ALEXANDER KENT - TO GLORY WE STEER
The lieutenant called, `You men! Get handspikes and fresh lashings! Lively there, or it'll smash through the sidel'
The anchor watch rose from their concealed positions and ran back from the bows to join the stampede of men at the break of the forecastle. In the centre of the confusion, jubilant and deadly, the long nine pounder turned its muzzle as if to sniff out new havoc, and then careered squeaking and rumbling towards the opposite side. It crashed against another gun and scattered a shot rack like loose pebbles. The rolling cannon balls added to the pandemonium, and some could be heard thudding on to the deck below.
A braver seaman than some leapt across the gun's breech, his hands already fastening a rope's eye around the muzzle. But as the gun trundled back again he screamed and fell against the bulwark to receive the twenty-six hundredweight of wood and metal full on his chest.
Bolitho seized Farquhar's arm-and snapped, 'Look! They've got a wedge under the carriage! We've not long now.'
Even as he spoke some of the seamen around the gun turned and stared, their expressions of shock and disbelief changing to cold fury. Bolitho and his two companions slowly retreated towards the bows, the wind and sea at their backs, a converging mass of men driving towards them, all the more terrible because of their complete silence.
Then, to break the spell, a man bellowed, 'Kill them! Cut the bastards down!'
Pressed on by the men behind, the whole mob swept forward, only to sway to an uncertain halt as something like a gunshot. echoed around the deck, followed instantly by Stockdal's great shout of triumph.
'It's parted! The cable's cut!'
For a moment longer the Andiron's seamen stared at one another, and then as the realisation of their unexpected peril dawned on their minds they hesitated no longer. An officer was yelling from the maindeck, and the cry was carried forward by men who had still managed to keep their heads.
'Hands aloft! Hands aloftl Loose tops'ls!'
From aft Bolitho heard his brother's voice magnified and hardened by his speaking trumpet. 'Man the wheel there!' And then as the ship trembled from stem to stem like a released animal he shouted, 'Mr. Faulknerl Drive those men to the braces!'
Bolitho leaned against the rail, the dirk still held across his body as the frigate heeled still further and began to fall away. Men were running wildly up the shrouds, and already a small patch of canvas was billowing and flapping against the dark sky.
The speaking trumpet called again. 'Cover those men on the fo'c's'le! Shoot them down if they try to escape!'
Belsey wiped his forehead and muttered, 'If our lads is out there they'll not want to try an' board!' He peered at Bolitho's tense face. 'I can die in peace now, sir! I reckon we did right well tonight!'
Bolitho saw his face light up with a bright orange glow, and as he turned in surprise the air around him seemed to come alive with the searing whine of gunshot. Stays and halyards parted, and beyond his feet the deck planking splintered and cracked as a thousand balls swept across the forepart of the ship.
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 by 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 maindeck, 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-outshudder, 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 bull, 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 to 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 itl'
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 quay… terdeck rail, his body appearing to be at a forty-five-degree angle on the heeling 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, know ing 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 decapitatingg 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 hard 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 OUR ENEMIES!'
The 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 southwest 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 roper 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 of 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 to 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 hi 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 Lang ford, would be pleased. His faith would be sustained, and given time his hopes for his nephew would certainly materialise.
Bolitho leaned out of the stem 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.
