He heard Keverne rasp, “God, ’tis like trying to fell an oak with a toothpick!”
Still the firing continued, three by three, with the guns hurling
themselves inboard where they were seized and reloaded by men already dazed beyond reason. Beyond anything but the need to load and run out. To keep on firing no matter what was happening.
Meheux was walking behind the guns now, his sword tapping a breech or pointing towards the fort for another captain’s benefit, his face frowning with concentration.
Broughton asked, “Where are the other marines? Your Captain Giffard should be at the causeway by now.”
Bolitho did not reply. His mind was rocking to the crash of guns, his eyes almost raw with smoke and strain as he concentrated everything on watching the fort. He could see the dark smudge below its circular wall where the sea entrance was situated. The double line of square windows, like gunports, which appeared to circle the whole building.
Two of them suddenly flashed with fire, and he imagined he saw the line of the nearest ball streaking across the sea towards him. The thud against the lower hull was muffled, and he saw the other ball throwing up a burst of spray far abeam.
He glanced astern. The ship was almost halfway across the bay, and with all sails drawing well would reach the opposite headland in about five minutes.
Again the telltale tongues of fire, and this time both balls smashed into the Euryalus’s side with the force of hammers striking a wooden box.
Three hits, and he did not yet know how serious. Yet the fortress was outwardly unmarked, with just a few patches of fallen chippings to show for their efforts.
Astern he could see the Valorous’s topmasts rounding the headland, and knew what Furneaux must be thinking as he watched the flagship under the onslaught of those great guns.
He turned to the admiral, who was standing with his hands on his hips, his eyes fixed on the fort as if mesmerised.
“May I signal Valorous to stand off, sir?”
“Stand off?” Broughton’s eyes moved slightly to fix him with an unmoving stare. “Is that what you said?” A muscle jumped in his cheek as the lower battery roared out again, the smoke driven downwind by the darting tongues of flame.
Bolitho studied him for several seconds. Perhaps Broughton was caught off balance by the squadron’s inability to hurt the fort, or maybe he was dazed by the continuous crash of cannon fire.
He said bluntly, “Ships are being damaged to no purpose, sir.” He winced as the planking beneath his shoes gave a violent jerk. Another hit somewhere below the quarterdeck.
All at once, as the wind whipped the smoke clear of the deck, he saw Broughton’s face clearly in the sunlight and knew what was wrong. Broughton had not been testing him in the past, or trying to gauge the extent of his capability. The realisation was like a dash of icy water on his spine. Broughton did not know what to do next! His plan of battle was too rigid, and, found wanting, had left him with nothing to replace it.
He said, “It is all we can do at present, sir.”
Partridge called, “Eight minutes, sir!”
Suddenly Broughton nodded. “Very well. If you think so.”
Bolitho shouted, “Cease firing! Mr Tothill, signal Valorous to stand off and discontinue action immediately!”
The fortress fell silent as soon as Euryalus, and he guessed the garrison had to keep a careful watch on supplies of powder and shot. Not that they need have much fear of being beaten, he thought bitterly. Almost every ball fired from the fortress had hit home.
“Valorous has acknowledged, sir.”
Bolitho watched the two-decker’s shape lengthening as she began to tack, her sails almost aback as she swung heavily into the wind.
He called, “Report casualties and damage, Mr Keverne.”
To Broughton he said quietly, “We will have to support the marines, sir. They will be waiting for help.”
The admiral was studying the passing shoreline with something like resignation. Below a man was screaming and whimpering, and Bolitho felt the growing need to tend to his men and his ship.
But he persisted, “What instructions, sir?”
Broughton seemed to shake himself, and when he replied his voice was stronger again, but without conviction.
“Signal the squadron to close around the flagship.” His lips moved as if trying to form an order which would not come.
Bolitho looked at Tothill. “Make that signal at once.”
“Then I think we might land a second force, of seamen.” Broughton was pouting his lower lip. “Some guns too, if we can discover a favourable beach.”
Bolitho looked away. “Very well, sir.” Already he could visualise the tremendous effort and strain of getting even one thirty-two-pounder ashore and hauled up the hillside. And nothing but a gun of that size would do any good against the fortress. It would take a hundred men, maybe more, and others to be nearby to ward off any sudden attack by enemy skirmishers. A Long Nine weighed over three tons, and one such weapon would not be enough.
But it was better than having the squadron pounded to fragments in a senseless procession back and forth across the bay’s entrance.
He turned, caught off guard as Tothill said, “Sir!”
“What is it? Have they all acknowledged?”
“Not that, sir.” The midshipman pointed across the starboard nettings. “Coquette is off station and making more sail, sir.”
As he raised his telescope Bolitho saw the telltale balls dashing to the frigate’s yards and breaking out in bright patches of colour.
Tothill said, “Signal, sir. Strange sail bearing north-west.”
Bolitho lowered the glass and looked at Broughton. “Shall I order Coquette to give chase, sir?”
Tothill’s voice cut across Broughton’s reply. “Coquette is making another signal.” A pause, and Bolitho watched the muscle jerking in sharp, regular intervals in Broughton’s cheek. Then, “Strange sail has gone about, sir.”
Broughton let his arms fall to his sides. “Probably an enemy frigate. Coquette would have been able to close with her had she been anything else.” He looked at Bolitho. “She’ll be screaming our presence to the world now.”
“I suggest we recall the marines, sir.”
Bolitho pushed away his earlier ideas about landing guns and all the tackle and boats it would have required. There was no time for that now, and they might be lucky to regain all their marines if an enemy squadron was nearby.
“No.” Broughton’s eyes were like stones. “I will not withdraw. I have my orders. So have you.” He gestured towards the line of barren hills. “Djafou must be taken before any enemy ships reach here! Must be, do you understand?” He was almost shouting, and several of the seamen by the guns were staring up at him.
Draffen’s voice cut through the brief silence like a knife. Where he had been during the action Bolitho did not know, but now he looked very calm, his eyes cold and steady, like a hunter at the kill.
“Let me make a suggestion, Sir Lucius.” As Broughton turned to him he added quietly, “For I think you will agree we have wasted quite enough time with conventional methods.”
For a brief instant Bolitho expected the admiral to show some of his earlier defiance.
But instead he replied, “I will agree to hear your suggestions, Sir Hugo.” He looked round as if seeking the companion ladder. “In my quarters, I think.”
Bolitho said, “I will signal the squadron to steer due west, sir.
With Restless and Coquette remaining on station at present.”
He waited, seeing Broughton’s mind wrestling with his words.
Then he replied, “Yes.” Nodding more firmly, “Yes, attend to it.”
As they left the quarterdeck Keverne said softly, “We fared better than Tanais, sir. She lost twenty killed. We have seven dead and five with splinter wounds.”