mast stagger and then bow drunkenly to larboard before ripping through sails and men alike on its way to the deck.
He heard Tomlin's voice bellowing above the din, saw axes flashing in the sunlight, and as if in a dream watched a wild-eyed seaman, naked but for a strip of canvas around his loins, run to the main shrouds and swarm up the ratlines like a monkey, Pelham-Martin's pendant trailing behind him as he scampered aloft to replace it.
The commodore murmured thickly, 'My God! Oh, my merciful God!'
Reluctantly the broken spar slithered free from the gangway and bobbed down the ship's side, a dead topman still tangled in the rigging, his mouth wide in a last cry of damnation or protest.
Midshipman Gascoigne was tying a piece of rag around his wrist, his face pale but determined as he watched the blood seeping over his fingers. Amidst the smoke and death, the great patches of blood and whimpering wounded, only Pelham-Martin seemed unharmed and immovable. In his heavy coat he looked more like a big rock than a mere human, and his face was a mask which betrayed little of the man within. Perhaps he was beyond fear or resignation, Bolitho thought dully. Unable to move, he was just standing there waiting to see the end of his hopes, the destruction of himself and all about him.
Bolitho stood stockstill as a figure emerged from the aft hatchway and stepped over the spread-eagled marine. It was Midshipman Pascoe, his shirt open to the waist, his hair plastered across his forehead as he glanced round, stunned perhaps by the carnage and confusion on every hand. Then• he lifted his chin and walked aft to the quarterdeck ladder.
Inch saw him and yelled, 'What is it?'
Pascoe replied, 'Mr. Beauclerk's respects, sir, and he wishes you to know that Mr. Lang has been wounded.'
Beauclerk was the fifth and junior lieutenant. It was too much of a task to control, those thirty twenty-four pounders singlehanded.
Bolitho shouted, 'Mr. Roth! Go and take charge below!'
As the lieutenant ran for the ladder he beckoned to the boy. 'Are you all right, lad?'
Pascoe looked at him vaguely and then pushed the hair from his eyes. 'Aye, sir.' He shuddered, as if suddenly ice
cold. 'I think so.'
A musket ball, almost spent, struck the deck at his feet, and he Wuld have fallen but for Bolitho's hand.
'Stay with me, lad.' Bolitho held on to his arm, feeling its thinness and the cold clamminess of fear.
The boy looked round, -.Is eyes very bright. 'Is it nearly over, sir?'
Overhead another halyard snapped and a heavy block clanged across a gun breech so that a seaman yelled up at the smoke, cursing and mouthing meaningless words, until the gun fired and he became part of the panorama again.
Bolitho pulled him towards the hammock nettings. 'Not yet, my lad! Not yet!' He showed his teeth to hide his own despair. In a moment they would be at close quarters again with two ships. No matter how much damage they inflicted on them, the end would be certain.
'Captain, sir!' Inch came striding through the smoke. 'The enemy's hauling off!' He pointed wildly. 'Look, sir! They're both making more sail!'
Bolitho climbed into the mizzen shrouds, his limbs feeling like lead. But it was true. Both ships were turning away, and with the wind astern were already drawing steadily clear, the smoke swirling behind them like anattendant sea mist.
And as a shaft of sunlight cut across the water he saw the frigate, too, was under way, her yards braced round, her sails pockmarked and blackened to show Abdiel's efforts to defeat her.
He snatched a glass and trained it across the quarterdeck as the Abdiel emerged hesitantly through the billowing curtain of smoke. All her masts were intact, but the hull was scarred in several places as she idled into the pale sunshine.
Bolitho was already peering past the little frigate, and as the glass steadied beyond a curving green headland he thought for a moment he had taken leave of his reason.
There was another ship rounding the spur of land, her sails shining and very white in the morning sun, her tall side throwing back the sea's dancing reflections as she tacked ponderously across the wind before heading towards the Hyperion.
Pelham-Martin's voice sounded shaky. 'What is she?'
Already the Hyperion's seamen were leaving their overheated guns to stand on the gangways and stare at the stately newcomer. Then as the Abdiel's people began to cheer, so too it was carried on by the Hyperion, until even the cries of the wounded were lost in the wild chorus of relief and excitement.
Bolitho watched the other ship without lowering his glass. He could see the long tricolour flag at her peak, the orange gilt-encrusted carving around her poop, and knew that if the Hyperion was old, then this one was the most ancient vessel he had yet clapped eyes on.
He replied slowly. 'She's Dutch.' He lowered the glass and added, 'What are your orders, sir?'
Pelham-Martin stared at the Dutch ship as she tacked once more to sail easily under the Hyperion's lee quarter.
'Orders?' He seemed to get a grip on himself, 'Enter harbour.'
Bolitho said slowly, 'Signal Abdiel and inform her we will anchor without delay, Mr. Gascoigne.' He walked to the opposite side, his head ringing with the cheers, his mind dazed from the closeness of death and defeat.
Inch looked down at Midshipman Pascoe and shook his head. 'Take good heed of this morning. Whatever you do or amount to in later years, you'll never see his like again!' Then he strode to the rail and began to rally the remnants of his topmen.
Bolitho did not hear Inch's words, nor did he see the look in the boy's eyes. He was watching the strange, outdated ship of the line turning once more to lead them into the bay. But for her arrival… he paused and pulled out his watch. For a moment he thought it had stopped, but after another glance he returned it to his pocket. One hour. That was all it had taken. Yet it had seemed ten times that long.
He made himself look down at the main deck as the surgeon and his bloodstained assistants emerged to collect the rest of the wounded. So what must it seem like to his men?
With a sigh he pushed his weary body away from the rail and turned towards the poop. He saw the boy watching him, his dark eyes filled with something like wonder.
'See, Mr. Pascoe, you can never be sure, can you?' He smiled and walked aft to consult with the commodore.
As he passed the nine-pounders along the weather side some of the gunners stood back to grin and wave to him. He could feel his own lips fixed in a smile, and listened to his voice as he answered their excited greetings, like someone on the outside of himself. An onlooker.
But when he reached the poop and looked again at the full length of his command he sensed something else. Scarred and bloodied she might be, but she was still unbroken. In spite of everything, the damage and mutilation,
