"Fire!" The range was about half a mile, but with a full, double-shot ted broadside, they could easily have been alongside.
As the wind drove the swirling smoke away like fog, Adam raised his telescope and studied the enemy's shattered stern; the fallen mast had dragged her around to expose her full length. Only her mainmast remained standing; topmasts, spars and booms covered her decks; torn canvas and coils of severed cordage completed the picture of devastation.
Deliberately, he made himself turn, testing his emotions as he saw the second frigate, leaning over on a converging tack, her guns already run out like black teeth.
He walked to the quarterdeck rail and saw the men stand back from their guns, one gun captain lifting a fresh ball in readiness for the next shot, and the one after that. Until it was over.
He said, They must not board us! We're done for if they overrun the ship!"
He drew the fine, curved hanger and held it over his head.
"On the up roll lads! Make each shot tell!"
Somebody cheered, and a petty officer silenced him with a threat.
The gun captains stood behind their breeches now, each with his trigger-line pulled taut, their crews crouched and ready with handspikes to change the elevation or training.
"Fire!"
The deck reeled beneath his feet, and Adam realised that the enemy had fired at the same moment. There was smoke everywhere, and he heard men screaming as splinters as large as goose quills tore amongst them. He wiped his face with his wrist and saw the enemy's sails, pockmarked with holes, but each yard properly braced, still holding her on the same tack.
The smoke was gone and he saw the upended guns now, the patterns of bright blood where men had fallen, or been crushed beneath the heated barrels.
Deighton was suddenly beside him, and seemed to be shouting, although his voice was muffled, faint.
"Disengage, Captain! That is an order, do you hearT
Adam stared past him at the oncoming ship; she seemed to fill the sea, and there were men in her shrouds, waiting to board, ready to mark down the most valuable targets. As if in a dream, he noticed that Deighton had removed his bright epaulettes. Marines were clambering up the ratlines, some with two muskets slung over their shoulders. Sergeant
Whittle's best marksmen… He tried to think, to clear his mind.
"I will not strike our colours, sir! You gave me an order to fight." He knew Dyer was waiting for the order. "Fight I will!"
Deighton winced as more iron crashed into the lower hull. "I'll see you in hell for this!"
Adam pushed past him. "We shall meet there, sir]'
He reached up to his shoulder, thinking somebody had tried to take his attention. His epaulette was gone, the cloth shredded into rag where a musket ball had torn it away.
"Fire!"
Men were coughing and retching as the smoke billowed inboard through the open gun ports; the enemy's sails seemed to be towering right alongside, and yet the guns still fired, and were reloaded. The dead lay where they had fallen; there were not enough spare hands either to throw them outboard, or to carry the whimpering wounded below.
Adam saw the other ship's tapering jib boom and then her bowsprit passing over the larboard bow like a giant's lance. There were shots everywhere, a rain of iron hammering the deck, ripping into the torn hammocks where several marines had already fallen.
So they would not collide. The American was carrying too much canvas.
Wildly he swung round, and shouted, "Carronade!" Then, "Let her fall off, Mr. Ritchie!"
A master's mate ran to throw his weight on to the wheel. Ritchie was propped against the compass box, his eyes fixed and staring as if still watching his ship's performance, even in death.
Adam waved his sword, and someone on the splintered forecastle jerked the lanyard. The carronade, the smasher as it was known, recoiled on its slide, and where seamen had been massing, ready for a chance to board, there was only a blackened heap of remains, men and fragments of men, and one officer standing, apparently untouched, his sword dangling by his side, perhaps too shocked to move.
Dyer had rallied the gun crews and had brought more men from the disengaged side. Valkyrie shivered to another broadside, their own or the enemy's Adam did not know.
Somebody was yelling at him. "The commodore's bin hit, sir! They've took 'im below!"
The other frigate, her hull pockmarked with holes and with great, livid scars in her timbers, was being carried past by the press of canvas. Shots still ripped across the broadening arrowhead of water between them, but the shooting was less controlled. He saw two men fall from the shrouds as the Royal Marines in the fighting tops kept up their fire. In his heart, he knew that the engagement was over, but his reason could not accept it. One enemy crippled, and unlikely to reach safety once the other ships in the squadron came upon her. And the other he could see her name now, in bright gold lettering across her counter, Defender was unwilling to continue.
He rubbed his ear; there was cheering too, which seemed very faint, although he knew it was here, in his own ship. The guns' roar had rendered him almost deaf. He saw men peering at him and grinning, teeth white in their smoke- blackened faces.
Dyer was here, shaking his arm. The lookout has sighted Reaper, sir! The enemy must have seen her, that's why they're standing away!" He looked stunned, unable to accept that he was alive when so many had fallen.
Reaper, of all ships. So right that it should be John Urquhart, coming to the aid of his old ship, where he had been treated so badly.
"Shorten sail, Mr. Dyer." He wanted to smile, to give them something they could cling to when the final bloody bill was reckoned. "Report damage and casualties." He tried again. "You did well. Very well." He turned away, and did not see Dyer's expression. Pride; gratitude; affection.
He said, "I must see the commodore. Take charge here." He saw the man called Jago, a bare cutlass wedged through his belt.
"A victory, sir." It seemed to have drained him. "Or as good as."
Adam shaded his eyes to watch the enemy frigate. Defender. They might still meet again. Her flag was flying as proudly as before. Defiant
He seemed to recall what Jago had said, and stared around.
"My servant! Whitmarsh! Where is he?"
Jago said, "He's below, sir. I took 'im me self you bein' busy at the time."
Adam faced him. Tell me." It was almost as if he had known. But how could he?
Jago answered, "Splinter. Didn't feel nothin'."
"And you took him below?" He looked away, at the sea. So clean, he thought. So clean…… "That was bravely done. I'll not forget."
The orlop deck was crowded with wounded men, some fearful of what might happen, others lying quietly, beyond pain.
Minchin, his familiar apron covered with blood, peered at him as a man was dragged from his table and carried into the shadows.
He said thickly, The commodore's dead, sir." He gestured to a covered shape by one massive timber and Adam saw the strange servant on his knees beside the corpse, rocking back and forth, moaning like a sick animal.
Minchin wiped some blood from his knife with a rag, and cut himself a slice of apple with it. "Quite mad, that one!"
He chewed steadily as Adam turned down a blanket and looked at the dead boy's face. There was not a mark on him; he might have been asleep. Minchin knew that the iron splinter had hit him in the spine, and must have killed him outright. He had seen many terrible things in his butcher's work, men torn apart in the name of duty, who had believed even in extremity that a miracle could save them. At least the captain's servant had been spared that. But there was nothing he could say; there never was. And there were others waiting. He could barely taste the apple because of the rum, which helped him at times like these, but down here in this hellish, lightless place, it reminded him of somewhere. Someone… He gave a great sigh. Where was the point? And the captain had done what he could. For all of us.