The men were cheering again, and it was taken up by the men on the Vanessa's poop. The latter had fallen back when the last broadside had swept past them, and some must have thought that the Hyperion's rage was so great she could no longer distinguish between friend and foe.
By now her seamen were climbing into the weather rigging to wave and cheer as the old two-decker loomed abeam, and more than one wept uncontrollably as her seamen cheered them back.
Bolitho gripped his fingers behind him to stop them shaking. `Signal the Justice to make more sail and resume proper station!'
Caswell was nodding dazedly, but in spite of his shocked senses was still able to call his men to the halyards.
`Deck there! T'other frigate is haulin' off, sirl' The masthead lookout sounded as wild as the rest of them.
Caswell lowered his glass and confirmed the news. `Harvester has just signalled, sir. She cannot give chase. Too much damage aloft.'
Bolitho nodded. It was no wonder. Harvester's captain had given battle to two frigates at once, aided only by the tiny Snipe. He was lucky to be alive.
He said, 'Signal the Harvester, Mr. Caswell.' He frowned with effort to clear his mind and concentrate on what was needed. It must not sound trite and meaningless. Harvester's people had shown what they could do. Nothing he could say would ever match their value. He said slowly, 'Make, "Yours was a fine harvest today. Well done." '
Caswell was scribbling frantically on his slate as he added, 'And I don't care if you have to spell out every single word!'
Tie shaded his eyes as with a sullen hiss the sloop rolled over to her beam ends, the water around her pockmarked with flotsam and burned woodwork.
Gossett said gruffly, 'The Erebus 'as lowered boats to look for survivors, sir.'
Bolitho did not answer. Not many seamen ever bothered to learn how to swim. There would be few to recall the sloop's last and greatest fight.
Heavily he said, 'I want a full report of our damage and casualties, Mr. Rooke.'
Rooke was still staring at the enemy, ships. The dismasted frigate was yawing uncontrollably, beam on to the steep troughs, and it would be some time before she could be taken in tow. It was more likely she would sink as she lay. The other frigate was closing the battered two-decker, and above the drifting smoke the signal flags were bright and busy.
Bolitho said, 'We must attend to our convoy. Those two will have to wait another day for final reckoning.' He spoke aloud, but it was almost as if he was speaking with his ship.
Caswell shouted, `Justice has acknowledged, sir!' He grinned. 'So has Harvester.' He looked around at the other strained and grimy faces. 'She says, "Have discontinued the action!" '
Bolitho felt his lips cracking with a smile. The formality of Leach's reply spoke volumes for the man's tenacity. 'Acknowledge.'
He saw one of the surgeon's mates standing below the ladder, his arms bloody to the elbows. He felt the same pang of despair he had known so often in the past. The suffering and the mutilation which made victory so bitter.
'What is it?'
The man looked vague jy around the deck as if surprised it was still intact. Below the waterline, with the ship wilting and shuddering to the broadsides, it was no easy task to deal with screaming wounded.
'Surgeon's respects, zur. Mr. Dalby 'as bin 'it, zur, an' wishes to speak with you.'
Bolitho shook himself. Dalby? The lieutenant's face floated before his eyes as he had last seen it. Then he said, 'How bad is he?
The man shook his head. 'Matter o' minutes, zur!'
'Take over the deck, Mr. Rooke. Signal the convoy to resume previous order once Erebus has recovered her boats.'
Rooke touched his hat as he passed. 'Aye, aye, sir.'
Bolitho climbed down the ladder, suddenly aware of the stiffness in his limbs, the aching tension in his jaw. Beside their smoking guns his men watched him pass. Here and there a braver soul than the rest reached out to touch his coat, and one even called, 'God bless you, Cap'n!'
Bolitho saw and heard none of it. It was taking all his strength to move between them, and he was conscious only of one thing. They had fought and won. It should be left at that. But as always he knew the cost was yet to be measured.
Bolitho ducked his head beneath the low beams and groped his way through the semi-darkness of the orlop deck. By comparison the air and light of the quarterdeck even at the height of the battle was fresh and clear, for down here deep in the Hyperion's hull there was little ventilation, and his stomach rebelled against the mingled stenches of bilge and tar, of neat rum and the more sickly smell of blood.
Rowistone, the surgeon, had soon found that his tiny sick bay was quite inadequate for the casualties sent down from the decks above, and as Bolitho stepped into a circle of swaying lanterns he saw that the whole area forward of the mainmast's massive trunk was filled with wounded men. Hyperion was plunging heavily in a lively quarter sea, so that the lanterns kept up a crazy haphazard motion and threw weird dancing shadows against the curved sides, or picked out small tableaux for just a few seconds at a time like sections of an old and faded painting.
Above the sounds of groaning timbers and the muffled pounding of water against the hull Bolitho heard the confused murmur of voices, mingled with sobbing and an occasional sharp cry of agony. For the most part the wounded lay still, only their eyes moving in the gyrating lanterns as they stared dully at the little group around the heavy scrubbed table, where Rowistone, his suety face screwed up with concentration, worked on a seaman who was being held down by two of his loblolly boys. Like any badly wounded man the sailor had been well dosed with rum, and as Rowlstone's saw moved relentlessly across his leg he lolled his head from side to side, his cries muffed by the leather strap between his teeth, his frantic protests drowned by both rum and vomit.
Rowistone worked busily, his fingers as bloody as the heavy apron which covered him from chin to toe. Then he gestured to his assistants and unceremoniously the seaman was hauled from the table and carried into the merciful darkness beyond the lanterns.
The surgeon looked up and saw Bolitho. Surrounded by wounded and mutt' -Ated men he seemed suddenly frail and vulnerable.
Bolitho asked quietly, 'How many?’
'fen dead, sir.' The surgeon wiped his forehead with his arm; leaving a red smear above his right eye. 'So far.' He glanced round as two of his assistants half-carried another man towards the table. Like so many wounded in a sea action he had been hit by wood splinters, and as the surgeon's mates tore off his stained trousers Bolitho could see the great jagged tooth of wood where it jutted from below his stomach. Rowlstone stared unwinkingly at the man for several seconds. Then he said flatly, 'Some thirty wounded, sir. Half of them might live through it.'
Another man was slopping rum into the wounded seaman's open mouth. He did not seem to be able to drink the neat spirit fast enough, and all the time his eyes were fixed on Rowlstone's hands with the fascination of hope and terror combined.
The surgeon groped for his knife and gestured towards the side. 'Mr. Dalby's over there.' He eyed the man on the table with something like despair and added, 'Like most of the men he got his wound on the lower gundeck.'
Bolitho turned towards the side as the surgeon bent forward across the naked body on the table. The wounded man had gone immediately rigid, and Bolitho could almost feel the first pressure of that knife in his own body.
Dalby was propped in a sitting position with his shoulders against one of the ship's massive ribs. He was naked but for a wide, sodden bandage around his stomach, and with each painful breath the blood was spreading unchecked even by the thick dressing. As officer in charge of the lower battery he had been cut down by the first French broadside, yet in spite of his wound his face seemed almost relaxed as he opened his eyes` and stared up at his captain.