Fragments of wood and cordage, huge yellow-coloured bundles of hay rained around them. A whole section of timber plunged straight down beside Allday, only to shoot up again like a jagged battering-ram, missing him by inches.
Allday croaked, 'Jesus! That was a near thing!'
Bolitho managed to pivot himself, treading water as the deluge of shattered pieces subsided, and peered back at the two ships. In fact, there was only one, Segura having vanished completely, leaving a great widening circle of froth and bubbles, flotsam and scattered fodder, which would never feed French cavalry now.
It was as if the Segura had bled to death even as she plunged to the bottom, for the froth which continued to swirl around in confusion was tinged with red. Every cask of wine must have burst apart with the gunpowder.
The corvette was in a bad way. At first glance he had imagined that she had escaped the worst of the explosion, but as she swung unsteadily across the disturbed water he saw the weak sunlight play over a deep rent in her hull where her copper had been slit open like the belly of a shark. Her rigging and sails were in shreds, swaying like creeper as the hull tilted more steeply, hiding the hole in the side as the sea surged into her. Why she had not caught fire was a miracle, but Bolitho knew her captain would be hard put to save his surviving men, let alone prevent his command from following Segura.
A shadow loomed above him, and he felt hands under his armpits, others reaching down to lift the inert Swede to safety.
Veitch watched him, grinning, as he was hauled unceremoniously inboard with Allday.
'You see, sir, I waited!'
Bolitho lay back and stared at the sky. 'It was close.' Allday was wringing out his shirt across the gunwale. 'I gave the fuse ten minutes, sir. Otherwise…' He said no more.
Bolitho turned to look at him, his chest heaving painfully. He saw the weals across Allday's back where the mounted trooper had used his whip. They were still very red, and would never vanish completely. He felt strangely sad about that. Allday had served at sea for most of his life and had avoided the lash throughout that time. In the Navy it was no mean feat. And now, because of his courage and unwavering loyalty, he would wear those stripes to the end of his days.
Impetuously, he reached out and touched Allday's shoulder.
'It was well done. And I am sorry about these.'
Allday twisted round on the thwart and looked at him. 'still a long way to go to catch up with you, sir.' He grinned, the tiredness, or some of it, fading. 'I reckon you’ve got more scars than a eat's got lives!'
Bolitho smiled, sharing the moment only with Allday. 'But none more honourable, my friend.'
Veitch cleared his throat. 'Where now, sir?'
Bolitho struggled against the gun wale, watching the listless sail, and then turning to study the corvette. Someone fired a musket, and a seaman in the boat stood up to jeer.
Bolitho said quietly, 'Easy, lads. I know how you feel. But it was not fired at us that time. The corvette's people are trying to rush the boats.'
He looked at Veitch, seeing the slow understanding. A few officers, a terrified crew. It had happened to Bolitho, it was something which Veitch might never experience, if he was lucky.
'she's gain'!'
The little corvette was beginning to turn turtle, her decks bared as she tilted towards the silent watchers. White feathers of spray showed where fragments from the explosion were falling from her masts, and a six-pounder cannon tore loose from the upended side and charged. through the other bulwark, taking a handful of struggling figures with it.
Across the blue water they could hear the faint cries and screams, the jubilant roar of inrushing water. The masts hit the surface almost together, smashing amongst some swimmers and cutting the one successfully launched boat in halves.
Plowman said roughly, 'Nuthin' we can do for 'em, sir.' Bolitho did not answer. The master's mate was right of course. The boat would be swamped, or at best his men would be taken prisoner by the overwhelming number of French survivors. To know it was one thing. To merely accept it was another.
He heard Midshipman Breen sniffing loudly, and when he glanced along the boat he saw he was perched on a cask, the Swedish seaman, Larssen, cradled against his lap.
Plowman climbed across the other men and asked, 'What is it?'
The boy stared aft at Bolitho and murmured, 'He's dead, sir. '
Allday said, 'Poor fellow.' He sighed. 'Put him over, lads. '
But the midshipman clung to the man's body, his eyes still on Bolitho. 'B-but, sir, couldn't, shouldn't we say something for him?' His freckled face was streaming with tears, and in the boat he alone seemed totally unaware of the sinking ship nearby, of anything but the man who just died beside him.
Bolitho nodded slowly. 'You do it, Mr. Breen.'
He turned to watch Veitch, hearing Breen's high-pitched, wavering words as he stumbled through a prayer he had learned, probably from his mother. Nearby, he noticed that one of the seamen, a tough, experienced gun captain, had removed his neckerchief which he had been wearing over his head in readiness for the sun.
He said quietly, 'It is a hard lesson, Mr. Veitch.'
'Aye.' The lieutenant touched his arm, but gently, as if afraid of disturbing Breen's words. 'There she goes!'
The corvette was slipping beneath the water, and already some of the survivors still afloat were swimming purposefully towards Segura's longboat.
