her hull. The two smaller escorts, corvettes, Plowman had said, were hidden elsewhere. It was not surprising. For the assembled fleet of supply ships overlapped in what appeared to be a hopeless tangle of masts and yards. He watched them grimly through* the glass. Deep-laden. Guns; powder and shot, tents, weapons and supplies for an army.
He felt the deck stagger as another ball smashed close alongside.
The only way' to avoid being destroyed slowly by the hidden guns was to set more sail, to attack and close with the anchored vessels and make accuracy impossible.
He heard Farquhar say fervently, 'Where is Nicator? In God's name, she should be in sight by now!'
'French seventy-four's weighed, sir.'
Bolitho looked at Farquhar, but he had not heard the report. He said, 'Thank you. Tell your starboard gun crews to prepare, Mr. Outhwaite.'
Bolitho watched the boatswain emerging from beneath the quarterdeck and waited for him to come aft.
Oled in two places, sir. But no damage below the waterline yet. She's sound enough, if it gets no worse.' Farquhar nodded abruptly. 'Yes.'
Bolitho said, 'set the fores'l, Captain. Make to Buzzard, I am about to pass through the enemy's line.'
Farquhar stared at him. 'We could get fouled in their moorings, sir. I’d advise-'
They ducked as another ball passed low above their heads, and Bolitho felt the breath of it across his shoulders like the wind of a cutlass blade.
Bolitho said, 'Nicator should be in sight. At least from the masthead. Probyn must have met some opposition. If neither of us can get to grips, we are being destroyed for nothing!'
He strode to the lee side and watched a thin waterspout rise far abeam. The French were very good, as were their new guns. At this range they could hardly miss. And yet they were biding their time. Saving their aim for the rest of the squadron, or to decide on the English tactics.
No. It was wrong. No gunnery officer could be that confident.
He heard the wheel going over, the sudden flap and boom of canvas as the foresail was reset and its yard trimmed by the men at the braces. It made some difference. He could see the way one of the quarterdeck nine- pounders was tugging at its tackles as the deck tilted to leeward. The sudden increase of sail might make the French gunners show their hand.
He walked as slowly as he could to the other side, peering across the crowded gun deck towards the French two-decker. Under minimum canvas, she was standing off about two miles distant. Even that was wrong. Her captain commanded the most powerful ship present. His first duty was to defend the merchantmen and supply vessels, no matter what.
Half a mile to go, and through his glass he could see the tiny figures of seamen running about the decks of the nearest transport. They probably still believed Osiris was a three-decker, and that they would take the first overwhelming broadside.
'Bring her up a point, Captain.' 'Aye, sir. Nor' by west.'
Bolitho looked at Pascoe. 'Any sight of Nicator?'
'None, sir.' Pascoe gestured towards the massed shipping. 'she's missing a promising target!'
But Bolitho knew him well enough to see through his calm remark. He saw Midshipman Breen, who was helping Pascoe, stare at him, as if to seek confirmation that all was well.
The nearest transports, anchored at the head of two separate lines, opened fire with their bow guns, the balls whimpering overhead, one forcing a neat hole in the main topsail.
The master called suddenly, 'Lee bow, sir! Looks like shallows!'
Farquhar replied, tersely, 'They're well clear, man! What do you want me to do? Fly?'
Bolitho heard nothing for the next few seconds. Like something from his feverish dreams, he saw the larboard bulwark burst apart, the deck planking tom diagonally in a gash of flying splinters, while wreckage and the complete barrel of a nine-pounder landed with a crash on the opposite side. The primed gun exploded, and its ball upended another gun on to some of its crew, the screams and sobs lost in the explosion.
When Bolitho stared aft he saw that the great ball, probably double-shotted, had smashed the wheel to fragments. Two helmsmen lay dead or stunned, and a third had been pulped to bloody gruel. Men and fragments of men lay scattered around the quarterdeck and others tried to drag themselves away. Bolitho saw that Bevan, the master, had been all but cui in half by the exploding nine-pounder, and his blood was pouring across the splintered deck, while one of his hands still clawed at his exposed entrails, as if it alone still clung to life.
Plowman dashed out of the drifting smoke. 'I’ll take over, sir!' He dragged a terrified seaman from behind some scattered hammocks. 'Up! Come aft and we’ll rig a tackle to the tiller head!'
Another crash, this time into the side of the poop. Several marines toppled down a ladder, and Bolitho heard the heavy balls smashing through the cabin and careering amongst the crowded gun deck.
He yelled, 'shorten sail, Captain!' He raised his sword like a pointer. 'The French artillery judged it well.'
He felt neither fear nor bitterness. Just a sense of anger.
Osiris, her steering gone, was falling heavily downwind. Bevan, the dead sailing master, had seen the danger without understanding what it meant. Now it was too late. The pressure of wind into her sails and against her hull was enough to guide Osiris into that one shoulder of hard sand.
The enemy had used their opening shots like goads on wayward cattle. A prod here, a tap there, to send the helpless beast into a carefully ranged and sited trap.
Both of the hidden guns renewed firing with sudden vigour, the shots crashing into the hull, or falling dangerously near the Buzzard, which alone still headed towards the anchored ships.
