But the flag was still there above the poop, and although the hull was low in the water he could see the men at their guns and a few figures standing on her quarterdeck as before.
"Stand by!" Stepkyne's harsh voice cut through the stillness.
Bolitho clenched his fists. Strike, damn youl Strikel Even as he willed the other captain to make the final gesture of surrender he knew that in a similar position he would have acted. the same way.
The enemy was drifting almost on end now, so that he could see the great scars in her poop, the trailing rigging above her gilded name, Le Fortune. He thought he saw an officer wave his sword towards the Hyperion as she bore past, and then with a double roar the enemy fired his last shots from the two sternchasers below the shattered cabin windows.
Bolitho felt the shuddering crash of a ball slamming against the quarterdeck bulwark and heard the hiss of wood splinters ripping past him, but all this was lost as the Hyperion rolled back ponderously to the weight of her own broadside.
As the smoke swirled high overhead he saw the enemy's mainmast come crashing down. But it did not vanish in the sea alongside for at that very moment the ship quivered and then struck hard on the reefs. Above the cry of the wind they could all hear the grinding smash of timbers and the immediate inrush of water through her bottom. That last broadside must have killed or wounded most of the seamen on her main deck, for with her torn sails still driving her abeam she lifted again and then lurched once more across the reefs, her foremast toppling amongst the stampeding figures which swarmed helplessly across the forecastle.
Bolitho turned away, sickened. He could hear the other vessel tearing herself apart, and imagined the panic and disaster below decks as the great guns broke loose from their tackles and smashed from side to side, while the trapped seamen struggled amidst the rushing water in a vain effort to escape.
But the Tricolour had gone at last. Not struck, but blasted away in the fury of the Hyperion's gunfire.
He turned slowly. "Orders, sir?"
Then he stared as Pelham-Martin swayed and began to slip to the deck. His coat had blown open in the wind, and from beneath his armpit and spreading quickly across his white waistcoat was a bright patch of blood.
Bolitho shouted, "A hand here! Mr. Canyon, pass the word for the surgeon!" Then he dropped on one knee and slipped his arm around the commodore's shoulders. "Easy, sir!"
Pelham-Martin seemed unable to speak and his expression was more one of amazement than any sort of pain.
"Carry the commodore to his cabin." Bolitho stood aside as Trudgeon, the surgeon, accompanied by his mates hurried onto the quarterdeck.
Pelham-Martin gasped, "Oh, God! Take care, blast you!
Inch asked, "Is it bad, sir?"
Bolitho walked to the bulwark and looked at the ragged scar above the nearest gunport. The ball, probably a ninepounder, had carved away the timbers like the blow from an axe. The gunners beside that port had been standing to watch the other ship. Otherwise they would have acted as a shield for Pelham-Martin.
He replied at length, "Wood splinters make the worst wounds, as you know, I am surprised he did not feel it more."
Then he crossed to the rail and peered over the starboard quarter to watch the enemy two-decker foundering heavily across the reef. From the angle of her poop deck he guessed she had already broken her back. It was strange to realise that but for Peiham-Martin's insistence on that final attack he would still be unharmed.
Inch said, "The Hermes has Telamon in tow, sir."
Gossett walked across the deck and touched the scarred woodwork with astonishment. "What made the Frogs fire that last lot, I wonder?"
Bolitho felt the tiredness sweeping over him. "Wouldn't you have done so?" He turned to Inch again. "Does Spartan have her prize secure?"
"Aye, sir." Inch watched him worriedly. "She is passing a tow across to her boarding party now."
"Very well. Get the hands aloft and shorten sail. Then have a signal made to Hermes and Spartan." He frowned, trying not to remember the sounds of the ship dying on the reef, the pointlessness of the last gestures. "We will return to St. Kruis. Make all sail conformable with weather and report when ready to proceed."
He looked round as Trudgeon came beneath the poop wiping his hands. "Well?"
The surgon was a grimfaced, taciturn man who never wasted words. "A splinter, true enough, sir. Pierced his side under the right armpit. In very deep, I'd say."
"Can you remove it?"
"If he were a common seaman I'd not hesitate, sir." He shrugged. "But the commodore seems unwilling to let me touch him."
"Stay with him until I am free to come aft." As Trudgeon made to leave he added coldly, "And if I catch you treating a common seaman with less care than one of my officers, I can assure you it will be the last time for you!"
Inch hesitated until the surgeon had departed. "Must we return to St. Kruis, sir?"
"The Telamon will never survive unaided." He thought of the cheers, the destruction and the unquestioning courage of the Dutch sailors. "De Ruyter would have been proud of them," he added quietly. "And I'll not leave them now!"
He walked to the quarterdeck rail and rested against it, feeling the ship trembling through his body as if, they were linked together._ Below him the seamen were relashing their guns and swabbing the decks free of powder stains, chattering and calling to each other, probably quite unaware their commodore had been wounded. The irony of it was made harder to understand, as he had been their only casualty.
Inch watched the topmen shinning down the backstays and said, "This means that you will command the squadron now, sir."
Bolitho smiled. "Not while that pendant flies, Mr. Inch."
He thought suddenly of all those who had died or been maimed for life since the ship had sailed from Plymouth Sound. "I doubt that the commodore will be laid low for long. Once we are in more sheltered waters Mr. Trudgeon will be better placed to remove the splinter."
Canyon said, "Signal from Hermes, sir. Both tows secured and ready to proceed."
"Acknowledged." Bolitho looked at Inch. "You may wear ship now. Take station to windward of the others. We will be able to keep an eye on them to better advantage." He glanced up at the set of the sails. "I shall inform the commodore."
He found Pelham-Martin lying in his cot, his body well cushioned and protected against the ship's uneasy movements, and a great wad of dressing wound around his chest and shoulder. His eyes were closed, and in the faint sunshine from the skylight his skin looked like wax.
Trudgeon crossed the cabin and said dourly, "I have examined the wound again, sir." He shifted beneath Bolitho's gaze. "The fact is, there's so. much fat it's hard to tell the depth or extent of the splinter."
Bolitho glanced down at the commodore's face. "I see. Very well, wait outside." When the door had closed he bent over the cot and was immediately aware of the overpowering smell of brandy. A half empty decanter was propped by one of the pillows.
"Sir?" He heard the distant shouts and the rumbling creak of steering gear, and knew that Inch was already turning the ship as he had instructed. It would be a slow haul back to St. Kruis, and even if it was unlikely they would meet an enemy, they had to be prepared to defend their battered charges at a moment's notice. He said more urgently, "We are on course for St. Kruis, sir. Do you have any further orders?"
Pelham-Martin opened his eyes and looked at him glassily for several seconds. Then he said faintly, "Lequiller was not there! He has slipped from our hands again!" His head lolled and he peered down at the decanter. "I must rest. I do not wish to talk any further."
Bolitho stood up. "I would suggest that we hand over the prize to de Block when we reach St. Kruis, Sir. The Telamon will be useless except for what they can salvage. With the frigate they will at least be able to defend themselves."