He swallowed hard to control the nausea. 'We must take the enemy flagship, Thomas!' He saw understanding flooding across Herrick's begrimed features. 'It is our only chance!'
He looked round abruptly as someone started to cheer. He saw young Caswell waving his hat like a madman and pointing at the last signal.
'Engage the enemy closer!'
Through the swirling smoke another set of red tongues licked across the water and Caswell was dead. He had had one hand across his chest and the ball smashed it through his body, cutting off his cry with the sharpness of a knife.
Bolitho turned towards the towering three-decker. All the anger and hate, the despair and bitterness seemed to overpower him like a frenzy. The sword was in his hand, and as he waved it he felt his hat plucked away by another musketball, so that the rebellious lock of hair fell across his eye, shutting out Caswell's broken body and his staring look of disbelief.
'Starboard gunners take station for boarding!' He was almost screaming. 'Come on, lads! England wants a victory, so what do you say?'
He did not hear the answering cheers and yells, but was already running along the larboard gangway. He leapt across the shattered bulwark and above the naked gunners, the sword in his hand and his eyes fastened on that one patch of colour which still flew from the enemy's topmast.
18. IN GALLANT COMPANY
By the time Bolitho reached the forecastle the Hyperion's bowsprit was already edging across the French flagship's starboard gangway, thrusting through the boarding nets and into the main shrouds like a giant lance.
He stared round at the crouching seamen and marines and yelled, 'Over you go, lads!' Then as both hulls ground together he hurled himself from the cathead, his sword slashing wildly at the nets, his feet kicking to gain some hold above the dark strip of trapped water.
Across the French ship's bows the dismasted and listing Zenith was putting up a stiff resistance, but in face of a great wave of boarders the English seamen had fallen back as far as their quarterdeck, the cutlasses and axes flashing dully through the smoke, the air filled with terrible screams and cries as they retreated across the bodies of their comrades already killed in battle.
But as Bolitho's men leapt over the narrowing gap the French attack hesitated, and at the blare of a trumpet many of the successful boarders turned and ran back to their own ship to meet this new threat from astern.
Lieutenant Shanks was pulling himself up the sagging net, his sword dangling from his wrist as he yelled encouragement to his men. A bearded French sailor ran across the gangway, and before Shanks could jump clear thrust upward with a boarding pike, the force of his charge driving the point deep into the marine's stomach. Shanks gave one shrill scream and dropped like a stone.
When Bolitho looked down he saw the lieutenant's whiteclad legs kicking above the water, the motion becoming more violent and terrible as the two hulls moved together to hold the pulped corpse firmly between them.
Bolitho slashed through the last of the net and flung himself down to the deck. The same French seaman was already turning to meet him, but a yelling bosun's mate pushed Bolitho aside and slashed the man down with his cutlass, the blow amost cutting him from shoulder to armpit.
As more and more men jumped from the Hyperion it was hard to distinguish friend from foe. Bolitho fired his pistol at the wheel and saw the last helmsman fall kicking on the splintered planking. Then he placed his back against the poop ladder and crossed blades with a wild-eyed petty officer, while the fighting surged around him in a panorama of hatred and terror.
Bolitho parried the heavy sword aside and struck out hard for his neck. He felt the shock jerk up his wrist, and swung round to seek out another enemy even as the man pitched across the rail, blood gushing from a great wound in his throat.
He saw a marine drive his bayonet through a shrieking midshipman, and Tomlin, the boatswain, swinging a huge boarding axe like a toy as he. carved a path for himself towards the upper deck, his bare shoulders covered with blood, although whether it was his own or that of his victims it was impossible to tell.
A French lieutenant threw down his sword, his mouth slack with terror as he struggled to catch Bolitho's arm. He wanted to surrender, either himself or the ship, but it was to no avail. The Hyperion's seamen were not yet ready to consider reason or quarter, for themselves or the enemy.
The man moaned and held his hands across his face, and as a cutlass flashed across Bolitho's vision he saw the blade sever the lieutenant's hand at the wrists and drive on to smash him bodily to the deck.
Sergeant Best, wielding his half-pike like a club, staggered to join Bolitho above the reeling mass of men, dragging a French officer at his side..
He shouted, `This 'ere's th' admiral sir!' He lashed out savagely, and a seaman already wounded screamed and fell sideways across an abandoned swivel gun.
Bolitho stared for a few seconds at the small admiral before recognition and understanding returned to his shocked mind.
He snapped, 'Take him aft, Sergeant!' He saw the admiral's agonised face relax slightly and added, 'Get that flag down, for God's sake, and hoist our colours above it!'
The admiral tried to speak. Maybe he was grateful, or he could have been making a last protest, but Best hauled him away like a. sack, and Bolitho knew that but for the marine's strong arm the French admiral would already be dead.
He heard Tomlin roaring like a bull. 'Avast therel Give 'em quarter!' And as Bolitho kicked a corpse from the ladder and ran on to the gangway he saw with amazement that the French seamen were throwing down their weapons and falling back towards the bows. From the relieved Zenith he could hear wild cheering, and when he looked across at his own ship he saw the gunners standing back from the smoking muzzles to join in.
The sight of the Hyperion's damage helped to steady him. From the three-decker's high gangway it was all too apparent. There were dead and dying everywhere he looked. Her side was smashed almost beyond recognition, but from the lower gundeck more heads poked through the ports to add their voices to the wild cheering and excitement.
A dazed lieutenant gripped his hand and pumped it up and down, his eyes shining.with pleasure. 'I'm from Zenith, Captain. Oh my God, what a victory!'
Bolitho pushed him roughly aside. 'Take command here, Lieutenant!' He stared across his own ship, his mind ice-cold as he saw the bows of another Frenchman edging downwind towards Hyperion's disengaged quarter.
He yelled, 'To me, Hyperions! Fall back to the ship!'
The lieutenant was still following him. 'What shall I do, sir?'
Bolitho watched while his men began to scramble towards their own ship.
The lieutenant persisted, 'Captain Stewart fell when we cut the French line, sir!'
Bolitho turned and studied him gravely. 'Very well. Drive these French seamen below and put guards on the hatches.' He glanced up at the tattered sails. 'I suggest you bring every fit man across from your ship and prepare to take Zenith in tow!' He clapped the dazed officer on the shoulder. 'Good experience for you!' Then he turned and followed the last of his men over the side.
He found Herrick at the quarterdeck rail yelling at the men on deck to cast off the grapnels from the other vessel's hull.
He saw Bolitho and gasped, 'Thank God, sir! I lost sight of you back there!'
Bolitho grinned. 'See yonder, Thomas! That must be the fifth ship in the French line!' He pointed with his sword. 'The fourth has drifted downwind. She'll not bother us for a bit with her bowsprit and fore shot away!'