All daylight seemed to have gone, although in his reeling mind Bolitho knew it was no later than eight or nine in the forenoon. It was painful to breathe, and what air there was seemed to be spewed from the guns, as if heated by each blistered muzzle before it reached his lungs.
A blast of canister scythed over the nettings, and he saw Veitch spin round, seizing his arm at the elbow and grimacing in agony as blood poured down his wrist and on to his leg.
A seaman tried to help him to the ladder, but Veitch snarled, "Bind it, man! I’ll not quit the deck for it!"
Lysander's guns were firing from both sides at once, seeking out the blurred shapes which loomed and faded in the dense smoke, and with the din of their broadsides Bolitho could hear the crash of the shots hitting the targets and cutting down masts, sails and men in a devastating onslaught.
Herrick shouted, "There she goes!" He pointed abeam. The red-striped supply ship was listing steeply, her hull punctured by several heavy balls. The weight of her cargo did the rest. The great siege guns began to tear adrift in her holds, and although there was no sound to rise above the thunder of cannon fire, Bolitho imagined he could hear the sea surging into her, while her crew fought to reach the upper deck before she dived to the bottom.
Hopelessly outgunned, the French frigate which had been trying to herd the supply ships away from the fighting, came out of the smoke, her guns blazing, her deck tilting to the thrust of her canvas. She swept across Lysander's bows, her iron slamming through the beakhead and foresail, knocking a carronade off its slide and killing Lieutenant Kipling where he stood.
As she forged across the starboard bow, Lysander's forward gun crews crouched at their ports, eyes reddened and smarting, bodies shining and streaked in sweat and powder smoke, watching the frigate's progress and awaiting Kipling's whistle.
The boatswain, Harry Yeo, cupped his hands and bellowed, "Fire!"
Then he, too, fell bleeding and dying, and like Kipling did not see the proud frigate changed into a dismasted shambles by the great guns.
A violent explosion stirred the sails like a hot wind, the smoke rising momentarily above the embattled ships and allowing sunlight to probe down like a misty lantern.
The first French ship was still drifting downwind, and the water around her was littered with flotsam and dead men. The second one was dropping astern of Lysander with only one- bow chaser which would bear. But Bolitho saw Immortalite and knew it must have been a magazine which had exploded.
Javal had managed to grapple one of the Frenchmen, and while the other had tried to cross his stem and rake him from end to end, a fire had started. A lamp blown from its hook, a man running in panic and igniting some powder by accident, nobody would ever know. Of the captured prize there was little to be seen. Her masts had gone, and she was a mass of flame which grew and spread with every second. It had blown to the ship alongside, and with her sails blasted away, her rigging and gang way well alight, she, too, was doomed.
Bolitho wiped his eyes, feeling the pain for Javal and his men.
Then as the smoke swirled down again he heard Grubb yell, "Rudder, sir!"
He crossed the deck, "ignoring the occasional thud of a ball by his feet as he stared at the helmsmen who were swinging the big wheel from side to side.
Grubb added thickly, "That bugger's chaser "as shot the rudder lines away!" He pointed at the fore topsail beyond the quarterdeck rail. 'she's payin" off!"
Bolitho shouted, "Get some men aft! Rig new lines!" He saw Plowman call for seamen from the nearest guns. "Fast as you can!"
Herrick stared despairingly at the flapping sails." We must shorten at once!"
"Aye, Thomas."
He tried not to think of their following Frenchman. One lucky shot had hit Lysander s steering gear, and now, as the wind turned her gently downwind, she was swinging her stern towards her enemy. It would be Osiris allover again. He tried not to curse aloud. Except that this time there was no Lysander coming to the rescue.
On every side he saw or heard the chaos caused amongst the supply ships. De Brueys might have soldiers and horse artillery in plerity with his main fleet, but he would never have a single siege gun like the one which had sent Osiris to her death.
Then, as now, Nicator had kept away. He1d off by a man so embittered, so twisted by his hatred that he would see his own people die, and do nothing to help.
More crashes came from below, and there was a chorus of yells as Lysander's main topgallant mast came splintering down through the smoke, taking men and sail with it into the water alongside with a mighty splash.
As more seamen ran with axes to hack it away, Bolitho saw Saxby hurrying jo the shrouds, another broad pendant wrapped around his waist like a sash.
As he hauled at the halliards he shouted, "Thought I might need an extra one, y" see, sir!" He was laughing and weeping, his fear gone in the horror which surrounded him. Later, if he survived, it would be harder to bear.
Bolitho looked past him towards the Frenchman's topsails and beakhead as they towered above the larboard quarter. Guns hammered back and forth between them, and he felt the deck lurching, heard some of his men still able to cheer as they saw their own shots slamming home.
But it was no use. Lysander was still swinging helplessly, her tattered sails streaming through the smoke, her, guns barely able to keep firing for want of men to supply their need.
The smoke writhed and blossomed scarlet, and Bolitho reached out for support as the first of the enemy's iron smashed through the poop. Marines and seamen fell dead and dying in its path. Lieutenant Nepean dropped his sword and fell choking on blood, and when Leroux yelled for his sergeant, he, too, was unable to reply, but sat holding his stomach, his eyes glazing as he tried to respond to his major as he had always done.
Allday drew his cutlass and thrust his body behind Bolitho like a shield.
Through his teeth he said, "One more broadside, an" I reckon they’ll try to board us!" He pushed a dying marine away and pointed his cutlass "through the smoke. "Just one man I’d rather kill than any Frog today!"
Herrick walked past, hands behind him, his face very composed.
He said, "Mr. Plowman says it will take all of ten minutes more, sir."
It might as well be an hour, Bolitho thought.
Herrick looked at Allday. "And who is that?" "Cap"n bloody Probyn, that's who!"
The French ship was barely feet away from the quarter, although with so much smoke it could have been any distance. What guns would bear were pouring shots into Lysander's poop and lower hull, and from the bowsprit and spritsail yard marksmen were shooting at Lysander's quarterdeck as fast as they could aim.
Bolitho shouted to Herrick, "How are the supply ships?" Herrick bared his teeth. 'six done for and maybe the same number crippled!"
Bolitho turned to see a body dragged clear of the poop. Moffitt, his clerk, his thin grey hair marked with a bright touch of scarlet where a splinter had cut him down. Like Gilchrist's father, he had known the misery of a debtor's prison, and now lay dead.
He had to force the words out. "I am ordering you to haul down our Colours, Thomas."