To Glory We Steer (25 page)

Farquhar pointed. “Look! The battery has fired on us!” He waved his hat. “The stupid fools have fired on their own men!”

Bolitho pulled him down. “And us! So keep your head lowered, Mr Farquhar. You may have use for it still!”

There was no further gunfire, but the one, carefully loaded salvo was sufficient. The prompt action of the
Andiron
's officers and the quick response of her more level-headed sailors might have taken her clear of danger. But as the whining barrage of grapeshot swept her shrouds and yards free of men and cut down some of the hands still cramming her main deck, the last opportunity was lost. The black outline of Dogwood Point appeared to grow double in size until the ship was dwarfed beneath it. Even then it looked as if the wind and tide would carry her clear, but as Bolitho pulled his gaping companions to the deck the
Andiron
gave a long-drawn-out shudder, followed instantly by a tremendous crash which threw the remaining seamen from their feet.

Belsey stared up at the sky and crossed himself. “The mainmast is fallin'! My God, so is the mizzen!”

Fascinated, Bolitho watched the two great masts shiver and then bow very slowly towards the starboard side. Then as stays parted and the angle became more acute the masts thundered down in a flapping tangle of spars and torn sails to plunge eventually into the white-crested water alongside.

Another crash and yet another shook the hull, and while the deck tilted more and more towards the sea Bolitho dragged himself to his feet and shouted, “She's hard on the sandbar! She'll break her back and capsize in minutes!”

He could hear guns tearing themselves from their lashings and charging across the deck to carve through the screaming, struggling remnants of their late masters. There was no hope of lowering a boat, and nobody even attempted it. Already some were leaping overboard, to be swept away instantly in the strong current. Others ran below as if to find safety in the darkness, and all around voices cried and pleaded, threatened and cursed as their ship broke up beneath them.

The foremast splintered some four feet from the deck and followed the rest into the sea. From a trim frigate the
Andiron
was changed into a lolling, dismasted hulk, already a thing of ugliness and horror.

Belsey shouted above the din, “There's a hatch cover, sir! Look, floating by the bowsprit!” He watched Bolitho wildly. “We could jump for it!”

Bolitho turned to watch as the deck shivered yet again and another released gun charged through a group of crawling seamen. Then he saw his brother standing alone by the quarterdeck rail, his body appearing to be at a forty-five-degree angle on the reeling deck. He was not calling any more, but was standing quite motionless, as if to share the agony of his ship to the last.

For a moment longer Bolitho stared towards him, separated from the other man by far more than a length of deck. He could feel a sudden surge of understanding, even pity, knowing full well how he himself would have felt at such a time.

Then he said sharply, “Over you go, lads! Jump well clear!”

Belsey and Farquhar leaped together, and he saw them struggling towards the listing square of timber. Stockdale said hoarsely, “Here, Captain, I'll jump with you!”

As he gripped the rail Bolitho heard a cry behind him and got a vague glimpse of an officer dragging himself up the canting deck towards him. He saw blood on the man's face and recognised him as the lieutenant who had shared his lonely captivity on the poop. The man who had spoken of his farm and the impossible freedom of peace.

Then he saw the pistol in the lieutenant's hand, and even as he tried to pull himself over the rail the deck lit up with a blinding flash, and something like a white-hot iron exploded across his ribs.

Stockdale tore his eyes from Bolitho and gave a short, animal cry. It was as if it had been torn from his very soul. With all his strength he cleaved outwards with his axe, the force of the blow almost decapitating the American officer, so that the man seemed to bow forward in a grisly salute.

Bolitho was vaguely aware of being gathered bodily in Stockdale's arms and then falling through the air. His lungs were bursting and his throat was filled with salt water, and when he tried to open his eyes there was only stinging darkness.

Then he was being hauled up and across the little raft, and he heard Belsey gasp, “Oh the bloody bastards! They've done for the captain!”

Then Farquhar's voice, shaking but determined. “For God's sake watch out! There's a boat! Keep down and stay silent!”

Bolitho tried to speak, but could only stare up at Stockdale's misty face framed against the low, scudding clouds. He could hear oars, the swish of a boat cutting through water. But captivity or death were not in vain. Not this time! He listened to the distant boom of surf across the wrecked frigate, the small cries of those who still clung to the shattered hull.

Then, as if from right overhead he heard a sharp cry followed instantly by the click of a flintlock. It was still a dream, and nothing seemed to affect him personally. Only when a loud, English voice called, “Them's some of the devils down in th' water, sir!” did the slow realisation begin to break through the mist and the pain.

Farquhar stood up yelling, “Don't shoot! Don't shoot, we're English!”

Then everyone seemed to be shouting at once, and as another boat pulled nearby Bolitho heard one familiar voice as if from far away.

“Who have you got there, Mr Farquhar?” Herrick's question was shaking with emotion, as if he still mistrusted what he saw.

Farquhar replied, “It's the captain!”

Bolitho felt hands lifting him up over the gunwale, and saw distorted faces swooping above him in vague, unreal patterns. Hands moved across his ribs, and there was the stabbing fire of fresh pain. Then the muffling comfort of a bandage, and all the time the excited chatter of the men around him . . . His men.

Herrick had his face very close, so that Bolitho could see the brightness in his eyes. Somehow he wanted to say something, to reassure Herrick, to make him understand.

But he could no longer find the strength even for that. Instead he squeezed Herrick's hand, and then allowed the waiting darkness to gather him in like a cloak.

12
“CONFUSION TO
O
UR ENEMIES!”

T
HE HIGH
afternoon sun blazed down on the sheltered water and threw a dancing pattern of reflections across the deckhead above Bolitho's small desk. Just by turning his head he could see the lush green hillsides of Antigua and a few scattered dwellings around the smooth stretch of St John's harbour. He had to force himself back to his task of completing his report in readiness for the admiral's scrutiny.

He leaned his forehead against the palm of his hand, feeling the weakness moving through his veins, willing him to rest, to do anything but attend to the waiting duties and orders. Beneath his shirt he could feel the stiff embrace of the bandage, and allowed his mind to move back in time, as he had done so often since his unexpected return to the
Phalarope.

Like everything else which had happened, it was difficult to separate fact from vague delirious pictures which had come and gone with the stabbing agony of his wound. By the merest chance the pistol ball had passed cleanly between his ribs, leaving a deep and ragged scar which made him wince with every sudden movement.

From the moment he had been dragged aboard the frigate and the boats had been hastily hoisted on deck his memory was blurred and disjointed. The savage and unheralded storm had only helped to add to the nightmare quality of his recollections, and for two weeks the ship had driven south-west ahead of the screaming wind, unable to do other than run before it under all but bare spars. Then as he had struggled to avoid the surgeon's clumsy care and the vague comings and goings of his officers, the wind had moderated and
Phalarope
had at last gone about to beat her way back to Antigua and make her report.

He stared down at the carefully listed descriptions and the mentions of individual names. Nothing must be left out. There was never time for second thoughts.

Each name brought back a different memory and gave him the strange sensation of being an onlooker.

Midshipman Charles Farquhar, who had behaved in a manner far exceeding his actual experience and authority and in the best interests of the Service. A sea officer who would one day merit senior command.

Arthur Belsey, master's mate, who in spite of his injured arm did everything possible to assist the final destruction of the
Andiron.

Bolitho tapped his pen thoughtfully against Belsey's name. That last wild leap to safety from the
Andiron
's shattered hull had finished any hope he might have had for return to proper duty. His broken arm was now beyond repair, and he would be a weakened cripple for the rest of his life. With luck, a good mention in the report, plus Bolitho's commendation, might ensure his quick discharge with some suitable recognition for his long service. He would probably return to Plymouth and open a small inn there, Bolitho thought sadly. Every seaport was full of such men, broken and forgotten, but still clinging to the fringe of the sea which had discarded them.

Of Lieutenant Herrick's assault on the artillery there was little to add to the bare facts. If he had tried to embroider the truth, to give Herrick more of the praise which he so richly deserved, the admiral would be quick to see the other side of the coin. That it was largely luck, added to a goodly portion of impudence.

There were so many “ifs,” Bolitho thought moodily.

If the cutting-out party had been dropped closer inshore every man would be either dead or imprisoned. If the tide had not been too strong for Herrick's oarsmen he would have pressed on with his impossible mission, instead of taking the secondary path of his own making.

And what of Stockdale? Without his aid and unshaken loyalty none of these things would have come about at all. In his fight-dulled brain he had worked out each careful move, unaided and without guidance from anyone. And again his last action had been to save Bolitho's life.

But what could he do for him? There was no promotion open to him, no reward which made any sense. Once when he had pattered into the cabin to tend Bolitho's wound he had asked the giant seaman what he would most cherish as payment for his bravery and his devotion.

Stockdale had not even hesitated. “I'd like to go on serving you, Captain. I don't have no other wish!”

Bolitho had been considering the idea of getting Stockdale discharged ashore as soon as the ship returned to an English port. There with a little help he might be able to settle down to live his life in peace and security. But as what? Stockdale's prompt and simple reply had driven the suggestion from his mind. It would only have hurt the man.

He wrote: “And of my coxswain, Mark Stockdale, I can only add that without his prompt action the entire mission might have ended in failure. By cutting the
Andiron
's cable and thereby allowing her to drift beneath Lieutenant Herrick's fire he ensured the total and complete destruction of the ship with a minimum loss to our own side.” He signed his name wearily across the bottom and stood up. Pages of writing. It was to be hoped that they would be read by those unbiased against the
Phalarope
's name.

At least Farquhar's uncle, Vice-Admiral Sir Henry Langford, would be pleased. His faith would be sustained, and given time his hopes for his nephew would certainly materialise.

Bolitho leaned out of the stern window and let the warm air caress his face. He could hear the creak of tackles and the steady splash of oars as boats plied back and forth to the shore. The ship had dropped anchor in the early morning, and all day the boats had been busy gathering fresh stores and taking the wounded to more comfortable quarters in the town.

He watched the impressive line of anchored ships, the growing might of the West Indies fleet. Perhaps their presence had dwarfed what might have otherwise been a triumphant return for the
Phalarope
. He frowned at his recurring thought. Maybe the
Phalarope
was still to be treated with shame and mistrust?

Bolitho let his eyes move slowly along the great ships with their towering masts and lines of open gunports. There was the
Formidable,
ninety-eight, fresh out of England with Sir George Rodney's flag at her truck. There were others, too, their names already well known in the face of war.
Ajax
and
Resolution, Agamemnon
and
Royal Oak,
and Sir Samuel Hood's flagship
Barfleur.
And there were some he did not recognise at all, no doubt reinforcements brought by Rodney from the Channel Fleet. And they were all gathering for one purpose. To seek out and destroy the great French and Spanish fleet before it in turn drove the British from the Caribbean for good.

He turned his head to look towards his own small squadron on the other side of the anchorage. The elderly
Cassius
dwarfing the little
Witch of Looe.
And one other frigate, the
Volcano,
a vessel very similar to the
Phalarope.

There was still no summons from the admiral. Just a brief message brought by a pink-faced midshipman to state that Bolitho's report was required before sunset. The frigate was to complete reprovisioning and await further orders. Nothing more.

Nothing more until something even stranger had happened.

Halfway through the forenoon a boat had put off from the
Cassius
and within minutes a dapper lieutenant had reported himself to Bolitho. He had said, “Rear-Admiral Sir Robert sends his compliments, sir. He wishes to inform you that he will be willing to accept an invitation for dinner tonight aboard your ship. He will be bringing our captain as an additional guest.” The officer had watched the consternation on Bolitho's features and had added helpfully, “Is there anything I can do to help, sir?”

Bolitho had been stunned by the wording of the message. It was unusual for flag officers to dine aboard their less impressive ships. It was
unknown
for them actually to word their own invitations.

Bolitho had thought of his dwindling provisions and the crude results produced from the galley.

The lieutenant from the
Cassius
had obviously been well briefed. “If I may make a suggestion, sir?”

Bolitho stared at him. “Anything you can say would be a great help at this moment.”

“My captain is sending some stores from his own pantry, sir. In addition there will be some quite drinkable wine arriving within the hour.” He had ticked off the items on his fingers, his face wrapped in thought. Bolitho had guessed that the young man was not unused to the strange behaviour of his admiral. “If I may suggest some lean pork, sir? It is in goodly supply in St John's, and the cheese is newly arrived with Admiral Rodney's ships from England.”

Bolitho had sent for Vibart and the purser, Evans, and explained what was due to happen. For once Vibart seemed too surprised to make any comment, and Bolitho had said curtly, “See to it, Mr Vibart. And tell my servant to clean out the cabin and lay a full table.” He had felt suddenly reckless. “Sir Robert Napier must not expect a flagship's fare aboard a mere frigate!”

Now, looking back, he knew that the momentary recklessness was more likely to have been a result of too much sun on the open quarterdeck and the weakening pain of his wound.

Well, it could not be helped. It was more than obvious what the admiral intended. With Rodney back at the reins he would not wish to lambast
Phalarope
in public. He would not even risk an open argument aboard his own flagship. No, he would come to the
Phalarope
in person, like God coming down to smite a sinner, Bolitho thought bitterly. No success would wipe away his first displeasure or recompense his son's death. If the
Andiron
lay under guard beneath the guns of his own flagship the admiral might have felt differently. But the privateer was now less than nothing. A mere pencilled mark on a chart.

Bolitho sat down heavily on the stern bench, suddenly tired and irritable. He stared at the waiting report and then called, “Sentry! Pass the word for Mr Herrick!”

The report could go across to
Cassius
now, he thought angrily. Whatever else happened, he wanted to make sure that his men received recognition and had their efforts properly recorded.

Herrick entered the cabin and stood alertly beside the desk. “Take this envelope over to the flagship.” Bolitho saw the immediate concern on Herrick's open face and became more irritated. Try as he might he could not keep the dullness from his voice, and knew that in spite of all his efforts his fatigue was wearing him down, so that every word seemed to drag from his lips.

Herrick said carefully, “May I suggest that you take a rest, sir?

I think you have been doing too much.”

“Kindly attend to your duties, damn you!” Bolitho looked away, angry with Herrick but more so with himself for the unfairness of his attack.

“Aye, aye, sir.” Herrick seemed unmoved and said, “May I ask if this is the full report about the
Andiron,
sir?”

Bolitho turned coldly. “Of course it is! Were you afraid I'd not included your efforts in this escapade?”

Herrick eyed him steadily. “I am sorry, sir. It's just that—” He swallowed hard. “Well, we feel, those of us who took part,” he began to stammer. “You are the one who should take all the credit, sir!”

Bolitho looked at the deck, the blood singing in his ears. “You have a happy knack of making me feel ashamed, Mr Herrick. I would be obliged if you would refrain from doing so in the future!” He looked up sharply, remembering with sudden clarity the sound of Herrick's voice in the darkness, the touch of his hands on his wound. “But thank you.” He walked slowly to the desk. “The attack on the
Andiron
was a series of lucky occurrences, Mr Herrick. The end result may seem to some to justify this. But I must admit that I am still dissatisfied. I believe in luck, but I know that no man can
depend
upon it!”

“Yes, sir.” Herrick watched him closely. “I just wanted you to know how we all feel.” His jaw jutted stubbornly. “Whatever lies in store for us, we'll feel all the better for your being in command, sir.”

Bolitho ruffled the papers on his desk. “Thank you. Now for God's sake go to the
Cassius,
Mr Herrick.” He watched Herrick duck through the door and heard his voice calling for the quarter-boat.

It was odd how easy it was to tell his fears to Herrick. Stranger too that Herrick was able to listen without taking advantage of this confidence.

His eye fell on the punishment book, and again he felt the tired glow of anger. While he had been a prisoner of his own brother the old disease had broken out again. Floggings and more floggings, with one man dying of his agony under the lash. Maybe there would be time to heal the damage, he thought grimly. He must accept Vibart's sullen explanations, just as he had had to recognise Okes's report on the attack on Mola Island. He must back up his own officers. And if they were weak and stupid, then
he
must take the blame for that also.