Rooke yelled up from the deck, 'We can't get clear, sir!'
`Damn!' Herrick ran to the nettings and peered across at the captured ship. 'We must have drifted round more than I thought, sir.' He stared across Bolitho's shoulder, his face suddenly tight with alarm. 'By God, he's going about!' He waved to the men at the starboard battery. 'Open fire as you bearl Lively, if you want to see another dawn!'
The captain of the approaching ship had had plenty of time to plan his next move. While Zenith and Hyperion were locked in close combat, and Dash completed his destruction of the other two ships, he had clawed upwind, his efforts to retake the advantage well hidden in the smoke of battle.
Now, as Hyperion's men ran desperately back to their guns, he tacked slowly to expose his full broadside at a range of about seventy yards. Not for him the uncertainty of close combat, but as the double line of guns belched fire Bolitho knew he was quite near enough to do his work.
It was like a scalding wind, with all sense of direction and feeling swept away in its path as the full weight of the Frenchman's broadside smashed into the Hyperion's after part with the force and devastation of an avalanche.
With it came the choking smoke, and as men screamed and cursed around him Bolitho stared up with numbed dismay as the whole mizzen mast splintered apart less than twenty feet above the poop.
Then his own gunners replied, their salvo ragged and uncertain while they groped in the swirling darkness and slipped on the blood which covered the scarred deck- from scupper to scupper.
Bolitho jumped aside as the topsail yard crashed across the quarterdeck and ground amidst the groping figures like a giant axe.
He heard Gossett roar. 'The steerin's gone, sirl' Then a curse. 'Get back to your station, that man!'
The Frenchman was still there, her yards coming round tightly as she closed in for another broadside. In a brief lull Bolitho heard more gunfire, and with astonishment saw the enemy's sails and rigging jerking wildly and more than one spar ripped away to fall alongside. Through the smoke he got a quick glimpse of close-reefed topsails beyond the Frenchman's rigging, and realised that Captain Leach had also been biding his time before throwing his frail Harvester to close quarters with the giants.
Axes rang amidst the crash and rumble of gunfire, and he heard Tomlin urging his men to greater efforts to hack away the shattered mast from the poop, while others streamed aft through the destruction and horror to help Gossett rig the emergency steering gear. Not that there would be time, he thought dully.
Rooke was almost beside himself as he strode along the starboard battery, his sword beating time to control the shocked and bleeding gunners as they rammed home the charges and hauled the twelve-pounders up the tilting deck for yet another assault. But there were several empty ports, and upended guns and the grisly remains of their crews were strewn in obscene profusion, while above the battered decks the tops and rigging were festooned with dead and dying seamen as a blast of grape moaned through the shrouds like a messenger from hell itself.
Rooke dropped' his sword. 'Fire!'
Bolitho staggered as the guns lurched back on their tackles, and then stared sickened as Rooke seemed to lift from his feet and fly back across the deck as if thrown by an invisible hand. One second he was there waving his sword and shouting at his sweating gunners. The next instant he was sprawled against the opposite bulwark, his limbs broken and twisted, the blood already pouring from a dozen wounds. He must have taken a full charge of canister. There was nothing left of the original man at all.
Shots seemed to be coming from every direction at once, and Bolitho guessed that the third ship in the French line, although crippled by the Tenacious's onslaught, was still firing some of her guns. Her men were blinded by smoke, but some of the balls were hitting and cutting across Hyperion's quarter to add to the damage and slaughter.
Bolitho turned and then stopped in his tracks. For a brief moment he thought he had finally cracked under the strain. In the middle of the quarterdeck, his full dress uniform glittering against the shattered planking and the piles of fallen rigging, Pomfret was surveying the terrible scene as if he was totally immune from danger of any kind.
Ailday shouted, 'I tried to stop him, Captain!' He jerked aside with a savage oath as Lieutenant Fanshawe received a musket-ball full in the breast and fell against him, his hands clawing wildly at his arm.
Pomfret ignored the dying man. 'How goes the fight, Bolitho?'
Bolitho felt slightly giddy. He replied, 'The French flagship has struck, sir. At least two more are disabled, I think.'
He added quickly, 'If you must stay here, Sir Edmund, I would suggest you walk for a while. The French have sharpshooters aloft, and your uniform is a fair target.' Pomfret shrugged. 'If you say so.' He began to pace up and down the littered deck with Bolitho at his side.
Bolitho said, 'I am glad to see you are better, sir.' Pomfret nodded indifferently. 'Just in time it seems.'
He stopped as Piper ran excitedly through the smoke and held up a large flag across his body. He was grinning and weeping with excitement. He did not even touch his hat as he shouted to Pomfret: 'Here, Sir Edmund! The enemy's command flag! I got it for your
Bolitho smiled in spite of his ragged nerves. 'It is your victory, sir. It will make a good souvenir.'
A musket-ball plucked Pomfret's hat from his head, but as Bolitho stooped to retrieve it he saw the admiral pointing with his hand. For the first time in days he was showing some emotion.
When Bolitho twisted round he saw the reason. Piper was on his knees, the flag still across his small body. Dead in the centre of the flag was a black hole, and as he reached out to catch him he saw Piper's face crumple with agony. Then he fell forward at the admiral's feet.
Seton staggered through the smoke and dropped beside him, but Bolitho pulled him to his feet.
The signals, Mr. Seton!' He saw the stunned horror on the boy's face and added harshly, 'They're your responsibility now!'
Herrick watched Seton walk away like a blind man, his shoes slipping on the blood-spattered planks, his hands hanging at his sides as if he no longer controlled them.
Then he bent over the dead midshipman, but Pomfret said sharply, 'Leave him there, Mr. Herrick! Get to your duties!' Without looking at either Bolitho or Herrick he rolled Piper's body on to its back and gently covered his face with the captured flag. He murmured, 'A brave youngster! Would that I had had more like him at St. Clar!'
Bolitho tore his eyes away, realising vaguely that the guns had ceased firing. But when he reached the rail he saw that the other ship was already moving downwind, her topgallants spreading from the braced yards as her hull slid deeply into the dense smoke.
All around men started cheering and dancing, and even some of the wounded dragged themselves up to the battered gangways to watch and add their own voices to the tumult.
Seton called, 'Signal from 'Tenacious, sir!' His voice was quite empty of expression. 'Two enemy ships are withdrawing from battle! The rest have struck their colours!'
Bolitho gripped the rail, his arms and legs shaking uncontrollably. It was impossible. But it was true. Through the smoke and wreckage he heard the cheering going on and on, as if it would never stop. Men capered through the carnage to shake each other's hands, or just to grin towards a friend who had somehow survived the savage harvest.
'Captain, sir!'
Bolitho thrust himself clear of the rail, half fearing that his. legs might give way. When he turned he stared with disbelief at Rowlstone who was kneeling on the deck beside Pomfret.
The surgeon said shakily, 'He's dead, sir!' He had one hand inside the admiral's gold-laced coat, and when he withdrew it, it was shining with blood.
Gossett murmured, 'My God, 'e must 'ave bin wounded earlier, yet 'e said nothin'!' He took off his battered hat and stared as if seeing it for the first time.