Several transports were shooting through the smoke, and he knew that some of the shots would be hitting their consorts, as the packed anchorage changed from a prepared defence-line to a scene of indescribable panic. Three ships were blazing fiercely, and with their cables either cut or burned through, were already drifting amongst the others.
Bolitho could not tell how many guns were firing at Osiris, for with only a few of her lower battery still manned, it was impossible to distinguish between a thirty-two-pounder's recoil and an enemy ball crashing into the hull.
He peered over the gangway and saw the boats immediate- ly below him, filled with wounded, while others clung to the gunwales or floated away, unable to swim, or without the strength to do so. Others were clambering down the rounded tumblehome, marines and seamen, coopers and sailmakers, while here and there the blue and white of an officer tried to restore order.
Pascoe ran to his side. "What will happen now, sir?" Bolitho did not reply immediately. "Down there, Adam.
That is what defeat is like. The way it looks. How it smells." He turned away. "Pass the word. Cease firing. This ship may take fire at any moment when one of those wrecks drifts against us."
More violent crashes, and freed at last from its remaining shrouds, the mizzen mast plunged down alongside, bedding itself in the shallows like a great marker.
He walked a few paces across the deck, his shoes catching in splinters and the great diagonal rent where the French gunners had smashed down the helm and all around it.
A few men ran past him, not even giving him a glance. To where, and for what purpose, they probably did not know.
Smoke poured across the hull and eddied through holes in the deck. It was like walking in hell. Dead men were on every hand, weapons and small possessions where they had been dropped or had fallen in battle. A marine lay staring at the sky, his head and shoulders supported on the lap of a comrade. A best friend perhaps. But he, too, was dead. Killed by a metal splinter as he had watched his friend die.
There was no sign of Farquhar, and he imagined that they had carried him right aft, to the wrecked cabin with its once beautiful furniture and fittings.
A small figure emerged below the poop, and he realised it was Midshipman Breen.
"Go with Mr. Pascoe!" He watched the boy peering at him without a spark of recognition. "And take care."
Breen nodded, and then burst into tears. "I ran away, sir! I ran away!"
Bolitho touched his shoulder. "A lot of men did that today, Mr. Breen. There's nothing more they can do here." Pascoe came aft with the second lieutenant. The latter looked exhausted, white-faced with shock.
"The boats are full, sir." He cringed as a ball ripped past him and struck something solid in the smoke. The smoke was so thick that the other ship was completely hidden.
"Very well." Bolitho looked slowly along the deserted decks. There would still be some who were trapped under that great tangle of wreckage. Listening, or calling for help.
He said, "Pass the word. Abandon ship. We will ferry the wounded ashore." He looked at Pascoe. "I am sorry for you, Adam. Twice a prisoner of war in so short a span." Pascoe shrugged. "At least we"re together this time, Uncle."
Allday, who had been nursing his injured arm, levered himself from the rail and said, "Listen!
They looked at him, and Bolitho put his arm round him, fearing that because of his own despair" he had failed to help Allday.
Breen wiped his eyes with his fists and stared at Allday. "I hear it!" He reached out for Allday's hand. "I do hear it!" Bolitho walked over the broken planks, listening to the swelling roar of cheers. It faltered only to a ragged crash of gunfire, which was followed instantly by an even louder, more violent broadside. Then the cheering resumed, stronger and fiercer, like one great voice.
Allday said huskily, "That's no French cheer!" "Huzza! Huzza!
And again the smoke surged towards the stranded Osiris, stirred and blown by another massive broadside.
Pascoe said, "Buzzard."
Allday leaned against him and looked at Bolitho. "Bless him, sir, did you hear that?"
"Yes." Bolitho sheathed his sword without knowing why he had done so. "No frigate carries that number of men." The second lieutenant dropped his head and said brokenly, "That damned Nicator. Here at last, too late to save our ship and all our men."
Sunlight probed through the smoke, and Bolitho saw leaping flames and heard the crackle of burning timber. A mastless hulk, abandoned and well ablaze, was less than fifty yards away.
But as the smoke swirled high in the air, he stared at a ship which even now was firing another broadside downwind, at some other invisible target.
There was no mistaking her. Lysander was steering past the scattered transports, firing into individual vessels, or pouring a half-broadside into one isolated or apparently untouched. Her other side was obviously firing at the French seventy-four, which explained the first cheers and violent broadsides.
Bolitho saw and understood all of these things, but found they carried no meaning.
Only one thing counted. Lysander. Thomas Herrick had come for them, by some fantastic piece of luck and little less than a miracle, he had sailed down from the north channel and turned the anchorage into a shipbreaker's yard.
Pascoe said, "I think that's Buzzard now, sir!" He was wild-eyed, his chest and throat moving with emotion. "Yes, it is her! Her sails are so holed she is barely making way!"
Bolitho rubbed his eyes, seeing a corvette following close under Lysander's stern. She was listing, but had less damage to her sails than Javal's victorious frigate. Also, above her flapping tricolour she was wearing a large Union Jack.
Bolitho wrenched his eyes away. "They’ve got boats in the water. Tell our people that help is coming."
He watched the drifting hulk and prayed she was not one of the ammunition ships.
Another gust of wind moved across the water, and he saw that many of the transports had sunk completely. If they were loaded with those great guns, it was not surprising.
Boats "pulled below the Osiris's shadow, and he heard voices shouting encouragement, while the oarsmen stared grim-faced at the battered, holed wreck which had once been Farquhar's command.
Plowman limped past carrying the ship's chronometer. He saw Bolitho and gave a tense grin. "Pity to leave it in the wreck, sir. "Er’ll come in useful." He hurried to the side adding, "Glad you"re safe, sir."
Bolitho realised there were many boats now, some with armed marines, and swivels mounted on their stems, while the others got on with the work of rescue.
That, too, became clear as he leaned on the rail to watch. Some boats were painted dark red, from Nicator then. So somewhere beyond the scattered transports and burning wrecks Probyn's ship was here to see the price of the battle.
A lieutenant crossed the deck and touched his hat to Pascoe. "Nobody else survived but you?" He looked very clean against the horror and death.
Bolitho said, "I survived."
The lieutenant gaped at him and snapped, "Beg pardon, sir! I did not recognise you in-"
Bolitho said wearily, "No matter. It has become a custom. " The officer blinked. "I am from Nicator, sir. We did not think anyone had survived, "he waved his hand despairingly around the deck, "all this!"
Guthrie, the Osiris's second lieutenant, suddenly ran from the poop and seized the young officer by the coat.