Bolitho made himself remain beside the wheel. If he ran too soon, the Frenchman would still be able to sheer away. He thought of the hissing fuse below decks, and hoped Allday had not been too exhausted to estimate the proper length.
"Fuse burning!"
Allday was covered in wisps of hay, as if he had just fought his way out of it farmyard stack. He had probably taken the fuse clear of the stored fodder in the other hold to avoid a premature explosion.
'stand by the boat's stern rope!" He waited until Allday was at the bulwark with his axe. "You, too, Larssen, move smartly now!" He saw a shadow by his feet and then looked up at the American flag. He grimaced and said, "I’ve dirtied that flag enough for one day, I’ll cut it down." But when he groped for his sword he realised that in all the excitement and his return from feverish oblivion he had forgotten to bring it on deck.
A musket barked across the fast-narrowing strip of water, and he heard the ball smack into the opposite bulwark. The French boarders were all yelling now, baying like enraged hounds at the thought of their enemy trying to escape.
Allday saw Bolitho's expression and thrust his axe into the seaman's hand. "Hold this! I’m going for the sword!" Bolitho yelled, "Leave it!"
Another ball zipped past him, and then a whole fusilade of shots which threw splinters from the deck like darts and ricocheted in every direction.
Bolitho heard Larssen cry out, and saw him sag to his knees, his eyes tightly closed as he tried to stem the, blood which ran freely from his thigh.
Bolitho controlled his racing thoughts, tried not to see the fuse in his mind. Five minutes. It must have been burning that long already.
He dragged the seaman against the bulwark and heard Allday panting across the deck to join him.
He gasped, "Hold him! We’ll jump together!"
Then they were up on the bulwark, the wood still misty from the night air, and as Allday cut the boat's long line the three of them fell like untidy bundles into the water, the severed rope wrapped around them.
Down and down, the sunlight fading through a pink mist, which Bolitho's reeling mind told him must be Larssen's blood, and all the while he could feel the rope dragging like a snare, and knew Veitch's crew were pulling at their oars like madmen. Despite all which was happening, he found he was thinking of the two men who had deserted at Malta. They would never know how fortunate their crime was at this moment. Had they remained aboard, it was doubtful if there would have been room for them in the one remaining boat, nor space to pull an oar.
He saw the water brightening over his head, and as he broke surface, shaking hair from his eyes and gasping for breath, he caught sight of the longboat, its sail hoisted, and several figures waving and maybe cheering towards him.
Larssen had fainted, and it was all he and Allday could do to hold his face above water, and at the same time cling to the boat's sternrope which was being hauled hand-over-hand against the pressure of oars, sail and the drag of undertow around their legs.
Allday gasped, "By God, I’d not want to do this very often!"
Bolitho turned his head to speak and then felt his ears cringe as a deafening explosion tore the morning apart. He felt the shock-wave surge against his legs and chest, knocking the wind from his lungs and twisting the three of them round in the trailing rope like helpless puppets.
Fragments of wood and cordage, huge yellow-coloured bundles of hay rained around them. A whole section of timber plunged straight down beside Allday, only to shoot up again like a jagged battering-ram, missing him by inches.
Allday croaked, "Jesus! That was a near thing!"
Bolitho managed to pivot himself, treading water as the deluge of shattered pieces subsided, and peered back at the two ships. In fact, there was only one, Segura having vanished completely, leaving a great widening circle of froth and bubbles, flotsam and scattered fodder, which would never feed French cavalry now.
It was as if the Segura had bled to death even as she plunged to the bottom, for the froth which continued to swirl around in confusion was tinged with red. Every cask of wine must have burst apart with the gunpowder.
The corvette was in a bad way. At first glance he had imagined that she had escaped the worst of the explosion, but as she swung unsteadily across the disturbed water he saw the weak sunlight play over a deep rent in her hull where her copper had been slit open like the belly of a shark. Her rigging and sails were in shreds, swaying like creeper as the hull tilted more steeply, hiding the hole in the side as the sea surged into her. Why she had not caught fire was a miracle, but Bolitho knew her captain would be hard put to save his surviving men, let alone prevent his command from following Segura.
A shadow loomed above him, and he felt hands under his armpits, others reaching down to lift the inert Swede to safety.
Veitch watched him, grinning, as he was hauled unceremoniously inboard with Allday.
"You see, sir, I waited!"
Bolitho lay back and stared at the sky. "It was close." Allday was wringing out his shirt across the gunwale. "I gave the fuse ten minutes, sir. Otherwise…" He said no more.
Bolitho turned to look at him, his chest heaving painfully. He saw the weals across Allday's back where the mounted trooper had used his whip. They were still very red, and would never vanish completely. He felt strangely sad about that. Allday had served at sea for most of his life and had avoided the lash throughout that time. In the Navy it was no mean feat. And now, because of his courage and unwavering loyalty, he would wear those stripes to the end of his days.
Impetuously, he reached out and touched Allday's shoulder.
"It was well done. And I am sorry about these."
Allday twisted round on the thwart and looked at him. 'still a long way to go to catch up with you, sir." He grinned, the tiredness, or some of it, fading. "I reckon you’ve got more scars than a eat's got lives!"
Bolitho smiled, sharing the moment only with Allday. "But none more honourable, my friend."
Veitch cleared his throat. "Where now, sir?"
Bolitho struggled against the gun wale, watching the listless sail, and then turning to study the corvette. Someone fired a musket, and a seaman in the boat stood up to jeer.
Bolitho said quietly, "Easy, lads. I know how you feel. But it was not fired at us that time. The corvette's people are trying to rush the boats."
He looked at Veitch, seeing the slow understanding. A few officers, a terrified crew. It had happened to Bolitho, it was something which Veitch might never experience, if he was lucky.
'she's gain"!"
The little corvette was beginning to turn turtle, her decks bared as she tilted towards the silent watchers. White feathers of spray showed where fragments from the explosion were falling from her masts, and a six-pounder cannon tore loose from the upended side and charged. through the other bulwark, taking a handful of struggling figures with it.
Across the blue water they could hear the faint cries and screams, the jubilant roar of inrushing water. The masts hit the surface almost together, smashing amongst some swimmers and cutting the one successfully launched boat in halves.
Plowman said roughly, "Nuthin" we can do for "em, sir." Bolitho did not answer. The master's mate was right of course. The boat would be swamped, or at best his men would be taken prisoner by the overwhelming number of French survivors. To know it was one thing. To merely accept it was another.