luff.”
Bolitho looked up at the masthead pendant. Wind still holding as strong as ever. He almost looked astern but stopped himself in time. The officers and men nearby would see it as uncertainty, their admiral looking for support. It was best to forget about Herrick. He was doing all he could.
Graham, the first lieutenant, touched his hat to Inch. “Permission to fall out the drummers and fifers, sir?”
Bolitho looked quickly at the minute figures in scarlet. He had been so wrapped in his thoughts he had barely heard a note.
Gratefully, the panting fifers hurried below to a chorus of ironic cheers.
Bolitho touched the unfamiliar hilt of his sword. They could still cheer.
Another bang from the leader, and the ball ploughed up a furrow of spray some three cables abeam. The French captain must be on edge. He’s probably watching me now. Bolitho walked away from the mizzen bitts so that the sunshine would play on his bright epaulettes. At least he would know his enemy, he thought grimly.
He turned to watch a cluster of screaming gulls below the quarterdeck rail. They were unimpressed and quite used to a daily fight for survival.
Inch said, “The French admiral’s reset his t’gan’s’ls, sir.”
Bolitho watched the weather bow of the enemy flagship show itself around the leader’s quarter. He had guessed Remond’s intention. Now it all depended on the men around him.
“Captain Inch, this needs to be carefully done.” He touched his arm and smiled. “Though I need not tell you how to handle her, eh?”
Inch beamed with obvious pleasure. “Thank you kindly, sir!” He turned away, the captain again. “Mr Graham! Pipe the hands to the braces!” His arm shot out and pointed at a lieutenant on the gun-deck. “Mr Synge! Have both batteries been reloaded as ordered?”
The lieutenant squinted up at the quarterdeck rail and replied nervously, “Aye, sir! I-I forgot to report it.”
Inch glared at the luckless lieutenant. “I am glad to hear it, Mr Synge, for an instant I imagined you thought I was a mindreader!”
Several of the gun crews chuckled and lapsed into silence as the flushed-faced lieutenant turned towards them.
Bolitho watched the French ships and found he could do it without emotion. He was committed. Right or wrong, there was no chance to break off the action, even if he wanted to.
“Ready ho!”
The men at the braces and halliards crouched and flexed their muscles as if they were about to enter a contest.
M’Ewan watched the shake of the topsails, the angle of the masthead pendant. Nearby his helmsmen gripped the spokes and waited like crude statuary.
“Helm a-lee!”
“Let go and haul!”
The ship seemed to stagger at the rough handling, then after what felt like an eternity she began to swing readily into the wind.
Graham’s voice was everywhere at once. “Haul over the boom! Let go the t’gallant bowlines!”
At each port the gun captains watched the empty sea and ignored the commotion of thrashing canvas, the squeal of running rigging and the slap of bare feet on the planking.
Bolitho concentrated on the leading Frenchman, feeling a cold satisfaction as she continued on the same tack, although her officers must have wondered what Inch was doing. They might have expected his nerve to break, for him to tack to leeward with the wind from aft. Then the leading enemy ships would have raked Odin’s stern before grappling and smashing down her resistance at point-blank range.
But now Odin was answering, and heading into the wind with her sails billowing in disorder as her yards were hauled round. To any landsmen she would appear to be all aback and unable to proceed, but as she continued to flounder into the wind she slowly and surely presented her starboard side to the oncoming ship’s bows.
Graham yelled through his trumpet, “As you bear!”
Inch’s sword hissed down, and deck by deck Odin’s guns crashed out, the upper battery with its screaming langridge matched by the lower one’s double-charged guns.
Bolitho held his breath as the forward guns found their targets. The French ship seemed to quiver, as if, like the guard-ship, she had run aground. The bombardment continued, with the lieutenants striding behind each gun as its trigger line was jerked taut. On the deck below the picture would be the same but more terrible as the naked bodies toiled around the guns as each one thundered back on its tackles to be instantly sponged out and reloaded.
The langridge or chain-shot was easier to determine, and Bolitho saw all the enemy’s headsails and rigging hacked aside in a tangle, while most of the fore-topmast plunged over the side in a great welter of spray. As it crashed down the weight took immediate effect like an immense sea-anchor, so that even as he watched Bolitho could see the enemy’s beakhead begin to swing awkwardly into the wind.
“As you bear, lads! Fire! ”
The double-shotted charges smashed into the disabled ship to upend guns and rip through the lower deck with murderous impact. Overhead, rigging was scythed away, and as more and more sail area was exposed it too was punched through with holes and long streaming remnants.
Inch shouted, “Stand by on the fo’c’s’le!”
The starboard carronade belched fire and smoke, but the aim was too high and the great ball exploded on the enemy’s gangway. It hit nothing vital, but the outward effect was horrific. Some twenty men had been working to cut free the dragging weight of spars and cordage, and when the ball exploded near them it painted the ship’s tumblehome scarlet from deck to waterline.
It was as if the ship herself was mortally wounded and bleeding to death.
“Stand by to alter course to starboard!”
“Brace up your head yards!”
A few shots pattered against the hull and brought an instant retort from Odin’s marines who were yelling and cheering as they fired through the thickening smoke.
Bolitho felt the wind on his cheek and heard the sails filling untidily as Odin turned her stern towards the wind. She was no frigate, but Inch handled her like one.
A strong down-gust carried the smoke away, and he saw the French flagship riding on the starboard cathead as if she were caught there. In fact she was a good cable clear, but close enough to see her tricolour and command flag, the frantic activity as her captain changed tack to avoid colliding with the stricken leader.
Bolitho took a glass and steadied it while he waited for the guns to fire another broadside into the helpless Frenchman. He felt the planks buck beneath his shoes, saw the wildness in the eyes of the nearest crew as they hurled themselves on the tackles to restrain the smoking eighteen-pounder.
When he looked again he saw the flagship’s tall stern and gilded quarter-gallery, and on her counter her name, La Sultane, as if he could reach out and touch it.
He moved the glass upwards slightly and saw some of her officers, one gesticulating up at the yards, another mopping his face as if he had been in a tropical downpour.
Just for a brief moment before the guns crashed out again he saw the rear-admiral’s cocked hat, then as he walked briskly to the poop, the man’s face.
Bolitho lowered the glass and allowed the small pictures to fall away with it. No mistake. Contre-Amiral Jean Remond, he would never forget him.
Allday saw the expression on Bolitho’s face and understood.
Many senior officers would have taken the Frenchman’s offer of a safe, comfortable house with servants and the best of everything, with nothing to do but wait for an exchange. It showed Remond did not, nor would he ever, understand a man like Bolitho who had waited only for the chance to hit back.
It was all part of the madness, of course, Allday decided philosophically, yet despite that he felt less afraid of what might happen.
Unaware of Allday’s scrutiny, Bolitho kept his eyes on the disabled French ship. She was badly mauled by the constant battering, and thin red lines ran from her scuppers and down her smashed side to show how her people had died for their over-confidence.
