Daubeny called, “All loaded, sir!”
Tyacke did not seem to hear. He was watching the other ship as she drifted helplessly to the thrust of wind and current.
The American officer was still waving his sword, and the huge Stars and Stripes streamed as proudly as before.
“Strike, damn you!” But Tyacke’s voice held no anger or hatred; it was more a plea, one captain to another.
Two of the enemy’s guns recoiled in their ports and Bolitho saw more packed hammocks blasted from their nettings, and seamen reeling from their weapons while one of their number was cut in half by a ball, his legs kneeling in grotesque independence.
Tyacke stared at Bolitho. Nothing was said. The sudden silence was almost more painful than the explosions.
Bolitho glanced at the enemy ship, and saw that some of her seamen who had been running seconds earlier to hack away the dragging wreckage had stopped as if stricken, unable to move. But here and there a musket flashed, and he knew that her invisible marksmen could not be cheated for much longer.
He nodded. “As you bear!”
The sword fell, and in one shattering roar the starboard battery fired into the drifting smoke.
Daubeny yelled, “Reload!”
Stooping like old men, the gun crews sponged out the hot guns and rammed home the fresh charges and shining black balls from the garlands. At one of the ports the men hauled their gun back, oblivious even to the sliced corpse and the blood that soaked their trousers like paint. A fight they could understand; even the pain and fear that kept it close company were part of it, something expected. But a drifting ship, unable to steer and with most of her guns either unmanned or out of action, was something different.
A lone voice shouted, “Strike, you bloody bastard! Strike, for Jesus’ sake!” Above the wind in the rigging, it sounded like a scream.
Tyacke said, “So be it.” He dropped his sword and the guns exploded, the vivid tongues of flame appearing to reach and touch the target.
The smoke funnelled downwind, and men stood away from their guns, their eyes red-rimmed in smoke-grimed faces, sweat cutting stripes across their bodies.
Bolitho watched coldly. A ship which could not win, and which would not surrender. Where the working party had been gathered there was only splintered timber and a few corpses, tossed aside with brutal indifference. Men and pieces of men, and from her scuppers there were tiny threads of scarlet, as if the ship herself was bleeding to death. Daubeny had removed his hat, probably without knowing what he had done. But he stared aft again, his face like stone as he called, “All loaded, sir!”
Tyacke turned toward the three figures by the weather rail: Bolitho, Avery close beside him, and Allday a few paces away, his naked cutlass resting on the deck.
One more broadside would finish her completely, with so much damage below deck that she might even burst into flames, deadly to any vessel that came near her. Fire was the greatest fear of every sailor, in both war and peace.
Bolitho felt the numbness. The ache. They were waiting. Justice; revenge; the completeness of defeat.
His was the final responsibility. When he looked for the other American ship, he could barely find her beyond the smoke. But waiting, watching to see what he would do. Testing me again.
“Very well, Captain Tyacke!” He knew that some of the seamen and marines were staring at him, with disbelief, perhaps even disgust. But the gun captains were responding, answering the only discipline they understood. The trigger-lines were pulled taut, each man staring across his muzzle, the helpless target filling every open port.
Tyacke raised his sword. Remembering that moment at the Nile when hell had burst into his life and had left its mark as a permanent reminder? Or seeing just another enemy, a fragment of a war which had outlived so many, friends and foes alike?
There was a sudden burst of shouting and Bolitho shaded his eyes to watch the solitary figure on the enemy’s torn and bloodied quarterdeck. No sword this time, and one arm hanging broken, or even missing in the dangling sleeve.
Very deliberately and without even turning towards Indomitable, he tugged at the halliards, and almost fell as the big Stars and Stripes spiralled down into the smoke.
Avery said in a tight voice, “He had no choice.”
Bolitho glanced at him. Like Tyacke, another memory? Of his own little schooner surrendering to the enemy, while he lay wounded and helpless?
He said, “He had every choice. Men died for no good purpose. Remember what I told you. They have no choice at all.”
He looked in Allday’s direction. “Bravely, old friend?”
Allday lifted the cutlass and balanced the blade on one hand.
“It gets harder, Sir Richard.” Then he grinned, and Bolitho thought that even the sunshine was dim by comparison. “Aye, set bravely!”
Tyacke was watching the other vessel, the brief savagery of action already being crowded aside by the immediate needs of command.
“Boarding parties, Mr Daubeny! The marines will go across when the ship is secured! Pass the word for the surgeon and let me know the bill-we’ll see the cost of this morning’s show of courage!”
Indomitable was responding, the carpenter and his crew already below, hammers and squeaking tackles marking their progress through the lower hull.
Then Tyacke sheathed his sword, and saw the youngest midshipman observing him closely, although his eyes were still blurred with shock. Tyacke looked steadily back at him, giving himself time to consider what had so nearly happened.
He barely knew the midshipman, who had been sent out from England as a replacement for young Deane. His eyes moved unwillingly to one of the quarterdeck guns. Right there, as others had just fallen.
“Well, Mr Campbell, what did you learn from all this?”
The boy, who was only twelve years old, hesitated under Tyacke’s gaze, unused as yet to the scars, and the man who bore them.
In a small voice he answered, “We won, sir.”
Tyacke walked past him and touched his shoulder, something he did not often do. He was more surprised than the midshipman at the contact.
“They lost, Mr Campbell. It is not always the same thing!”
Bolitho was waiting for him. “She’s not much of a prize, James. But her loss will be felt elsewhere!”
Tyacke smiled. Bolitho did not wish to speak of it, either.
He said, “No chance of a chase now, Sir Richard. We have others to care for.”
Bolitho stared at the dark blue water, and the other American frigate, which was already several miles clear.
“I can wait.” He tensed. Someone was crying out in agony as others attempted to move him. “They did well.”
He saw Ozzard’s small figure picking his way through the discarded tackles and rammers by the guns. So much a part of it, and yet able to distance himself from all the sights and sounds around him. He was carrying a bottle, wrapped in a surprisingly clean cloth.
Tyacke was still beside him, although aware of those on every hand who were demanding his attention.
“They’re lucky, Sir Richard.”
Bolitho watched Ozzard preparing a clean goblet, oblivious to everything but the job in hand.
“Some may not agree, James.”
Tyacke said abruptly, “Trust, sir.” One word, but it seemed to hang there even as he walked away for the final act with a vanquished enemy.
Bolitho raised the goblet to his lips as the shadow of the enemy’s topmast laid its patterns on the deck beside him. He saw some of the bloodied seamen pause to watch him; a few grinned when they caught his eye, others
