The firing began again.
Green uniforms, with scarlet scarves. Life or death.
The guns had hardly finished reloading when lookouts sighted more wreckage. The remains of a small vessel, probably one of Tyacke’s brigantines, aground on a sandbar. She had been hit at point-blank range.
Adam stared at the other shore, but the battery wall was now out of sight. Only part of the nearby settlement was still in view, and it looked deserted. Abandoned. Waiting to accept the victors, perhaps? It must have seen many over the centuries.
Squire said heavily, “The brigantine was ahead of us, sir. It took more than a few shots to do that to her.”
Adam strode to the compass and wheel, but ignored both, looking at the masthead pendant and then at the master’s dog-vane. It was holding up well in spite of its frail cluster of cork and feathers.
He saw Julyan watching him through the receding gunsmoke. He might even have smiled.
He said, almost to himself, “While we are here, they’re trapped. There’s only one way to escape.”
Another gun, but further away. No fall of shot.
Sea against land. He thought suddenly of the Battle of Algiers, some three years ago, when Pellew, now Lord Exmouth, had won a resounding victory over combined land and sea forces. He could remember his own surprise and pride when he had read the admiral’s comment in the aftermath of his victory. He had described Adam Bolitho as a born frigate captain. From England’s greatest, it was praise indeed.
A cry from the forecastle: “More wreckage-ahead, sir!”
Julyan murmured, “Soon now, I think …” He did not finish.
This was as far as a vessel of any size could reach and retain room to tack or come about. Any one else could come overland, or up-stream, as had happened during the attack on the mssion.
Adam looked along the deck, at the gun crews baking in the sun, lookouts cupping hands around their eyes, midshipmen sweating and watching the land. Everything.
And the leadsman’s chant. “Deep six!”
He thought of Vincent, up there in the eyes of the ship where their figurehead, the boy with his trident and riding a dolphin, was pointing the way.
The ship comes first.
If Onward dropped anchor to avoid running aground, she would become a sitting target, to be destroyed by guns from the shore or by waterborne explosives. He saw more pieces of wreckage drifting past, part of a topmast lifting above the rest like a charred crucifix.
“Stand by to come about! Warn all hands!”
Men running, answering the shrill of calls, some already perched on the yards high above the guns and their motionless crews. Adam saw that even the cooks and messmen were adding their weight to the braces. He thought with a sudden, strange apprehension of Tyacke and Napier. Where were they now? He looked again for the flag, even though he knew it was out of sight.
Julyan lowered his eyes, watering from staring at the sun’s path. Like tears. “Give the word, sir!”
“Belay that!” It was Squire, his head thrown back to stare up at the braced topsails even as Adam came striding toward the compass. “Foretop, sir!”
Midshipman Hotham had also heard the lookout’s cry, and although he felt a little lost without the signals telescope he could see this in his mind. Like a signal.
Enemy in sight!
Adam lowered the telescope and felt someone take it from him. The image was imprinted on his brain. The ship, almost bows-on, sails fully braced. A big schooner, three-masted, he thought, even larger than the slaver they had taken as a prize. He watched closely. They would meet and pass in half an hour at this rate. Less. The stranger would be armed, but no match for a frigate.
“The other one will try to slip past us!”
Adam looked away from the pyramid of pale canvas. It was another midshipman, Simon Huxley, waiting to act as a “walking speaking-trumpet.” His eyes were fixed on the approaching schooner.
“Ready, sir!” Julyan, anxious, fretting over the delay.
Adam shook his head. “Maintain course!” And to the quarterdeck at large, “Hold your fire!”
He had the telescope again but did not recall having taken it from Hotham. Suppose I am mistaken? On the larboard bow. About half a mile, and looking as if she were sailing on dry land. An easy error of judgment at this range, and across the hard glare of the anchorage. A trick to lead Onward into the shallows. Julyan had warned him, but he did not need it.
The smaller vessel, another schooner, was not trying to slip past while the others faced and fought.
His shirt was clinging to his body, but it felt cold. Like the dead.
“Steady!” From the corner of his eye he saw faces peering up at him from the nearest eighteen-pounder. He stared through the shrouds and ratlines, keeping his eyes on the schooner. As if she were snared in a net.
There should be uncertainty, doubt, even a consciousness of failure. There was none.
More shots, closer now, and he heard, even felt the deck shake as some found their mark. Marksmen in the tops were firing too, although at this range it would have little effect. He thought he heard Jago’s voice calling to some of the afterguard: “You’ll soon know, so watch yer front!”
Somebody was questioning why Onward was turning away from a challenge, and allowing an enemy to escape.
Julyan called, “Ready when you give the word, sir!” He was calm enough. He had no choice.
Adam gripped the rail with both hands and watched the smaller schooner’s masts begin to turn, in line, her canvas in confusion for the first time. From habit he reached for the telescope; he had lost count of the times, but this time he did not need it. Those same sails were all aback now, the hull heeling slightly, without purpose.
He knew Squire was beside him. Sharing it in his own fashion. He spoke for him. “They’ve got boats in the water! Abandoning ship!”
Adam laid his sword flat along the rail. He did not remember having drawn it. He said, “The schooner. Open fire!”
Someone shouted, “What about the boats, sir?”
Adam did not look up at the masthead pendant. There was no time left. He thought he heard Vincent directing the forward guns. He lifted his sword and knew each gun captain was watching, staring aft, eyes fixed on the blade. The sword flashed down; every gun on the larboard quarter must have fired simultaneously. Even as their recoil was halted, the half-naked crews were already sponging out and ramming home the next charge, selecting another ball from the nearest shot-garland.
As the thunder of the broadside rolled away the gun captains were yelling to each other, some coughing as the gunsmoke streamed through the open ports.
Adam heard Monteith, almost shrill above the noise, calling someone’s name. Then a seaman running, perhaps in answer. Another rattle of musket fire, closer now, shots hitting the hull or slapping through the canvas overhead.
The running man swung round as if taken by surprise. Then he fell, a few paces from the nearest gun crew.
Adam forced himself to look away, to turn his eyes toward the approaching ship. Nothing else must distract or concern him. The masthead lookouts and Vincent, up forward, would have an unbroken view. Two ships, Onward‘s bowsprit pointing directly at her enemy’s jib. The shooting was almost continuous now, and the Royal Marines were firing with regular precision, as if on a range.
At any moment Onward‘s bow-chasers would come to bear, then her carronades.
He tore his eyes away to look for the abandoned schooner. That, too, had been a ruse, without regard for their own lives. The schooner was heeling over toward him, her deck splintered. Another splash through the clinging smoke, and she was mastless.