Her sails were in ribbons, and the low lying hull was battered almost beyond recognition. Here and there a gun still fired, but as Hyperion's lower battery roared out across the narrow strip of water Bolitho saw the blood seeping from the frigate's scuppers, watched ice-cold as corpses fell from the splintered tops and yards to join the flotsam and wreckage which floated unheeded between the two ships.
Great pieces of the Frenchman's bulwark and gangway 68
were flying skyward, and even without a glass Bolitho could see the carnage strewn around the littered deck, like the interior of a slaughterhouse.
He snapped, "Cease firing!" As silence fell over the dreadful scene Bolitho stared at the frigate with something like dismay. Then he cupped his hands and yelled, "Strike your colours! Strike!"
The frigate might still be repaired and used to replace Ithuriel. A prize crew could take her to Plymouth or Cadiz, where her papers and documents would yield further information about her.
Below his feet he felt the deck murmuring to the rumble of guntrucks as the men completed reloading before running out once more to face the enemy across less than seventy yards of water.
No guns fired from the frigate, but there was a sudden rattle of musketry from her poop, and a marine beside Inch threw his hands to his face and screamed like an animal as the blood gushed between his fingers. He was still screaming when he was seized and dragged below to the surgeon.
Gossett took off his hat and stared at a gobbet of blood which had splashed it like a cockade. He said, "The Frog cap'n still 'opes 'e can slip past us, sir."
Bolitho peered forward above the crouching gun captains. It was true. Following the frigate in a wide arc, the Hyperion was now pointing straight at the opposite headland. He would have to go about soon, and that would enable the Frenchman to slip past.
The Tricolour still flapped from the gaff, and the musketry was a clear answer to his plea to end the onesided fight.
Yet he could not give the order to fire. Without leaning out over the nettings he could picture that double line of guns, with each port filled with watching eyes and a gaping muzzle. Every gun aboard the frigate's engaged side was either upended or smashed, and she was already so low in the water that she could not last much longer without more men to assist her. He could not let her escape, nor could he risk his own men's lives in an attempt
at boarding. The French captain must be a fanatic. He smiled half to himself, and the naked-backed seaman at his side seeing the curve of his lips shook his pigtailed head in wonderment. But Bolitho's smile was one of pity and sadness. He was remembering himself as a young frigate captain matched against a ship of the line. The "ifs" and "whys" had been on his side that day, or maybe he had just been lucky, he thought dully.
Two feet hit the deck with a loud crash, and for a moment he imagined a wounded man had fallen from the yards. But it was Gaseoign. Bolitho had forgotten all about the young midshipman until this moment.
"Well, boy, why have you left the masthead7" It was a stupid question, but it was giving him a few more seconds to think and decide what to do.
Gascoigne rubbed his sore hands. "Couldn't make myself heard, sir." He swung his arms towards the estuary. Beyond the sandbars and the remnants of offshore mist Bolitho saw the dark outline of land and the once busy waterway to Bordeaux.
He blurted, "Masts, sir! The mist is so thick up there I couldn't see too much, but masts there are and plenty!" He recovered himself and blushed. "Three or four ships, sir, and coming our way!"
Bolitho saw Inch's face across the boy's shoulder. "Now we know, Mr. Inch!" He walked to the rail and pointed at Lieutenant Stepkyne. "Go along each gun in turn. I want every ball to hit!" He looked impassively at the slow moving frigate. There were sandbars beyond her, and Hyperion was near the centre of the main channel. "I want her sunk where she is now, Mr. Stepkyne." He removed his hat and did not even flinch as a musket ball struck a nine-pounder and whined away over the poop.
Stepkyne walked to the first gun. A midshipman stood at the main hatch ready to pass the word to the lower battery, so that each weapon would have a twin for the final act.
"Fire!" Bolitho looked away as the frigate's mizzen fell in a great welter of fractured spars and tangled rigging.
"Fire!" A whole section of the main deck erupted in splinters, amidst which corpses and, dying men were thrown about like bloodied rag dolls.
In between each remorseless pair of explosions he could hear men screaming and sobbing, as if the ship herself was pleading for mercy. He gripped the rail, willing the frigate to sink and end the slaughter.
"Fire!"
Bubbles were already churning the bloodstained water around the ship into a miniature whirlpool, and here and there a despairing survivor was leaping overboard, only to be carried away on the swift current.
Gossett said thickly, "She's goin', sir!" He was looking at Bolitho as if seeing a stranger.
Two last shots bellowed from the Hyperion's ports, and as the order to cease fire reached the lower battery Bolitho said harshly, "We will wear ship, Mr. Gossett!"
He tore his eyes from the shattered, listing hull and looked at Gaseoign by his side. "You did well, my lad."
He tried to smile but his lips felt frozen. Even Gossett thought he had slaughtered helpless men to no purpose. He snapped, "Carry on!"
Sails slapping and cracking to the fresh wind, the ship swung her stem slowly across the wind. Bolitho waited, counting seconds, then said, "Steer nor' nor'-west."
Gossett faltered under Bolitho's eyes. "Beg pardon, sir, but we'll need to 'ead more west'rd to clear the 'eadland."
Bolitho ignored. him. "Shorten sail, Mr. Inch. We are going to anchor directly."
If he had uttered some dreadful obscenity he could not have cause greater consternation.
He did not wait for anyone to speak. "Mr. Gascoigne has seen what that frigate was hiding from us. And why it was necessary to take the Ithuriel before she could warn us." He pointed across the starboard quarter. "There are ships putting to sea, gentlemen! There is no frigate for us to send to the commodore for help, and we do not have the speed for such business." He looked around their tense and shocked faces. "We will anchor in the centre of the channel." He turned his head to watch' as the frigate dipped and rolled over in a great welter of bubbles and swirling wreckage. "Any large ship must pass us. The other channel will be blocked by the wreck."
Inch said in a small voice, "But we are alone sir!"
"I know that!" He softened his tone slightly. "Pelham.Martin may send someone to see what we are about." He looked away. "In the meantime we must do all we can to stop or cripple as many as we are able!"
Then he walked back to the rail and stood in silence as the ship glided purposefully towards the first headland. He could feel no anger at Pelham-Martin's foolish optimism or the hopelessness of the next few hours. Below deck some of the men were cheering again, as if they had just won a great victory. The ship was all but unmarked, and but for the bright splash of blood below the nettings, they could have been at manoeuvres.
Inch said wearily, "Shall I stop them cheering, sir?" Bolitho stiffened as a lookout pealed, "Two ships on the starboard quarter, sir!"
Inch stared fixedly at the' topsails of the leading vessel.
They were moving above the low bank of mist, detached
and impersonal, and all the more threatening.
Bolitho replied at length, "Let them cheer." He raised
his voice above the din. "Helm a-lee!" Slowly the Hyperion swung into the wind. "Tops'l clew lines!"
The bowsprit was seeking the land again. Bolitho gripped his hands behind him to control his rising despair. "Let go!"
As a shaft of watery sunlight painted the topmast of the leading ship like a golden crucifix, the last of the mist cleared from the sea as if a curtain had finally been lifted.