Bolitho raised his hat and held it above his head. He wanted them to stop cheering just as he needed it to continue to drive back his thoughts like beasts into the shadows.
When they reached the stern cabin it felt like sanctuary.
Bolitho sat down in his chair and tried not to rub his eyes. They both ached and the vision in his good eye was blurred from strain and, he knew, emotion.
'I would like to see the schooner Columbines commander immediately.' He saw Ozzard pouring some brandy. The little man looked both pleased and sad. He would remember Inch too. 'I must discover everything I can before we rejoin the others. There must be something?
'Captain Inch may be safe, sir.' Keen watched him fondly. 'We can only hope.'
'A good friend, Val.' He thought of Herrick's face at the table. 'Losing one is bad enough.'
He got up and walked vaguely round the cabin.
'God, I'll be glad to leave here, Val. The land has no warmth for me.' He glanced at the unfinished letter. 'Inform the admiral that I intend to weigh before dusk.'
Keen hesitated by the door. 'I'll go to the schooner myself.' He added quietly, 'I can never thank you enough, sir.'
Bolitho looked away, unable to hold his depression at bay.
'She is worth it, Val. So are you. Now fetch that officer for me.'
The door closed and Bolitho picked up the letter. Then he screwed it up and with sudden determination began to write another.
My dearest Belinda-and suddenly he was no longer alone.
14. SPEAK WITH PRIDE
BOLITHO stood quite still beside Helicons wheel which had somehow remained intact. He had forcibly to examine the ship's upper deck, masts and gangways if only to convince himself that the fight had been two weeks ago. It looked as if it had been yesterday.
The wind which had brought the French down like thunder on this shattered vessel had died away completely; in fact the last few miles before Argonaute had made contact with the squadron had been an additional torment.
There was a deep, oily swell, above which a hard sun, more silver than gold, laid bare the scattered ships, their disorder seeming to symbolize their combined shock and defeat.
Figures bustled about the decks, sailors from other ships, for there were not so many from Inch's company who were fit to work. The clank of pumps was a reminder of the damage, if anyone needed reminding, and as a crude jury-rig began to emerge from the tangle of cordage and tackles Bolitho wondered how the ship had managed to survive.
Ripped deck planking, great patterns of dried blood, black in the harsh glare, upended guns and charred canvas; only the dead were missing, and the wounded were below, fighting their own private battles while the ships' surgeons did what they could for the ones who still refused to die.
Bolitho could feel Allday watching with him, sharing it, remembering all those other times.
It had not been a battle. More like a slaughter. But for the arrival of Barracouta, tearing down on the scene under full sail, Helicon would be on the bottom. If the wind rose again she might still make that final journey, he thought.
Barracouta had tossed caution aside, had even shredded her studding sails to the wind as she had endeavoured to turn aside the enemy's calculated assault.
Allday said, 'Why not go back to the ship, sir. Good bath an' a shave, might do wonders.'
Bolitho looked at him. 'Not yet.' He felt sick, stunned by the savagery of the destruction all around him. 'If I ever forget this day, remind me.' He added fiercely, 'No matter what!'
He saw Tuson below the poop. Even that deck was mauled and knocked out of shape. As if a giant had crushed it and left great black scars, like burning clawmarks. So many had died here, and many more were paying for that day.
He asked, 'How is he now?'
Tuson regarded him impassively. 'The ship's surgeon took off his arm too low, sir. I am not satisfied with it. I would suggestBolitho seized his sleeve. 'God damn you, man, that is my friend you are speaking of, not some bloody carcass!' He turned aside and said quietly, 'Forgive me.'
Tuson watched him and said, 'I understand. But I would like to deal with it myself.'
He did not say what Bolitho already knew, that Helicon's own surgeon had made a bad wound worse by his treatment. In fairness, he had been overwhelmed by the ferocity of the battle, the tide of broken, frightened men who had been dragged down to the orlop to face his knife and saw, while the ship had quaked to the roar of guns, the terrifying fire from the enemy.
'I must see him.' Bolitho watched some seamen flinging broken timber and other fragments over the side. They had not been in this ship and yet they moved like survivors, the heart gone out of them.
Tuson said, 'I cannot promise anything.' He glanced at Bolitho's profile. 'I am sorry.'
Beneath the poop there was still the stench of burning and pain, death and anger. A few guns lay on their sides or at the full extent of their tackles where they had recoiled on a last broadside before their crews were scattered or cut down. The sunlight shone through distorted gunports, gouged into strange shapes by the intensity of the attack.
From the main deck the sounds of hammers and squeaking blocks became muted as Bolitho groped his way down the companion to all that was left of the wardroom. Inch's own quarters had been swept away completely, charred beyond recognition, and had taken those of the gun crews and after-guard who had stayed to the last. Bolitho saw men glancing at him, parting to let him through before returning to their work in saving the ship and preparing her for a passage to safety. The regular clank of pumps seemed to sneer at their efforts, and the cries from the wounded as they waited for relief or death added to a backcloth of hopelessness.
Helicons wardroom seemed almost cold after the upper deck, and even though the stern windows had been blasted away it could not free the place of its stench.
Bolitho stood beside the cot and looked down at Inch's pale features. He did not seem to be conscious and Bolitho felt his heart chill as he saw the bloody bandage where Inch's arm had been. The thing he had always feared most for himself had happened to his friend.
Tuson drew down a blanket and said, 'He took a metal splinter here, sir.' He replaced the blanket and added heavily. 'Their surgeon says he removed it.' He sounded doubtful.
It was then Bolitho realized that Inch had opened his eyes and was staring at him. His eyes did not move, as if he was concentrating all his strength to recognize and discover what was happening.
Bolitho leaned over him and took his hand. 'I'm here, old friend.'
Inch licked his lips. 'I knew you'd come. Knew it.' He shut his eyes and Bolitho felt his grip tighten as the agony tore through him. But the grip was feeble nonetheless.
Inch said, 'Three ships of the line. But for Barracouta, I'm afraid-'
Tuson whispered, 'Please, sir, he's terribly weak. He'll need all his will to survive what I must do.'
Bolitho turned to him, their faces almost touching. 'Must you?
Tuson shrugged. 'Gangrene, sir.' It needed no more words.
Bolitho leaned over the cot again. 'Don't give in. You've a lot to live for.' He wanted to ask Inch about the French ships, but how could he?
He saw Carcaud, the surgeon's mate, and two assistants waiting by an upended gun. Like ghouls. Bolitho felt his eyes smart. They would do it here and now, hold him down while Tuson did his bloody work.
Bolitho lowered his head, unable to look at him. Francis Inch, a man with all the courage and so much luck. Who would care? His pretty young wife and a few old comrades, but who would really spare a thought for the cost of unpreparedness, of ignorance?
Inch looked past him and saw Allday. A shadow of a smile creased his long face and he whispered, 'You've still got that rascal, I see!'
