In Gallant Company

17. None So Gallant

Bolitho waited for the deck to steady again and then trained his telescope across the larboard bow. He could see the other brig's topsails and topgallants sharply etched against the blue sky, but the rest of the vessel was lost in distance and haze.

If the vessel was the Revenge, her master would recognize the White Hills as soon as she was within reasonable distance. He might have done so already. To alter course away, to wear completely and fly with the wind would tell him what had happened quicker than any challenge.

Bolitho looked up at the masthead pendant. The wind had backed a point or so further. It was tempting to turn and run, but if the wind went against them again, and they were repeatedly made to change tack, the other brig would soon overhaul them. With only a small prize-crew to work the ship, Bolitho knew it. would be asking too much of any man.

He said, 'Let her fall off a point, Stockdale.'

From the mainmast he heard Quinn call, 'I can see her better now! She's the old Mischief! I'm almost certain!'

Frowd swore. 'Bloody hell! We'd better show her a clean pair of heels!'

y Stockdale said, 'Nor'-east by east, sir.'

Bolitho cupped his hands, 'Man the braces! You, Buller, put more men on the weather forebrace!'

,He watched narrowly as the yards moved slightly to allow each sail to fill to capacity. But not enough to betray an attempt to escape.

Couzens came running aft, his hands filthy, his shirt torn in several places.

'Cleared for action, sir. All guns loaded.'

Bolitho smiled tightly. By all guns, Couzens meant the White, Hills' eight six-pounders. She was designed to carry fourteen, and some swivels, but the sinking of the yawl had put paid to that. Eight guns, and only four on either beam. To try and shift a full battery to one side would certainly be seen by the other brig. She was growing in size at a surprising speed, and Bolitho could see the sun reflecting on metal, or perhaps the glass of several telescopes.

She was closing with the White Hills on a converging tack, bowsprit to bowsprit.

The White Hills' original crew had been new and raw, but the Revenge's master would certainly know Tracy by sight. They must try and stand off. Keep up some sort of bluff until dusk.

'Land on the lee bow, sir!' The look-out had been keeping his eyes open too while Quinn watched the other brig.

Bolitho looked at Frowd, seeing his despair. The land was most likely to be one or more of the tiny islands which marked their course past Nevis and then fifty miles on to Antigua. It made it seem much worse. So near, yet so far.

'Brig's altered course, sir!' Then another cry, 'She's run up her flag!'

Bolitho nodded grimly. 'Hoist the same one, Mr Couzens.' He watched as the red and white striped flag ran up to the gaff and broke to the wind.

Frowd was straining up on the hatch cover. 'No use, blast his eyes! He's closing, and making sure he can keep the windgage!'

'He'll want to speak with us. To find out if we got the guns and powder. This brig was probably meant to join with him at some point.' Bolitho was thinking aloud and saw Frowd nod in agreement.

Stockdale pulled at Couzens' sleeve. 'Get the real flag ready, Mr Couzens. I can't see our lieutenant fighting under false colours. Not today.'

Frowd said despairingly, 'How can we fight, you fool! These privateers are always armed to the gills! They need to smash an enemy into submission as fast as they can, and before help can be sent to drive 'em off!' He groaned. 'Fight? You must be mad!'

Bolitho made up his mind. 'We will begin to shorten sail directly, as if we are about to speak with him. If we can get near enough without rousing suspicion, we'll rake his poop, do for as many of the after-guard as possible and then run for it.'

Stockdale nodded. 'Later we could shift two guns aft, sir. A stern chase is better'n nothin'.'

Bolitho made himself stand quite still, to give his mind time to work. He had no other choice, and this was not much of one. But it was either a sudden act of daring, or surrender.

`Take in the mains'l.,

Bolitho watched the few spare hands swarming up the ratlines. The other master would see tine depleted crew, and might imagine they had been in a battle. The gash through the bulwark made by Trojan's eighteen-pounder must be plain enough to we.

He levelled his glass on the other vessel, ignoring the shouts and curses as his men fought with the rebellious canvas. Frowd was right. She was heavily armed, and there were plenty of men about her deck, too.

He wondered what had happened to her original captain when she had been captured from under him, Fourteen guns and a determined company would make her a formidable enemy. Bolitho watched her tilting towards him, revealing her maindeck, the line of guns on the opposite side. None was manned, but on this side he could see a few heads peering over the sealed gunports, and guessed they were probably loaded and ready.

Moffitt crossed the deck and said dourly, 'You'll be needin' me, sir? I know how to speak to them bastards!'

'Be ready.'

He studied the set of each sail, the lively froth around the privateer's stem. as she edged over even furt'aer, her yards moving as if controlled by one hand.

Half a mile. Not long now.

He shifted his glance inboard, se~_-ing the quick, anxious gestures of his small company, -even the wounded were craning their heads and trying to see above the weather bulwark.

`Come down, Mr Quinn!' Bolitho looked at Stockdale and Butler. 'See that our people beep their weapons out of sight. When I give the word, I want those four, ouns run out as smartly as you like and Are at will. If we can mark down her officers we may use the surprise to fight clear.'

Quinn arrived beside him, breathing fast, his eyes towards the enemy.

'D'you think they are on to us?

'No.' Bolitho folded his arms, hoping that across the glittering pattern of waves and spray he would appear more relaxed than he felt. 'They would have run down on us before now. They have all the advantage.'

If the wind chose this moment to change… He shut his mind to the possibility and concentrated on the sails and masthead pendant. The wind, which was fresh and steady, came from the north-west. The White Hills had her yards well braced, heeling on the larboard tack, the wind across her quarter. If they could just delay the other captain's suspicions, and then hold him off until dark, they might well lose him amongst the islands when daylight returned.

And even then, if the privateer's captain was so set on another victory and made further contact, they might be able to give him the slip further north, or in the narrows between Nevis and St Christophers. In those treacherous waters, off some deadly place like the Scotch Bonnet, they might even tempt their pursuer aground.

The only ally at this precarious stage was the wind. Both brigs were carrying the bulk of their sails, so either could tack or come about with agility if need be.

Stockdale observed, `She must be steerin' almost sou'-east, sir. The wind right astern of 'er.'

Bolitho nodded, knowing Stockdale wanted to help, if only by making a professional comment.

The range had dropped to a mere quarter-mile, and it was possible to see the watching figures on the other vessel's poop and forecastle.

'When she tries to hail us, Moffitt, tell her captain that Tracy is sick, badly wounded after a brush with the British.' He saw the man tighten his lips. 'It's no lie, so keep it simple, eh?'

Moffitt said coldly, 'I'll see that he don't recover if them buggers board us, sir!'

Along the weather side the seamen were crawling on their hands and knees, like strange worshippers around the four small cannon. Ball and grape to each gun. It would not even be felt by a stately two-decker like Trojan. But one good blast across the enemy's quarterdeck might do the trick. Time, time, time. It was like a hammer on an anvil.

Two small shadows moved on the Revenge's side, and Bolitho heard a murmur of anxiety from some of the wounded seamen. Revenge had raised two of her forward port lids, and as he watched he saw the sunlight touch a pair of black muzzles as she ran out the guns.

Frowd muttered uneasily, 'He knows, the bugger!'

Bolitho shook his head. 'I think not. He would run out a broadside if he was sure of an enemy, and maybe tack across our stern.' Again, it was like sharing his thoughts with those around him. 'He'll have been watching us all this time, as we have him. Tracy 's absence from the deck will have been noted. If Revenge's captain is newly appointed, he'll be wary of taking a chance, but unwilling to show fear or uncertainty to his men. Following a man like Tracy must be quite a task.'

He saw some of his seamen glance at each other, for support, to discover a new confidence. But he knew he was only guessing out of sheer hope.

Revenge's captain might be even more experienced than Tracy. And at this very moment was using the White Hills' unchanged tack for one terrible bombardment, his guns already manned and ready to fire.

Moffitt took a speaking trumpet and climbed casually into the weather shrouds. It was far too early, but it might lull the enemy's caution.

If not, the fight would explode across this deck within fifteen minutes.

Bolitho said evenly, 'You men, carry Mr Frowd and the other wounded below. If we have to abandon, the quarter boat will be used for them only.'

Frowd swivelled round on his hatch cover like an enraged terrier.

'Damn your eyes, I'll not die like a sick woman!' He grimaced as the pain stabbed through him, and he continued in a more controlled tone, 'I meant no disrespect, sir, but try and see it my way.'

'And which way is that?'

Frowd swayed about like a bush in a wind as the hull lifted and sliced through the choppy water.

'If your plan works, sir, and I pray to God it does, it will be a chase which only luck and superior seamanship can wim?

Bolitho smiled, 'Perhaps.'

'But, as I suspect, we may have to fight, for God's sake let me play my part. I have been in the Navy all my remembered years. To end my time cowering below when the metal flies overhead would make my life as worthless as that of any gallows-bird.'

'Very well.' Bolitho looked at Couzens. 'Help the lieutenant aft and see that he is supplied with enough powder and shot to reload the pistols and muskets to give an impression of strength and greater numbers.'

Frowd exclaimed, 'That's it, sir. I ask for nothing more. Those devils will outnumber us four to one, maybe more. We can take a few with us if we can maintain rapid fire.'

It was incredible, Bolitho thought. The prospect of sudden death had been made suddenly stark and inevitable by Frowd's words, and yet the previous apprehension seemed to have gone. The waiting had been the worst part, the simple task of fighting and dying was something they all understood. It was like hearing Sparke all over again. Keep them busy. No time to moan and weaken.

He turned to watch as the Revenge's jib and staysails quivered and flapped like tapered wings, and knew she was falling off a little more to run even closer to the White Hills. Nearer, she looked impressive and well armed.

Her hull was weatherbeaten and the sails stained and patched in several places. She must have been made to work and fight hard against her previous owners, Bolitho thought grimly.

'We will give her a few more minutes, Stockdale, and then you can bring her round to steer due east. It will be the obvious thing to do if we are to draw close enough to speak.'

He winced as a handspike clattered across the deck and a other vessel. Moffitt had seen what he had not even dared to hope for. Maybe it was Gallimore's screams which, added to Moffitt's outward confidence and the fact that the White Hills was the right vessel in almost the right place, had convinced Revenge's captain that all was well.

But there was still the matter of Tracy 's new orders. Probably details of the next rendezvous, or news of a supply convoy left open to attack.

In a few moments Revenge's captain would have to face the fact he was now in the senior position. He was the one who would have to decide what to do.

Bolitho said quietly, 'He'll suggest we both heave to so that he can come over to us and speak with Tracy and see how he is.'

Quinn stared at him, his face like a mask. 'Will we go about then, sir?'

'Aye.' Bolitho stole a quick glance at the masthead pendant. 'The moment he decides to shorten sail and head into the wind, we'll use our chance.' He called to the nearest gun crew, 'Be ready, lads!' He saw an over-eager seaman struggling off his knees and reaching for a slow-match. 'Belay that! Wait for the word!'

The Revenge's captain called, 'We'll heave to. I'll be over to you as soon as -'

He got no further. Like some terrifying creature emerging from a tomb, Captain Jonas Tracy lurched through the forehatch, his eyes bulging from his head with agony and fury.

He carried a pistol which he fired at a seaman who ran to restrain him, the ball smashing the man in the forehead and hurling him on his back in a welter of blood.

And all the time he was bellowing, his voice stronger than most of the men around him.

'Rake the bastard! It's a trick, you damn fool!'

From the other brig came a series of shouts and confused

orders, and then like bewildered hogs the guns began to run

out through the ports along her side.

Another seaman hurried towards the swaying figure by the hatch, only to be clubbed senseless by the pistol. That last effort was more than enough. Blood was spurting through the wad of bandages around his armpit, and his stubbled face seemed to be whitening even as he tried to drag himself to the nearest gun, as if the life was flooding out of him.

Bolitho saw it all as in a wild dream, with events and sequences overlapping, yet totally separate. Gallimore's sudden cries had lured Tracy 's guard from his post. And who could blame him? Tracy 's terrible wound should have been enough to kill almost anyone.

And Revenge's captain's voice calling across to Moffitt must have somehow dragged Tracy from his unconscious state to sudden, violent action.

Whatever had begun it, Bolitho knew there was no chance at all of completing his flimsy plan.

He yelled, 'Run out!'

He watched his men hurling themselves on their tackles, the four guns squeaking to the open ports with desperation matched only by despair.

'Fire!'

As the guns crashed out in a ragged salvo, Bolitho shouted, 'Stockdale! Put the helm down!'

As Stockdale and a helmsman spun the spokes, Bolitho dragged out his hanger, knowing that nothing, nothing on earth could change this moment.

He heard startled shouts from his own men and musket shots from the Revenge as like a wild animal the White Hills responded to the helm and swung up into the wind, sails shaking and convulsing, as the other vessel appeared to charge right across her bowsprit.

There were several isolated shots, his or theirs, Bolitho did not know. He was running forward, his feet slipping on blood as he tore past the dying Tracy towards the point of impact

Like a great tusk the jib boom smashed through Revenge's rigging and stays, the impact shaking the hull and deck with the force of going aground.

And still the wind, and the White Hills' impetus, drove them harder and faster together, until with a tremendous crash, followed by the sounds of spars splintering in half, the two brigs came together in a brutal embrace.

Bolitho's ears were ringing to the sounds of falling rigging and thrashing sails, of Revenge's topmast, complete with topgallant and a mountain of uncontrollable canvas, plunging down through the drifting gunsmoke to add to the destruction.

But he was angry, wildly so, and could not control himself as he waved his hanger and shouted, 'Come on, lads! At 'em!'

He saw the dazed faces change to maddened excitement as they responded. In a small tide they charged towards the bows, while from aft Bolitho could hear Frowd and his collection of cripples firing across the arrowhead of water with every weapon they could lay hands on.

And here was the enemy's deck right beneath his legs. Staring eyes and wild shouts, while others struggled and kicked beneath the severed rigging and splintered woodwork.

A bayonet lunged out and sent a seaman screaming down into the smoke, but Bolitho let himself drop, felt his feet find their balance on the other deck, while on either side of him his boarding party surged forward to the attack. The man with the bayoneted musket swung wildly to face him, but Stockdale seized him and smashed the cutlass-guard in his mouth. As the man toppled away, Stockdale hacked him across the neck and finished it.

The first shocked surprise at seeing the White Hills turn towards them and deliberately force herself into a collision would soon give way to a rage and determination to overwhelm that of the boarders. This, Bolitho knew, but at a distance, as if it were already beyond his reach.

Once, as he ducked beneath a fallen yard to slash a man across the arm who was aiming a pistol at somebody, Bolitho caught a glimpse of his brief command. With her big mainyard sprung in two like a giant's longbow, and with the canvas and rigging piled over her forecastle like so much rubbish, she looked almost a wreck.

Beyond the debris, and licking above the thinning smoke, he saw a patch of scarlet, and realized that despite everything which had happened he had given the order to run up the colours, and yet could remember nothing about it.

'This way, lads!' It was Buller, brandishing a boarding axe and a pistol. 'Fight yer way aft!' Then he fell, his face set in an expression of complete surprise.

Now So Gallant Z83

Bolitho gritted his teehh, Time, which they had won with such care, had run out.

From the Revenge's quarterdeck came the crash of a swivel gun, and Bolitho realized that someone was still firing at the White Hills, Above the din of clashing steel, screams and curses, he heard answering shots, a.d could picture Frowd yelling defiance, and waiting to die.

Somehow they had fought their way to the midships part of the deck, where the piled debris of cordage and broken spars made every move doubly hard, but where, if you hesitated, it was asking to be killed.

He saw Dunwoody rolling over and over on the bloodied deck, struggling with one of the Revenge's seamen, one hand cut to shreds as he tried to hold off the man's dirk while he groped for his fallen cutlass. Another man ran from the smoke, raised a boarding pike and drove it through Dunwoody s neck, pinioning his kicking body to the planking until the dirk stabbed him into stillness.

Bolitho saw it all, and as he struggled over an upended gig he found himself face to face with the Revenge's captain. Beyond him he could see the abandoned wheel and the torn splinters standing up from the quarterdeck like quills, the sprawled bodies and crawling wounded who had fallen to the four doubly loaded six-pounders.

Bolitho ducked as the man's blade sliced above his head, caught his foot in a trailing rope and fell heavily on his side. He watched the blade rise and plunge towards him again, and held up his hanger to take the brunt of the blow. The numbing shock jarred his shoulder like a kick, and he saw the other officer turn and run aft, leaving Bolitho rather than face a sudden rally of the boarding party. Rabbett, his cutlass bloody to the hilt, Carlsson, the Swede, with a bayoneted musket he must have snatched from one of the brig's men, even Borga, the Roman cook, who held a dirk in either hand like one of his ancestors in the gladiators' arena, were still here and ready to fight.

On the far side of the deck he saw Quinn with the rest of the boarders, white-faced and with blood running from his forehead, locked in combat with twice his own number.

Bolitho saw Couzens and yelled hoarsely, `Get back aboard! I told you to stay with Mr Frowd!'

He gasped and ducked as a shadow passed in front of him. Then with a sharp twist of his arm he brought the hanger round to lock with his attacker's cutlass.

The man was a petty officer of sorts and, he guessed, as English as himself.

'You've bitten off too much this time, sir!'

Bolitho felt the man's strength forcing him back, the blade inches from his chest. It was not that he was a better swordsman, but his voice, if not Cornish, was certainly from Bolitho's own West Country.

Moffitt rose shaking his head like a prize-fighter, the blood of another victim glittering on his cutlass.

`And you!'

Bolitho fell back with the petty officer on top of him. Moffitt's blade had been driven into his spine with such force it was a wonder it had not pinioned both of them.

Couzens was ducking and side-stepping wildly as figures staggered and kicked around him like madmen. Steel on steel, and from right aft a chorus of screams as a swivel exploded and burst apart amongst its own crew.

But he managed to shout, 'I came to help!'

Bolitho shook his arm, feeling him cringe, as he said, 'Take two men and get below! Tell them I want this brig set alight!' He knew the boy was terrified of him, his wildness, and his despair. 'Do it!'

Shots were hitting the deck around him and making the corpses jerk to their impact. The Revenge's captain had sent marksmen aloft to mark down Frowd's puny challenge and to kill any of the boarders who looked like an officer or a leader.

Stockdale bellowed, 'Watch out, sir!' He lunged forward as a man rushed at Bolitho with a cutlass, but was not quick enough.

Bolitho saw the fury on the seaman's contorted features and wondered if he himself looked like that, if that was why Couzens had seemed so frightened of him.

The heavy cutlass grated across Bolitho's sword-belt, scoring the brass plate like a musket-ball.

Bolitho saw the man's expression change to fear, then to nothing as t1he hanger opened his face from eye to jaw and threw him screaming into the men behind him.

Bolitho felt sick, worn out and stunned by the savagery of battle. Couzens would not be able to fire the brig, and in any case they had started to cheer. The battle was nearly done. Like Quinn, he had tried.

There it was again, wild and uncontrolled. 'Huzza! Huzzaf'

Bolitho stared at Stockdale. 'That was no enemy!'

He swung round, dropping his guard for the first time, as through the fore-hatch came a sudden rush of dirty, unshaven figures.

Couzens was running with them, beside himself with ecstasy as he shouted, 'Prisoners, sir!'

He was pushed away by the released men as they snatched up fallen cutlasses, belaying pins, anything which could hit or maim their old captors.

Bolitho thought he must be going mad, and yet it was happening. They were obviously seamen captured in previous battles, maybe some from this very brig. But they charged through the dwindling boarding party like an avenging tidal wave, beating down the privateer's crew and hurling some of them over the side in their determination to seize the poop.

Bolitho shouted, 'Come on, lads! One last effort!'

Then, cheering and yelling meaningless words he ran with the rest, his arm like lead as he hacked and parried, cat and pushed his way aft.

A few shots were still hitting the deck nearby, and without warning a seaman slithered down a stay and snatched a pistol from his belt, his face frozen in concentration as he stared at the onrushing figures.

He must have known that nothing could save him, and yet some last spark of anger or pride held him there.

Couzens found himself face to face with him. Bolitho saw what was happening, but was several paces away, and Stockdale further still.

Bolitho shouted hoarsely, 'You shoot and I will kill you!'

The man's eyes did not even flicker, and Bolitho knew he was going to fire, he could even see the trigger starting to give under his finger.

A figure bounded over a pile of tangled sails and threw himself between the pistol and the stricken Couzens, so that the shot was almost muffled.

Bolitho ran and caught Quinn as he fell. He did not see Stockdale's big cutlass swing, but heard just a sharp grunt as the other man died.

Bolitho held Quinn and lowered him to the deck. He knew he was dying and there was nothing he could do. The ball had entered his stomach and there was blood everywhere.

Quinn gasped, 'Sorry… to… leave… you… sir.'

Bolitho held him firmly, knowing Stockdale was guarding his back and that Couzens was kneeling on the deck beside him sobbing uncontrollably.

'Dick,' he said. 'Remember, eh?'

He felt near to tears himself. What made it worse, if that were possible, was the cheering. Aft, in another world, his jubilant sailors and the released captives were hauling down the flag, watched by the Revenge's captain who had been badly wounded in the last charge.

Bolitho said quietly, 'We won, James. It's done.'

Quinn smiled, his eyes looking up through the torn rigging and sails.

'You did.'

He was finding it difficult to speak and his skin looked like damp wax. Bolitho unbuttoned his shirt, seeing the great, cruel scar from Quinn's first battle.

With his free hand he loosened his cross-belt and said gently, 'And you were supposed to be a passenger. But for you, young Couzens would be dead. I'll see they know about it in England. About your courage.'

Quinn's eyes shifted to Bolitho's face. 'I'm not afraid any more,' he coughed and some blood ran down his chin, 'Dick.'

Bolitho was about to speak when he saw the light go from Quinn's eyes. Like a candle being snuffed out.

Very carefully he lowered Quinn's shoulders to the deck and then stood up.

Stockdale touched his elbow. 'Be easy, sir. The people are watchin'.'

Bolitho nodded, his eyes almost blind with strain and emotion. 'Thank- you. Yes.'

He faced the weary but triumphant seamen. It had been a near thing. But these men had done as well as anyone could. They deserved every last effort, no matter how he was feeling.

He said quietly, `That was well done. For a company so small, there could be none so gallant.'

Three days later the two prizes sailed into English Harbour under the eyes of the whole squadron.

It had been a hard three days. Repairing damage just enough to carry them to Antigua, selecting the released prisoners and sharing them between the two brigs.

It should have been a proud moment for Bolitho, but the sadness of Quinn's death was still with him when the look-out reported land in sight.

He had taken command of the Revenge, and one of the first jobs he had ordered after rigging the jury-mast, and burying the dead of both sides, had been the removal of her new name, beneath which Jonas Tracy had painted the favoured motto, DON'T TREAD ON ME, with the serpent insignia for good measure.

As the land had grown out of the sea haze, and the two brigs had tacked carefully towards the harbour, a patrolling frigate had run down on them to investigate.

Couzens had called, 'What shall I tell them, sir?'

Stockdale had looked at Bolitho's features and had thought he had understood.

He had said, 'I'll do it, Mr Couzens.'

Then he had cupped his big hands and had shouted across for all to hear,

'His Majesty's brig Mischief is rejoining the fleet!' It had been a very special moment for him as he had added, 'Lieutenant Richard Bolitho, in command!'