Bolitho held him firmly as Pascoe ran to help. The mast with his pendant, the halliards which had held the ensign, all had been blasted away in the enemy's broadside.
'No, we did not. '
Farquhar opened his eyes very wide and looked at him. 'That is good, sir. I-I’m sorry about-' He closed his eyes against another searing pain, but exclaimed fiercely, 'I hope Probyn rots in hell! He's finished us this day.'
Bolitho supported him, knowing that Pascoe was watching his face as if for an answer to something.
Farquhar said quietly, 'Let me stand, sir. I will be all right now. Get that fool Outhwaite to-' Some last understanding flashed across his eyes, and then froze there.
The second lieutenant staggered through the funnelling smoke, but stopped motionless as Bolitho said, 'Take your captain, Mr. Guthrie.' He watched a few men emerging from beneath the poop. 'sir Charles Farquhar is dead.'
16. The Captain's Report
'ONLY the wounded into the boats!'
Bolitho was hoarse from shouting above the din of gunfire.
Several transports were shooting through the smoke, and he knew that some of the shots would be hitting their consorts, as the packed anchorage changed from a prepared defence-line to a scene of indescribable panic. Three ships were blazing fiercely, and with their cables either cut or burned through, were already drifting amongst the others.
Bolitho could not tell how many guns were firing at Osiris, for with only a few of her lower battery still manned, it was impossible to distinguish between a thirty-two-pounder's recoil and an enemy ball crashing into the hull.
He peered over the gangway and saw the boats immediate- ly below him, filled with wounded, while others clung to the gunwales or floated away, unable to swim, or without the strength to do so. Others were clambering down the rounded tumblehome, marines and seamen, coopers and sailmakers, while here and there the blue and white of an officer tried to restore order.
Pascoe ran to his side. 'What will happen now, sir?' Bolitho did not reply immediately. 'Down there, Adam.
That is what defeat is like. The way it looks. How it smells.' He turned away. 'Pass the word. Cease firing. This ship may take fire at any moment when one of those wrecks drifts against us.'
More violent crashes, and freed at last from its remaining shrouds, the mizzen mast plunged down alongside, bedding itself in the shallows like a great marker.
He walked a few paces across the deck, his shoes catching in splinters and the great diagonal rent where the French gunners had smashed down the helm and all around it.
A few men ran past him, not even giving him a glance. To where, and for what purpose, they probably did not know.
Smoke poured across the hull and eddied through holes in the deck. It was like walking in hell. Dead men were on every hand, weapons and small possessions where they had been dropped or had fallen in battle. A marine lay staring at the sky, his head and shoulders supported on the lap of a comrade. A best friend perhaps. But he, too, was dead. Killed by a metal splinter as he had watched his friend die.
There was no sign of Farquhar, and he imagined that they had carried him right aft, to the wrecked cabin with its once beautiful furniture and fittings.
A small figure emerged below the poop, and he realised it was Midshipman Breen.
'Go with Mr. Pascoe!' He watched the boy peering at him without a spark of recognition. 'And take care.'
Breen nodded, and then burst into tears. 'I ran away, sir! I ran away!'
Bolitho touched his shoulder. 'A lot of men did that today, Mr. Breen. There's nothing more they can do here.' Pascoe came aft with the second lieutenant. The latter looked exhausted, white-faced with shock.
'The boats are full, sir.' He cringed as a ball ripped past him and struck something solid in the smoke. The smoke was so thick that the other ship was completely hidden.
'Very well.' Bolitho looked slowly along the deserted decks. There would still be some who were trapped under that great tangle of wreckage. Listening, or calling for help.
He said, 'Pass the word. Abandon ship. We will ferry the wounded ashore.' He looked at Pascoe. 'I am sorry for you, Adam. Twice a prisoner of war in so short a span.' Pascoe shrugged. 'At least we're together this time, Uncle.'
Allday, who had been nursing his injured arm, levered himself from the rail and said, 'Listen!
They looked at him, and Bolitho put his arm round him, fearing that because of his own despair' he had failed to help Allday.
Breen wiped his eyes with his fists and stared at Allday. 'I hear it!' He reached out for Allday's hand. 'I do hear it!' Bolitho walked over the broken planks, listening to the swelling roar of cheers. It faltered only to a ragged crash of gunfire, which was followed instantly by an even louder, more violent broadside. Then the cheering resumed, stronger and fiercer, like one great voice.
Allday said huskily, 'That's no French cheer!' 'Huzza! Huzza!
And again the smoke surged towards the stranded Osiris, stirred and blown by another massive broadside.
Pascoe said, 'Buzzard.'
Allday leaned against him and looked at Bolitho. 'Bless him, sir, did you hear that?'
