Keen persisted, 'She'll not fight again for a long, long while, sir!'
'Has she struck?'
Keen stared at him. He barely recognized Bolitho's voice. Curt, with all pity honed out of it.
No, sir.
Bolitho blinked as a ball from the enemy cut through the shrouds and a man screamed shrilly like a woman in agony.
'She must never fight. Continue the action.' He caught Keen's arm as he made to hurry away. 'If we leave her she'll anchor. I want her destroyed. Totally.'
Keen nodded, his mind reeling to the crash and roar of cannon fire, the excited chatter from the marines as they fired their long muskets, reloaded with almost parade-ground precision, and then sought out fresh targets on the enemy's decks.
He stared sickened as blood ran down the enemy's side; he could imagine the horror between decks.
Paget stared up at him, his eyes very clear in his smoke-grimed face.
Keen jerked his head and seconds later the broadside thundered out, measured and deliberate, with barely a gun firing back in reply. Keen watched through his telescope and saw the Frenchman's foremast begin to dip through the smoke.
He gestured to Stayt, who snatched up a speaking-trumpet and then climbed nimbly into the mizzen shrouds.
'Abandonez!' But only musket shots answered him.
Argonautes sails filled and gathered the wind as Fallowfield guided her clear of the drifting, dismasted hulk.
Keen glanced quickly at Bolitho but there was no change in his expression.
Keen raised his hanger, then thought of the girl who was sheltering in the hold far below his feet and the corpses that lolled by the guns. Someone had mercifully thrown some torn canvas over the ship's boy who had been halved by the enemy's iron.
It was no longer a battle. The enemy was like a helpless beast, waiting for the fatal blow to fall.
He saw the nearest gun captain watching him, his trigger-line already taut.
'Prepare to fire!' He heard his order being piped to the lower gun deck and braced himself for the broadside. A voice shouted, 'White flag, sir!'
Keen looked at Bolitho, half expecting him to order the broadside to be unleashed.
Bolitho felt his glance and turned towards him. He could see only a misty outline, the blue and white of Keen's clothing, the fairness of his hair. His eye stung with smoke and strain, but he managed to keep his voice level as he said, 'Order them to abandon ship. Then sink her.'
Paget called, 'There's a lot of smoke, sir. I think she may have taken fire.'
Bolitho waited for the deck to settle then walked across to the quarterdeck rail. He heard faint shouts from the other vessel, smelt the breath of charred rigging which at any moment might turn the beaten ship into an inferno.
He said quietly, 'War is not a game, Val, nor is it a test of honour for friend or foe.' His tone hardened. 'Think of Supreme. There was no mercy for poor Hallowes, and I will offer none to the enemy.' He turned and walked to the opposite side, his foot slipping on blood where the marine had fallen when the ball had missed Bolitho by mere inches.
Paget yelled, 'No, it's the yawl which has taken afire, sir.'
Keen raised his glass and saw the smaller vessel drifting clear of the two-decker. To his astonishment he could see men leaping overboard, making no attempt to quench the flames. A stray ball from Argonautes last broadside perhaps, or maybe some burning canvas had dropped from the two-decker's broken spars like a torch to a fuse.
Bolitho must have heard the busy speculation on the quarterdeck and said sharply, 'Get the ship under way, if you please! That yawl must have been loading powder aboard the Frenchman!'
Calls twittered and men rushed yet again to their stations while others spread out on the yards above the pockmarked sails as their ship slowly turned towards the welcoming horizon.
The explosion was like a volcano erupting, catching men in their various attitudes of shock or dismay, and shaking the hull as if to carry vengeance even to Argonaute.
The two-decker's hidden side took the full blast of the explosion, and even as the water began to descend again like a ragged curtain she started to heel over. The explosion, which had completely obliterated the yawl without leaving even a floating spar to mark her passing, must have stove in the two-decker's bilge like a reef.
Keen watched, his mind refusing to contain the swiftness and the horror of the explosion. Much nearer and Argonaute might have shared the same fate.
Bolitho crossed the quarterdeck and paused to face the silent group of young officers there.
'That will save us the trouble, gentlemen.'
He turned to see Allday was marking his line of retreat. The smoke had played havoc with his eye and he could barely see their faces. But their shock was plain enough, as he had meant it to be.
As he made his way aft several of the smoke-blackened seamen raised a cheer: one, more daring than the rest, touched Bolitho's back as he passed.
Keen's men, his men. He wished those at home who took such people for granted could see them now. They did not care about the cause or the reason, and none had come to this place of his own free will. They fought like lions, for each other, for the ship around them. It was their world. It was enough.
He thought of the disbelief in Keen's voice when he had ordered him to continue the action. For those few moments he had felt something more than anger, more than the hurt which had been done to him by the shot which had all but blinded him. It had been hate. Something white hot and without mercy which had almost made him order another broadside. The enemy had already been defeated before some half-crazed soul had raised a white flag on a boat-hook. He considered it warily, almost fearfully. Hate. It was beyond his reckoning, as alien as cowardice, like another person.
The deck tilted and, with the wind filling her newly spread main course, Argonaute stood away from the dying ship and the great spread of flotsam and floundering survivors. They at least would be picked up by the Spaniards.
Keen had watched his face, had seen the effect of his callous remark on his youthful lieutenants and midshipmen.
Keen had seen Bolitho in almost every situation and if he loved any man he would look no further. But at moments like this he felt as if he knew him not at all.
Tuson wiped his fingers individually on a small towel and regarded Bolitho sternly.
'Much more of this, Sir Richard, and I cannot answer for your sight.'
He expected a sharp retort but was more shocked to see that Bolitho did not seem to notice. He had moved to the stern windows and sat staring at the glittering water astern, listless, the life drained out of him.
The ship echoed and quivered to the bang of hammers, the squeal of tackles as fresh cordage was run up to the yards to replace that lost or damaged in the swift battle.
There was almost a carefree atmosphere throughout the ship. It was their victory. Five men had been killed and two more had been badly wounded. Tuson had described the rest as mere knocks and scrapes. The fierceness of their attack had cut down their losses more than Bolitho had believed possible. He had heard what Tuson had said; there was no point in arguing or disputing it.
Through the thick glass he could see the misty outline of Icarus, her topsail almost white in the noon sun. Rapid was on station ahead and, apart from the repairs and the five burials, there was little to show for the destruction of a French third-rate. Keen had noted that her name was Calliope before the terrible Smasher had reduced her stern to boxwood.
Tuson was saying, 'If you want my advice, sir-'
Bolitho looked towards him. 'You are a good man. But what advice? When I try to walk I lose my footing like a drunken sailor, and I can scarcely tell one man from another. What advice?'
'You won a battle despite these things, sir.'
Bolitho gestured vaguely towards the screen. 'They won it, man.'
