Ashton's intemperate and ill-considered plea took no account of McCann's own predicament, but was a reaction to the situation Ashton's headstrong action had landed him in. But its insulting unreasonableness struck a chord in McCann's psyche, and his spirit, loosened by the heat of battle, broke in hatred, remorse and the final bitter explosion of his reason.
And then McCann saw Ashton standing half way down the forward companionway, illuminated by the shaft of light that lanced down from the clear blue sky above. He presented even an indifferent marksman a perfect target, and the fact that no Frenchman amidships had yet hit him confirmed McCann in his belief that Ashton had been providentially delivered to his own prowess. He knew the moment was fleeting and his Tower musket was discharged: McCann drew a pistol from his belt, laid it on Ashton's silhouetted head, and fired. As the smoke from the frizzen and muzzle cleared Ashton had vanished. McCann's triumph was short-lived; a second later he heard Ashton's voice: 'McCann, give fire, damn you!'
Alone, his bayonet fixed and his musket horizontal, Sergeant McCann forsook the shelter of the capstan and, with a crash of boots and an Indian yell, ran forward. Four balls hit him before he had advanced five paces, but his momentum carried him along the deck and he could see, kneeling and levelling a carbine at him, a big man whose bulk seemed to fill the low space.
'Sergeant McCann...!' Ashton's plaintive cry was lost in the noise of further musketry. McCann saw the yellow flash of the big horse-grenadier's carbine. The blow of the ball stopped him in his tracks, but it had missed his heart and such was his speed that it failed to knock him over. He shuffled forward again and in his last, despairing act as he fell to his knees, he thrust with his bayonet. Gaston Duroc of the Imperial Horse Grenadiers parried the feeble lunge of the British marine with his bare hand.
'Sergeant McCann, damn you to hell!' cried Lieutenant Ashton, retreating back up the forward companionway and calling his men to prevent the counter-attacking French from following and regaining the upper-deck.
Captain Drinkwater was aware of men about him, though there were few enough of them.
'My lads...' he began, but he was quite out of breath and, besides, could think of nothing to say. It would be only a moment or two before the Russians stormed into
'Are you all right sir?'
He had no idea who was asking. 'Perfectly fine,' he answered, thanking the unknown man for his concern. And it was true; he felt quite well now, the pain had gone completely and someone seemed to be taking his sword from his hand. Well, if it meant surrender, at least it did not mean dishonour. If they survived, Marlowe and Birkbeck would manage matters, and Frey ...
The bed was wondrously comfortable; he could sleep and sleep and sleep...
He could hear Charlotte Amelia in the next room. She was playing the harpsichord; something by Mozart, he thought, though he was never certain where music was concerned. And there was Elizabeth's voice. It was not Mozart any more, but a song of which Elizabeth was inordinately fond. He wished he could remember its name ...
'Congratulations, Lieutenant.'
Frey bowed. 'Thank you, sir, but here is our first lieutenant, Mr Marlowe.' Frey gestured as an officer almost as dishevelled and grubby as himself came up. A broken hanger dangled by its martingale from his right wrist. In his hands he bore the lowered colours of
'What's all this?' Marlowe demanded, his face drawn and a wild look in his eye. His cheek was gouged by a black, scabbing clot. The appearance of the Russian had surprised him too, for he had been occupied with the business of securing the French frigate upon whose deck the three men now met.
'Captain Count Rakov, Marlowe,' Frey muttered and, lowering his voice, added 'executing a smart
'I don't understand ...'
'For God's sake bow and pretend you do.' Frey bowed again and repeated the introduction. 'Captain Count Rakov ... Lieutenant Marlowe.'
'Where is Captain Drinkwater?' asked the Russian in a thick, faltering accent. 'I see him on the quarterdeck and then he go. You,' Rakov looked at Marlowe, 'strike ensign.'
'I, er, I don't know where Captain Drinkwater is ...' Marlowe looked at Frey.
'He is dead?' Rakov asked.
'Frey?'
'Captain Drinkwater has been wounded, sir,' Frey advised.
'And die?'
'I do not believe the wound to be mortal, sir.' Frey was by no means certain of this, but the Russian's predatory interest and the circumstances of his intervention made Frey cautious. Rakov's motives were as murky as ditchwater and they were a long way from home in a half-wrecked ship. Frey was not about to surrender the initiative to a man who had apparently changed sides and might yet reverse the procedure if he thought Captain Drinkwater's wound was serious.
'In fact, Mr Marlowe,' Frey lied boldly, 'he left orders to proceed to Angra without delay.' Frey turned to Rakov and decided to bluff the Russian and hoist him with his own petard. And he asked that you, Count Rakov, would assist us to bring our joint prizes to an anchorage there. He regretted the misunderstanding that occasioned us to fire into each other. I believe there was some confusion about which ensigns these ships were flying.'
Rakov regarded Frey with a calculating and shrewd eye, then turned to Marlowe. 'You command, yes?' he broke the sentence off expectantly.
'Yes, yes, of course,' Marlowe temporized. 'If that is what Captain Drinkwater said ...'
'He was quite specific about the matter, gentlemen,' said Frey with a growing confidence.
'You British ...' said the Russian and turned on his heel, leaving the
'Whew,' exhaled Frey when Rakov was out of earshot.
'D'you mind telling me what all that was about, damn it?' Marlowe asked.
'I think we won the action, Frederic, in every sense. Now, you had better see whether we have enough men to get this bloody ship to Terceira.'
'Have you seen Ashton?'
'Ashton? No, I haven't, but I suspect the worst.'
'Oh God ...' Marlowe stood uncertainly shaking his head. Then he looked up at Frey, a frown on his face. 'I've a curious ringing in my ears, Frey...'
'Count yourself lucky that's all you've got,' said Frey. 'Now let us take stock of matters, shall we.' It was a gentle hint more than a question, and Marlowe dumbly nodded his agreement.
CHAPTER 19
A Burying of Hatchets
'Mr Gilbert, please forgive me for not coming ashore ...'
'My dear Captain Drinkwater, pray do not concern yourself. It is you who have, been put to the greater exertion, I do assure you.' Gilbert smiled urbanely. As for the Captain-General, why, he perfectly understands your situation and joins me in wishing you a speedy recovery'
'Please convey my thanks to His Excellency and, pray, do take a seat.'
Gilbert sat in the cabin chair opposite Drinkwater whose left arm was doubled in a splint and sling. He observed the sea-officer's pallid complexion as Drinkwater moved uneasily in his chair, evidence of the pain he was in.
'Frampton, a glass for Mr Gilbert.'
