His Majesty's Ship (41 page)

      
He had reached the short line of waiting boys at the main companionway when he noticed someone else, an officer no less, coming up from the safety of the orlop. He stood to one side and allowed him to pass, before accepting two more charges, and running back to his guns.
 

*****

      
The seventy-four had turned and was now creeping along their larboard side; less than fifty yards away and closing. King looked back to the quarterdeck which was all but invisible in the smoke and debris.

      
“She's comin' 'long side!” his voice sounded weak and ineffectual amid the roar of battle. He paused for a moment, uncertain as to the next move. Gregory could not be seen, and the starboard upper deck gun crews were still firing at the flagship. He shook as a wave of cold fear flowed over his body, and for a moment felt the need to hide. Hide and be safe; let the others do the fighting.

      
“Boarders to larboard!” he screamed, pushing the idea aside as he did. Men working a starboard gun looked back at him. He repeated the call, pointing desperately towards the impending seventy-four. They came across, almost inquisitively at first then seeing the danger, at a run. The upper larboard battery had been left loaded, but with round shot. There was no time to reload with canister. “Fire the guns, then prepare for boarders!” King gasped, in a voice all but hoarse. Rooke, the master's mate appeared, and began passing out boarding pikes and cutlasses. King had left his pistol on the deck of the
Hampshire Lass
. He considered taking another but instantly rejected the idea; he would only have to worry about loading the thing, and at that stage he knew himself unequal to the task. From below irregular crashes told that their lower larboard battery was firing, and as he watched the French hull appear from out of the smoke he felt his pulse begin to race. Then the upper battery exploded in a ripple of shots. At that range it was no effort to see the bulwarks buckle and disintegrate as the twelve pound balls struck. For seconds afterwards there was silence, then heads began to appear once more, and a roar of defiance erupted from the French.

      
King turned to see Rooke joining him, cutlass in hand.

      
“Fend off there!” his voice was almost gone, but the men about him caught the idea. A shattered end of a main yard lay on the deck, and eager hands manoeuvred it lengthways over the side.

      
“That's it, lads. Keep them back!”

      
Another spar was found, and used in a similar manner and another after that. The enemy ship was being held at bay, but only for so long. If they could man some of the guns as well it might make a difference. Marksmen from the Frenchman's tops began to pick off men; King felt the breeze of a shot pass by him as he looked about desperately for help. But there were none left to assist; in a ship still crowded with men, they seemed totally alone.
 

*****

      
Dyson had heard King's shout, and saw the seventy-four coming round on them. He also noticed how the flagship was turning about, and would soon be presenting her broadside, possibly against their stern. He had done enough, in fact he had done more than he had ever intended, although now, when defeat and capture seemed the next logical step, he felt unable to take it. The quarterdeck carronades were still being worked, and he could hear guns from the lower batteries as they barked intermittently. But they were totally outnumbered, men were falling all the time, and he doubted if anything would be gained by continuing further. Then he saw Rogers.

      
He was clambering up what was left of the quarterdeck ladder and looking about him in a bewildered fashion. His face was slightly blackened, and his uniform torn, although compared with others who manned the deck, he seemed particularly well dressed. What drew Dyson's attention was the eyes; they stared out white and round above a mouth that appeared altogether too large for his face. The whole apparition reminded him of a shrunken head he had seen once when a junior officer. But this was no vile souvenir; this was real; real, alive and making for him.

      
“Strike, sir, why do you not strike?” Rogers' voice was also distorted, although the words came through as clear as the fear that fed them. A hand reached out and grabbed at his uniform coat, the face pressed close into his, and screamed straight at him.

      
“Strike, you bastard! Strike!”

      
Dyson took a step back; Rogers drew his sword and held it up and in front of him.

      
“You damned fool!” Dyson spat the words with contempt: there was no time for this.

      
The sword was raised menacingly, and Dyson took another step backwards, holding his own blade at the parry.

      
“Strike, curse you!”

      
Their swords touched once, then he was gone; disappeared as if he had never been. At Dyson's feet all that was left was a crumpled form wearing a lieutenant's uniform. He looked up and into the eyes of Gregory, who was standing opposite, rubbing the knuckles of his right hand with his left.

      
“'scuse me, sir.” he said, with an odd formality. “But he never was much good, that one.”
 

*****

      
King had been joined by Tait, who brought with him seven men.

      
“Good work, Thomas. Try and keep them at bay, I'll get a gun or two on them!”

      
King nodded; a sweep of canister would make a difference, although it would not reach the marksmen aloft who were steadily eroding their small force. Beneath him the deck vibrated as shot form the French heavy guns bit into the hull, and on the upper deck men stood ready to board.

      
An unlucky hit from one of their own twenty-four pounders smashed a fend-off, and the enemy's hull crept closer. Another crack; this time the spar had been too weak to hold the force of the ship, and broke in two. Another followed, then there was a brief pause, before the two hulls met, and ground together with a moan that might have come from the very soul of the ship.

      
The first wave of boarders landed almost simultaneously. King, his dirk already in hand, found himself facing the pointed end of a pike that was being propelled towards his belly by a seaman with a fat moustache. Instinctively he side-stepped the charge, and hacked sideways at the man, feeling the blow strike deep as it cut into his body. Another was coming towards him, this time armed with a cutlass. King hesitated for less than a second before diving under the blow. Then Dyson, appearing from nowhere, stepped over his prone body and laid into the man with brief economical sweeps of his hanger. More came; one was armed with a wide mouthed carbine. King collected himself and sprang up, grabbing at the barrel and pressing the piece back in the man's face. The blow knocked the Frenchman into the scuppers, where King kicked him in the face with his boot.

      
Already the sweat was starting to pour from his face, but there was no time for rest. Carling came from the forecastle at the head of a band of marines who advanced into the
melée
with fixed bayonets, and began to chisel a clear channel into the confusion. King thoughtfully followed them, cutting this way or that as the opportunity arose. This was not the place for fine fighting or gentlemanly tactics. To one side he saw Rooke being overwhelmed by a vividly dressed officer, and broke off to charge at the man, barging into his side, and slashing at the body as it fell. Rooke looked his thanks, before retrieving his cutlass and heading back into the fray with a wild scream. One of the Frenchmen had a change of heart and King chased him back over the side and into the water below. It was then that he realised the two ships had drawn apart once more. He looked back to see the battle on the deck almost over, and Carling causally wiping his blade with his white pocket handkerchief.

      
“Lower deck guns must have driven them off!” Tait shouted in his ear. “That or they're frightened of taking fire from us.”

      
King nodded. His body felt incredibly tired, and yet there was still so much to do. More shots began falling from the French marksmen. Tait opened his mouth to say more when suddenly he was sent spinning to the deck, a red wound opening below his right shoulder. King knelt down to him immediately, but Tait was already trying to get to his feet.

      
“Got my arm!” he said, unnecessarily, as he leant against King. “Can't move my fingers!” King squeezed at the wound, and felt the bone crumble beneath his grip.

      
“Better stay down,” he said. “You've done all you can.”

      
Tait looked him in the eye and smiled slightly. “You're right there. Reckon we're about finished.”
 

*****

      
The same thought was in Dyson's mind. The ship was nearly a wreck, and he dared not guess at the number killed or wounded. He looked about him before tossing his sword into the scuppers and searching for some means to surrender. The ensign had been shot away some while ago, he would just have to order the men to cease fire, and trust the French to do likewise.

      
He noticed that his uniform jacket was moist; it was raining heavily and must have been for several minutes. The deck was wet; blood, sand and unspeakable filth mingled to create strange patterns on the strakes. It was almost a shame the boarding attempt had been beaten back; nothing had been gained by it. He looked up and saw Carling. He spread his hands wide in a gesture of despair. The marine officer smiled and nodded. The rain now fell in torrents about them. They had fared well; few could have done better, but now it was over.

CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE

      
The sensation of defeat passed through the ship like an evil wind, and for a moment no one appeared able to move. It was as if the British had come to the end of their stamina, and had nothing left with which to fight. Dyson stepped down to the half deck, and spotted Gregory coming towards him, his face a mask of exhaustion. As if by mutual agreement the guns had ceased to fire and the air held a dull ringing sound, nothing more. The rain fell noiselessly. There were no shots from the enemy marksmen, no bellowing of orders from petty officers, even the wounded had ceased to cry out. Dyson turned towards the French seventy-four and noticed how the ship was now some distance off. He supposed they were frightened of
Vigilant
exploding; maybe the incident with the
Hampshire Lass
was still fresh in their minds. In the enemy flagship they were also making preparations to move; the topgallants dropped and filled even as he looked. Gregory was next to him now and between them they watched as the French ships drew back.

      
“Reckon they've had enough of us?” Gregory asked hopefully. Dyson shook his head.

      
“No, there's more to it,” he said. “We're no danger to them; they can take us whenever they have a mind.”

      
But shortly the men at the great guns began to grow more confident, and stood up, staring at the enemy as they gathered way. There were the faint murmurings of conversation, and from somewhere Dyson was certain he heard a laugh. He looked up to the mizzen top, the only lookout position left, although it stood barely a third as high as a main masthead.

      
“What do you see there?” he bellowed, his voice unnaturally loud. The rain turned to drizzle then died; a shaft of early evening sun appeared signalling the end of the squall.

      
“Clear horizon, sir.”

      
So they had left the two French frigates behind, and presum-ably the four remaining merchants had made good their escape. Considering that, and the sizeable damage caused to the French ships, Dyson supposed he had been successful; certainly all of Shepherd's original objectives had been met. It was just strange that now, now they were finally beaten, the enemy seemed content to quietly take their leave. A pigtailed gunner on the quarterdeck shouted something obscene at the departing flagship, but only received a derisory wave in return. Dyson looked at Gregory; both were equally bemused.

      
“Deck there!” the call from the mizzen top took them by surprise. “Sail to windward! Two, no three, comin' down on us!”

      
The officers spun round and foolishly tried to make out the sighting, but the mizzen top was still that much higher, and nothing was visible from the deck.

      
“Frenchie's still got mastheads!” Gregory shouted as realisa-tion dawned. It was true, both the enemy ships were badly damaged, but each had at least one lookout set far higher than any on
Vigilant
; their horizon would be correspondingly larger, and the strange sails must have been made out some while before.

      
“Two more sail, sir.” The lookout continued. “An' I think the first three are frigates.”

      
Frigates! That could mean another escaping squadron, or the scouts of a larger body. Both were possible, but the chances were heavily in favour of a British fleet lying just over the horizon. More than that, a sizeable portion of it was bearing down on them. Dyson found himself grinning foolishly at Gregory, and the later smiling heartily in return.