The man began to scream and plead but sucked greedily on a mug of rum which Minchin finished before laying bare the shattered foot. The hull quivered again, but it felt as if the battle had drawn away. There seemed to be cannon fire from all directions, occasional yells which were like lost spirits as they filtered through the other decks.
Hyperion might have been boarded, Blachford thought, or the enemy could have drawn away to reform. He knew little about sea-warfare other than what he had been told or had read about in the Gazette. Only since his travels around the fleet had he thought about the men who made victories and defeats real, into flesh and blood like his own.
'Next!* It never stopped.
This time a marine ran down a ladder and called, 'We've taken the Don alongside, lads!' He vanished again, and Blachford was amazed that some of the wounded could actually raise a weak cheer. No wonder Bolitho loved these sailors.
He looked down at the young midshipman. A child.
Minchin probed open part of his side where the ribs showed white through the blood.
Blachford said quietly, 'God, he looks so young.'
Minchin stared at him, wanting to hurt him, to make him suffer.
'Well, Mr Springett won't be getting any older, Sir Piers. He's got a fistful of Spanish iron inside him!' He gestured angrily. Take him away.'
'How old was he?'
Minchin knew the boy was thirteen, but something else caught his attention. It was the sudden stillness, which even the far-off gunfire could not break. The deck was swaying more slowly, as if the ship was heavier in the water. But the pumps were still going. God, he thought, in this old ship they never seemed to stop.
Blachford saw his intent expression. 'What is it?'
Minchin shook his head. 'Don't know.' He glanced at the dark shapes of the wounded along the side of the orlop. Some already dead, with no one to notice or care. Others waiting, still waiting. But this time… He said harshly, 'They're all sailors. They know something is wrong.'
Blachford stared at the smoke-filled ladder which mounted to the lower gundeck. It was as if they were the only ones left aboard. He took out his watch and peered at it. Minchin reached down and refilled his cup with rum, right to the brim.
He had seen the fine gold timepiece with the crest engraved on its guard. God rot him!
The roar of the broadside when it came was like nothing Minchin had ever experienced. There must have been many guns, and yet they were linked into one gigantic clap of thunder which exploded against the ship as if the sound, and not the massive weight of metal, was striking into the timbers.
The deck canted right over, shivered violently as it reared against the ship alongside, but the din did not stop. There was an outstanding, splitting crack which seemed to come right through the deck; it was followed immediately by a roar of crashing spars and rigging, and heavy thuds which he guessed were guns being hurled back from their ports.
The wounded were shouting and pleading, some dragging themselves to the ladder, their blood marking the futility of their efforts. Blachford heard the broken spars thudding against the hull, then sudden screams from the carpenter's walk, men clawing their way in darkness as the lanterns were blown apart.
Minchin picked himself up from the deck, his ears still ringing from the explosion. He saw some rats scurrying past the bodies of those who were beyond pain, and shook his head to clear it.
As he brushed past, Blachford called, 'Where are you going?'
'My sickbay. All I own in this bloody world is in there.'
'In Heaven's name, tell me, man!'
Minchin steadied himself as the deck gave another great shudder. The pumps had finally stopped. He said savagely, 'We're going down. But I'm not staying to watch it!'
Blachford stared round. If I survive this… Then he took a grip on his racing thoughts.
'Get these men ready to move on deck.' The assistants nodded, but their eyes were on the ladder. Going down. Their life. Their home, whether from choice or impressment; it could not happen. Shoes clattered on the ladder, and Dacie, the one-eyed boatswain's mate, peered down at them.
'Will you come up, Sir Piers? It's a bloody shambles on deck.'
'What about these wounded?'
Dacie gripped the handrail and wiped his remaining eye. He wanted to run, run, keep on running. But all his life he had been trained to stand fast, to obey.
Til pass the word, Sir Piers.' Then he was gone.
Blachford picked up his bag and hurried to the ladder. As he climbed the first steps he felt they were different. At an angle. He sensed the chill of fear for the first time.
He thought of Minchin's anger.
Going down.
Lieutenant Stephen Jenour retained his grip on Bolitho's arm even after he had pulled him from the deck. He was almost incoherent in his relief and horror. 'Thank God, oh thank God!'
Bolitho said, 'Take hold, Stephen.' His eyes moved across the quarterdeck and down to the awful spread of destruction. No wonder Jenour was close to a complete breakdown. He had probably imagined himself to be the only one left alive up here.
It was as if the whole ship had been stripped and laid bare, so that no part of her wounds should be hidden. The mizzen mast had gone completely, and the whole of the foretopmast had been severed as if by some gigantic axe, and was pitching alongside with all the other wreckage. Spars, ropes, and men. The latter either floated in the weed of rigging, or floundered about like dying fish.
Jenour gasped, 'The first lieutenant, Sir Richard'' He tried to point, but his body was shaking so violently he almost fell.
Bolitho forgot his own despair as he hurried down a splintered ladder to the mamdeck. Guns lay up-ended and abandoned, their crews strewn around them, or crawling blindly for the nearest hatch to hide. Parns was pinned beneath an overturned eighteen-pounder, his eyes staring at the sky until he saw Bolitho.
Bolitho dropped beside him. To Jenour he said, 'Send some one for the surgeon.' He held his coat. 'And Stephen, remember to walk, will you? Those who have survived will need all their confidence in us.'
Parns reached up to touch his arm. Through gritted teeth he gasped, 'God, that was bad1' He tried to move his shoulders. 'The San Mateo, what of her?'
Bolitho shook his head. 'She has gone. There was no point in continuing the fight after this.'
Parns released a great sigh. 'A victory.' Then he looked at Bolitho, his eyes pleading. 'My face – is it all right, sir?'
Bolitho nodded. 'Not a mark on it.'
Parris seemed satisfied. 'But I can't feel my legs.'
Bolitho stared at the overturned gun. The barrel was still hot from being fired, yet Parns could feel nothing. He could see his hessian boots protruding from the other side of the truck. Both legs must have been crushed.
Til wait here until help comes.' He looked along the shattered deck. Only the foremast still stood as before, with his flag rippling from the truck above the shredded sails.
He felt the deck quiver. The pumps had stopped, probably choked or smashed apart. He made himself face the truth. Hyperion was dying, even while he waited. He glanced across at the dead midshipman Mirnelees, whose body had been hurled down from the quarterdeck where he had been killed. He was sixteen. I was just his age when Hyperion's keel tasted salt water for the first time.
He heard voices and hurrying feet and saw seamen and marines returning from the Spanish two-decker alongside. It was strange, but Bolitho had not even glanced at their battered prize.
He saw Keen, an arm wrapped around Tojohns' shoulders, a bloody bandage tied about one leg, limping anxiously towards him.