Bolitho breathed out slowly. 'signal the information to Buzzard."
An acknowledgement broke from the frigate's yards within seconds. Javal was like the rest of them. On the last edge of tension.
He glanced at his watch. Nicator should be well through the other channel by now and setting more sail to begin her vital part. Even if French pickets had sighted her, it would be too late to move artillery to the other end of their defences.
The bang, when it came, was like an abbreviated thunderclap. Bolitho saw neither smoke nor flash, but watched the ball's progress across the swirling current. It must have been fired from a low level, for he could see its path in a line of tiny wavelets, like an unnatural wind, or a shark charging to the attack.
The crash of the ball into the forepart of the hull brought a great chorus of shouts and yells, and Bolitho saw the second lieutenant hurrying from gun to gun, as if to reassure the crews.
"Look there, sir!" Allday pointed with his cutlass. 'soldiers!"
Bolitho watched the tiny, blue-coated figures bursting from the trees and scurrying towards the point. Perhaps they believed that the second wave of attacking ships would attempt a landing, and were getting ready to repulse them. Bolitho licked his lips. If only there was a second wave.
He said, "Bring her up a point, Captain. Give our upper battery a target."
Farquhar protested, "Eighteen-pounders against infantry, sir?"
Bolitho said quietly, "It will give them something to keep their minds occupied. It may also shake the enemy's confidence up ahead. They are anticipating a squadron, remember!"
He winced as another bang echoed across the water, and he heard the ball hiss viciously overhead.
'stand by to larboard!" Outhwaite pointed at the running soldiers. "On the uproll!" He raised his speaking trumpet. "Fire!"
The long line of guns hurled themselves inboard on their tackles, the smoke rising and swirling above the packed hammock nettings. Bolitho held his glass on the land, seeing the balls whipping through trees and scrub, throwing up stones and clods of earth in haphazard confusion. The soldiers had obviously held the same ideas as Farquhar, for many were caught out in the open, and Bolitho saw bodies and muskets whirling through the air with the other fragments.
It was little enough, but it had given the gun crews some heart. He heard a few cheers, and yells of derision from the lower battery who had not been allowed to fire.
Outhwaite had caught some of the excitement. "Move roundly, lads! Reload! Mr. Guthrie, a guinea for the first to run out!"
From a comer of his eye, Bolitho saw the headland drop- ping back, the first group of anchored ships glinting in frail sunlight, their sails furled, and their unmoving rigidity suggesting that each vessel was attached to the next, and so on, making them into an unbroken barrier. He had expected the French to anchor in this manner. It had been a favourite defence since long before a revolution had even been dreamed of.
Then he saw a flash. It came from a deep green saddle between two hills, and he knew the gunners had fired earlier to obtain a ranging shot.
It hit Osiris amidships, deep down and close to the waterline. The planks under Bolitho's feet rebounded, as if the ball had struck a few paces away instead of three decks down. He saw Farquhar's anxiety as he watched his boatswain dashing for a hatch with his seamen, and the wisps of dark smoke which eddied above the nettings as evidence of the gun's accuracy.
From astern he heard the controlled crash of cannon fire and knew that Javal was following his example and raking the nearest hillside in the hope of finding a target.
"Deck there! French ship o" the line at anchor beyond the transports!".
Bolitho swung the glass across the rail, seeing faces on Osiris's forecastle looming like visions in the lens before he found and trained on the French seventy-four. Like the packed mass of transports, she was anchored. But her sails were only loosely brailed up, and her cable shortened home in readiness for weighing. And beyond her, gliding very slowly downwind, was a frigate, setting her foresail and shining momentarily as sunlight passed along her hull. The two smaller escorts, corvettes, Plowman had said, were hidden elsewhere. It was not surprising. For the assembled fleet of supply ships overlapped in what appeared to be a hopeless tangle of masts and yards. He watched them grimly through* the glass. Deep-laden. Guns; powder and shot, tents, weapons and supplies for an army.
He felt the deck stagger as another ball smashed close alongside.
The only way" to avoid being destroyed slowly by the hidden guns was to set more sail, to attack and close with the anchored vessels and make accuracy impossible.
He heard Farquhar say fervently, "Where is Nicator? In God's name, she should be in sight by now!"
"French seventy-four's weighed, sir."
Bolitho looked at Farquhar, but he had not heard the report. He said, "Thank you. Tell your starboard gun crews to prepare, Mr. Outhwaite."
Bolitho watched the boatswain emerging from beneath the quarterdeck and waited for him to come aft.
Oled in two places, sir. But no damage below the waterline yet. She's sound enough, if it gets no worse." Farquhar nodded abruptly. "Yes."
Bolitho said, 'set the fores"l, Captain. Make to Buzzard, I am about to pass through the enemy's line."
Farquhar stared at him. "We could get fouled in their moorings, sir. I’d advise-"
They ducked as another ball passed low above their heads, and Bolitho felt the breath of it across his shoulders like the wind of a cutlass blade.
Bolitho said, "Nicator should be in sight. At least from the masthead. Probyn must have met some opposition. If neither of us can get to grips, we are being destroyed for nothing!"
He strode to the lee side and watched a thin waterspout rise far abeam. The French were very good, as were their new guns. At this range they could hardly miss. And yet they were biding their time. Saving their aim for the rest of the squadron, or to decide on the English tactics.
No. It was wrong. No gunnery officer could be that confident.
He heard the wheel going over, the sudden flap and boom of canvas as the foresail was reset and its yard trimmed by the men at the braces. It made some difference. He could see the way one of the quarterdeck nine-pounders was tugging at its tackles as the deck tilted to leeward. The sudden increase of sail might make the French gunners show their hand.
He walked as slowly as he could to the other side, peering across the crowded gun deck towards the French two-decker. Under minimum canvas, she was standing off about two miles distant. Even that was wrong. Her captain commanded the most powerful ship present. His first duty was to defend the merchantmen and supply vessels, no matter what.
Half a mile to go, and through his glass he could see the tiny figures of seamen running about the decks of the nearest transport. They probably still believed Osiris was a three-decker, and that they would take the first overwhelming broadside.
"Bring her up a point, Captain." "Aye, sir. Nor" by west."
Bolitho looked at Pascoe. "Any sight of Nicator?"
"None, sir." Pascoe gestured towards the massed shipping. 'she's missing a promising target!"
But Bolitho knew him well enough to see through his calm remark. He saw Midshipman Breen, who was helping Pascoe, stare at him, as if to seek confirmation that all was well.