Williams raised his sword and looked aft at the captain. "Ready to larboard, sir! "
"Fire! "
The ship staggered to the thunder and recoil of the guns, while the pale smoke billowed downwind towards the enemy.
It was like grinding over a reef or running into a sandbar, so that for a long moment men seemed to stare at one another as the enemy's broadside crashed into the hull or screamed through the canvas and rigging overhead. The spread nets jumped with fallen cordage and blocks, and a scarlet-coated marine dropped from the maintop before lying spreadeagled above one of the gun crews.
Bolitho coughed out smoke and thought briefly of Inskip down in the reeling gloom of the orlop. The first wounded would already be on their way there. He looked at the marine's corpse on the nets. It was a marvel nothing vital had been shot away.
He saw Jenour wiping his eyes with his forearm, dazed by the onslaught.
"Captain Poland, prepare to alter course, if you please. We will steer due west! " But when he looked through the thinning smoke he saw that Poland was down, one leg doubled under him, his fingers clutching his throat as if to stem the blood which flooded over his coat like paint. Bolitho dropped on his knee beside him. "Take him to the surgeon! " But Poland shook his head so violently that Bolitho saw the gaping hole in his neck where a fragment of iron had cut him down. He was dying, choking on his own blood as he tried to speak.
Lieutenant Munro joined him, his tanned face as pale as death.
Very slowly Bolitho stood up and looked towards the enemy "Your captain is dead, Mr Munro. Pass the word to the others." He glanced down at Poland 's contorted features. Even in death his eyes were somehow angry and disapproving. It was terrible to see him die with a curse on his lips, although he guessed that he had been the only one close enough to hear it.
His last words on earth had been, "God's damnation on Varian, the cowardly bastard! "
Bolitho saw Williams staring aft towards him, his hat gone but the sword still gripped in his hand.
Bolitho watched a seaman cover Poland 's body with some canvas, then he walked up to the quarterdeck rail as he had done so many times in the past.
He thought of Poland 's despairing curse and said aloud, "And my damnation too! " Then he dropped his hand and felt the ship's anger erupt in another savage broadside.
Jenour called huskily, "The corvette's closing, sir! "
"I see her. Warn the starboard battery, then pass the word to the marines in the tops. Nobody will board this ship! " He stared at Jenour and knew he was speaking wildly. "Nobody! "
Jenour tore his eyes away and called to a boatswain's mate. But just for a few seconds he had seen a Bolitho he had not known before. Like a man who faced destiny and accepted it. A man without fear; without hate and maybe without hope either. He saw Bolitho turn away from the drifting smoke and look towards his coxswain. The glance excluded everyone, so that the death and danger seemed almost incidental for that one precious moment. They smiled at each other, and before the guns opened fire once again Jenour tried to recall what he had seen in Bolitho's expression as he had glanced at his friend. If it was anything, it was like an apology, he decided.
Bolitho had seen Jenour's desperate gaze but forgot him as the guns thundered again and recoiled on their tackles. Like demons the crews flung themselves to their tasks of sponging out the smoking muzzles, before ramming home fresh charges and finally the black, evil-looking shot. Their naked backs were begrimed from powder smoke, sweat cutting pale lines through it in spite of the bitter wind and floating droplets of spray.
There was blood on the deck too, while here and there great blackened scores cut across the usually immaculate planking, where French balls had come smashing inboard. One of the larboard eighteen-pounders had been upended and a man lay dying beneath its massive weight, his skin burning under the overheated barrel.
Others had been pulled aside to keep the deck clear for the small powder monkeys who scurried from gun to gun, not daring to look up as they dropped their charges and ran back for more.
Two corpses, so mutilated by flying metal that they were barely recognisable, were lifted momentarily above the nettings before being cast into the sea. Burial when it came was as ruthless as the death which had marked them down.
Bolitho took a telescope from its rack and stared at the other frigate until his eye throbbed. Like Truculent, she had been hit many times and her sails were shot through, some ripping apart to the pressure of the wind. Rigging, severed and untended, swayed from the yards like creeper, but her guns were still firing from every port and Bolitho could feel some of the iron hitting the lower hull. In the rare pauses, while men fell about their work like demented souls in hell, he could hear the telltale sound of pumps, and almost expected to hear Poland's incisive tones urging one of his lieutenants to bid them work all the harder.
The glass settled on the other frigate's poop and he saw her captain staring back at him through his own telescope. He shifted it slightly and saw dead and dying men around the wheel, and knew that some of Williams' double-shotted guns had reaped a terrible harvest.
But they must hurt her, slow her down before her guns could find some weakness in Truculent's defences.
He lowered the glass and yelled to Williams, "Point your guns abaft her mainmast and fire on the uproll! "
His words were lost in another ragged barrage, but a petty officer heard them, and knuckled his forehead as he dashed through the smoke to tell the first lieutenant.
He saw Williams peer aft and nod, his teeth very white in his bronzed face. Did he see his real chance of promotion now Poland was dead, as his captain had once done? Or did he only see the nearness of death?
Pieces of gangway burst from the side and scattered ripped and singed hammocks across the deck like faceless puppets. Metal clanged from one of the guns and men fell kicking and writhing as its splinters pitched them down in their own blood. One, the young midshipman named Brown whom Bolitho had seen joking with the first lieutenant, was hurled almost to the opposite side, most of his face shot away.
Bolitho thought wildly of Falmouth. He had seen enough stones there. This young fourteen-year-old midshipman would probably have one too when the news reached England. Who died for the Honour of his King and Country. What would his loved ones think if they had seen the "honour" of his death?
"Again, on the uproll! " Bolitho reeled back from the rail while the guns roared out. Some spars fell from the Frenchman's mizzen, and one of her topsails was reduced to floating ribbons. But the flag still flew, and the guns had not lost their fury.
Munro shouted, "She's closing the range, Sir Richard! "
Bolitho nodded, and winced as a ball slammed through an open port and cut a marine in half while he stood guarding the mainhatch. He saw Midshipman Fellowes stuffing his fist into his mouth to prevent himself from retching or screaming at the sight-he could be blamed for neither.
Munro lowered his glass. "T'other frigate is still adrift, Sir Richard, but they're cutting the wreckage clear."
"Yes. If she rejoins the fight before we can cripple the-"
There was a loud crack behind him and he heard more splinters whine through the air and thud into woodwork. He felt something strike his left epaulette, and rip it away to toss it to the deck like a contemptuous challenge. A foot lower, and the iron splinter would have cut through his heart. He reached out as Munro reeled against the side, his hand under his coat. He was gasping as if he had been punched in the stomach, and when Bolitho tore his hand away he saw the bright red blood running from his white waistcoat and breeches, even as Allday caught him and lowered him to the deck.