Hyperion was cutting the entrance more finely than the carefree Marte had done, so the French battery would have to wait a moment longer. As the ship glided slowly past an outthrust spit of rocks Bolitho heard cries of shocked despair from the tops, and when he leaned over the nettings he saw what was left of Anduaga's flagship.
She was still burning fiercely, but some internal explosion must have blasted out her bottom, so that she lay like a flaming pyre across a ridge of hard sand, her masts all gone, her hull gutted almost to the lower gundeck. She was surrounded by a drifting carpet of ashes and charred woodwork, amongst which the wounded and flayed survivors jostled each other, splashing and screaming, clutching even at the many corpses which moved with them in a macabre dance.
Rooke's voice was crisp. 'Open fire!'
The broadside rippled unhurriedly down the Hyperion's side, each upper gun firing in unison with its larger consort on the lower deck.
Bolitho felt the ship quiver as if being shaken by a jagged reef. He watched narrowly as the balls struck the top of the stone walls below the smoking mil-les and saw a few chips fly in the air like pebbles. As if from far off he heard his gun captains yelling like madmen, `Reload! Run out!', and the trucks squealing again like pigs as they raced each other for the open ports.
Then the first two guns fired from the battery. One ball whipped overhead and crashed into the far side of the harbour. The second hit the ship hard below the quarterdeck, the shock vibrating up through the planking even as the men ran with their buckets to quench the eager twist of smoke from the embedded iron.
'Fire!' Again the guns lurched back on the tilting deck, their own smoke eddying back through the ports, acrid and blinding, as the gunners feverishly sponged out the hot muzzles and rammed home their charges.
They were past the entrance now. More guns joined in from the battery, and Bolitho's iced mind recorded at least two more hits below decks. Somewhere a man was screaming, the noise going on and on, so that some of the boys running from the magazine with powder seemed terrified by its persistent discord.
'Larboard a point, Mr. Gossett!' Bolitho watched the helm going over and saw the seaman nearest him gripping the' worn spokes with all his strength.
A solitary horseman cantered over the crest of the hill and paused to open his telescope. He seemed to stare down at the ship like a bored spectator, and Lieutenant Shanks snarled, 'A guinea for the first man to bring him down!' The marines responded eagerly, each man glad to be doing something at last, although everyone knew that the muskets would not reach half that distance. But the horse shied and the mounted soldier hurriedly withdrew. The marines cheered and grinned at each other through the smoke, as if they had vanquished an army.
Bolitho turned away as another ball screamed down from the battery and hammered into his ship. But this one passed through a gunport and clanged against the metal of a twentyfour-pounder before smashing into the press of men on the opposite side. He could hear the desperate shouts of the officers and the awful screams from the wounded, but when he looked at Moresby the latter was staring straight ahead, one hand resting on his sheathed sword, the other tapping a tattoo against his thigh.
'Fire on the lower gundeck, sir!' Midshipman Piper skidded to a halt, his monkey face black with smoke. 'Ten men wounded, too!' He swallowed hard. 'There's a bloody gruel down there, sir!'
Bolitho found time to marvel at the boy's calm. Later he would break. If he lived long enough.
'Detail more fire parties, Mr. Quarme!' He tore his eyes from the thin plume of smoke from the forehatch. 'Lively there!'
It was hopeless. As the ship moved further into the harbour so she made a better target. Bolitho could see the landing place now,-and that too was crammed with soldiers and the glint of weapons. Here and there a musket flashed, and he knew they were shooting at some of the Marte's men who had been strong enough to swim that far.
A kind of throbbing madness pulsed through Bolitho's head, so that he felt half dazed. He could stand no more of it. To throw his ship and his men away for nothing.
He swung round to face Moresby, but as he turned he felt something akin to a hot, sandy wind pass his face, and as he opened his mouth to cry a warning the ball struck the nearest gun and exploded in a screech of splinters. Three marines fell writhing from the nettings, and the helmsman whom Bolitho had noticed earlier dropped gasping to his – knees, his fingers tearing at his stomach as if to contain the entrails which spewed out on to the planking.
Quarme was yelling, 'The admiral is hit!' He ran from the rail and stooped down beside him calling, 'Fetch the surgeon! Hurry, man!'
Bolitho crossed the deck in two strides. 'Return to your station, Mr. Quarme!' From the corner of his eye he saw Gossett -pushing the agonised man from the wheel and guiding another through the smoke. He heard cries all around him, but as the smoke eddied and swirled over the bulwarks his world was momentarily contained on this small patch of sunlit quarterdeck. And all -the time Moresby was staring up at him, unable to speak, for a splinter had gouged into his throat, tearing it away like a blow from a great talon.
Midshipman Caswell faltered, swallowing hard to control his nausea, then forcing himself from the bulwark dropped down to support the admiral's head on his lap.
Still looking at Moresby's stricken face Bolitho rapped, 'Stand by to go about, Mr. Gossett!'
Some sort of understanding showed on Moresby's face, and he feebly tried to move, so that the blood poured from his wound and across his white waistcoat.
Bolitho shouted, 'Now! Helm alee!' Down in the smoke he could hear men cursing and struggling, and disembodied above the fog the yards began to swing round. The guns were still firing, and as a freak down-draught cleared the smoke from the bows Bolitho saw the fortress swinging across the forecastle as if on a pivot. He felt a sudden prick of pride for this tired old ship. She was answering well in spite of the fools who manned her.
He knelt at Moresby's side and saw the man's tongue bobbing as if to tear itself free. Over his head Caswell's face was torn with fear and pity as his tears ran unheeded, making pale lines through the grime of gunsmoke.
Moresby whispered, 'You were right, Bolitho, damn you!' He shook as a ball whimpered above the poor and severed a backstay like thread. 'I should have seen-should have realised…' He was choking in his own blood.
Bolitho said quietly, 'Rest easy, sir. I am taking the ship away from this.'
Moresby closed his eyes. 'Running from them!' He groaned. 'In all my years I've never run…'
Bolitho wanted to go back to his ship, but his sudden compassion for Moresby made him stay. He said, 'Not running, sir. We will come back and take that battery for you!'
A gunner's mate ran to the quarterdeck his eyes wild. 'Captain, sir!' He stopped. dead as he saw the admiral and then continued in a calmer voice, 'The fire's out, sir!'
Moresby seemed to hear him and muttered, 'Of course, you are a Cornishman, Bolitho. Never did like 'em. Too damn independent, too-too…' The blood gushed across his chest and neck and his head lolled against Caswell for the last time.
Bolitho stood up. 'Are we clear? He saw Gossett staring at him. 'Well?'
The master licked his lips and then nodded. 'Look, sir!'
The entrance was gliding past once more. Abeam lay the burning hulk of the Marte and her attendant corpses. Dead men and horses floated across the Hyperion's bows and unwillingly parted to let her through.
Only a few shots followed her out, for the gunsmoke and that of the burning flagship made a very effective screen. Or maybe the French gunners were too jubilant to care. As well they might be, Bolitho thought bitterly.