of them.
Allday said between his teeth, “Might have been me, sir.”
Voices, confused and frightened, announced more arrivals on the orlop, but this time it was different. Bolitho saw an outflung arm, the spreading red stain on the man’s side where a heavy ball had smashed through his ribs, but more than that, he saw the captain’s gold epaulettes.
Two soldiers also came down the companion ladder. Bolitho recognized their uniforms as those of a maritime regiment.
They stood apart from all the rest, their hands gripping their bayoneted muskets as they looked at the shackled prisoners, their intentions obvious.
The surgeon cut open the French captain’s shirt and then gestured to his men.
“Il est mort.”
Stricken wounded men peered through the smoke, unable to accept what had happened.
Overhead there was less firing, as if everyone who had survived was still shocked by the loss of their commander.
Then came the slithering impact of the other ship grinding alongside.
The deck swayed steeply, and Bolitho guessed that the other captain had allowed the crippled Ceres to drift down to him, and now with rigging and spars entangled they were held firmly in a last embrace.
“Huzza! Huzza!”The shouts sounded wild and inhuman. “To me, Ganymedes!”
Then the awful clash of steel, the occasional bang of musket and pistol before feet trampled over them as they tried to reload.
To the soldiers it was like a signal. Bolitho saw the nearest one, a corporal, raise his musket, the bayonet glinting in the lanterns as he aimed it straight at Neale’s chest.
“Too late, matey!” Allday bounded up from the side, the big cutlass swinging and hacking the soldier across the mouth like an axe in a log. As the man fell writhing in his own blood, Allday turned towards the second one. The man had also raised his musket but was stricken like a rabbit confronted by a fox after seeing his companion fall.
Allday yelled, “Not so brave now, eh?”
Browne swallowed hard as the cutlass slashed the man’s crossbelt apart. The force of the blow made the soldier double over, his cries silenced as the cutlass hacked him across his exposed neck.
Above and seemingly all around the air was rent with shouts, curses and screams. Steel on steel, feet staggering and slipping in blood, bodies thrust and ducked to gain and hold an advantage.
Allday clung to the swaying cot with one hand and threatened any circling figure who came near. A musket ball slammed into the side within inches of Bolitho’s shoulder, and he heard Allday’s blade hiss over his head like a protective scythe.
A corpse fell headlong down the companion ladder, and someone gave a terrible cry before a blade silenced him instantly, as if a great door had been slammed shut.
Hatless, his white breeches smeared with blood, and his eyes blazing like fuses, a British marine stood on the ladder, his levelled bayonet shaking on the end of his musket.
He saw Allday with his bared cutlass and yelled, “Here, lads! There are more o’ the bastards!” Then he lunged.
Allday had fought alongside the marines in many a boarding party or skirmishes ashore, but never before had he seen the madness of battle from the other side.
The man was crazed with fighting, a kind of lust which had left him a survivor in the fierce struggle from ship to ship.
Allday knew it was pointless to fight the man off until he could explain. More figures were stumbling down the ladder, marines and seamen alike. He would be dead in seconds unless he acted.
“Stand still, you stupid bullock!” Allday’s bellow brought the marine skidding to a halt, “Cut these officers free or I’ll cleave your skull in!”
The marine gaped at him and then began to laugh. There was no sound, but his whole body shook uncontrollably, as if it would never stop.
Then a lieutenant appeared, a bloodied hanger in his hand as he peered around the orlop, sniffing for danger.
He pushed past the marine and stared at Neale and then at the others.
“In God’s name. Get these men on deck. Lively, the captain’s ordered our recall.”
A seaman brought a spike and levered the ring-bolt out of the timber, then hoisted Bolitho and Browne to their feet.
The lieutenant said sharply, “Come along now! No time to dawdle!”
Bolitho loosened the manacles on his wrist, and as two seamen prepared to lift Neale from his cot said quietly, “That is Captain John Neale of the frigate Styx.” He waited for the lieutenant to turn. “I’m afraid I did not catch your name Mr, er…?”
The first madness of battle was already passing, and several of the boarding party even managed to grin at their lieutenant’s discomfort.
The lieutenant snapped, “Nor I yours, sir! ”
Browne took a first careful step towards the waiting seamen. How he managed it he did not know, although Allday later swore he never even blinked.
Browne said coldly, “This is Rear-Admiral Richard Bolitho. Does that satisfy you, sir? Or is this the day for hurling insults at all your betters?”
The lieutenant sheathed his hanger and flushed. “I-I am indeed sorry, sir.”
Bolitho nodded and walked slowly to the foot of the companion ladder. High above him he could see the hatch which opened on to the gun-deck. It was unnaturally bright, and he guessed the ship had been completely dismasted.
He gripped the ladder hard to control his shaking hands.
To the lieutenant he said, “You did well. I heard you shout Ganymede.”
The lieutenant wiped his mouth with his sleeve. He was beginning to shiver. Now it was over, later would come the pain of what he had seen and done.
Discipline helped, and he was able to forget his humiliation when he had all but dragged Bolitho to his feet in his eagerness to get back to the ship.
He replied, “Aye, sir. We are part of an escort. Under the broad-pendant of Commodore Herrick.”
Bolitho looked at him for several seconds. It was impossible. He was as mad as the marine.
“Perhaps you know him, sir.” The lieutenant winced under Bolitho’s gaze.
“Very well.”
Bolitho climbed on deck, each step on the ladder standing out with unusual clarity, every sound distinct and extra loud.
He passed through stained and panting boarders, resting on their weapons, grinning and nodding to him as he passed.
Bolitho saw the other ship grappled alongside, a midshipman hurrying aft to inform the captain whom they had discovered in the Ceres before Bolitho arrived.
The captain strode to meet him, his pleasure clear in his voice as he exclaimed, “You are most welcome, sir, and I am grateful that my ship was of service.” He gestured ruefully to the damage to his rigging and decks. “I was outgunned, so I tempted him into a chase. After that…” He shrugged. “It was all a question of experience. The French have some fine ships. Fortunately, they do not have our Jacks to man them.”
Bolitho stood on the Ganymede’s deck and took a deep breath. In a moment he would awake in the carriage or the prison, and then…
The captain was saying, “We have sighted two enemy sail, but they are staying their distance. But I fear we must abandon our prize. The wind is shifting.”
“Deck there! Sail on th’ lee bow!”
The captain said sharply, “Recall the boarding party and cast that hulk adrift. She’ll not fight again.”
The masthead lookout yelled again, “Ship o’ th’ line, sir! ’Tis the Benbow! ”
Bolitho walked across the deck and knelt beside Neale who had been laid there to await the surgeon’s
