Then he drew his sword and laid it flat along the quarterdeck rail.
The waiting was done. The time was now.
19. FINAL EMBRACE
Bolitho turned his back on the approaching ships and raised his glass to study the Spartan. With the little sloop close astern of her she was plunging through steep swells about a mile to windward. He caught a brief glimpse of Farquhar's elegant figure, his face turned towards him, and then lowered the glass again.
'Make a signal to Spartan and Dasher.' He saw Carlyon's hands shaking as he picked up his slate and pencil. 'Attack and harass the enemy's rear.'
The suddenness of Farquhar's acknowledgement and the instant activity on the frigate's deck and yards told him of the relief his signal had unleashed. Unlike the twodeckers, Farquhar had no need to wait to be pounded blow for blow. As his sails filled to the wind and more canvas billowed from his topgallant yards Bolitho knew he would give of his best. At any other time it would have been sheer lunacy to despatch such frail vessels headlong into the fray, but as Farquhar had observed, the enemy had no frigates left, and feint attacks around the French rear might help to cause some momentary diversion.
Inch whispered, 'The Dasher too, sir?'
Bolitho glanced at him. 'There can be no spectators today.'
There was a sporadic rumble of cannon fire, and he saw the Tornade's upper battery light up in a long ripple of orange tongues. But the Spartan was already thrusting past and ahead of Hyperion's larboard bow, her ensign streaming from the gaff as she spread more sail and headed towards the opposite end of the French line. Some of the balls ripped through the water and raised more spray beyond her, but she was a difficult target, and it was obvious that the sudden move was quite unexpected.
Flags soared up the Tornade's yards, and the two rearmost two-deckers began to idle clear of the line, their topsails flapping as they tacked slowly and ponderously towards the oncoming frigate.
Bolitho smiled tightly. The treasure ship meant more to Lequiller than anything. Without her and her cargo of men and wealth this would be a battle of no value, either to him or his, country.
Some of te other ships were firing now, the sounds intermingled and jarring as their gunners tried to wing the two spray-shrouded vessels before they could sail past.
Bolitho held his breath as the sloop rocked violently, her low hull completely bracketed with leaping columns of water. But she sailed on, her driver and maintopsail punctured in a dozen places. One of those balls from the French line would smash her delicate timbers to boxwood, and her commander needed no encouragement to spread more sail and clap on speed.
Bolitho turned away and stared fixedly at the leading enemy ship. They were almost bow to bow now, with the three-decker less than half a cable away and slightly to starboard.
Inch murmured, 'We have the wind-gage it seems.'
'And the wind is still fresh, Mr. Inch.' Bolitho looked up as one more gun fired from the Tornade's lofty forecastle and a ball slapped through the mizzen topsail directly overhead. 'But the smoke from our broadsides will be better protection than agility.'
He pressed his palm on the sword's flat blade. 'Stand by on the main deck!' He saw the gunners crouching down, their faces tight with concentration as they peered through the open ports, hands like claws on tackles and rammers, as if they would never move again. He heard the word being passed below decks, and tried not to think of the lower battery, the hell it would be soon, and his nephew down there enduring the living nightmare.
The three-decker's yards moved very slightly and he saw her swing away. Lequiller's captain intended to pass exactly parallel with the English line and not waste a single ball.
Bolitho watched the oncoming giant, her triple row of guns shining dully in the light, the lower battery comprised of massive thirty-two-pounders.
He lifted his left hand very slowly and could almost feel Gossett tensing behind him. He made himself wait until the Tornade's yards had settled again and then shouted, 'Larboard your helm!' He heard the spokes creaking frantically and saw the bowsprit beginning to swing slowly until it was pointing straight for the enemy's figurehead. 'Steady!' He slapped the rail, his voice harsh but controlled. 'Now, Mr. Gossett! Bring her back on course!' The wheel started squealing again, and along the main deck he saw vague impressions of men hurling themselves at the braces, while overhead the yards creaked and grated in protest. He ran to the nettings and peered at the French flagship. She was turning away, her captain momentarily unnerved by what must have looked like a head-on collision.
He yelled, 'Broadside!'
Stepkyne dropped his sword, his voice cracked with strain.
'Fire!'
Every gun hurled itself inboard, the crashing roar of explosions seemingo to drive into Bolitho's, brain with the force of a musket ball. He watched as the dense smoke billowed away and heard the splintering thunder of his broadside striking home.
The smoke lifted violently as if touched by some other wind, and lit up scarlet and orange, while around and above the Hyperion's quarterdeck the air came alive with screaming metal as the Tornade's gunners recovered their wits and fired back.
Bolitho staggered and seized the rail to stop himself falling as a ball sliced through the bulwark and smashed into a nine-pounder on the opposite side. He heard screams and yells, and more cries as another burst of cannon fire raked the hull from stem to poop.
Above the writhing fog he saw the Frenchman's masts, the speckled flashes from unseen marksmen in her tops, and waited counting seconds as the Hyperion's second broadside blasted the smoke aside and shook the deck beneath him as if striking a reef._
He yelled, 'Lively, Mr. Roth!' The rest of his words were drowned as the quarterdeck nine-pounders jerked inboard on their tackles, their earsplitting barks adding to the din and confusion about him.
Musket balls thudded into the deck planking, and he saw a marine staggering and reeling like a drunken man, hands pressed to his stomach, his eyes closed as he reached the rail and pitched headlong into the net below.
But the Tornade's topmasts were already passing the starboard quarter, and as the Hyperion's lower battery fired again he saw the balls smashing into the threedecker's tall side, the splinters and lacerated shrouds lifting above the smoking gunports in crazy torment.
And here came the second one, a two-decker with a figurehead in the form of a Roman warrior, her bowchaser firing blindly through the gunsmoke as she endeavoured to keep station on her flagship.
Bolitho cupped his hands, 'Fire as you bear, Mr. Stepkyne!' He saw the lieutenant crouching inboard of the leading gun, his hand on the captain's shoulder.
More heavy firing came from astern, and Bolitho knew the Hermes was engaging the flagship, but when he peered over the nettings he could see nothing but topmasts, all else hidden in the great pall of smoke.
'Fire!'
Gun by gun the main deck battery engaged the second ship, the men cheering and cursing as they threw themselves on the tackles, their naked bodies shining with sweat and blackened from powder smoke, while they sponged out the muzzles and rammed home the, next charges.
Bolitho felt the hull quake below his feet, and winced as more balls smashed along the ship's side, hurling splinters into the smoke or ripping through ports to plough into the men beyond. He saw a complete gun hurled bodily on to its side, with one of its crew pinned screaming and writhing beneath it. But his cries were lost in the roar and crash of the next broadside, and Bolitho forgot his agony as he turned to watch the two-decker's foremast begin to slide down into the smoke.
He grabbed Inch's arm so that the lieutenant jumped as if receiving a musket ball. 'The carronades!' He did not have to add anything and saw Inch waving his speaking trumpet towards the hunched figures on the forecastle. The throaty roar of a carronade fanned the smoke downwards into the main deck, and he saw the massive ball explode just belo* the Frenchman's poop. When the wind laid bare the damage he saw that the wheel and helmsmen had vanished and the poop looked as if it had been struck by a landslide.
