To Glory We Steer

4

 

THE SIGNAL

 

Bolitho steadied his, glasses against the weather rigging and waited for the other ship to leap into focus. In the time it had taken him to, walk from his cabin to the quarterdeck and listen to Herrick's excited report, the dawn sun had slowly clawed its way over the horizon so that already the endless waste of tossing whitecaps was touched with pale gold,, the shadows gone from the short, steep waves.

The other vessel made a fine sight in the strengthening light, he thought, with her tall pyramids of full sails and the unbroken curtain of spray bursting around the high bow. She was moving fast, her topmasts glittering in the weak sunlight like crucifixes.

Over his shoulder he called, `You have a good lookout, Mr. Herrick! He is to be complimented for such an early sighting.'

Even for a trained seaman it was not easy to pick out a ship from the shadows of night and dawn and identify her. She was English right enough, and there was a certain familiarity about her.

Vaguely in the background he could hear the boatswain's mates calling the hands, the shrill twitter of pipes.

`All hands! All hands! Show a leg!'

He could imagine the sleep-dazed men tumbling from their hammocks groaning and protesting, while from forward came the usual mixture of smells from the galley. Another day, but this time it would be different. The sea was no longer empty and hostile. The other ship might make the men remember that they were part of something real and important.

He saw the frigate's big yards begin to change shape and heard Herrick say, `She's going about, sir. She'll be up to us shortly!'

Bolitho nodded absently. The stranger would swing round to run parallel, keeping the Phalarope down to leeward. As Herrick had suggested, it might mean new orders.

He climbed down from the rigging suddenly chilled and tired. The keen spray had moulded his shirt to his body and his hair felt wet against his cheek. He noticed that his ship had changed yet again. The quarterdeck seemed thronged with figures, the officers keeping to the lee side, but with their glasses raised and watching the other frigate.

Midshipman Maynard looked anxiously towards the stranger and strained his eye through his big telescope. As he was in charge of signals he knew that Bolitho would be watching him.

The maindeck was also alive with newly awakened seamen, and the bosun''s mates had to, use their ropes ends more than usual to drive them away from the bulwark as they peered across the water at the frigate's approach. Chattering and excited they stowed their hammocks in the nettings and still staring abeam moved reluctantly towards the galley hatch.

Bolitho lifted his glass again as tiny black balls soared to the other ship's yards and broke out to the wind.

Vibart leaned against the binnacle and growled at Maynard, `Come on then! Read it out!'

Maynard blinked the spray from his wet eyes and flicked rapidly through his book. `She's made her number, sir! She's the Andiron, thirty-eight, Cap'n Masterman.'

Bolitho closed his glass with a snap. Of course. He should have known her immediately. When in Sparrow he had often seen her on patrol off the American coast. Masterman was an old hand at the game. A senior captain, he had chalked up many successes against the enemy.

The Andiron had completed her manoeuvre and was setaling down on the same course as the Phalarope. Her sudden wide turn had taken her across the Phalarope's beam, but as her sails bellied and filled once more she began to overhaul to

windward.

Bolitho watched Maynard's signal party hoisting the Phalarope's number and wondered what Masterman would say when he eventually discovered that he was now in command. The signal books would still show Pomfret as cap

tain.

Maynard shouted, `Signal, sir! Andiron to Phalarope. Heave to, have despatches onboard.’

The sunlight glittered along the Andiron's closed ports as she swung slightly down on the other ship.

Herrick said, `She'll not need to lower 'a boat, sir. She could drift a raft across.' He rubbed -his hands. `I wonder if she has any fresh vegetables aboard?'

Bolitho smiled. This was just what he had hoped for. A distraction to take their minds off themselves if only for a passing moment.

`Carry on, Mr. Vibart. Heave to, if you please!'

Vibart lifted his speaking trumpet. `Main tops'l braces! Look alive there!'

Stockdale appeared at Bolitho's side holding his captain's blue coat and cocked hat. He squinted at the other ship and grinned. `Like old times, Captain.' He peered forward as Quintal, the boatswain, let loose a stream of curses and obscenities. The men had been slow to respond to the sudden orders, and already there was chaos on the crowded deck where off-duty idlers collided with others who were struggling with spray-swollen braces.

Maynard said hoarsely, `Signal, sir!' His lips moved slowly as he spelled out the message. `Have you news of Hood's squadron?

Quintal had at last got his men sorted out, and with sails flapping and thundering the Phalarope began to swing heavily into the wind.

Bolitho had half slipped his arms into his coat, but pushed Stockdale aside as Maynard's words chilled his mind like ice. Masterman would never ask such a question. Even if he had lost his squadron he would certainly know that Phalarope was a stranger and had never served in these waters before. His mind, rebelled, and he stared mesmerised as his ship continued to swing until the Andiron's bowsprit seemed to point at rightangles across his own.

Vibart turned startled and confused as Bolitho yelled, 'Belay that order, Mr. Vibart! Stand by to go about!'     -

He ignored the surprised gasps and the fresh clamour of orders and concentrated his reeling thoughts on the other ship. Suppose he had made a mistake? It. was too late now. Perhaps it had been too late from the moment the Andiron had appeared.

Then he saw the other frigate's bows beginning to swing round still further. With her yards turning as one she altered course and charged down towards the helpless Phalarope. A few more seconds and the way would have been lost from the Phalarope's sails, and the Andiron would have crossed her unprotected stern, unchallenged and overwhelming.

Bolitho felt his ship labouring round, his ears deaf to the cries and curses from officers and men alike. The weeks of sail drill in all weathers were taking charge, and like puppets the seamen tugged at sheets and braces, their minds too dazed by their captain's behaviour to understand what was happening.

VVibart yelled, 'My God, sir! We'll collide!' He stared past Bolitho's tense figure towards the onrushing frigate. Still the phalarope wallowed round, her bowsprit following the other ship like a compass needle.

Bolitho snapped, `Steer south-east! Out second reefs!' He did not listen to his repeated orders but walked briskly towards the scarlet-coated marine drummer boy beside the cabin hatch.

`Beat to quarters!'

He saw the boy's dull expression giving way to something like horror. But again training and discipline took charge, and as the drum began to stutter its warning tattoo the tide of men on the maindeck swayed, faltered and then surged in opposite directions as gun crews rushed madly to their weapons.

Vibart gasped, `Her ports are opening! My God, she's running up her colours!'

Bolitho saw the striped flag breaking to the crosswind and followed Vibart's shocked stare as the frigate's ports opened and the concealed guns trundled outwards like a row of shining teeth.

He said harshly, `Clear for action, Mr. Wart! Have the guns loaded and run out immediately!' He checked Vibart as he ran to the rail. `It will take all of ten minutes. I will try to give you that amount of time!'

The deck canted as the ship steadied on her new course around and away from the other frigate. But the Andiron was already turning on the same circle, her sails flapping as she headed into the wind in an effort to close the range. From her peak the new American flag made a patch of bright colour against the tan sails, and Bolitho had to tear his mind back to the present to stop himself thinking of what would have happened but for that one stupid signal.

Andiron would have crossed the Phalarope's unprotected stern and her gunners, hitherto concealed behind the bulwark and sealed ports, would have poured shot after shot through the big cabin windows. The balls would have screamed and torn the full length of his command, and with half the men still below, helpless and unprepared, the disaster would have been over within minutes.

Even now it might be too late. Andiron was a bigger ship, and her deep keel was better for this sort of handling. Already she was cutting across the Phalarope's stern and beating rapidly up to windward to regain her first advantage. In another fifteen minutes she would try the same manoeuvre again, or she could be content to close the range from the larboard quarter. With the wind in her favour action could not be avoided.

He made himself walk to the taffrail and stare back at the other ship. The pretence had gone now, and he could see the crouching gunners, the clusters of officers on the canting quarterdeck. What had happened to Masterman? he wondered. He were better dead than know his proud ship to be a privateer.

He turned his back on the Andiron's dark hull and looked along his own command. The chaos had gone, and to the unpractised eye the , hip looked ready and eager for battle.

On both sides the guns had been run out and the gun captains were testing their trigger lines and passing hoarse orders to their men. Boys ran the length of the deck throwing down sand to give the gunners a firm grip when the time came, while others scuttled from gun to gun with water buckets for the swabs and to damp down any sudden fire.

Vibart stood below the quarterdeck rail and yelled, `Cleared for action, sir! All guns loaded with double shot and grape!'

`Very well, Mr. Vibart.' Bolitho walked slowly towards the rail and ran his eye along the larboard side guns. They would be the first to engage. His heart sank as he picked out faults; in the pattern like flaws in a painting.

At one gun a captain was even having to put a rope fall into the hands of one of his men, as the poor wretch stared at it without comprehension. His mind was too full of fear, his eyes too mesmerised by the overtaking frigate with her long row of guns to heed what the petty officer was saying. At each gun there were men like this. With so many new hands, pressed from unwarlike jobs ashore, this danger was inevitable.

Given time, he could have trained each and every one of them. Bolitho banged his fist slowly on the rail. Well, there was no more time. Andiron not only had more guns, but they were eighteen-pounders against Phalarope's twelve-pounders. Most of her crew would no doubt be made up of English deserters and seasoned sailors who were no strangers to battle. Any crew which could take the Andiron from Captain Masterman was a force to be feared.

At his back Captain Rennie stood nonchalantly by the hammock nettings, his sword looped to his wrist with a gold lanyard, as he watched Sergeant Garwood dressing his men into neat scarlet ranks. There was something very reassuritt about the marines, Bolitho thought grimly, but their muskets would not be much use against eighteen-pounders!

All at once the remorse and despair he had been endurii since the Andiron's first treachery had shown with her fl,' gave way to something like blind rage. It was too late for th,,

,if onlys' and the `maybes'. He had brought his ship and hi,', men to this. His was the sole responsibility. He had recognise the American's trap just in time to save them all from the firs( blow, but he should have seen it earlier.

He walked to the rail and shouted along the deck, 'NoW listen to me, men! In a few moments we are going to give bat, tle to that ship!' He saw every face turned towards him, bal already they had lost meaning and personality. They were ;{ crew. Good or bad, only time would show. But that they should all trust him was essential.

`Just take your time and obey orders, no matter what iy happening around you! Each gun is, fitted with the nevi flintlock, but make sure there is a slow-match at hand in cast, of failure!'

He saw Okes look across from the starboard battery tc where Herrick waited by his own guns. A quick exchange of glances which might have meant anything.

He felt Stockdale slipping the coat over his shoulders and then the firm clasp of the swordbelt around his waist. He watched the powerful frigate plunging over towards the lax, board quarter, his eyes gauging the speed and the distance.

`One more thing!' He leaned forward as if to will them to listen. `This is a King's ship! There will be no surrender!'

He thrust his hands beneath the tails of his coat and walked slowly to the weather rail. It would not be long now. He looked across to Proby's shabby outline beside the wheel. `In a moment we will beat to windward, Mr. Proby.' He heard a mumbled assent and wondered what the master would make of his order.

The American captain would no doubt expect the smaller ship to turn again and try to slip downwind, and as soon as she turned he would pour a full broadside into the Phalarope's stern, as he had first intended. Bolitho's manoeuvre would bring the Phalarope round towards the other ship, and with luck Herrick might be able to get in the first blood.

He saw the flash of sunlight on a telescope from the Andiron's quarterdeck and knew the other captain was watching ?'nn.

`Stand by, Mr. Proby!' He lifted his hat and yelled along the maindeck, `Right, lads! A broadside for old England!'

With a protesting groan the yards came round, while overhead the canvas thundered like a miniature battle. Bolitho found that his mouth was as dry as sand, and his face felt chilled into a tight mask.

This was the moment.

 

John Allday crouched beside the second gun of the larboard battery and stared fixedly through the open port. In spite of the cool morning breeze he was already sweating and his heart pumped against his ribs like the beating of a drum.

It was like being a helpless victim of a nightmare, with every detail clear and stark even before it happened. Somehow he imagined it would be different this time, but nothing had changed. He could have been sailing into battle for the first time, new and untried, with the agony of suspense tearing him apart.

He tore his eyes from the open square of water and glanced back across his shoulder. The same men who had jeered Ferguson or ringed Evans in menacing silence now stood or crouched like himself, slaves to their guns, their faces naked and fearful.

Standing a little apart from the battery, his back to the foremast, Lieutenant Herrick was watching the quarterdeck, his fingers resting on his sword, his bright blue eyes unwinking and devoid of expression.

Allday followed the officer's stare and saw the captain at the quarterdeck rail, his palms resting on the smooth wood, his head jutting slightly as he watched the other ship. The latter was almost hidden from Allday by the high bulwark and gangway and the other guns, but he could see her topmasts and straining, sails as she bore down on the larboard quarter, until she seemed to hang over the Phalarope like a cliff.

Pryce, the gun captain, slung the powder horn over his hip and squatted carefully behind the breech, the trigger line in his hands. Through his teeth his voice sounded strange and taut. `Now, lads, listen to me! We'll be firing a broadside first.' He looked at each man in turn, ignoring the other gunners at the next port. `After that it will all depend on how quickly we load and run out. So move sharply, and as the cap'n said, take no notice of the din about you, got it?'

Ferguson clung to the -rope tackle at the side of the gun and gasped, `I can't take it! God, I can't stand this waiting!'

Pochin on the opposite side of the breech sneered, `Just as I said! It takes more than pretty clothing to make men of the likes o' you!' He jerked savagely at the tackle. `If you'd seen what I've seen you'd die of fear, man.' He looked around at the others. `I've seen whole fleets at each others' throats.' He let his words sink in. `The sea covered in masts, like a forest!'

Pryce snapped, `Hold your noise!'

He cocked his head as Herrick called, `Gun captains! As soon as we engage on the larboard side send your best men to back up the other battery under Mr. Okes!'

The captains held up their hands and then turned back to watch the empty sea.

Allday looked across at Okes and saw the officer's face gleaming with sweat. He looked white. Like a corpse already, he thought.

Vibart's voice rang hollowly through his speaking trumpet. `Braces there! Stand by to wear ship!'

Allday ran his fingers along the cold breech and whispered fervently, `Come on! Get it over with!'

The Phalarope was outclassed and outgunned, even he could see that. With half her men already too terrified to think it was just a matter of how soon her colours would fall.

He glanced down at his legs and felt a chill of terror. It never left him, and the years on the quiet Cornish hillside amongst the sheep had done nothing to dispel it. The fear of mutilation, and the horror of what followed.

Old Strachan called softly from the next gun, ` 'Ere, you lads!' He waited until his words had penetrated the minds of the new men. `Wrap a neckscarf around yer ears afore we start to blow! You'll 'ave no eardrums else!'

Allday nodded. He had forgotten that lesson. If only they had been prepared and ready. Instead they had stumbled out from their hammocks and almost at once the nightmare had begun. First the excitement of a friendly ship, fading instantly in the drummer's roll as the men ran gasping and wide-eyed to quarters. He could just see the same little drummer boy beside one rank of marines. He was staring across at the captain as if to read his own fate.

Pryce muttered, `Never bin in a fight like this afore.' He looked up at the billowing sails. 'Too much wind. It'll be hit hard an' run, you mark my words!'

There was a rasp of steel as Herrick drew his sword. He lifted it above his head, the blade holding the sun like firelight.

`Stand by in the larboard battery!'

Ferguson moaned softly, `Oh, Grace! Where are you, Grace?'

From aft Vibart bellowed, `Put the helm down! Hard down there!'      -

They all felt the deck begin to cant further as the seamen forward let go the headsail sheets and allowed the plunging frigate to swing wildly across the wind.

Allday swallowed hard as the gunport suddenly darkened and the other ship's raked bow pushed across his vision. She filled the port, her guns and spray-soaked hull leaning at an angle as if to reach out and smash the Phalarope as she swung impudently towards her.

Herrick dropped his sword. `Fire!'

The captains jerked their lines and the whole world fell apart in the staggering, uneven broadside. Choking smoke billowed back through the ports, rasping the lungs and filling every eye as the guns lurched angrily back on their tackles. It was like hell, too terrible to understand.

But already the gun captains were yelling like fiends, urging and hitting at their stunned gunners as the powder monkeys ran forward with fresh cartridges and new, gleaming balls were lifted from the racks.

Pryce knocked down a man's arm and screamed, `Sponge out, you bastard! Remember what I taught you! You'll blow us all up if you drop a charge into a burning gun!' The man mumbled dazedly and obeyed him as if in a trance.

Herrick shouted, `Reload there! Lively, lads!'

Allday waited a few more minutes and then threw his weight on the tackles. Squealing like angry pigs the gun trucks rumbled forward again, the muzzles racing each other to be first through the ports.

But the Phalarope was almost into the Andiron's bow. A few more feet and it seemed as if both ships would smash into each other, to die together in locked combat.

`Fire!'

Again the savage roar of a broadside, the deck yawing away beneath them with its force. But this time more ragged, less well aimed. Through the din of shouts and groaning spars Allday heard some of the balls strike home, and saw Maynard, one of the midshipmen, waving his hat in the streaming smoke and yelling to the sky, his words lost in the guns' roar.

The Andiron must have fired simultaneously, with the Phalarope, her gunfire lost in the general thunder of noise.

There was more of a feeling than a sound, like a hot wind, or sand blasted across a parched desert.

Allday looked up as the sails jerked and twisted as if in agony. Holes were appearing everywhere, and from high aloft came a falling tangle of severed halyards and ropes. A block dropped on to the breech with a loud clang, and Pryce said without looking up from his priming, `The bastards fired too

soon! The broadside went right over our;'eads!'

Allday peered through the port, still dazed, but understand

ing at last what Bolitho had done. The Phalarope had not turned away, had not offered her stern for punishment. Her sudden swing to attack had caught the enemy off balance, and rather than risk a senseless collision he had hauled off so that his first broadside had failed to make real contact.

He heard Herrick call across to Lieutenant Okes, `By God, Matthew, that was a close thing!' Then in a wilder tone, `Look at the masthead pendant! The wind's veering!'

There was bedlam as the enemy ship swung rapidly clear of the charging Phalarope. But so sudden or so unexpected was the attack that the Andiron's captain had failed to notice what Bolitho must already have seen even as he steered towards possible disaster.

Instead of beating back to windward the Andiron met the full wind hard across her larboard bow. For a moment it looked as if she would rally and at worst come crashing back alongside.

Herrick was jumping with excitement. `My God, she's in irons! She's in irons!'

Men were standing beside their guns calling the news along the deck while across the water, framed 'in a rolling bank of gunsmoke, the Andiron rolled helplessly up wind, unable to pay off on either tack. Already men were running along her yards, and across the shadowed water they could hear the blare of commands through a speaking trumpet.

Herrick controlled himself. `Over to the starboard battery. Jump to it!'

Pryce touched the men he needed and scampered across the deck.

From aft came the call, -'Stand by to go about! Man the braces!'

Allday threw himself down beside the opposite gun and showed his teeth to the crouching men.

Old Strachan croaked, `The cap'n can certainly 'andle the ship well enough.'

Okes shouted, 'Silence there! Watch your frontP

Herrick walked to the centre of the deck and watched the carpenter and the boatswain hurrying to repair the brief damage. Men were already climbing aloft to splice the severed lines, and others were at last rigging nets above the maindeck to give some protection from falling blocks or spars.

Round came the yards once more, sails thundering, braces screaming through the blocks as the men ran like goats to obey the consthnt demands from the quarterdeck.

It did not seem possible. Caught and surprised one instant, and the next moment they were not only attacking, but hitting the enemy again and again.

Bolitho must have thought it all out. Must have planned and schemed during his lonely walks up and down the nightdarkened deck, waiting for just an eventuality.

He could see him now, calm-eyed and stiff-backed behind the rail, his hands behind his back as he watched the other ship. Once during the waiting Herrick had seen him wipe his forehead, momentarily brushing away the lock of dark hair and displaying the deep, savage scar. He had seen Herrick watching him and had jammed on his hat with something like anger.

Herrick ran his eye along his own guns, now manned by depleted crews and blind to the enemy as the Phalarope tacked round to close the range. He had heard Pochin's bitter remarks and had seen the way Allday had rallied to help the new men. It was strange how they all forgot their other worries when real danger was close and terrible.

It was true that the ship was different under Bolitho. And it went deeper than the uniform clothing now worn by all hands, issued on Bolitho's order to replace the stained rags which had been commonplace in Pomfret's time. There was this violent uncertainty instead of sullen acceptance, as if the men wanted to draw together to match the young captain's enthusiasm, yet had forgotten how to go about it.

Okes said sharply, `She's under way again! She's swinging round!'

The Andiron's sails were flapping and banging in apparent confusion, but Herrick could see the difference in her outline and the new angle of her yards.

Bolitho's voice cut through their speculations. `Another salvo, lads! Before she completes her turn!'

Herrick breathed out_ sharply. `He's going to try and cross her stern! He'll never make it. We'll be broadside to broadside in minutes!'

The wild confidence which their successful attack had brought him changed to the chill of uncertainty as the phalarope gathered way, her masts and spars quivering under the press of sail. He gripped his sword more tightly and gritted his teeth as once more the enemy topsails showed above the hammock nettings. The masts were no longer in line, she was swinging fast and well. There was nothing else for it but to take what had to come.

Okes could only stare at the oncoming ship, his jaw open as the distance was swallowed up in the gap of tossing water between them. He held up his sword. `Stand by starboard battery!' But his voice was lost in a savage ripple of gunfire from the other ship as gun after gun belched fire and smoke from aft to forward as each one came to bear.

This time there was, no mistake.

Herrick felt the hull shudder beneath his feet and reeled against the foremast as smoke blotted out the deck and the air became full of splintering woodwork and falling rigging. Above and around him the air quivered and shook with the crash of guns, and the nerve jarring scream of cannon balls as they whipped through the smoke like things from hell.

The scream of passing shots mingled with closer, more unearthly sounds as flying, splinters ripped into the packed gunners and bathed the smooth decks with scarlet. Herrick had to bite his lip to retain control of himself. He had seen men bleed before. In an occasional skirmish, and under the cat. From a fall or a shipboard accident. But this was different. It was all around him, as if the ship was being painted by a madman. He could see specks of blood and gristle across his white breeches, and when he looked across at the nearest gun he saw that it had been upended and one of its crew had been pulped into a scarlet and purple mass. Another man lay legless, a handspike still gripped and ready, and two of his companions were clinging together screaming and tearing at each other's terrible wounds in the insane torment.

The enemy frigate must have reloaded almost at once, and another ragged volley thundered and crashed in the Phalarope's side.

Men cried and yelled, cursed and fumbled blindly in the choking smoke, while above their heads the nets jerked and danced madly to the onslaught of falling gear from aloft.

A powder monkey ran weeping towards the magazine hatch, only to be pushed away by one of the marine sentries. He had dropped his cartridge carrier and was running below, to the safety of darkness. But the sentry yelled at him and then struck at him with his musket. The boy reeled back and then seemed to come to his senses. With a sniff he picked up his carrier and made for the nearest gun.

There was a scream of shot, and Herrick turned biting back vomit as the eighteen-pound shot cut the boy in half. The head and shoulders remained upright on the planking for several seconds, and before he turned away Herrick saw that the boy's eyes were still open and staring.

He cannoned into Okes who still stood with upraised sword, his eyes fixed and glassy as he gaped at the remains of his battery.

Herrick shouted, 'Fire, Matthew! Give the order!'

Okes dropped his sword and here and there a gun lurched back adding its voice to the dreadful symphony.

Okes said, `We're done for! We'll have to strike!'

'Strike?' Herrick stared at him. All at once the reality was cruel and personal again. Death and surrender had always been words, a necessary but unlikely alternative to victory. He looked towards the quarterdeck at Bolitho's tall figure and the marines beyond. The latter must have been firing their muskets for some while, yet Herrick had not even noticed. He saw Sergeant Garwood with his half-pike dressing one rank where two red-coated bodies had left gaps in the line, while he called out the time and numbers to his men as they reloaded and fired another volley into the smoke. Captain Rennie had his back to the enemy and was staring across the other rail as if seeing the sea for the first time.

Pryce, the gun captain, gave one long scream and fell backwards at Herrick's feet. A long splinter had been torn from the deck and had embedded itself in the man's shoulder. Through the blood Herrick could see the thick stump of jagged timber sticking out like a tooth, and knew that the other end would be deep inside. The splinters were always the most dangerous and had to be cut out from the flesh in one piece.

Herrick gestured towards the men by the main hatch. 'Take this one below to the surgeon!' They had been staring at a pulped corpse beside the hatch, its teeth white against the flayed flesh, and Herrick's harsh tone seemed to give them strength to break the spell.

Pryce began to scream. 'No! Leave me here by the gun! For God's sake, don't take me below!'

One of the men whispered, "Fs a brave 'un! 'E don't want to leave 'is station!'

Pochin spat on the gun and watched the spittle hissing on the barrel. 'Squit! 'E'd rather die up 'ere than face the butcher's knife.'

There was a splintering crack, like that of a coach whip, high overhead, and as Herrick squinted up through the drift ing smoke he saw the maintopgallant quiver, and then as the wind tore jubilantly at the released canvas it began to slide forward.

Herrick cupped his hands. `Look alive, you men! Get aloft and cut those shrouds! It'll foul the foremast otherwise!'

He saw Quintal and some seamen running up the shrouds and then winced as another cannon ball ploughed along the deck by his feet and smashed into two wounded gunners beside the lee bulwark. He looked away, sickened, and heard  Vibart yell, 'Heads below! The t'gallant is falling!'

With a jarring crash the long spar pitched over the bulwark and remained trapped and tangled in a mass of rigging, the torn sail ballooning in the water alongside and dragging at the ship like a sea anchor.

To add to the horror, Herrick could see the man, Betts, the one who had first sighted the other frigate, pinned in the trailing rigging like an insect in a web.

Vibart yelled, 'Axes there! Cut that wreckage adrift!'

Betts stared up at the frigate with glazed eyes, his voice short and painful between his teeth. 'Help me! Don't let me go to the bottom, lads!'

But already the axes were at work, the :men driven half mad by the din, too dazed to care for the suffering of one more seaman.

Okes seized Herrick's arm. 'Why doesn't he strike? For Christ's sake look what he's doing to us!'

Herrick's mind was dulled and refused to work clearly any more. But he could see what Okes was trying to show him. The heart had gone out of the men, what heart there had been. They crouched and whimpered as the enemy balls thundered all around them, and only occasionally did a single gun reply. Then it was usually a small handful of men led by one seasoned and dedicated gun captain which kept up a onesided exchange with the enemy.

Herrick shut his ears to the screaming wounded as they were dragged below and closed his eyes to everything but the small open patch of quarterdeck where Bolitho stood alone by the rail. His hat had gone and his coat was stained with powder and blown spray. Even as he watched Herrick saw a messenger run towards the captain, only to be cut down by musket fire from the other vessel as she loomed sideways out of the smoke. Musket balls were thudding against the hammock nettings and biting across the deck, yet Bolitho never budged, nor did he alter his expression of detached determination.

Only once did he look up, and then to glance at the large scarlet ensign which streamed from the gaff, as if to reassure himself that it still flew.

Herrick shook his head. `He'll not strike! He'll see us all dead first!'