Bolitho said quietly, “We will meet again, my friend. And things may be a little different.”

Eighteen days after seeing the Auriga strike her colours to the enemy, Broughton’s squadron dropped anchor at Gibraltar. Due to the loss of time incurred at the start of the voyage while the admiral had exercised the ships in his plan of battle, the arrival beneath the Rock’s great shadow was even later than Bolitho had anticipated. They had been beset by constantly shifting winds, and once when some ninety miles west of Lisbon had been forced to ride out a storm of such swift and savage intensity that the Zeus had lost six men overboard. And yet the very next day had found all the ships floating helplessly in a dead calm, their sails flat and devoid of any movement while the sun made the daily routine almost unbearable.

Now, with awnings rigged and gunports open to a lazy offshore breeze, the squadron rested beneath the afternoon glare, their boats plying back and forth to the land like busy water-beetles.

Bolitho entered his cabin where all the other captains had been summoned within an hour of anchoring. They looked tired and strained after the voyage, and the swift pattern of events which had followed their arrival at Gibraltar had left none of them much time for rest.

Needless to say, it was Rattray of the Zeus who was the first to speak.

“Who is this fellow with the admiral? Does anyone know him, eh?”

Captain Furneaux of the Valorous took a glass of wine from the cabin servant and eyed it critically.

“Don’t look much of a diplomat, if you ask me.” He turned his haughty face towards Bolitho. “In war we seem to attract the oddest sort of advisers, what?” Bolitho smiled and nodded to the others and then walked to the open stern windows. On the far side of the bay, quivering and misty in haze, was Algeciras, where already many telescopes would be trained on the British squadron, and messengers riding to carry the news inland to the garrisons.

The visitor aboard the flagship, the man whose sudden and unheralded appearance was causing such speculation, was certainly unusual. He had come offshore in the Governor’s launch and had swarmed up through the entry port almost before the side party had got into position to receive him.

Dressed in well cut and expensive coat and breeches, he had snapped, “No need for all this sort of thing. No damn time to waste!”

His name was Sir Hugo Draffen, and in spite of his dress and title he looked like a man who was more accustomed to hard activity and physical effort rather than one of more leisurely pursuits. Thickset, even squat, his face was very tanned, his eyes surrounded with tiny wrinkles as if well used to the sun and more severe climates than Whitehall.

Broughton, called hastily from his quarters where he had spent most of the remainder of the voyage, had been strangely quiet, even subservient towards his guest, and Bolitho imagined there was far more to Draffen than anyone of them yet realised.

Captain Gillmor of the frigate Coquette, sent on ahead of the squadron in search of fresh information, said gloomily, “He came aboard my ship when I anchored.” He was a lanky, even ungainly young man, and his long face was frowning as he relived the meeting with Draffen. “When I suggested I should return and contact the squadron he told me not to bother.” He shuddered.

“And when I asked him why, he told me to mind my own damn business!”

Falcon of the Tanais put down his glass and said grimly, “At least you were spared seeing Auriga’s disgrace.” The others looked at him and at each other. It was the first time it had been mentioned.

Bolitho said, “I doubt that we will be in suspense much longer.” He wondered briefly if the others had noticed his exclusion from the talk now going on in Broughton’s cabin beneath his feet. It was unusual, but then, so it appeared, was Draffen.

Gillmor said sharply, “Had I been there, I’d have sunk both of

’em rather than let such a thing occur.” Furneaux drawled, “But you were not there, young fellow, so you are conveniently spared any of the blame, eh?”

“That will do, gentlemen.” Bolitho stepped between them, aware of the sudden tension. “What happened, happened. Recriminations will help no one, unless they are used to act as a guard and a warning.” He looked at each of them in turn. “We will have plenty of work to do before long, so save your energy for that.”

The doors opened and Broughton, followed by Draffen and the flag-lieutenant, entered the cabin.

Broughton nodded curtly. “Be seated, gentlemen.” He shook his head as the servant offered him a glass. “Wait outside until I have finished.”

Bolitho noticed that Draffen had gone to the stern windows, either disinterested in what was happening or placing himself where he could see their faces without being observed himself.

Broughton cleared his throat and glanced at Draffen’s squat figure, almost black against the sunlit windows.

“As you are well aware, our fleet has been excluded from the Mediterranean since the close of last year. Bonaparte’s advances and conquests in Italy and Genoa closed all harbours against us, and it was found necessary to withdraw.” Draffen crossed from the window. It was a quick, agile movement, and his words matched his obvious impatience.

“If I may interrupt, Sir Lucius?” He turned his back on Broughton without awaiting a reply. “We will cut this short. I have little use for the Navy’s indulgence in its own affairs.” He smiled, the wrinkles around his eyes pulling together like crow’s-feet. “England is alone in a war against a dedicated and, if you will pardon the expression, a professional adversary. With the fleets of France and Spain combining at Brest for one great attack, and then invasion of England, the withdrawal of ships to reinforce the Channel and Atlantic fleets seemed not only prudent but greatly urgent.”

Bolitho eyed Broughton narrowly, expecting some sign of anger or resentment, but his face was like stone.

Draffen continued briskly, “Jervis’s victory over that combined fleet at St Vincent has postponed, maybe smashed altogether, any chance of a military invasion across the English Channel, and has also proved the poorness of co-operation between the Franco–

Spanish Alliance at sea. So it would seem sensible to assume that Bonaparte will spread his influence elsewhere, and soon.” Broughton said suddenly, “Shall I continue?”

“If you wish.” Draffen took out a watch. “But please be quick.” Broughton swallowed hard. “This squadron will be the first force of any size to re-enter the Mediterranean.” He got no further.

“Look at this chart, gentlemen.” Draffen snatched it from Lieutenant Calvert’s hand and opened it on the table.

As the others crowded closer Bolitho darted another glance at Broughton. He looked pale, and for a few seconds he saw his eyes gleaming with anger across Draffen’s broad back.

“Here, two hundred and fifty miles along the Spanish coast is Cartagena, where many of their ships were based prior to sailing for Brest.” Bolitho followed the man’s spatulate finger as it crossed southward over the Mediterranean to the craggy outline of the Algerian coast. “South-east from Spain, a mere one hundred and fifty miles, lies Djafou.”

Bolitho realised with a start that Draffen was looking up at him, his eyes very still and intent.

“Do you know it, Captain?”

“By reputation, sir. Once the lair of Barbary pirates, I believe.

A good natural harbour, and little else.” Draffen smiled, but his eyes were still unblinking. “The Dons seized it some years ago to protect their own coast trade. Now that they are allied to the French its harbour may be seen in another light entirely.”

Rattray asked gruffly, “As a base, sir?”

“Maybe.” Draffen straightened his back. “But my agents have reported some comings and goings from Cartagena. It would be well if our re-entry to the Mediterranean was given a purpose, something positive.” He tapped the chart again. “Your admiral knows what is expected of him, but I will tell you now that I intend to see our flag over Djafou, and without too much delay.” In the sudden silence Broughton said stiffly, “My squadron is under strength, sir.” He glanced away and added, “However, if you think . . .”

Draffen nodded firmly. “Indeed I do think, Sir Lucius. I have made arrangements for bomb vessels from Lisbon. They will be here within a day or so.” His tone hardened. “If the fleet at Spithead and the Nore had been less concerned with their own domestic affairs I daresay your squadron would be fifteen or even twenty sail-of-the-line instead of four.” He shrugged. “And having only one frigate now . . .” He shrugged again, dismissing it.

“But that remains your own concern.” He snapped his fingers.

“Now, I suggest a toast, so get that servant in here.” He grinned at their mixed expressions. “After that, there will be plenty to do.” He looked again at Bolitho. “You say very little, Captain.” Broughton snapped, “I will instruct my flag captain in my own way, if you please, Sir Hugo.”

“As it should be.” Draffen remained smiling. “However, I will be joining the squadron for some of the time.” He took a glass from the servant, adding, “Just to ensure that your way is also mine, eh?”

Bolitho turned away, his mind already busy with Draffen’s brisk but extremely sparse information.

It was good news indeed to know that British ships would be attacking the southern approaches of Bonaparte’s growing empire once again. To take and hold a new and strategically placed base for the fleet was a plan of both skill and imagination.

But if on the other hand Broughton’s squadron was being used merely as a cat’s-paw, a means to make the enemy withdraw forces back to the Mediterranean on a large scale, things might go badly for all of them.

There was no doubting Draffen’s authority, although what his exact status was remained a mystery. Maybe the news had already reached him of a worsening situation at the Nore. The sacrifice of this small squadron to ease enemy pressure around the Channel ports would seem no worse than Taylor’s death had measured with Broughton himself.

Whatever had been already decided, Bolitho knew that he would be directly involved in each part of it. The outlook should have cheered him, but the thought of having Broughton and Draffen in overall control was another prospect entirely.

Broughton had moved away to talk with Furneaux, and Draffen crossed to Bolitho’s side, obviously about to take his leave.

He said, “Glad to have met you, Captain. I think we are going to get on very well together.” He signalled to Calvert and then added calmly, “As a matter of fact, I used to know your brother.” Then he swung on his heel and made his way to Broughton and the others.

BOLITHO did not see Sir Hugo Draffen again for three days. But he was kept too busy with affairs aboard the Euryalus and the other ships of the squadron to find much time for speculation over his parting remarks.

The fact that he had known Hugh implied that Draffen had lived or worked in the West Indies or even America during the Revolution there. Otherwise there seemed little point in being so secretive about the meeting. Draffen had the mark of a trader, one of the sort who helped create colonies merely by finding a personal reason for making money. He was shrewd and, Bolitho imagined, not a little ruthless when it suited him.

Bolitho knew there might be nothing more in Draffen’s remarks than a first move in making contact between them. If they were going to work in harmony over the next weeks or months, it was a natural thing to expect of him. But the caution built up in Bolitho over the years since his brother’s change of allegiance had made him sensitive to a point of being over-cautious whenever Hugh’s name was mentioned.

There was much to do. Taking on extra stocks of food and water for the coming voyage and gathering any additional equipment which could be begged, borrowed or bribed from the Rock.

Once abroad in the Mediterranean they would be without base or supplies, other than that which they might seize for themselves.

And there was now an additional, more pressing need for self dependence. Two days after anchoring Bolitho had seen a sloop of war tack busily into the bay carrying, it was said, despatches and news from England.

Eventually Broughton had sent for him, his features grim as he had said, “The mutiny at the Nore is worse. Nearly every ship is in the hands of the delegates. ” He had spat out the word like poison. “They’re blockading the river and holding the government to ransom until their demands are met.” Broughton had jumped to his feet and moved restlessly about his cabin like a caged animal.

“Admiral Duncan was blockading the Dutch coast. What can he do with most of his ships at anchor and under the flag of revolution?”

“I will inform the other captains, sir.”

“Yes, at once. That sloop is returning to England at once with despatches, so there is little fear of our people being inflamed.” He added slowly, “I have included in my report the details of the Auriga’s loss. It might suit the French to use her for spying, so the sooner our ships are aware of her new identity the better. We do not know yet that she did strike her colours in mutiny.” He had not looked at Bolitho. “All her officers may have been killed or disabled as she closed for boarding. In the confusion she could have been overwhelmed.” He had obviously not believed it any more than Bolitho.

Nevertheless, there was sufficient doubt to allow Broughton to make the evasive comments in his report. The news of a British ship changing sides for any reason at a moment like this might spark off even worse troubles in the fleet, if that were possible.

Broughton had been content to give more and more work to Bolitho while the squadron completed its preparations for sailing.

The news from the Nore, coupled with the Auriga’s loss, had made a deep and noticeable impression on him. He seemed withdrawn, and, when alone with Bolitho, less composed than ever before. His experiences at Spithead aboard his own flagship had obviously scarred him deeply, as Rook had once suggested.

He spent a good deal of his time ashore, conferring with Draffen or the Governor but always went alone, keeping his thoughts to himself.

Lieutenant Calvert seemed unable to do anything right for his admiral, and his life was fast becoming a nightmare. Highbred he might be, but he seemed completely incapable of grasping the daily affairs of signals and directives which passed through his hands for the captains of the squadron.

Bolitho suspected that Broughton used his flag-lieutenant to work off some of his own nagging uncertainties. If it was his idea to make Calvert’s existence a misery he was certainly succeeding.

It was pitiful to hear Midshipman Tothill explaining respectfully but firmly the rights and wrongs of signal procedure to him, and, almost worse, Calvert’s obvious gratitude. Not that it helped him very much. Any sudden burst of anger from Broughton and Calvert’s latest hoard of knowledge seemed to dissipate to the wind forever.

On the afternoon of the third day, as Bolitho was discussing the preparations with Keverne, the officer of the watch reported that the two bomb vessels were arriving and already dropping anchor close inshore.

Shortly afterwards a launch grappled alongside and her coxswain passed a sealed letter aboard for Bolitho’s attention. It was from Draffen, and typically brief. Bolitho was to meet him aboard the Hekla, one of the bombs, immediately. He would come by way of the launch which had brought the letter.

Broughton was ashore, so after giving Keverne his instructions Bolitho clambered into the boat to be rowed to the Hekla for the meeting.

Allday watched him leave with ill-disguised annoyance. For Bolitho to use anything but his own barge was unthinkable, and as the launch pulled away from the Euryalus’s side he felt a sudden pang of anxiety. If anything ever happened to Bolitho, and he was suddenly like this, alone . . . What would he do? He was still staring after the boat as it vanished around the Zeus’s stern, his eyes unusually troubled.

In all his service Bolitho had never before laid eyes on a bomb vessel, although he had heard of them often enough. The one towards which the launch was moving with such haste was much as he had expected. Two masted and about a hundred feet in length, with a very sturdy hull and low bulwarks. Her oddest characteristic was the uneven placing of her foremast. It was stepped well back from the stemhead, leaving the ship with an unbalanced appearance, as if her real foremast had been shot away level with the deck.

Almost as large as a sloop, yet with neither the grace nor the agility, a bomb was said to be the devil to handle in anything but perfect conditions.

As the boat hooked on to the chains he saw Draffen standing alone in the centre of the tiny quarterdeck shading his eyes to watch him climb aboard.

Bolitho raised his hat as the small side party shrilled a salute, and nodded to a young lieutenant who was watching him with a kind of fascination.

Draffen called, “Come up here, Bolitho. You’ll get a better view.”

Bolitho took Draffen’s proffered hand. Like the man, it was tough and hard. He said, “That lieutenant. Is he the captain?”

“No. I sent him below just before you came aboard.” He shrugged. “Sorry if I disturbed your traditional ceremonial, but I wanted my chart from his cabin.” He grinned. “Cabin indeed. My watchdog has better quarters.”

He gestured forward. “No wonder they build these bombs the way they do. Every timber is twice as thick as that in any other vessel. The recoil and downward shock of those beauties would tear the guts out of a lesser hull.” Bolitho followed his hand and saw the two massive mortars mounted in the centre of the foredeck. Short, black and incredibly ugly, they nevertheless had a muzzle diameter of over a foot each. He could imagine without effort the great strain they would put on the timbers, to say nothing of those at the receiving end of their bombardment.

The other vessel anchored close abeam was very similar, and aptly named Devastation.

Draffen added half to himself, “The bombs will sail at night.

No sense in letting those jackals at Algeciras know too much too early, eh?”

Bolitho nodded. It made good sense. He looked sideways at the other man as Draffen turned to watch some seamen flaking down a rope with the ease of spiders constructing a web.

Draffen was older than he had imagined. Nearer sixty than fifty, his grey hair contrasting sharply with his tanned features and brisk, muscular figure.

He said, “The news from England was bad, sir. I heard it from Sir Lucius.”

Draffen sounded indifferent. “Some people never learn.” He did not explain what he meant but instead turned and said, “About your brother. I met him when he commanded that privateer. I understand you destroyed his ship eventually.” His eyes softened slightly. “I have been learning quite a lot about you lately, and that piece of information makes me especially envious. I hope I could do what you did if called.” The mood changed again as he added, “Of course. I cannot possibly believe all I’ve heard about you. No man can be that good.” He grinned at Bolitho’s uncertainty and pointed over his shoulder. “Now take what the Hekla’s commander has told me, for instance. Never heard the like!” Bolitho swung round and then stared with astonishment. The man facing him, his long, horse-face changing from confusion to something like wild delight, was Francis Inch, no longer a mere lieutenant, but wearing the single epaulette on his left shoulder.

Commander Inch, Hyperion’s first lieutenant at that final, bloody embrace with Lequiller’s ships in the Bay of Biscay.

Inch stepped forward, bobbing awkwardly. “It’s me, sir! Inch! ” Bolitho took his hands in his, not realising until now just how much he had missed him, and the past he represented.

“I always told you that I should see you get a command of your own.” He did not know what to say, and was very conscious of Draffen’s grinning face, and Inch peering at him that familiar, eager way which had once nearly driven him mad with exasperation.

Inch beamed. “It was either a bomb or first lieutenant of a seventy-four again, sir.” He looked suddenly sad. “After the old Hyperion I didn’t want another . . .” He allowed his grin to break through. “Now I have this.” He looked around his small command. “And this.” He touched the epaulette.

“And you have a wife now?” Bolitho guessed that Inch would have refrained from mentioning her. He would not wish to remind him of his own loss.

Inch nodded. “Aye, sir. With some of the prize money you got for us I have purchased a modest house at Weymouth. I hope you will do us the honour . . .” He became his old self again, unsure and bumbling. “But then, I am sure you will be too busy for that, sir . . .”

Bolitho gripped his arm. “I will be delighted, Inch. It is good to see you again.”

Draffen remarked dryly, “So there is warm blood in a sea officer after all.”

Inch shuffled his feet. “I shall write to Hannah tonight. She will be pleased to hear about our meeting.” Bolitho eyed Draffen thoughtfully. “You certainly kept this as a surprise, sir.”

“The Navy has its ways of doing things.” He looked at the towering Rock. “And I have mine.”

He turned to Inch. “Now, Commander, if you will leave us alone, I have some matters to discuss.” Bolitho said, “Dine with me tonight, Inch, aboard the flagship.” He grinned to cover the sudden emotion brought on by Inch’s appearance. “Your next promotion may be speeded that way.”

He saw Inch’s pleasure as he scurried over to his lieutenant, and guessed he would soon be retelling some of the old stories for his benefit.

Draffen remarked, “Not much of an officer, I suspect, ’til you got your hands on him.”

Bolitho replied quietly, “He had to learn the hard way. I never met a man more loyal nor one so lucky in many ways. If we meet the enemy, I suggest you stay close by Commander Inch, sir. He has the knack of remaining alive when all about him are falling and the ship herself is in pieces.” Draffen nodded. “I will bear it in mind.” He changed to a brisker tone. “All being well, your squadron is sailing tomorrow evening. The bombs will follow later, but your admiral can give you fuller details than I.” He seemed to come to a decision. “I have made it my business to study your record, Bolitho. This venture we are undertaking will call for much resource and initiative.

You may have to twist the Admiralty rules to suit the occasion.

I happen to know that such methods are not unknown to you.” He smiled dryly. “In my experience I have found that war needs special men with their own ideas. Hard and fast rules are not for this game.”

Bolitho had a sudden mental picture of Broughton’s face when he had requested him to give Zeus permission to chase the Frenchman. Of his plan of battle, his apparent mistrust of anything untried or smelling of unorthodox methods.

He said, “I only hope we are not too late and that the French have not enlarged the defences at Djafou.” Draffen looked round quickly and then said, “I have certain influence, connections if you like, and I do not intend you should have to rely entirely on luck and personal bravery. I know the Algerian coast well, and its people, who for the most part are both murderous and completely untrustworthy.” The smile returned.

“But we will use what we can, and make the best of it. As John Paul Jones said under very similar circumstances, ‘If we cannot have what we like, we must learn to like what we have!’” He thrust out his hand. “I must go and see some people ashore now. No doubt we will be meeting again very shortly.” Bolitho watched him climb down into his boat and then joined Inch by the bulwark.

Inch said, “A strange man, sir. Very deep.”

“I believe so. He wields a good deal of power, nevertheless.” Inch sighed. “He was telling me earlier about the place where we are going. He seems well versed in details.” He shook his head.

“Yet I can find hardly anything about it.” Bolitho nodded thoughtfully. Trade, but what sort of trade would anyone find in a place like Djafou? And where was the connection with the Caribbean and his meeting with Hugh?

He said, “I must return to my ship. We will talk more at dinner, although there are no familiar faces for you to see, I am afraid.”

Inch grinned, “Except Allday, sir. I cannot imagine you without him! ”

Bolitho clapped his bony shoulder. “And neither can I!” Later, as he stood alone in his cabin, Bolitho opened his shirt and toyed with the small locket, his eyes unseeing, as he stared through the stern windows. Inch would never guess how much his arrival had meant to him. Like the locket, something to hold on to, something familiar. One of his old Hyperions.

There was a tap at the door and Calvert entered nervously, holding some papers before him as if for protection.

Bolitho smiled. “Be seated. I will sign them, and you may dis-tribute them to the squadron before dusk.” Calvert did not hide his relief as Bolitho sat at the desk and reached for a pen. Bolitho’s action saved him from having to face Broughton when he came offshore. His eyes fell on Bolitho’s sword lying on the bench seat where he had put it when he returned from seeing the Hekla.

In spite of all his caution he said, “Oh I say, sir, may I look at it?”

Bolitho stared at him. It was unlike Calvert to say much, other than mutter excuses for his mistakes. His eyes were positively shining with sudden interest.

“Certainly, Mr Calvert.” He sat back to watch as the lieutenant drew the old blade from the scabbard and held it in line with his chin. “Are you a swordsman like Sir Lucius?” Calvert did not reply directly. He ran his fingers around the old and tarnished hilt and then said, “A beautiful balance, sir. Beautiful.” He looked at Bolitho guardedly. “I have an eye for it, sir.”

“Then see that you restrain your eye, Mr Calvert. It can cause you much trouble.”

Calvert replaced the blade and became his old self again.

“Thank you, sir. For allowing me to hold it.” Bolitho pushed the papers towards him and added slowly, “And try to be more definite in your affairs. Many officers would give their arms for your appointment, so make good use of it.” Calvert withdrew, stammering and smiling.

Bolitho sighed and stood up as Allday entered the cabin, his eyes immediately falling on the sword, which he replaced on its rack against the bulkhead.

He said, “Mr Calvert was here then, Captain?” Bolitho smiled at Allday’s curiosity. “He was. He seemed very interested in the sword.”

Allday eyed it thoughtfully. “And so he might. Yesterday I saw him showing off to some of the midshipmen. They lit a candle, and Drury, the youngest of ’em, held it in the air for Mr Calvert to strike at.”

Bolitho swung round. “That was a damned stupid thing to do.” Allday shrugged. “Need have no worry, Captain. The flag-lieutenant’s blade parted the wick and flame without even touching the candle.” He cleared his throat noisily. “You’ll have to watch that one, Captain.”

Bolitho looked at him. “As you say, Allday. I will.” Jed Partridge, the master, tugged at his battered hat as Bolitho strode from beneath the poop and reported, “Steady, sir. Sou’ east by east.”

“Very well.”

Bolitho nodded to the officer of the watch and then crossed to the weather side of the quarterdeck, filling his lungs with the cool evening air.

The squadron had weighed in the remorseless heat of a noon sun, but with an encouraging north-westerly breeze had soon formed into a tight column, each ship taking her prescribed station and keeping their interchange of signals to a minimum.

Many telescopes must have followed them from the Spanish coast, and there would be plenty of speculation as to their destination. It was unlikely that the enemy would give much weight to so small a force, but there was no sense in taking chances. Once clear of the land each captain would know that almost any ship he might meet would be an enemy. Even neutrals, and there were precious few of those, must be treated with suspicion and as possible informers of the squadron’s course and whereabouts.

But now it was evening, and in the Mediterranean it was a time which Bolitho always found full of fresh fascination. While the four ships-of-the-line rolled and plunged easily in a deep swell, with a steady and unwavering wind sweeping down across the larboard quarter, he could see the shadows lengthening on the gangways, the sea beyond the bows already vague in deeper purple. Yet astern the sky was salmon pink, the dying sunlight trailing down from the horizon and making the Valorous’s topsails shine like giant sea shells.

If this wind and sea held, it would be possible for all of them to keep good station during the night, which should please Broughton, he thought.

Keverne crossed the deck and said, “The visibility will not endure much longer, sir.”

Bolitho glanced towards the master’s rotund shape by the helmsmen. “We will alter course two points directly, Mr Partridge.” He sought out Midshipman Tothill by the lee shrouds and added, “You will bend on the signal for the squadron. Tack in succession. Steer east by south.” He did not have to bother further with the midshipman. Tothill and his signal party had already proved themselves more than capable. He would make a good officer, Bolitho thought vaguely.

He said to Keverne, “Each ship will show a stern light, in case we get scattered. It may help the Coquette if she comes searching for us.”

The frigate in question was sweeping some fifteen miles astern of the column, a wise precaution to ensure they were not already being shadowed by some curious enemy patrol.

The little sloop Restless was only just visible to windward of the Zeus, and Bolitho imagined that her young and newly appointed commander would be considering the sudden importance of his role. The sloop was the only vessel present and fast enough should a suspicious sail need investigating.

It was always the same. Never enough frigates, and now that the Auriga was denied them they must be even more sparing in long-range operations.

Tothill called, “Signal bent on, sir.”

“Good.” Bolitho nodded to Keverne. “Carry on. I must inform the admiral.”

He found Broughton and Draffen sitting at opposite ends of the long table in the admiral’s dining cabin, and sensed the complete silence stretching between then.

“Well?” Broughton leaned back in his chair, his fingers tapping slowly against an untouched glass of claret.

“Ready to alter course, Sir Lucius.” He saw Draffen watching him, his eyes gleaming in the light from the overhead lanterns and the pink glow through the windows.

“Very good.” Broughton tugged out his watch. “No sign of pursuit?”

“None, sir.”

Broughton grunted. “Carry on then, if you please. I may come up later.”

Draffen rose to his feet and steadied himself against the table as Euryalus tilted her massive bilge into another lazy trough.

“I would like to join you if I may, Captain.” He nodded equably to Broughton. “Never get weary of watching ships under command, y’know.”

Broughton snapped, “Er, just a moment!” But when Bolitho turned back from the door he shook his head. “Nothing. Attend to your duties.”

On the quarterdeck Draffen remarked calmly, “Sharing the admiral’s quarters is not the easiest way of travelling.” Bolitho smiled. “You can have my own quarters with pleasure, sir. I spend more time in my chartroom than I do in a cot.” The other man shook his head, his eyes already seeking out the various parties of seamen mustered at their stations in readiness for the next order from aft.

“Sir Lucius and I come from different poles, Bolitho. But it would be well to forget social differences for the present at least.” Bolitho forgot Draffen and the tensions in the great cabin and turned towards Keverne.

“Make the signal.” And as the flags darted up the halliards and broke impatiently to the wind he added sharply, “Be ready, Mr Partridge.”

“Zeus has acknowledged, sir!” The leading ship was in fact already swinging importantly on her new course, her topsails and driver flapping for a few more moments until brought under control. Tanais followed, one curved side glowing in the dying sunlight as she laboured too readily in response to canvas and rudder.

Keverne raised his speaking trumpet, his lithe figure poised against the rail as if to test the agility of the great ship beneath him.

“Braces there!” He pointed into the purple shadows below the mainmast trunk. “Mr Collins, take that man’s name! He’s stumbling about like a whore at a wedding!” Unknown voices mumbled out of the gloom, while from aft the wheel creaked obediently, Partridge’s white hair changing to yellow as he squinted at the lighted compass bowl.

“Heave! Lively with it!”

The men leaned back, angling their bodies to take the strain of the ship’s massive yards, while the marines clumped noisily and in perfect time on the mizzen brace. The hull tilted still further, the sails shivering and booming to the change of pressure.

Bolitho leaned over the rail, searching along the length of his command, his ears interpreting the varying groans from shrouds and rigging, the action automatic yet ever watchful.

“Lay her on the larboard tack, Mr Partridge.” He looked aloft, watching as Broughton’s flag and the masthead pendant licked out lazily and then pointed almost directly across the starboard bow.

“East by south, sir!” Partridge rolled to the other side of the compass as Bolitho came aft to stare down at the swaying card.

“Steady as you go.” He felt the ship responding, saw the huge, dark rectangles of canvas stiffening to the wind as she settled obediently on her new tack.

The light was going fast now. As it always did hereabouts. One minute a bright and seemingly everlasting sunset, and then nothing but the cream of spray beneath the counter, an occasional whitecap as the wind explored the edge of a deep trough in the sea’s face.

He heard Keverne bark, “The weather forebrace! In God’s name take in that slack, man! Mr Weigall, your people must do better than this!”

Voices echoed above the thrumming din of rigging and canvas, and he imagined the third lieutenant cursing Keverne’s uncanny eyesight, or shrewd guesswork, as the case may be.

Draffen had been watching in silence, and as the hands mustered once again at their various divisions he murmured, “I hope I will be aboard when you get a chance to show her real paces under sail.” He sounded as if he was enjoying himself.

Bolitho smiled. “There’ll be no such opportunity at night, sir.

We may well have to reef tops’ls as it is. There is always a risk of collision when moving in close company.” Keverne came aft again and touched his hat. “Permission to dismiss the watch below, sir.”

“Yes. That was well done, Mr Keverne.” A voice called, “The Valorous is on station, sir!”

“Very well.” Bolitho moved to the weather side as the parties of seamen and marines hurried across the planking and vanished to their messdecks below. A cramped, teeming world where they lived between the guns they would serve in battle, with little more than a shoulder’s breadth to swing a hammock. He wondered what some of them were thinking of their new destination.

Draffen’s face glowed momentarily as he peered at the compass.

Then he moved back to Bolitho’s side and fell in step with him as he began to pace slowly up and down below the empty nettings.

“It must be a strange feeling for you, Bolitho.”

“How so, sir?” Bolitho had almost forgotten that he was not alone in his usual restless pacing.

“To command a ship like this. One which you yourself took in battle.” He hurried on, exploring a theme which had obviously given him some thought. “In your shoes I would be wondering if I could defend a vessel when I had in fact seized her in the face of great odds.”

Bolitho frowned. “Circumstances must always play a great part, sir.”

“But tell me, as I am greatly interested. What do you think of her as a ship?”

Bolitho paused by the quarterdeck rail, resting his palms on it, feeling the wood shaking under his touch as if the whole complex mass of timber and rigging was a living being.

“She is fast for her size, sir, and only four years old. She handles well, and the hull has some fine factors too.” He gestured forward. “Unlike our own ships-of-the-line, her planking is continued right around the bow, so there is no weak bulkhead to receive an enemy’s fire.”

Draffen showed his teeth. “I like your enthusiasm. It is some comfort. But I imagined you would say otherwise. A born sea officer, a man from a long line of sailing men, I’d have laid odds on your despising the work of an enemy shipyard.” He laughed softly. “I was wrong, it appears.”

Bolitho eyed him calmly. “The French are fine builders. Line for line their hulls are faster and better than our own.” Draffen spread his hands in mock alarm. “Then how can we win? How have we been victorious against greater numbers of the enemy?”

Bolitho shook his head. “The enemy’s weakness does not lie in his ships, or in his courage either. It is leadership. Two-thirds of their trained and experienced officers were butchered in the Terror.

And they’ll not regain their confidence while they are bottled up in harbour by our blockade.” He knew Draffen was deliberately drawing him out but continued, “Each time they break out and engage our squadrons they learn a little more, grow steadily more confident, even if a sea victory is denied them. Blockade is no longer the answer, in my opinion. It hurts the innocent as much as those for whom it is intended. Clearcut, decisive action is the solution. Hit the enemy whenever and wherever you can, the size of the actions is almost immaterial.” The officer of the watch was admonishing a defaulter who had been brought aft by a bosun’s mate, his voice grating in a fierce whisper.

Bolitho moved away with Draffen falling in step beside him.

Draffen asked, “But there will be a final confrontation between the two major fleets, eventually?”

“I have no doubts, sir. But I still believe the more attacks we can make on the enemy’s communications, his bases and trade, the more likely we are of a lasting victory on land.” He smiled awkwardly. “As a sailor it hurts me to say it. But no victory can be complete until your own soldiers have hoisted a flag on the enemy’s battlements!”

Draffen smiled gravely. “Maybe you will have a chance to put your theory into action very shortly. It will largely depend on our meeting with one of my agents. I arranged for him to make a regular rendezvous. It is to be hoped he has found it possible.” Bolitho pricked up his ears. That was the first he had heard of anything about a rendezvous. Broughton had given him the briefest of detail so far. The squadron was to patrol off Djafou, out of sight of land, while the Coquette explored inshore for further information. Normal tactics. Normal and frustratingly dull, he had thought. Now with the prospect of gaining other, more secret news of the enemy’s deployment, the whole face of the operation had changed.

Draffen said, “I find it slightly unnerving when I think of tomorrow. We might meet with an entire enemy fleet. Does that not upset you?”

Bolitho looked at him, but his face was in deep shadow. It was hard to tell if he was testing him again or merely making light of what was a very real possibility.

“I have lived with that prospect in fear, excitement or mere bewilderment on and off since I was twelve, sir.” Bolitho kept his voice equally grave. Then he grinned. “But so far I have never had any of my reactions taken into consideration, least of all by the enemy!”

Draffen chuckled. “I will go below and sleep easily now. I have taxed you too much as it is. But please keep me informed if anything unusual occurs.”

Bolitho stood aside. “I will, sir. You and my admiral.” Draffen walked away laughing to himself. “We will talk further.” Then he was gone.

The midshipman of the watch hurried across the deck and reported to his lieutenant that the stern light had been lit.

Through the mass of rigging Bolitho could see the Tanais’s own lantern shining like a firefly and playing across the ruffled water of her wake.

He heard the lieutenant say sharply, “It took you long enough, Mr Drury!” And then the boy’s mumbled reply.

It was not difficult to see Adam Pascoe’s shape standing there in the shadows instead of the luckless Drury.

Bolitho had tried not to worry about his young nephew, but meeting with Inch had again made the boy’s absence seem suddenly real and beyond his reach. There had been letters, of course, both from him and his captain, Bolitho’s best friend, Herrick.

But, like the Euryalus, his ship, the old sixty-four Impulsive, had little concern for the warmth and hope brought by the mail boats, or hoarded in some harbour office on the offchance the ships might one day drop anchor.

Bolitho began to walk again, trying to picture Adam as he had last seen him. But he would be different now. Perhaps a stranger?

He quickened his pace, suddenly aware of his concern.

It was two years since they had parted. The boy to join Herrick’s ship and he to take command and tend to the refitting of his prize, the Euryalus. He would be seventeen, perhaps already awaiting his chance to try for promotion to lieutenant. Would two more years have changed him much? he wondered. Would he still be forming his own mould, or taking after Hugh?

He realised with a start that the midshipman was blocking his path, his eyes gleaming white in the shadows.

“Beg pardon, sir, but the officer of the watch sends his respects, and, and,” he faltered under his captain’s gaze, “and could we take in a reef. The wind appears to be getting up, sir.” Bolitho studied him impassively. He had not even noticed the change in the wind’s sound through the shrouds. He had been more worried by his own thoughts than he had realised.

He asked sharply, “How old are you, Mr Drury?” The boy gulped. “Thirteen, sir.”

“I see. Well, Mr Drury, you have a long and very stormy passage ahead of you before you attain your own command.”

“Yessir.” He sounded fearful of what was coming next.

“And a young officer without fingers can find the handicap a real problem. So in future I do not wish to learn of your agility with a candle as a target for swordplay, do you understand?”

“No, sir, I—I mean, yes, sir!” He almost fell as he ran back to the officer of the watch, his mind no doubt buzzing with the captain’s unfaltering source of private information.

Keverne appeared on deck, dabbing his mouth with his handkerchief and already peering aloft at the booming canvas.

“Trouble, sir?”

“We will reef tops’ls directly, Mr Keverne.” He kept his tone formal. Whatever he felt or feared, it was right that he should display none of it, share none of it with those who depended on his judgement. He watched Keverne hurrying away, buttoning his coat and bellowing for a bosun’s mate.

But sometimes, like tonight, it was harder than he would have imagined.

NOON the following day found the ships clawing slowly on a larboard tack with the wind almost abeam, their yards braced hard round to take maximum advantage of it. Shortly after first light they had altered course again and were now heading east-north-east, pinned down on their broken reflections by a sun which made any physical effort a torture. It was like a furnace, and even the wind, steady as ever from the north-west, seemed without any kind of freshness or relief, and stung the faces and bodies of the seamen like hot sand.

Bolitho plucked his shirt away from his chest and moved into the shadow of the hammock nettings as Keverne and Partridge lowered their sextants and began to compare notes. This usual procedure was watched and copied by several of the midshipmen, although unlike their superiors they were not involved in the importance of the situation.

Up on the poop, shaded by a small awning, he could see Draffen’s stocky figure pacing back and forth, up and down, his shoes clumping noisily on the sun-dried planking.

Keverne crossed to Bolitho and said wearily, “It matches your own calculation, sir.” Like the other officers he had discarded coat and hat, and his shirt was clinging to his body like another skin. He sounded too tired for either admiration or surprise at his findings.

It had been an uneventful night, with the squadron sailing well and keeping their allotted stations. At dawn Broughton had come on deck, something so unusual as to give Bolitho a warning of the day’s importance.

As the signals had soared aloft for the new course, and preparations for cleaning ship and preparing breakfast had begun, Broughton had remarked sourly, “We are supposed to be contacted by one of Sir Hugo’s friends this forenoon. By God, I hate to have to rely on some damned amateur!” He did not say if he was describing Draffen or his agent, and the look on his face decided Bolitho against even tactful questioning.

Draffen’s earlier confidence had visibly faded as the searing morning had dragged on. Any sudden shout from one of the ship’s company made him pause in his walk and stand stockstill until he had found the cry to be meaningless.

Bolitho said, “Well, Mr Keverne, there is nothing we can do at present.”

Two hours earlier the masthead lookout had hailed the deck, and as every eye had been raised to his tiny, swaying perch some two hundred feet above their heads, he had reported sighting land.

In spite of his hatred for any sort of height, Bolitho had made himself climb up the dizzy, vibrating ratlines, past the maintop, on and up until he had joined the pigtailed seaman who had made the report.

With his legs wrapped tightly around the crosstrees he had forced himself to ignore the deck far below him and had concentrated on opening his telescope, aware the whole time that the lookout was whistling between his teeth and not even bothering to hold on.

The sight was almost worth the anguish and embarrassment of the climb. There, far to the south, was a long, uneven ridge of mountains, ice blue in the harsh sunlight, disconnected from the land by sea mist, and strangely beautiful. The African coast. The mountains, he had estimated, were nearly thirty miles distant, but seemed unreachable and without reality.

Now, once again there was no sight of land, and away on either beam the sea danced and glittered in millions of blinding reflections, so that seamen working aloft and along the braced yards fumbled and groped with each precarious movement, their eyes too dulled by glare to be trusted.

The other ships had become more separated, so that the line was well stretched, the Tanais being some two miles ahead of Euryalus.

Broughton had conceded that if they were to be sighted by some small sailing vessel carrying Draffen’s agent it was prudent to extend the formation. And if seen by less friendly eyes it would be well to make the squadron appear as large as possible. Far away to leeward the sloop’s topsails shone like burnished steel as she pushed busily downwind like a terrier sniffing out a rabbit.

There was still no sign of the Coquette, nor might there be for some time yet. She could be investigating some strange sail well astern of the squadron. Equally she might be in serious trouble with an enemy.

Calvert appeared on the quarterdeck, his face screwed up with both worry and strain in the sun’s brightness.

He said, “Sir Lucius sends his compliments, sir. Will you join him in his day cabin.”

Bolitho glanced at Keverne, who turned his mouth down and said, “Perhaps there is a change of plan, sir?” Bolitho strode after Calvert’s hurrying shape, wondering if Keverne was implying resentment at knowing so little. Like himself. When he entered the cabin it took his eyes several seconds to get accustomed to the gloom, the comparative coolness after the unprotected quarterdeck.

Draffen was seated beside the desk, although Bolitho had not even seen him leave the poop.

“Sir?” He saw Broughton standing by an open stern window, his light brown hair glossy in the reflected glare. Far astern, the Valorous held rigidly to her tack, so that she appeared like some elaborate model, balanced on the admiral’s epaulette.

Broughton snapped, “I have asked you down here to explain further to Sir Hugo the necessity of keeping the Restless in company and within signalling distance! He breathed out hard. “Well?” Bolitho thrust his hands behind him. In the presence of the admiral and Draffen, both of whom were impeccably dressed as before, he felt suddenly unkempt and dirty. He could feel the tension between the two men, and guessed they had been arguing before his arrival.

Draffen interrupted evenly, “I must find my agent, Captain.

The sloop is fast and small enough for the purpose.” He shrugged.

“I can say no fairer than that, now can I?” Bolitho tensed. They were both drawing on him, each using his opinion to make him an ally. Never before had Broughton asked for his opinion on matters of strategy. And although Draffen had displayed an easy confidence after their first meeting, he had given away little of his intentions.

Bolitho said, “May I ask, Sir Hugo, what manner of ship we are expecting to meet?”

Draffen shifted in his chair. “Oh, something small. Probably an Arab trader or suchlike.” He sounded vague. Or evasive.

Bolitho persisted. “And if we miss meeting her, what then?” The admiral swung away from the window, his tone sharp. “I am expected to keep this squadron beating back and forth for another week!” He glared at Draffen. “A week of avoiding open battle, of countless alterations of course!

“I know all that, Sir Lucius.” Draffen remained unmoved. “But this business demands great tact and caution.” His tone hardened.

“As well as the efficient running of your ships.” Bolitho stepped forward, “I can understand your concern, Sir Hugo.” He was very conscious of being in between these two powerful and unyielding men. Outside of the Navy he had had little contact with such people, and blamed himself for failing to understand them, to appreciate their worlds, each so different from his own.

“In this small squadron we have some three thousand officers and men to provision every day we are at sea. And that does not include the two bombs. Fresh water will become a real problem in this climate. And unless we can foresee some contact with a new source of supply it will be necessary to withdraw to Gibraltar before we have completed our mission.” Draffen nodded. “I am sorry, Captain. You make good sense.

A landsman tends to see ships as ships and not as people, mouths to be fed like luckier souls ashore.” Broughton stared at him. “But that is exactly what I have just been telling you!”

“It was not what you told me, Sir Lucius, but the way you told it!”

He stood up and eyed each of them in turn. “However, I must ask you to signal the Restless to close with the flagship. Your master assures me this wind will hold for a while.” He looked at Bolitho. “That is also your opinion, I believe?” Bolitho nodded. “It seems likely, sir. But you cannot be certain.”

“It will have to suffice. I will transfer to the sloop and go with her to sweep closer inshore. If I cannot make contact with my agent before dusk I will rejoin the squadron.” Broughton rubbed the back of his neck with his hand. “In which case we will carry on to Djafou as arranged?” Draffen hesitated and then said, “It would seem so.” The admiral gave a thin smile. “So be it.” He snapped his fingers at Calvert who had been hovering on the far side of the cabin. “Make a signal to Restless to close the flagship immediately.” He moved briskly up and down across the black and white squared deck covering. “You will then make a further signal to Valorous. ”

Bolitho darted a glance at the flag-lieutenant as he wrote hurriedly in his book. It was to be hoped he was getting it all down correctly.

“Er, Valorous will take over command of the squadron and continue on present course. Euryalus will head down and make contact with Restless. ” He shot Draffen a brief smile. “That will save time and allow you some extra hours for your, er, search.” He swung round towards Calvert again. “Well, what in hell’s name are you gaping at? Go and attend to those signals at once! ” As the door closed behind Calvert’s back he added, “Young fool! He may be a fine jack-a-dandy in St James’s, but he is as much use as a blind seamstress to me!” Draffen stood up and walked towards the adjoining cabin which stood opposite the larger one used by the admiral.

“I will change out of these clothes before I leave.” He eyed Broughton calmly. “I would not wish to be placed in Calvert’s category by the sloop’s commander.” Broughton waited until he had gone and then said vehemently,

“My God, my patience is wearing thin.”

“I will go and attend to the new course, sir.”

“Yes.” Broughton watched him distantly. “I shall be glad when we are at Djafou. I am heartily sick of interference.” Bolitho hurried back to the quarterdeck, feeling the heat striking his shoulders like embers from a fire.

As he glanced quickly aloft at the masthead pendant and then at the compass he said sharply, “Call all hands, Mr Keverne. We will wear ship directly. Then you may get the t’gallants on her.” He heard the squeal of pipes, the immediate rush of feet as the seamen poured up into the sunlight, pausing only to peer aft to see the cause for the sudden excitement.

Astern, the Valorous was already making more sail, her acknowledgement to Broughton’s signal vanishing from her yard as her forecourse billowed free and then filled to the wind. The signal would please her captain, Bolitho thought. Furneaux had never really appreciated his station astern of the line. This sudden order would show the others exactly where he stood in Broughton’s eyes.

He forgot them as Midshipman Tothill called, “Restless has acknowledged, sir.” He glanced despairingly at Calvert’s back, who was peering at the signal book as if it was in Arabic.

Bolitho smiled. “Very well. Mr Partridge, we will see how she likes the feel of the wind again.”

He looked at the men below the gangways and mustered at the foot of each mast. “Carry on, Mr Keverne.”

“Hands aloft! Loose t’gallants!”

Keverne waited until the rush of barebacked seamen had reached the upper yards, their bodies black against the sky, like monkeys.

“Man the braces!”

He glanced round as Partridge dropped his hand and the helmsmen threw themselves on their spokes and began to heave the wheel over.

“Let go and haul!” Keverne’s voice was metallic and unreal through his trumpet. “Heave, you idle lot of old women!” Creaking and groaning the great yards began to swing round, the hull plunging deeply in the swell as it swayed ponderously out of the line. Overhead the sails flapped about in momentary confusion, whilst above the noise Bolitho could hear the captains of the tops urging their men on with threats and curses. The topgallant sails were already whipping out from their yards, hardening into firm, tanned rectangles as the canvas took the strain, tugging at blocks and rigging alike and trying always to pluck an unwary topman from his perch and hurl him to the deck far below.

“Steer sou’ east by south.”

Bolitho braced his legs, feeling the deck vibrate through his shoes as the sails pushed the ship forward and down across the lip of another deep trough. Spray burst jubilantly above the figurehead and pattered across the men working busily at the headsail sheets. He watched the topmen racing each other to the deck, their bare feet thudding on the planking as once more they awaited orders.

Standing almost before the wind, the ship was already gathering way, the deck swaying easily from side to side instead of fixed at one set angle when close hauled.

Bolitho looked aloft, thinking of how she would appear to the Restless. The sloop was being made to beat into the teeth of the wind, and Broughton’s change of heart would save her and everyone else a good deal of time. Bolitho knew that Broughton’s reasons were probably different, that he really wished to get rid of Draffen, if only for a short while.

But, for a few moments he could feel content. The Euryalus was behaving magnificently, and he toyed with the idea of having Keverne set the royals as well. But that one extra layer of canvas might just be visible to some hostile craft as yet unseen below the horizon.

He turned as Draffen came on deck and said, “You wished to see her sail, sir.” He watched Draffen’s eyes hurrying about the taut, drumming shrouds, the hardbellied sails, appreciating everything he saw, if not understanding all of it.

He said, “She’s a lady, Bolitho. It makes all this trouble worthwhile.”

Bolitho noticed he was wearing a plain green coat and loose breeches. Under his coat he also saw the glint of metal. Draffen was obviously used to carrying a pistol, and seemed the sort of man who would be well able to take care of himself.

He was shading his eyes as he tried to understand what the Restless was trying to do as she reeled once again across the wind, her sails flapping and almost aback before she swung away on her new tack.

Bolitho crossed to the starboard side and looked for the squadron. Euryalus’s sudden increase of speed had left them bunched together and seemingly entangled, their silhouettes overlapping so that they looked like a single, ill-designed monster.

He called, “Mr Keverne, we’ll shorten sail in thirty minutes.

Restless can lie under our lee until Sir Hugo is aboard.” Later, while the Euryalus lay hove-to, her hull rolling sickeningly in a beam swell and her sails banging and useless in noisy torment, Broughton came on deck to watch as Draffen was rowed across in the sloop’s jolly boat.

He said, “Well, that is that.” He sounded satisfied.

Bolitho saw Draffen pause in his climb up the sloop’s side and turn to wave his hand.

He said, “I would like to tack to the nor’ east, sir. It will save time later when we run down and rejoin the squadron.” Broughton turned his back on the sloop as her topsails filled to the wind and she started to pay off away from her massive consort. “Very well.” Broughton eyed him searchingly. “I suppose you cannot bear the thought of resuming your place in the line so soon after this brief freedom?” He smiled. “Well, it will do Furneaux no harm to exercise his power a little longer.” Bolitho walked over to Keverne who was still watching the sloop. “We will steer nor’ east, Mr Keverne, lay her on the larboard tack. So call all hands again, and then they can have their meal. I imagine the activity might have given them a new appetite.” He saw the villainous-looking chief cook, a bearded giant with one eye, peering up from the main hatchway. “Although I hate to think what he puts into it sometimes.” He crossed to the weather side as once again the seamen swarmed up the ratlines and out along the yards. Broughton understood him better than he realised. Independence and initiative, his father had once told him, were the two most precious things to every captain. Now, commanding a flagship, and tied to the squadron’s apron strings, he knew well enough what he had meant.

He thought suddenly of the house at Falmouth. The two portraits opposite the window. He was strangely moved to find he could think of them without grief or bitterness. It was almost like having someone there waiting for his return home.

Keverne was back again, his face expressionless. “This afternoon there will be two hands for punishment, sir.”

“What?” Bolitho stared at him and then nodded. “Very well.” The moment of peace had passed. But as he walked to the quarterdeck rail he found himself praying that it might return.

At six o’clock that same day Bolitho sat behind his desk looking through the stern windows, his mind busy with the affairs of his command. Trute, the cabin servant, placed a pot of fresh coffee by his elbow and padded away without a word. He had grown to accept the captain’s strange moods, his apparent need to be alone, even to pour his own coffee. Like his desire to have the desk facing aft, and whenever possible to dine off it instead of his beautiful table in the adjoining cabin. Trute had served three captains, and never met his sort before. The others had all expected to be waited on hand and foot, and at all times of day or night. Equally they had been swift and harsh when showing their displeasure. He had decided that although he liked Bolitho as a considerate and fair master, he had felt more comfortable with his previous captains.

At least it had been possible to know exactly what they were thinking for most of the time.

Bolitho sipped the scalding black coffee and wondered when it, like many other items, would become a luxury. It was never possible to feel confident, to know that a ship was not overreaching her margin of safety when it came to food and water.

He heard four bells chime out, the clatter of feet somewhere below as a warrant officer, probably caught dozing, dashed to perform his duties for the last dog watch.

It had been a busy afternoon for Bolitho, mainly because he had been trying to catch up with matters concerning his own ship rather than attending to those of the whole squadron. There had seemed an endless procession waiting to catch his ear.

Grubb, the carpenter, grey haired and always pessimistic about the enemy of all ships—rot. Not that he had found any in his daily molelike excursions in the bowels of the hull, places which had never seen, would never see, any light but that of a lantern.

It was as if he wanted Bolitho to know of his tireless efforts on his behalf. And it all took time.

He had given several minutes to Clode, the cooper, concerning the purser’s earlier complaint about the state of some of the water casks. But then Nathan Buddle, the purser, quite often voiced complaints, provided they did not directly concern his own department. He was a thin, furtive-looking man, with skin like parchment, who wore an almost permanent hunted expression which Bolitho suspected hid things which did not concern rotten casks. In fairness, he had found nothing wrong with Buddle’s daily accounts, but like all his trade, the purser had to be constantly watched.

And as Keverne had reported earlier, two men were brought aft for punishment, watched as usual on such occasions by all unemployed members of the ship’s company.

Bolitho hated such spectacles, just as he knew them to be inevitable. It always seemed to take such a long time. The gratings to be rigged, the culprits to be stripped and seized up, and his own voice reading the Articles of War above the din of wind and canvas.

The actual punishment excited little interest amongst the spectators.

The first man, awarded twelve lashes, had been caught stealing from one of his messmates. The opinion was probably that he was getting off lightly, compared with what his fellow seamen had intended and would certainly have carried out but for the timely intervention of the ship’s corporal. Bolitho had heard of cases when men who stole from their messmates had been thrown overboard at night, while one had actually been found minus the hand used for his crime. In the teeming, defenceless world of shipboard life few had much sympathy for a thief.

The second seaman had received twenty-four lashes for neglect of duty and insolence. Both latter charges had been laid by Sawle, the ship’s junior lieutenant. Bolitho blamed himself for this particular case. He had promoted Sawle to lieutenant some six months earlier, but had he not been so involved with the squadron’s affairs under the ailing Admiral Thelwall, he knew now he would have thought twice about it. Sawle had shown the makings of a good officer, but it had been mostly on the surface.

He was a sulky-looking youth of eighteen, and Bolitho had told Keverne to ensure his tendency to bully subordinates did not get out of hand. Maybe Keverne had done his best, or perhaps he considered Sawle’s attitudes unimportant provided he carried out his other duties to his satisfaction.

Either way, the seaman’s bloodied back was a grim reminder to Bolitho of the constant need to supervise Sawle in the future.

He was one of his officers and therefore his authority had to be upheld. Nevertheless, if Meheux, the cheerful, round-faced second lieutenant, or Weigall, the third, had been in Sawle’s place the incident would have got no further. Meheux was popular because of his raw, north country humour. His well-founded boast that he could reef or splice as efficiently as any seaman would have prevented anything worse than a contest, man to man.

Weigall, who had the build, and unfortunately the intelligence also, of a prizefighter, would have laid the culprit low with one of his massive fists and forgotten the incident completely. Weigall was not unpopular with the men of his division, but for the most part they avoided him. He was in charge of the middle gundeck, and had unfortunately been rendered very deaf during an engagement with a blockade runner. Sometimes he imagined his men were talking about him behind his back, and would have them doing extra drills in the twinkling of an eye.

Bolitho leaned back in his chair and watched the Euryalus’s wake bubbling astern as the wind pushed her over, holding her steady while she thrust onward to the north-east.

He poured some more coffee and grimaced. It would soon be time to wear ship and spread more sail for the uncomplicated run before the wind to find the squadron again. This one afternoon and evening of comparative freedom had given him time to think and reconsider, to examine those closest to him, yet as ever separated by rank and station. Broughton had left him entirely alone, and Calvert had implied that he was for the most part going over his charts and re-reading his sealed orders as if to find something previously missed.

There was a tap at the door and the marine sentry bawled,

“Midshipman o’ the watch, sir!”

It was Drury. Doing an extra watch because of his earlier troubles with his lieutenant over the lantern.

“Mr Bickford’s respects, sir, and would you come up, please.” Bolitho smiled as he saw the boy’s eyes exploring the cabin, noting everything for future description in the more meagre quarters of the gunroom.

“And why, Mr Drury? You seem to have forgotten the best part.”

Drury looked confused. “A sail, sir. To the nor’ west.” Bolitho jumped up. “Thank you.” He hurried for the door. “I might arrange for Trute to show you over my cabin later, Mr Drury, but for now we have work to do.” Drury blushed and dashed after him, so that they arrived on the tilting quarterdeck together.

Bickford was the fourth lieutenant, one who took his duties very seriously, but appeared totally lacking in humour.

He said, “Masthead has just reported a sail, sir. To the nor’

west.”

Bolitho walked up the deck to the weather side and peered towards the horizon. It was hard and silver bright, like the edge of a sword. But the wind was steady, and that was something. But it might rise to a squall before another dawn. It would then take time to rejoin the squadron, to contact Draffen in the Restless.

Bickford took his silence for uncertainty.

“It is my belief, sir, that she is the Coquette. ” He raised his voice slightly to impress Drury and another midshipman nearby. “It would be the most likely explanation.” Bolitho lifted his head and stared up at the bulging topsails, the cracking vehemence of the masthead pendant. Like a giant whip. He thought of the dizzy climb, the dreadful shaking in those shrouds.

“I see, Mr Bickford, thank you.”

The lieutenant nodded firmly. “That is why she comes alone and with such confidence, sir.”

Keverne climbed the companion ladder to the quarterdeck and hurried towards him.

Bolitho was still looking up at the straining yards. “Mr Keverne, get aloft with a glass. As fast as you can climb. There is a ship to larboard. Maybe alone.” He glanced at Bickford. “Maybe not.”

He saw Bickford and the others stiffen and draw back and knew that Broughton had arrived on deck.

“Ah, Bolitho, what is all this scampering and excitement?”

“A sail, sir.” He gestured above the nettings towards the horizon.

“Hmm.” Broughton turned to watch as Keverne swarmed easily up the weather shrouds. “What is she, I wonder?” Bickford said quickly, “I think her to be the Coquette, sir.” Broughton’s eyes did not blink as he said to Bolitho, “Would you remind that officer that if I am in such dire distress as to require an opinion of no value, he will be the first to be told.” Bolitho smiled as Bickford melted into the others by the rail.

“I believe he understands, sir.”

It was strange how they could stay outwardly calm, he thought.

In spite of Broughton’s mild show of interest, he knew his mind was alive with questions and calculations. It would be interesting to see if he would ask for an opinion of his flag captain this time.

Keverne arrived, thudding to the deck by means of a backstay, and hurried across, his dark features working with excitement.

“Merchantman, sir. But well armed, fifty guns, I’d say. Standing right before the wind, but carrying no royal yards.” He realised Broughton was glaring at him and added, “Spaniard, sir. No doubt of it.”

Broughton bit his lip. “Damn his eyes.”

“Even without royals she could still give us a merry chase, sir.” Bolitho was thinking aloud. “But if we can take her we might get information.” He paused, studying the set of Broughton’s tense shoulders. “Information which would be yours to share as you thought fit.”

He had not misjudged the moment. Broughton swung round, his eyes shining.

“By God, I can see Sir Hugo’s face when he arrives back empty handed and we tell him of our news.” He sighed. “But what is the use? By the time you put this great elephant about that Don’ll be flying for home. I cannot afford a long chase, one to take me away from the squadron.”

Bolitho said, “I think we have all missed the one important detail, sir.” He slapped one fist into his palm. “In a way Mr Bickford made some sense.” He looked at the others, his mouth lifting in a grin. Bickford was hanging back, as if afraid of receiving another rebuff.

Bolitho continued, “That Don thinks the Euryalus is French!” He looked at Broughton, at the doubts and disappointment giving way to cautious hope. “And why not, sir? After all this time they’ll not be expecting one solitary British ship in the Mediterranean. And there’s been no time for news to reach them of our leaving the Rock.”

Broughton walked to the nettings and climbed lightly on to a bollard. He stared fixedly at the horizon as if willing the ship to show herself to him.

The masthead lookout called, “Ship still runnin’ afore the wind, sir!”

Broughton returned to the deck, rubbing his chin. “She must have seen us. Even the Dons are not that blind.” Bolitho replied, “But the moment we shorten sail or begin to tack he’ll know well enough what we are about.”

“Hell, Bolitho! You raise my hopes and then dash ’em again!”

“I can see her, sir! Two points before the beam!” Drury was clinging to the quivering shrouds, a telescope jammed to one eye.

Bolitho took a glass from the rack and steadied it against the deck’s plunging movements. Then he saw it, a pale wedge on the horizon. Running free with all sails set, her master was making the most of the fresh wind.

“She’s coming up fast, sir.”

Again he considered the idea of climbing to the masthead.

Instead he asked, “Fifty guns, you think, Mr Keverne?”

“Aye, sir. I’ve seen her sort before. Well armed to fight off pirates and the like. Mile for mile we could outpace her, but I doubt match her agility.”

Broughton snapped, “I can see this getting us nowhere!”

“We must draw her to close quarters, sir.” Bolitho walked quickly to the wheel and back without even being aware of it.

“But keep the advantage. Without holding the wind gage we’ll soon be left astern.”

Partridge suggested, “’Oist a Frog flag, sir?” The admiral banged his hips with impatience. “Too bloody obvious!”

He saw Captain Giffard and his marine lieutenant at the poop rail training telescopes on the newcomer. “Get those officers out of my sight! Red coats in a French man-o’-war, what are you doing, Giffard?”

The two marines vanished like magic.

Bolitho said slowly, “Man overboard, sir.”

“What was that?” Broughton stared at him as if he had taken leave of his sanity. “Man overboard?”

“The one thing at sea to make a ship heave to without warning.”

Broughton opened his mouth and shut it again. He could hardly contain his sudden flood of uncertainty and doubts.

Bolitho persisted gently, “We’ll need a good swimmer. A crew standing by for the quarter boat. We can pick ’em up later.” He nodded. “It’s worth it, sir.”

Broughton considered in silence. “It might just work. Give us the time to . . .” He stamped one foot on the deck. “By God, yes!

We will try it!”

Bolitho took a deep breath. “Mr Keverne, take in the forecourse. We will remain under tops’ls and jib. It is common enough on this tack and should excite little attention.” He watched Keverne dashing away and sought out Partridge. “Taking in the forecourse will cut her speed a little. We do not want to cross her bows too much.”

Partridge smiled and bobbed his head, his chins wobbling against his neckcloth. He had been wounded at Broughton’s scathing attack on his earlier suggestion, but seemed in good spirits again.

The great forecourse was already flapping and curling inwards as seamen scampered to sheets and halliards, urged on by Keverne’s speaking trumpet.

When the first lieutenant came to report it had been brailed up and secured against its yard, Bolitho said, “Send an experienced petty officer aloft to watch the Spaniard and report any sign of alarm. Then you may pipe the hands to quarters. We will not be able to clear for action on the upper deck, so this will have to be done quickly, and well. We do not want our people injured by boat splinters and falling spars to no good purpose.” As Keverne dashed away again Broughton asked sharply, “How long?”

“An hour at the most, sir. I’ll bring her up a point to the wind.

That should help.”

“It will be too dark to see in three hours.” Broughton nodded grimly. “So be it then.”

The admiral was about to walk to the poop and then stopped to add softly, “But you disable my flagship, Bolitho, and I cannot promise any hope for you.”

Bolitho looked at the master. “Bring her round a point to wind’rd.”

Then he made himself walk slowly along the weather side, his hands clasped behind him. If the Euryalus was disabled, there would be little hope for any of them, he decided.

Bolitho trained his glass on the other ship. Since she had first appeared above the horizon and the Euryalus had cleared for action, he had expected some sign of alarm or recognition, but the oncoming vessel maintained her set course and now lay less than two miles distant. If Euryalus continued on her present tack the Spaniard would cross her stern with about a mile between them.

She was exactly as Keverne had described. Two-decked and carrying every available sail, she was making a fair display of speed, spray bursting above her scarlet and blue figurehead as high as the bellying forecourse. He could just distinguish the old-fashioned, triangular mizzen sail above her ornately carved poop, the flash of sunlight on trained telescopes as her officers examined the Euryalus, no doubt wondering at her purpose and destination.

Keverne said grimly, “Getting close, sir.” Bolitho walked to the quarterdeck rail and saw a burly seaman standing amongst a chattering group of onlookers.

“Ready, Williams?”

The man squinted up at him and grinned awkwardly. “Aye, sir.” Bolitho nodded. The man had no doubt been well primed with rum by well-wishers. Not too much, he hoped, or the ruse might develop into a sudden sea burial.

He said, “Pass the word to the middle and lower gundecks, Mr Keverne.” He walked back to the weather side again and trained his glass on the other ship. “Starboard side to load with double shot. Make sure they do not run out until the order. One sight of a gun muzzle sniffing the wind and our friends will be off and away.”

As Keverne beckoned to a midshipman Bolitho called to Lieutenant Meheux who commanded the upper gundeck. He was staring at his own batteries, his round face unusually glum.

“Never fear, Mr Meheux, your crews will have work enough soon. But a view of them loading and casting off the lashings and our trick will misfire!”

Meheux touched his hat and then resumed his stance of gloomy disappointment.

Allday hurried across the quarterdeck and held out Bolitho’s sword. As Bolitho raised his hands and he swiftly buckled it around his waist, he said, “I’ve told the coxswain of the quarter boat what you want, Captain!” He grinned. “And what he’ll get if he makes a mess of it!”

Bolitho frowned. The Spaniard was going to pass further astern than he had gauged. He would have to act now, or never.

“Right, Williams, over you go!”

The big seaman clambered on to the larboard gangway, and with his face set in a mask of determination began to lean over the rail.

Keverne muttered harshly, “God, he is making the most of his performance.”

“There ’e goes!” Partridge hurried back to his place near the wheel as with a violent thrashing of arms Williams pitched over the rail and vanished.

Bolitho ran to the nettings as the cry “Man overboard!” brought the crew of the quarterboat dashing from their various attitudes of unlikely concentration. He breathed out more easily as the seaman’s head appeared bobbing and spluttering close to the side, and snapped, “Back the mizzen tops’l, Mr Keverne! Get that boat away!” He had feared that Williams’s enthusiasm would make him mistime his fall. The steep tumblehome of the three-decker’s side could easily have broken an arm or skull had he been careless.

He tore his eyes from the orderly confusion as the boat’s crew swarmed down into the tethered craft below the quarter, while overhead the mizzen topsail banged and flapped against the mast and yard, acting like a brake on some runaway juggernaut, just long enough to peer towards the Spanish ship. She was about two cables from the point where she would cross Euryalus’s wake, and he could see figures scampering along her forecastle, as if to get a better view of the drama.

Bolitho raised his hand. “Now! Stand by to go about!” Already the mizzen yard was squeaking back to its original position, while from their hiding places beneath the gangways the seamen ran to their stations, encouraged by derisive cheers from the unemployed gun crews.

Partridge called, “Ready, sir!”

“Put the helm down!” Bolitho trained his glass on the Spaniard.

There was still no sign of alarm as far as he could see.

“Helm a’lee, sir!”

Up forward the headsail sheets had already been let go, and as the wheel went over and the great hull began to swing very slowly into the wind, Keverne urged the men at the braces to even greater efforts as they strained back, panting and cursing, their eyes on the yards above them.

Sails boomed and swelled, and as the ship continued to swing Bolitho saw sudden activity on the other vessel’s poop, an officer waving wildly and pointing to his men who were still grouped around the bows.

“Off tacks and sheets!”

Bolitho shaded his eyes to peer aloft through the tangle of flapping sails and jerking shrouds to where the topmen were already fighting their way to the topgallant yards in readiness for the next part of the attack. For a moment longer he hardly dared to draw breath. The wind was still quite strong, and at worst might bring down the topmasts, or leave the heavy ship thrashing helplessly and all aback.

But the pendant was swinging, the ship was still responding, wheeling across the eye of the wind like a well-disciplined mammoth.

“Let go and haul!” Keverne had not raised his eyes from the men on deck. “Heave there!” Slowly but steadily the great yards began to respond to the braces, until with a sound of hill thunder the sails billowed out, full and bulging to the wind, while the deck heeled over to the opposite tack.

Bolitho watched fixedly as the other ship appeared to swim backwards through the mass of rigging around the foremast, until she lay not safely across the larboard quarter, but there, fine on the starboard bow.

There was no sign of the boat or the swimmer, and he found time to hope someone was watching out for them.

“Pass the word. Mr Keverne! Lower batteries run out!” As the port lids lifted and he heard the familiar squeak and groan of gun trucks, he could imagine the cursing men far below his feet as they hauled their massive charges up the tilting decks towards the sunlight.

“Run up the colours. Mr Tothill!”

Broughton’s voice made him turn. “That was a fierce turn, Bolitho. I thought you would have the sticks out of her.” He had appeared on deck in his gold-laced coat, wearing the beautiful sword, as if for another of his inspections.

There was a dull bang and a puff of smoke drifted across the Spaniard’s poop. A gun must have been kept loaded and ready, Bolitho thought, although he did not see where the ball went.

“Get the t’gallants on her, Mr Keverne! This one intends to run for it!”

The two ships were on parallel courses, with the Euryalus now some two cables’ length astern.

There was another bang and someone gasped with alarm as a ball smacked through the fore topsail and splashed down far to windward.

The Spanish ship had a very curved stern, and Bolitho guessed she had some powerful guns mounted there to protect herself from a pursuer.

Broughton snapped, “No sense in delaying things.” Bolitho nodded. Any minute now and a ball might bring down a vital spar. “Middle battery, Mr Keverne. Fire in succession!” To Partridge he snapped, “Bring her up a point to wind’rd!” While the Euryalus swung slightly away from her intended victim the middle gundeck erupted in a cloud of brown smoke. From forward to aft, cannon after cannon crashed out at regular two-second intervals, each massive twenty-four-pounder hurling itself inboard as the savage orange tongue left its muzzle.

Bolitho watched the leaping waterspouts bursting near and beyond the Spaniard’s quarter, saw splintered woodwork fly from her bulwark as some of the balls smashed home.

From below he could hear the gunners cheering, the squeak of trucks as they raced each other up the canting deck towards the ports.

Keverne was watching him, his eyes dark with tension. “They have not struck, sir.”

Bolitho bit his lip. The red and orange flag of Spain still floated above the poop, and even as he watched another gun banged across the water and a ball screamed close overhead like a tortured spirit in hell.

He had expected the Spaniard to strike at the first sight of the flag. There was about a cable between them, and with her topgallant sails drawing well the Euryalus was beginning to pare the range away with each minute.

Something caught his eye, and he saw the quarter boat, black against the glittering water, while its crew, and presumably Williams, stood to cheer the one-sided battle.

The Spaniard’s quarter battery belched orange tongues again; this time three, perhaps four, had fired, and before the smoke had blown clear Bolitho felt the deck jump as a ball slammed into the Euryalus’s hull like a hammer.

“Bring her up a point again, Mr Partridge.” What was that fool of a Spaniard doing? It was sheer madness to risk any more fighting. If he continued to run before the wind Euryalus would overhaul him. If he stood away, she would rake his stern and dismast him in seconds.

More flashes, and this time a ball ploughed into the starboard gangway, and two seamen rolled screaming and kicking on the deck below, cut down by the flying splinters.

Bolitho said, “Lower batteries, Mr Keverne.” He held on, watching the defiant flag. Hoping. Then he snapped, “Broadside!” The two lower gundecks had been given plenty of time. It had been almost a leisurely business as gun-captains had checked their crews, and the lieutenants had paced up and down, ducking beneath the massive deck beams to peer through the open ports, as with tired dignity the Euryalus turned slightly away from her enemy, showing the double line of guns like black teeth. The next instant, as lieutenants blew on their whistles and captains jerked their lanyards, every gun roared out as one, the whole ship quak-ing as if grinding across a submerged reef.

On the quarterdeck Bolitho watched the smoke billowing down towards the Spaniard, while above it he saw her mizzen tilt forward before plunging down over her poop, the crash audible even above the broadside’s echo, which still reverberated across the sea like thunder.

As the smoke drifted beyond the other ship he saw the gaping holes in her exposed bilge and along her quarter, the trail of rigging and broken spars alongside as she swung drunkenly downwind, exposing her tall stern as if for the final, devastating blow.

But a voice yelled, “’E’s struck!” And the cheer was taken up below where the crews were already sponging out and reloading for the next broadside.

Bolitho said, “A brave captain.”

“But stupid.” Broughton was peering towards the Spaniard as she continued to drift helplessly with her smoke, so pitiful after her original appearance of vitality and life.

“We will shorten sail at once, Mr Keverne, and keep her under our lee.” He waited until Keverne had passed his orders before adding, “Now we might discover what was important to him that needed defending so desperately.”

VICE-ADMIRAL Broughton snatched a telescope from the midshipman of the watch and strode briskly to Bolitho’s side.

“What in hell’s name are they doing over there?” He trained the glass on the other ship which still drifted about half a cable under the Euryalus’s lee.

Bolitho did not answer. He too was studying her as she yawed and plunged, the newly hoisted white ensign flapping jauntily from her mainmast to prove that Lieutenant Meheux and his boarding party had at least achieved something.

He glanced up at the flapping sails and rattling shrouds. It was nearly an hour since the boats had been lowered to take Meheux and his men across to the prize, and in that time there had been a distinct and worrying change in the weather. The sky was cloud-ing over very rapidly, so that the sea had lost its colour and warmth, and the fast-moving crests of the steep waves were dirty grey and menacing. Only the horizon appeared clear, cold and steel bright, as if being lit by power other than the setting sun.

Without consulting the masthead pendant he knew the wind had backed still further, and now blew almost from the west, its strength mounting with each frustrating minute.

They were in for a blow, and, hampered by the disabled ship and very little information from Meheux, it could not have been at a worse time.

Broughton snapped, “The jolly boat’s returning. And about damn time!”

Watching the small boat under oars as it dipped and curtsied over crest and trough alike was visible evidence of the worsening weather.

The other boats had already been recalled and hoisted inboard, this one being Meheux’s only link with the flagship.

In the sternsheets Bolitho saw the intent figure of Midshipman Ashton, who with a master’s mate and reliable petty officer had been sent with Meheux to take charge of the prize.

While the little boat wallowed sickeningly below the Euryalus’s quarter Ashton cupped his hands and yelled, “She’s badly holed, sir! And the rudder lines have been shot away!” Bolitho craned over the rail, conscious of the men nearby listening to him as he shouted, “What is she? What is taking so long?”

Ashton replied, “The Navarra, sir. Outward bound from Malaga.” He almost pitched overboard as an angry wave hurled the boat into a trough. “General cargo and, and . . .” He seemed aware of the admiral’s presence for the first time. “And a lot of passengers, sir.”

“For God’s sake, Bolitho! Ask the young idiot about her captain’s explanation!”

But in reply Ashton called, “He was killed in the broadside, sir. And most of his officers.” He peered up at Bolitho adding miserably, “The ship is in a terrible state, sir.” Bolitho beckoned to Keverne. “I think you had better go across.

The sea is getting up, and there seems more to our prize than we thought.”

But Broughton halted Keverne in his stride. “Belay that order!” He looked at Bolitho, his eyes cold in the strange light. “And if Keverne cannot cope with the problem, what then? More delay, with us getting caught in a squall in the middle of it. You go.” He flinched as overhead the shrouds and rigging began to hum and whine like badly tuned instruments. “Decide what must be done, and be sharp about it. I do not want to lose her, but rather than waste hours or even days struggling back to the squadron with a lame duck for company, I’ll scuttle her, here and now.” He sensed Bolitho’s unspoken question and added, “We can take the crew and passengers aboard if need be.” Bolitho nodded. “Very well, sir.”

He saw Keverne watching him, his face trying hard to hide his disappointment. Denied the chance to hold command of the Auriga, he was now losing yet one more opportunity to better his position. If the Navarra could be saved, but was unfit to accompany the flagship, the prize officer who sailed her back to Gibraltar might well find himself appointed as captain.

Bolitho had obtained his own first real chance of command by the same method, and could feel for Keverne’s distress and possible resentment.

He thrust it from his mind as he signalled to the jolly boat. If the wind mounted any further there might be no prize at all within the hour.

Allday had appeared at his side and helped him into his coat as he murmured, “You’ll be wanting me of course, Captain.” Bolitho glanced at him. Saw the sudden anxiety, like the time he had gone to the bomb vessel without him.

He smiled. “As you say, Allday. Of course. ” Getting into the boat was as dangerous as it was uncomfortable. One moment it was driving hard against the ship’s side, the next plummeting into a trough, the oarsmen fighting and cursing to stop its timbers from being stove in.

Bolitho jumped outwards and down, knowing that if he misjudged it he was likely to be sucked bodily beneath his ship’s great bilge, or be ground into the side by the careering jolly boat.

Breathlessly he crouched in the sternsheets, blinded by spray, and knocked almost senseless by his jump, which had been more like a fall.

Allday grinned into the flying spray as the oarsmen turned the boat away from the ship and started to fight back downwind.

“Nasty blow, Captain!”

Bolitho said, “These squalls can go in minutes. Or they can drive a ship to despair.” It was amazing how Allday had regained his usual good spirits now he was with him again, he thought.

When he peered astern he saw the Euryalus plunging heavily, her close-reefed topsails just giving steerage way as she edged carefully clear of the other vessel. In the steel-grey light she looked huge and formidable, and he was thankful to see Keverne had already ordered the lower gunports to be closed. The ship was rolling badly, and open ports would invite unnecessary work for the pumps, as well as adding to the discomfort of the men who had to live there.

Even in the poor light it was easy to see the Spanish ship’s savage scars. The poop and lower hull beneath it had been smashed into gaping holes in several places, the blackened timbers protruding like broken teeth as testimony of that one, reduced broadside.

Midshipman Ashton shouted, “Mr Meheux has rigged some swivel guns, sir. But the crew appear too dazed to try and retake the ship.”

Allday growled, “There’ll be nothing to retake in a moment!” After three attempts the boat managed to get under the Navarra’s lee and eventually hooked on to her main chains.

Bolitho took his dignity in his hands and jumped wildly for the entry port ladder, feeling his hat whisked from his head and his body soaked to the waist as a lazy breaker swirled up and along the hull as if to drag him away.

Hands reached down to haul him unceremoniously to the deck where Meheux and the master’s mate were waiting to meet him, their faces showing their surprise at his sudden and undignified arrival.

Allday clambered after him, and Bolitho saw that somehow he had managed to retrieve his hat from the sea, although it was unlikely it would ever be the same again.

He took it from the coxswain’s hands, examining it critically as he gave his breathing time to return to normal, his eyes giving the swaying deck a brief glance as the extent of the damage became more apparent.

The severed mizzen mast, the tangle of fallen rigging and charred canvas, while on the deck nearby lay several gaping corpses, their blood paling in the blown spray and seeping away like life itself.

He said, “Well, Mr Meheux, I would be obliged if you will give me your observations and conclusions.” He turned as a block fell from somewhere overhead and crashed amongst a pile of shattered planks, which had once been some of the ship’s boats. “But be brief.”

The Euryalus’s second lieutenant glanced around the disordered deck and said, “She is badly holed, sir. There are several rents close to the waterline also. If this gets any worse she will take in more than the pumps can manage.” He paused as if to allow Bolitho to hear the measured clank of pumps. “The real problem is the great mass of people below, sir. Quite apart from her ship’s company, this ship is carrying about one hundred passengers. Women, even children, are jammed down there. If they get out of hand there will be too great a panic to control.” He gestured to the shattered boat tier. “And there’s no hope for them there either, sir.”

Bolitho rubbed his chin. All those passengers. So why did her captain risk their lives by trying to fight a three-decker? It did not make sense. Nor did it match a Spaniard’s normal attitude when it came to self-preservation.

“You have thirty seamen in your party, Mr Meheux.” He tried not to think of those terrified people battened down below. “Send some to put extra members of the Navarra’s crew on the pumps.

By working in relays we can keep it in check. Then the rudder.

Have you done anything there?”

“My petty officer, McEwen, is attending to the lines, sir.” Meheux shook his head, obviously thinking it all a waste of time.

“But the tiller head is damaged too, and will come adrift in anything like a heavy sea.”

Midshipman Ashton had climbed in through the entry port and was shaking himself like a half-drowned terrier.

Bolitho took a hasty glance at the sky. The fading light made the scudding clouds appear faster and lower. Either way they were in for a bad night, he thought grimly.

He saw Meheux watching him worriedly, no doubt wondering how he was going to cope with an impossible task. He slapped the lieutenant on the shoulder and said with a confidence he certainly did not feel, “Come, Mr Meheux, your face is like a thunderstorm to a bowl of fresh milk! Now get our people to work, and I will let Mr Ashton show me the passengers.” He followed Ashton beneath the poop where a corpse in a gold-laced coat lay where it had fallen from a fire-scorched ladder. It must be the captain, he thought. The man’s face had been almost blown away, yet there was hardly a speck of blood on the immaculate coat.

Two pigtailed seamen were standing by the wheel gingerly moving the spokes in response to a muffled voice from below a companion ladder as the petty officer bawled his instructions.

They saw Bolitho and one of them grinned with obvious relief.

“We leavin’ ’er, zur? ’Er’ll never steer proper with this ’un.” Perhaps seeing his own captain again after seemingly being abandoned on this shattered, listing vessel had momentarily made him forget his normal respect when addressing his officers. But Bolitho only saw the man’s homely face split into a grin. A man he had hardly noticed before amidst the Euryalus’s eight hundred souls, yet one who at this moment seemed like an old friend in an alien and despairing place.

He smiled. “I think we might prefer even this to a raft.” As he ducked beneath the deck timbers the seaman winked at his mate. “Wot did Oi tell ’ee? Oi knew our Dick’d not leave us fer long.”

The petty officer, his hands and arms glistening with thick black grease from the rudder, appeared behind them and snarled,

“Probably ’e don’t trust yew. Any more’n what I does.” But even he was surprised to learn his captain had arrived on board, and was content to leave it at that.

One deck down, Bolitho followed Ashton along a madly lurching passageway, very aware of the groaning timbers, the creak and clatter of loose gear and discarded belongings which seemed to mark each foot of the journey. He could hear the sea sluicing against the hull, the long shuddering protest as the ship lifted herself through another trough before heeling heavily away from the wind. His feet skidded, and in the swaying lantern light he saw a man’s body spreadeagled across a hatch coaming. His trunk was almost cut in half by a ball which must have come through an open port, catching him as he carried a message, or ran for his life before the merciless bombardment.

Two seamen were standing by another companionway, the top of which was sealed with a heavy hatch cover. They were both armed, and stared at Bolitho with surprise and something like guilt. They had probably been rifling some of the cabins, he thought. That could be sorted out later. Just so long as they had not yet broached a spirit store or found some wine in an officer’s sea chest. Thirty men, inflamed by drink, would be little use for saving the ship or anything else.

He asked sharply, “Are they all down there?”

“Aye, sir.” One of then thumped his musket on the hatch.

“Most of ’em had been put there afore the attack, sir.”

“I see.” It was a wise precaution in spite of the terror and the thunder of cannon fire. Otherwise many more would have died with the captain and his officers.

Allday hissed, “You’re not going down there, Captain?” Bolitho ignored him. “Open it.”

He cocked his head to listen to Meheux shouting orders, the answering patter of bare feet on the deck above. Another crisis, but Meheux would have to manage on his own. Right now he had to see the passengers, for down there below the waterline he was sure he might find the answer to one of his questions, and there was no time left for delay.

At first Bolitho could see nothing. But when the seamen flung back the hatch cover and Ashton held his lantern directly above the ladder he felt the sudden tension and fear rising to greet him like something physical.

He climbed down two of the steps, and as the lantern light fell across his body he was almost deafened by a violent chorus of cries and shouts, and saw what appeared to be hundreds of eyes shining in the yellow beam, swaying about in the pitching hull as if detached from anything human. But the voices were real enough. Rising together in shock and terror, the shriller cries of women or children making him halt on the ladder, suddenly aware that many of these people were probably quite ignorant of what had happened in the world above them.

He shouted, “Be silent, all of you! I will see that no harm comes . . .”

It was hopeless. Hands were already reaching from the gloom, clawing at the ladder and his legs, while the mass of glittering eyes swayed forward, pushed on by the press of figures at the rear.

Ashton said breathlessly, “Let me, sir! I speak a little Spanish.” Bolitho pulled him down to the ladder and shouted, “Just tell them to keep quiet!”

As Ashton tried to make himself heard above the clamour Bolitho called to the two seamen, “Get some more hands down here! Lively, or you’ll be trampled to pulp!” Ashton was tugging at his sleeve and pointing below him. “Sir!

There’s someone trying to say something!” It was in fact a plump, frightened-looking man, whose bald head shone in the lantern like a piece of smooth marble as he cried, “I speak the English, Captain! I will tell them to obey you if you only get me out of this terrible place!” He was almost weeping with fear and exhaustion, but was managing to keep a grip on something which Bolitho now recognised as a wig.

“I’ll have you all out of there in a moment. Stay on the ladder and tell them.” He felt suddenly sorry for the unknown man, who was neither young nor very firm on his feet. But right now he was his most valuable asset, one he could not afford to lose from view.

The bald man had a surprisingly carrying voice, although he had to break off several times to regain his breath. Some of the noises had died, and the crush of figures beneath the ladder eased back in response to his pleas.

The master’s mate and three seamen came panting along the passageway and Bolitho shouted, “Ah, Mr Grindle, you were quick. Now get ready to pass the children aft, though God knows how many there are down there. Then the women . . .” He broke off as a terrified figure tried to push past Ashton on the ladder.

He seized him by the coat and said harshly, “Tell this one that I will have him thrown overboard if he disobeys my orders!” In a calmer tone he continued, “You may put all the fit men to work on deck under Mr Meheux.”

Grindle looked at him dubiously. “They ain’t seamen, sir.”

“I don’t care. Give ’em axes and have that wreckage hacked away. Cut loose any top hamper you can find. You may cast the poop guns over the side if you can manage it without letting them run wild.” He paused to listen to the wind whipping against the hull, the growing chorus of groans and bangs which seemed to come from every side, above and below.

Grindle nodded. “Aye, aye, sir. But we’ll not save ’er, I’m thinkin’.”

“Just do as I say.” He halted the man before he could move away. “Look, Mr Grindle, there is something you must face. These people cannot abandon ship, for there are no boats, nor could we build a raft in this sea. Their officers are dead, and they are near giving in to their terror.” Grindle was an experienced man, he deserved an explanation, even at this late stage.

The master’s mate nodded. “Aye, sir. I’ll do what I can.” He raised his voice. “You lads there! Watch the ’atch, while we goes down to get the bairns out!”

Another seaman came staggering down the passageway.

“Captain, sir! Mr Meheux sends his respects, and the Euryalus is signalling!” He gaped as Grindle reeled through the hatch carrying two screaming babies as he would a bundle of canvas.

Bolitho snapped, “Give Mr Grindle a hand.” To Ashton he called, “On deck and see what is happening.” The boy faltered and then ran as Bolitho shouted, “Well, move yourself, my lad! I may have need of your Spanish presently.” The tide of scrambling, gasping figures was growing every minute, with the seamen occasionally reaching into it to haul out some man who was trying to remain hidden with the women.

Bolitho had vague impressions of dark hair and frightened eyes, of tear-stained faces, an atmosphere of despair and near panic.

Ashton was back again, pushing through the throng, his hat awry as he reported, “The admiral wishes to know when you are returning, sir.”

Bolitho tried to shut out the din, the clawing uncertainty of other people’s fear which hemmed him in on every side.

Then he snapped, “Signal the ship at once. I need more time.

It will be pitch dark soon.”

Ashton stared at him. “It is all but dark now, sir.”

“And the wind?” He must think. Detach his mind from this throng of terrified, unreal figures.

“Strong, sir. Mr Meheux says it is still rising.” Bolitho looked away. It was settled. Perhaps there had never been any doubt.

“Go and make your signal. But inform the admiral that I will endeavour to get sail on this ship within the hour.” Ashton looked stunned. Maybe he had expected Bolitho to order them from the ship. The jolly boat could still make the crossing, at least with some of them.

Grindle panted past, his grey hair standing on end like dead grass.

Bolitho called, “How many so far?”

He scratched his head. “’Bout twenty kids. Fifty or so women!” He grinned, showing a line of uneven teeth. “Sailors’ dream, annit, sir?”

Grindle’s humour seemed to steady Bolitho. He knew he had been about to call back the midshipman before he could signal his ship. To make a last-minute compromise. One which Broughton might overrule with every justification and so recall him to the Euryalus.

He dismissed it instantly. Imagining Meheux trying to manage all on his own while he hid behind his proper role was unthinkable.

Ashton returned almost immediately. He was white faced and visibly alarmed.

“Signal from Euryalus, sir. If you are sure you can save the prize will you confirm it now?” He swallowed hard as something crashed across the upper deck, followed by shouts and wild curses from the seamen.

“Then confirm it, Mr Ashton.”

The midshipman added, “In which case you are ordered to proceed independently to the squadron rendezvous. The flagship is making sail.”

Bolitho tried to hide his feelings. No doubt Broughton was more afraid of losing control of his squadron than anything. It was, after all, his first responsibility. If he allowed himself to be caught in a bad storm it might take him days to find his ships, to learn if Draffen had discovered anything useful.

He weighed his own reactions against their true value. Keverne could manage well enough, he had already proved that. Whereas here . . . He broke out of his thoughts and clapped Ashton on the shoulder. “Now be off with you.” As Ashton ran back along the passageway he called after him, “Walk. It does no harm to appear calm, no matter what your feelings may be!” The midshipman glanced back at him and then forced a smile, before continuing on his way. Walking.

Allday called above the noise, “Can you come on deck, Captain?” He peered at some male passengers who were being herded in the opposite direction by two armed seamen. “Blow me, Captain, ’tis like the gates of hell opening!” Grindle asked, “What’ll I do, sir?”

“Keep the passengers quiet until I can send the petty officer to relieve you. Then try and find some charts, and together we’ll decide what to do next.”

He followed Allday up the ladder and then said, “Get that corpse cleared away. It is no sight for children at first light.” Allday watched him and gave a grim smile. Earlier it seemed they must abandon. Now he was speaking of first light. Things might get better after all.

On deck the wind and sea greeted Bolitho like forces gone mad. The light had almost disappeared, except for slivers of grey sky left darting between the clouds. Just enough for him to see the men reeling about the scarred decks, the bare space where the broken mizzen had lain trapped in its attendant rigging.

He rapped out his orders and then said to Meheux, “You have made a fine start.”

He turned to watch as Meheux raised one arm to point across the rail. The Euryalus was a mere shadow already, with the paler patches growing above her as her topsails filled to the wind and she began to go about. For a moment longer he saw her side glistening in spray, the checkered lines of her sealed ports, and pictured Keverne at his place on the quarterdeck, perhaps already imagining this to be yet another chance for him.

“We will have to stand before the wind, Mr Meheux. Any attempt to tack and we would lose the rudder and worse.” The master’s mate came stumbling out of the darkness, a chart clutched against his chest.

“She was ’eadin’ for Port Mahon, sir. Most o’ the passengers are traders an’ their families, as far as I can make out.” Bolitho frowned. The Navarra was much further south than need be when they had intercepted her. Another mystery, yet still no answers.

He said, “We will try and set the tops’ls, Mr Meheux. Put two good men on the wheel. Mr Ashton can translate your requirements to the Spanish hands.”

Bolitho looked round for the Euryalus, but she had completely vanished. He said, “I would rather have the Navarra’s men aloft for the present, where we can keep our eyes on them.” Meheux grimaced. “They’ll be unhappy to go up in this wind, sir.”

“If they refuse, tell ’em there’s only one other place they can go.” He gestured between his straddled feet. “About a thousand fathoms straight down hereabouts!”

Another seaman sought him out and shouted, “There’s some fifty wounded in the fo’c’sle, sir! Blood all over the place! ’Tis a fearful sight!”

Bolitho watched the shadowy figures climbing gingerly up the ratlines, urged on by Meheux with angry gestures and his own idea of Spanish.

“Go below and tell McEwen to discover if we have a doctor amongst the passengers. If so, have him brought on deck.” Meheux was calling again. “There’s a good few severed lines on the main topmast, sir! It could carry away as soon as we get sail on her!”

Bolitho shivered, aware for the first time that he was soaked to the skin.

“Man the braces, Mr Meheux. Put some of the passengers on them too. I want every damned ounce of muscle you can find!” To Grindle he yelled, “Ready on the helm there!” His voice was almost drowned by the wailing wind, the leaping curtains of spray against the weather side, like spirits trying to drag her over and down.

He looked for a speaking trumpet, but could see nothing but the faces of the helmsmen glowing in the compass light like wax masks.

Was he doing the correct thing? The squall might blow itself out in minutes, in which case he would be better to lie-to under a close-reefed main topsail. But if it did not pass as quickly as it had come upon them, he must drive ahead of it. It was their only chance. Even then, the rudder might carry away, or the pumps might be unable to contain the steady intake of water. And until daylight it was impossible to learn the extent of the damage, or their true plight.

Meheux bellowed, “Ready, sir!”

Bolitho recalled Broughton’s comment. So be it. How long ago that seemed now. But he knew it could be little more than three hours since their flag had shown itself above the Navarra’s deck.

From forward he heard the jib cracking wildly, the impatient rattle of blocks, and imagined the men on the yards, strung out like limpets on driftwood, and just as helpless.

“Loose fore tops’l!” He saw Meheux swing away to relay his order. “Put the helm up, Mr Grindle!” He waved his arm urgently.

“Easy there! Take the strain on those new rudder lines!” Ahead, through the darkness he heard the sudden clamour of billowing canvas, the muffled cries from far above the heeling deck.

“Lee braces!” He slipped on the unfamiliar deck as he strained his eyes forward. “Loose the main tops’l!” Grindle yelled excitedly, “She’s answerin’, sir!” Reeling and fighting back against the thrust of rudder and braced topsails the Navarra was sliding drunkenly in a steep beam sea, her masts leaning over further and still further to the unwavering pressure.

“Hard over, Mr Grindle!” Bolitho ran back to the rail to watch as the main topsail showed faintly in the darkness, holding the ship over.

The wheel continued to turn, while Bolitho shouted to the invisible men below him at the braces until his throat felt like raw flesh.

But she was coming round. Slowly and painfully, her sails thundering and booming like live things, the solitary jib a pale crescent through the black lines of shrouds and stays.

He dashed the spray from his eyes and ran to the weather side.

Already the angle of the waves had altered, and the angry, broken crests were now coming straight for the larboard quarter. All about him he could hear the protesting groan of wood and hemp, the clatter of broken gear, and waited for something to come tearing down from aloft to signal his failure.

But nothing fell, nor did the helmsmen lose control of their wheel. Whoever had designed the Navarra had known a thing or two, he thought dazedly.

“We will steer due east, Mr Grindle.” He had to repeat it to make himself heard. Or perhaps like him the others were too stunned, too battered by noise and weather, to make sense of anything any more.

“Braces there!” Without light it was like yelling at an empty deck. A ghost ship in which he was alone and without hope. “Let go and haul!” The strain and gloom were playing tricks with his vision, and he had to count the seconds, gauging the swing of the yards rather than trusting his streaming eyes.

Meheux came reeling aft, his figure rising and falling like a seaport drunk as he slipped, cursing obscenely, against the Spanish captain’s corpse at the foot of the ladder.

“She’ll need take a second reef, sir.” He paused, seemingly amazed he was still alive. “Better get the Dons to do it now. You’ll not get ’em aloft again in this, no matter what you threaten ’em with!”

Bolitho cracked his lips into a grin. The uncertainty and the fears were giving way to a kind of wild excitement. Like going into a battle. A madness all of its own, and no less gripping than real insanity. Later, it would pass, and leave a man empty. Spent, like a fox before the hounds.

He shouted, “See to it! Then make fast and belay.” The grin was still there, fixed on his mouth. “And pray that it holds in one piece!”

Meheux sounded equally wild, his northern accent unusually broad. “I bin praying since th’ minute I came aboard this wreck, sir!” He laughed into the dashing droplets of spray. “It’s bin a mite helpful to my way o’ thinking!”

Bolitho swayed aft to the wheel.

“We will reef, Mr Grindle, but the moment you feel she may broach-to then let me know. I dare not tack, so we will have to spread more sail rather than less of it.” The petty officer appeared at his side. “No doctor, sir. An’ there are some fierce-lookin’ rents, starboard side aft.”

“Tell Mr Meheux to get his Dons down there as soon as he has cleared the yards. I want every bucket, anything which will hold water, put into a chain of men. It will save the pumps from being swamped, and will keep the Spaniards busy for a while.” The man hesitated. “Some o’ the women are willin’ to go forrard an’ tend the wounded, sir.”

“Good. See they are escorted, McEwen.” He raised his voice.

“And make sure they come to no other hurt, understood?” He grinned. “Aye, sir.”

Grindle muttered, “It’d take a powerful fine Jack to manage a woman in this lot, by the Lord Jesus it would!” Ashton had appeared again. “Can you come, sir? I think we need some shoring up to be done in the carpenter’s walk by the aft hold. I—I’ve tried but I cannot . . .” His voice trailed away.

And that was how the night was to continue. Until Bolitho’s mind found it hard to distinguish the passing hours as he applied it to one crisis after another. Faces and voices became blurred, and even Allday seemed unable to stem the constant stream of demands for help and guidance as the Navarra ploughed wildly into the leaping wave crests.

But somehow the pumps were kept going, the relays of men having to pull their exhausted companions clear before they could take over the fight against the hull’s greedy intake. The bucket chain worked without respite, until totally exhausted the men fell like corpses, oblivious to the spurting water across their bruised bodies or the kicks and curses from the British sailors. The rudder lines grew slack and the business of steering more difficult and wearing, but they did not part, nor did the sails tear from the yards, as well they might under the wind’s onslaught.

At the first hint of dawn, almost guiltily, like an unsuccessful attacker, the wind eased, the wave crests smoothing and settling, while the battered ship became more steady beneath her new masters.

Bolitho never left the quarterdeck, and as the first warmth of a new day gingerly explored the horizon he saw that they had the sea to themselves.

He rubbed his sore eyes, noting the lolling shapes of his men beneath the bulwarks, Meheux asleep on his feet, his back against the foremast trunk as if tied there.

In one more second he would give way. Would fall asleep himself, totally spent. He could not even find the sense of satisfaction, the feeling of pride, in what he had achieved. There was nothing but an all-consuming desire to sleep.

He shook himself and called, “Send for McEwen!” He faltered.

His voice sounded like the croak of some disgruntled sea bird.

“Turn the hands to, Mr Grindle, and we will see what we have at our disposal.”

Two women appeared at the break of the forecastle and stood staring around them. One had blood on her apron, but saw him watching her and lifted her hand in greeting. Bolitho tried to smile, but nothing. Instead he waved back to her, his arm feeling like lead.

There was so much to do. In a few more moments the questions and the demands would start all over again.

He breathed in deeply and rested his hands on the rail. A ball had cut out a piece from it like a knife paring soft cheese. He was still staring at it when Allday said firmly, “I have placed a cot for you below the poop, Captain.” He paused, anticipating a protest, but knowing Bolitho had little strength left to make it.

He added, “I will call Mr Meheux to take over the watch.” The next thing Bolitho knew was that he was stretched out on a small hanging cot and someone was removing his sodden shoes and torn coat. And the same realisation brought sleep. Like a black curtain, instant and complete.

BOLITHO sat at a makeshift table in the Navarra’s small stern cabin and stared moodily at a chart. He had slept for three hours, oblivious of everything, until some latent instinct had brought him out of the cot, his eyes and ears groping for an explanation.

In the space of those three hours the wind had completely died, leaving not a hint of its past fury, and as he had hurried on deck he had seen the sails hanging lifeless, the sea breathing gently in a flat calm.

While Meheux had got on with the business of burying the dead, and Grindle had tried to produce some sort of routine for counting and then feeding the passengers and Spanish crew, he had made a slow and methodical search of the dead captain’s quarters.

He raised his eyes and looked around the cabin where a man like himself had once planned, rested and hoped. Through a great rent in the side he could see the dazzling blue water lapping against the hull as if to mock him. From the stern windows he could feel the mounting heat, for the Euryalus’s broadside had smashed every piece of glass, just as it had turned the cabin into a shattered, blackened ruin. A fire had probably started, and when he had searched for the ship’s papers and log he had found only black, sodden ashes. Nothing to give him information, nor even a sextant to help fix their approximate position. The night’s storm could have driven them many miles to the east. Land might be thirty or fifty miles distant, Spain or North Africa. He could not be sure.

Meheux entered the cabin, his shoes crunching on broken glass. He looked tired and strained, like the rest of the boarding party.

“We seem to have got some sort of mid-day meal cooking at last, sir.” He gestured to the chart. “Any hope of fixing our position yet?”

“No.” There was little point in deluding the lieutenant. If anything happened to himself, it would be Meheux’s job to get the ship to safety. “To be becalmed like this is no help at all.” He studied Meheux gravely. “How are you managing with the passengers?”

He shrugged. “They are chattering like a lot of gulls. I don’t suppose they realise yet what is happening to them.” Nor I, Bolitho thought. He said, “After our people have eaten we will put them to work again on the hull. The water intake is still very bad, so make sure the pumps are inspected too.” Allday appeared in the sagging doorway, his face set in a frown.

“Pardon, Captain, but one of the Dons wishes to speak with you.

But if you wish, I’ll send him packing so that you can have your meal in peace.”

Meheux nodded and said, “I am sorry, I forgot to mention it.

The little fat Spaniard who has been helping Ashton with the interpreting asked me earlier. With so much on my mind . . .” Bolitho smiled. “I doubt that it is of much importance, but have him sent in, Allday.” To Meheux he added, “I am so desperate for information I have little choice in the matter.” The Spaniard entered nervously, his head bowed beneath the deck beams although he had a good two feet clearance. He was wearing his wig, but Bolitho realised with surprise that it made him look older rather than more youthful.

Bolitho had already discovered his name was Luis Pareja, on passage to Port Mahon where he apparently intended to end his years.

“Well, señor, what can I do for you?” Pareja peered round at the shot holes and charred woodwork before saying timidly, “Your ship did terrible damage, Captain.” Meheux muttered harshly, “Had we given you a full broadside you would be down on the sea bed with those others, so mind your manners!”

Pareja flinched. “I did not mean to imply that you . . .” He shifted his feet and tried again. “Many of the others are worried. They do not know what is to happen, or if we will reach our homes again.”

Bolitho eyed him thoughtfully. “This ship is now a British prize. You must understand it is not possible in war to know exactly how such matters will proceed. But there is ample food aboard, and I expect to meet with our ship soon.” He imagined he saw a flash of doubt in the man’s eyes and added firmly,

“Very soon now.”

“I shall tell them.” Pareja sounded less sure than ever. “If I can help in any way, then please tell me, Captain. You saved our lives by staying with the ship, that I do know. We would certainly have perished otherwise.”

“Tell me, Señor Pareja.” Bolitho dropped his eyes. To show extra confidence might be taken by Pareja as uncertainty in his own ability. He continued, “Do you know of any reason why the captain came so far to the south?”

Pareja pouted. “There was some talk. But in the haste of departure I did not take so much notice. My wife needed to leave Spain. Since the alliance with France things have become very bad at home. I hoped to take her to my estate in Minorca. It is not vast, but . . .”

Meheux asked, “Tell us about the talk?”

“Easy, Mr Meheux.” Bolitho shot him a warning glance. “He has his troubles too, eh?” He turned and asked easily, “You were saying something, señor?”

Pareja spread his plump hands. “I heard one of the officers, alas now dead, saying that they were to meet with some vessel. To allow a passenger to be transferred. Something of that nature.” Bolitho tried to hide his sudden interest. “You speak good English. A great help.”

Pareja smiled modestly. “My wife speaks it well. And I have done much business with London.” He faltered. “In happier days.” Bolitho made himself sit very still, conscious of Meheux’s impatience, of the ship’s sluggish movement beneath him.

He asked calmly, “Do you remember where this meeting was to take place?”

“I think not.” He screwed up his face so that he looked like a plump child playing make-believe in an old wig.

Bolitho pushed the chart gently towards him. “Look at this.

The names along that coastline.” He watched intently as Pareja’s eyes moved emptily over the well-worn chart.

“No.”

Meheux moved away, biting his lip. “Blast him!” Bolitho turned in his chair to mask his disappointment. “If you remember anything, Señor Pareja, be so good as to tell one of my men.”

Pareja bowed gravely and made as if to leave. Then he halted, one hand raised as if demanding silence. He said excitedly, “But the officer did say something more.” Again the quaint frown.

“That . . . that it felt strange to do business with the French again.” He peered at Bolitho’s grim features and added, “But that is all. I am sorry.”

“Mr Meheux. Are there any Frenchmen aboard?” He held his breath.

Before the lieutenant could reply Pareja said quickly, “But yes.

There is such a man. He is called Witrand and came aboard so late at Malaga that he had no cabin.” He looked startled. “Yet he was allowed to share these quarters with the captain? Very strange.”

Bolitho stood up slowly, his mind hardly daring to hold any hope. And yet it was just possible. Someone important enough to share with the captain might well be able to arrange an unorthodox transfer at sea. It would only mean a few days more aboard for the rest of the passengers, and power, like wealth, was very insistent. This man Witrand could be a smuggler or a high-born criminal on the run. A traitor or a merchant trying to outwit his competitors. But he might have information, anything which could throw some light on events in these waters.

There was a sudden commotion in the passageway and he heard Allday say angrily, “It is no use! You cannot go in there!” And then in a strange, heavy accent, “Eet ees no bloody good, See-nora!” But the door rocked back on its broken hinges and a woman stormed into the cabin, her eyes blazing as she said, “Ah, there you are, Luis! Everyone is waiting to hear what is happening! And you stand here making gossip like some fishwife!” Bolitho looked at her with surprise. She was tall and had long hair, as dark as his own, and was wearing what must be a very costly blue gown. But it was smeared with salt stains, and there were darker patches near her waist which he guessed were blood.

Pareja was embarrassed and said, “This is my wife, Captain.

Like yourself, she is English.”

Bolitho moved the remaining chair towards her. “Please be seated, señora.”

She was nearly a head taller than her husband, and at a guess some twenty or so years younger. Striking rather than beautiful, her features were dominated by very dark eyes, and a mouth which was now set in a line of stubborn determination and anger.

“I will not be staying.” She looked at him for the first time.

“All the others have been talking of my husband’s new importance in your eyes. I merely came to see that he did not make a fool of himself.”

“Now, my dove!” Pareja stepped back as she swung to face him.

She said, “Do not dove me! You promised to take me away from the war, and from fear of war! And as soon as we are at sea what happens?” She gestured with something like contempt towards Bolitho, “This one seizes our ship, and nearly kills us all in doing it!”

Meheux snapped, “Hold your tongue, madam! Captain Bolitho is a King’s officer and you’ll do well to remember it!”

“Captain, is he?” She gave a mock curtsy. “We are honoured indeed.”

Allday made as if to seize her from behind but Bolitho shook his head.

“I am sorry you have been inconvenienced, Señora Pareja. I will do what I can to ensure you are all returned to Malaga just as soon as I can arrange it.”

She had her hands on her hips, and he could see her supple body trembling with her anger.

“You know that is unlikely, Captain. We will more likely be pushed from ship to ship, suffering indignities at the hands of your sailors, until we are left stranded in some port. I have heard of such things before, believe me!” She had a strong voice, like her limbs, and she appeared to be well able to take care of herself. Yet as she stood in the scarred cabin, her dress still showing the marks left from the storm and from tending the wounded, Bolitho could hear her voice giving away something more. Desperation, but not fear. Disappointment, rather than any horror at her predicament.

He said, “I will see that you and your husband are moved to an officer’s cabin. I understand your own was destroyed?”

“Yes. And all my trunks!” She glared at her husband. “But his were safe, of course!”

“But, my dove!” Pareja was almost kneeling to her. “I will take care of you!”

Bolitho looked away. Embarrassed and sickened.

To Meheux he said, “Have them taken to the cabin now. I must find out . . .” He broke off as a startled shout was followed instantly by a shot.

He snatched up his sword and pushed Pareja aside as he ran through the door, Meheux and Allday pounding behind him.

The sun was so bright and blinding that for a few seconds he could see nothing unusual. Several passengers were still standing by the main hatch where they had been told to wait for the issue of food. Others were caught in various attitudes of surprise or fright as they peered up at the forecastle, where two men stood behind a mounted swivel gun, training it aft, towards the quarterdeck. Beside it, one of Meheux’s seamen lay moaning quietly with blood seeping from a pistol ball in his shoulder.

Pareja called nervously, “That is the man! Witrand!” Bolitho stood very still. One jerk of the lanyard and a blast of canister would sweep the deck from forward to aft. It would not only cut him down but most of the people in between as well.

He called, “Stand clear of that gun! You can do nothing!”

“Do not speak so foolishly, Capitaine!” The man’s voice was smooth but surprisingly loud. “Some of your men had the, er, misfortune,” he smiled, “the misfortune to discover some very fine brandy below. I fear they will be of little help to your cause.” The muzzle moved slightly. “Throw down your weapons. The Spanish seamen will be resuming their duties. I have no doubt that even they can sail the ship when required.” He was smiling broadly, his teeth very white in his tanned face. “Your own ship has gone away. There is no point in sacrificing yourself,” his tone hardened,

“or others, for your own pride!”

Bolitho’s mind grappled with the problem which he was now facing. Even if he and the others still sober controlled the poop, they could not work the ship. Whereas Witrand’s swivel gun would ensure that he remained master of the upper deck, as well as all the food and water. There might be no Spanish officers left alive, but Witrand was right. The crew could manage to set sail, and it would not be long before some enemy ship appeared to investigate their behaviour.

Allday whispered, “If we cut back to the cabin we can hold

’em off with muskets, Captain.”

The voice called, “I am waiting, Capitaine! Throw down your weapons now! ”

Meheux asked, “Would he fire? He could kill half of those women and children down there.”

Bolitho began to unbuckle his sword. “We are no good to anyone dead. Do as he says.”

Something like a great sigh came from the motionless passengers as Bolitho and his companions placed their weapons on the deck. Two armed Spaniards ran along the starboard gangway, pistols trained, until they had climbed the poop ladder behind Bolitho, at a distance they could not possibly miss.

Witrand handed over the swivel gun’s lanyard to the other man and then walked slowly along the same gangway. Reaching the quarterdeck he gave a short bow.

“Paul Witrand, Capitaine. At your service.” He was of medium height, square jawed, with the look of a soldier about him. There was recklessness too, something Bolitho recognised, and which he might have discovered in time but for the arrival of Pareja’s wife. Maybe she had come aft deliberately.

He said coldly, “I have submitted to save life. But in due course we will meet with my ship again. Even keeping me as hostage will not help you then.”

“Just one ship, Capitaine? Interesting. What could her mission be in waters dominated by France, I wonder?” He shook his head.

“You are a brave officer, and I respect you for that. But you must accept this fate, as I accepted your sudden arrival aboard here. It would have been better for both of us had we never met.” He gave an expressive shrug. “But war is war.” He studied Bolitho for several seconds, his eyes almost yellow in the glare. “I do not doubt you would refuse to sail this ship for me.” He smiled gently. “But you will give me your word, as a King’s officer, not to try and retake her.” He picked up Bolitho’s sword. “Then you may keep this. As a token of my trust in that honour, eh?”

Bolitho shook his head. “I can give no such assurance.” Meheux said thickly, “Nor I.”

“Loyalty too?” He seemed quite composed. “Then you will be taken below and put in irons. I am sorry of course, but I have much to do. Apart from myself there are just three French companions. The rest,” he shrugged with obvious contempt, “Spanish rubbish. I will be hard put to keep them away from the passengers, I think.”

He beckoned to the armed seamen and then asked, “Your ship, she is French built, yes?”

“She was the Tornade. ” Bolitho kept his voice level, but his mind was almost bursting as he tried to think of a scheme, no matter how weak, which might give him back control. But there was nothing.

Witrand’s yellow eyes widened. “Tornade? Admiral Lequiller’s flagship!” He banged his forehead with the palm of his hand. “I was foolish not to realise it. You with your unpronounceable name.

The man who took the Tornade in a mere seventy-four!” He nodded, suddenly serious. “You will be quite a prize yourself, if and when we ever see France again.”

The seamen jabbed them with their pistols and Witrand said sharply, “Go with them.” He looked at Allday, standing with his fists clenching and unclenching, his face still shocked at what was happening. “Is he one of your officers?” Bolitho looked at him. This was a moment when life might end. Also he might never see Allday again if they became separated.

He replied quietly, “He is a friend, m’sieu.” Witrand sighed. “And that is something rare.” He smiled sadly.

“He may stay with you. But any trick, and you will be killed.” He shot Pareja a scathing glance. “Like traitors, there is only one true solution.”

Bolitho turned towards the companion ladder, seeing the faces of the nearby passengers, and Pareja’s wife by the poop. She was standing very still, only the quick movement of her breast displaying any sort of emotion. Something squeaked, and when he turned his head he saw the white ensign was already fluttering down from the mainmast.

Like the loss of his sword, it seemed to symbolise the completeness of his defeat.

Bolitho rested his back against a massive cask of salt beef, listening to the muffled sounds beyond the door and conscious of his companions’ silence. But for a tiny circular port in the door, through which he could see the feeble light of a lantern, the place where he and the others were imprisoned was in total darkness.

He was thankful for that. He did not want them to see his face or his despair.

He heard the chain move, felt the irons about his ankles jerk slightly as Meheux or one of the others changed his position.

Allday was sitting next to him, sharing the same cask to rest his back, and Grindle was on the opposite side of the tiny storeroom shackled to Ashton. Each wrapped in his own thoughts. Brooding perhaps on the twist of fate which had brought them here.

It was impossible to tell what was happening elsewhere in the ship. The pumps had not stopped, but occasionally they had heard other sounds. Shouts and curses, and a woman sobbing and screaming. Once there had been another pistol shot, and Bolitho imagined that Witrand was having difficulty in controlling the Spanish crew. After the Euryalus’s deadly cannon fire, the storm and the humiliation of being seized as a prize, it was easy to picture the scene between decks. Without their own familiar officers and sense of purpose, any discipline might soon give way to a drunken disorganised chaos.

The wind had not returned. Just feeling the ship’s slow, uneasy motion, the useless clatter of loose gear, told him that much.

Meheux said savagely, “If ever I live to get my hands on those drunkards I’ll have them flogged to ribbons, the useless buggers!” Bolitho replied, “The brandy was a clever ruse on Witrand’s part.” He added with sudden bitterness, “I should have made a thorough search.”

Grindle said worriedly, “You was too busy savin’ their lives for that, sir. No use in blamin’ yerself.”

“I’ll agree with that.” Allday stirred restlessly. “Should have left

’em to rot!”

Bolitho called, “Are you feeling better, Mr Ashton?” He was worried about the midshipman. When he had been dragged into the storeroom he had seen the bloody bandage around his head, and how pale he had appeared. It seemed that Ashton had tried to hold off the attackers on his own, calling for his men, who unknown to him were already too drunk to help even themselves.

Someone had clubbed him brutally with a musket, and he had not spoken more than a few words since.

But he answered readily, “I am all right, sir. It will soon pass.”

“You acted well.”

Bolitho guessed that Ashton was probably thinking too of his future. He was only seventeen, and had already shown promise and no little ability. Now his prospects might seem dark and empty. Prison, or even death by fever in some forgotten enemy garrison. He was too junior and unimportant to be considered for exchange, even if the proper authorities ever gave it a thought.

Bolitho tried to picture his own ship, where she now lay and what Broughton might be doing. The admiral had probably dismissed them all from his thoughts. The storm, the likelihood of the Navarra’s foundering, would soon make him look on them as memories and little more.

He stirred against the cask, hating the iron around his ankles.

He had been a prisoner before, but could find no solace in the memory. Then there had been a chance, although very slight, of escape and turning the tables on his captors. And always the real possibility of other British ships arriving to assist him. A slight chance could always offer hope. But now there was nothing like that. Euryalus would not return to look for him. How could she when the very mission they had come to do still lay untouched?

His stomach contracted, and he realised he had not eaten since yesterday. It seemed like a week ago. The ordered world of his own ship, a sense of being and belonging.

He pictured Pareja’s wife, probably retelling Witrand how easy it had been to delay him from seeking him out from amongst the other passengers. Or maybe she was up there weeping, watching her elderly husband kicking out his breath at the mainyard on the end of a rope. Where had she come from? And what would bring a woman like her to this part of the world? Another puzzle, and one which would now stay unanswered.

Feet scraped beyond the door and Allday said hotly, “Come to gloat no doubt! The bastards!”

The bolt was withdrawn and Bolitho saw Witrand squinting into the storeroom, two armed men at his back.

The Frenchman said, “I would like you to come on deck, Capitaine.”

He sounded calm enough, yet there was something about him which made Bolitho stiffen with interest. Maybe a wind was returning at last and Witrand had less confidence in the crew than he pretended. But the deck felt as sluggish as before, the mournful clank of pumps just as regular.

He asked coldly, “Why must I come? I am content to stay here.” Witrand gestured to one of his men, who stepped cautiously inside with a key for the leg irons. He snapped, “Prisoners have no choice! You will do as I order!” Bolitho watched the seaman unlocking the irons, his mind grappling with Witrand’s sudden change of manner. He was worried.

Meheux helped him to his feet and said, “Take care, sir.” He sounded just that much too bright, Bolitho reflected, and was probably imagining his captain was about to be interrogated, or worse.

He followed Witrand along the passageway, aware of the silence all about him. Apart from the pumps and the gentle creak of timbers, he could hear no voices at all. And that in a ship crowded with apprehensive passengers.

It was late afternoon, and on deck the sun was blinding hot, the seams sticking to Bolitho’s shoes as he followed Witrand up a ladder and on to the poop. The glare from the glittering blue water was so intense that he almost fell across some of the splintered planking, so that Witrand put out his hand to steady him.

“Well, what is it?” Bolitho shaded his eyes and looked at the other man. “I have not changed my mind. About anything.” Witrand did not seem to hear. He took Bolitho by the arm and pulled him round towards the rail, his voice suddenly urgent.

“Look yonder. What do you understand about them?” Bolitho was suddenly aware that the ship’s main deck and forecastle were crammed with silent, watching figures. Some men had climbed into the shrouds, their intent figures dark against the limp sails as they peered towards the horizon.

Witrand held out a telescope. “Please, Capitaine. Tell me.” Bolitho steadied the glass on his forearm and trained it across the rail. Most of the people on deck had turned to watch him, and even Witrand was studying his profile with something like anxiety.

Bolitho moved the glass very slowly, catching his breath as the small brightly coloured lateen sails swam hesitantly into the lens.

Three, four, maybe five of them, each making its own gay reflection on the sea’s face, like the wings of gaudy moths, he thought.

He lowered the glass and looked at Witrand. “They are chebecks.” He watched the uncertainty on Witrand’s face.

“Perhaps five of them.”

Witrand stared at him and then waved at the Navarra’s lifeless sails. “But they are moving, and approaching fast! How can that be?”

“Like galleys, m’sieu, they can travel speedily under oars as well as sail.” He added very quietly, “It is my belief that they are Barbary pirates.”

Witrand stepped back. “Mon Dieu, Le Corsair!” He snatched the glass from Bolitho and trained it towards the tiny sails for several seconds. Then he said in a more controlled tone, “This is bad. What do you know of such people?” Bolitho looked away. “They are savage, barbarous fighters. If they get aboard this ship they will kill every man before they carry off the cargo.” He paused. “And the women.” Witrand sounded short of breath. “But our guns are good, yes?

My God, they answered your ship well enough. Surely we can smash those puny craft before they draw close?” Bolitho eyed him gravely. “You do not begin to understand.

These chebecks can manoeuvre quickly, while we lie becalmed.

That is why they have survived so long, and so successfully. Once within range they will use their sweeps to get under our stern.

Then they will pound us to submission. Each one will no doubt carry a heavy cannon in her bows. That is their way.” He let it sink in. “It has proved very effective. I have heard of ships-of-war lying becalmed and helpless, unable to do anything but watch as these galleys cut out one merchantman after another from the very heart of a convoy.”

He looked again towards the horizon. The sails were already much closer, and he could see the shining banks of long oars rising and falling in perfect rhythm. Above them, the bright lateen sails gave a new menace to their appearance, and he could picture their crews’ excitement at the prospect of so easy a capture.

Witrand asked, “What must we do?” He spread his hands.

“They will kill you too, Capitaine, so we must work together.”

Bolitho shrugged. “Normally I would get the ship’s boats into the water and try to warp her round. We could then present a broadside. But we have no boats, apart from the small one which brought me here.” He rubbed his chin. “But in any case, it would be asking a lot.”

“In the name of God, man! Are you going to stand there and do nothing?” He waved towards the silent onlookers, who were beginning to realise the new threat as the little hulls glided nearer and nearer. “And what of them, eh? You will let them die? Suffer torture and rape? Surely you can do something? ” Bolitho smiled grimly. “Your concern for their lives is touching. You have changed in several ways since our first meeting.” Before the Frenchman could reply he snapped, “Have my officers released at once, and give them their weapons.” He saw the flicker of a challenge in Witrand’s eyes fade as he added harshly, “You have no choice, m’sieu. And if we are to die today I would rather do it with my sword in my hand.”

Witrand nodded and gave a brief smile. “That is so. I agree.”

“Then have Señor Pareja brought aft. He can interpret my orders for me.”

Witrand was already beckoning to a messenger as he asked,

“The wind? Will it come?”

“In the cool of late evening perhaps.” He eyed him steadily.

“By then it will not concern us if we fail.” Minutes later, Meheux and the others joined him on the poop, Ashton staggering painfully and supported on the lieutenant’s arm.

On the main deck Bolitho saw the released petty officer, McEwen, and six seamen also being allowed to walk aft, the remainder of them presumably still too drunk to be roused. The latter might die in complete ignorance. Bolitho thought absently, and be better for it.

“You need me, Captain?” It was Luis Pareja, looking fearful and timid at the same time.

Bolitho smiled at him. Pareja had been under guard, which showed that he had no private arrangements with the Frenchman.

He said, “I want you to tell everyone what I need to be done.” He saw him darting a frightened glance over the rail. “A lot will depend on you, señor. How you sound and the way you look.” He smiled again. “So let us go down to the quarterdeck together, eh?” Pareja blinked up at him. “Together, Captain?” Then he nodded, the sudden determination pathetic on his round face.

Meheux whispered fiercely, “How can we fight ’em off, sir?”

“Get our own men and form a single gun crew. I want the best cannon taken to the stern cabin. You will have to work fast to rig tackles for it, but it must be done. These craft will be within range in an hour. Maybe less.” He touched the lieutenant’s torn coat and added, “And run up the colours again, Mr Meheux.” He saw Witrand open his mouth as if to protest and then turn away to the rail. He added, “If we must fight, then it will be under our flag!”

Allday watched the flag jerking up the halliards and observed cheerfully, “I’ll lay a fine wager that those bloody pirates have never seen a King’s ship like this lady afore.” Bolitho looked at Pareja. “And now, señor, come with me.

Together we will try and make some naval history today, eh?” But as he looked down at all the upturned faces, the women pulling their children against their dresses, the air of despondency and growing fear, it was all he could do to conceal his true feelings from them.

“NOT LONG now, sir.” Grindle tucked his thumbs into his belt and watched the oncoming craft without emotion.

In the last thirty minutes they had formed into line, the manoeuvre completed without hurry or effort, as if they had all the time in the world.

Now, curving steadily towards the Navarra’s larboard quarter, they looked like some historic procession or oared galleys, an impression increased by the dull booming of drums, the latter essential if the men toiling at the long oars were to keep perfect timing.

The leading chebeck was about a mile away, but already Bolitho could see the cluster of dark-skinned figures gathered above her long beak head, and guessed they were preparing the bow gun for the first attack. The sails, as on the other craft, had been furled, and he could see a blue forked burgee flapping from her foremast displaying the emblem of the crescent moon.

He tore his eyes from the slow, purposeful approach and said to Grindle, “I am going below for a moment. Keep an eye open here until I return.”

As he hurried beneath the poop he tried to concentrate his thoughts on what he had done so far, to find any loophole in his flimsy plan of defence. When Pareja had interpreted his orders he had watched the faces of crew and passengers alike. To them, any plan would seem better than standing like dumb beasts for the slaughter. But now, as they crouched throughout the hull and listened to those steady, confident drumbeats, that first hope might soon disperse in panic.

If only they had had more time. But Euryalus’s broadside had left the ship in too sad a state for quick repairs. She was down by the bows, and even if a wind got up she would sail badly without her mizzen. It had been necessary to rid the poop of its guns in order to lighten her aft where the damage had been worst. But the thought of the guns lying on the sea bed at a time when they were really needed did nothing to help ease his mind.

In the stern cabin he found Meheux and his seamen working feverishly to complete their part of the plan. The Navarra had mounted two powerful stern chasers, one of which had been smashed by a ball from the Euryalus. But the remaining one had been hauled and raised from its restricted port on the starboard side of the transom and now stood in the centre of the cabin, its muzzle pointing towards the windows. Not that there were any windows left now. Meheux had cut them all away, leaving the gun with a wide arc of fire from quarter to quarter. Hastily rigged tackles were being checked by McEwen, while the other seamen were busily stacking powder and shot against the cabin bulkhead.

Meheux wiped his streaming face and forced a grin. “She should do well, sir.” He patted the fat breech. “She’s an English thirty-two-pounder. I wonder where these thieving buggers got her from?”

Bolitho nodded and strode to the gaping windows. By craning over the sill he could see the leading boat, her oars like gold in the sunlight. Most of the Navarra’s cannon were old and little use. They were carried more to deter any would-be pirate than for firing in deadly earnest. She had depended more on her agility than her prowess in combat, as did most merchant vessels the world over.

This cannon was certainly the one true discovery of any worth.

Similar to those which made up Euryalus’s lower gundeck, it was recognised as a powerful and devastating weapon, when in the right hands. Nicknamed a Long Nine by the seamen, being nine feet in length, it could throw a ball with fair accuracy over one and a half miles, and still be able to penetrate three feet of oak.

And accuracy was more important than anything else at this moment.

Bolitho turned his back on the sea and said, “We will fire as soon as the leading chebeck is end on to us.” McEwen, who was a gun-captain aboard his own ship, asked,

“Double-shotted, sir?”

He shook his head. “No. That is well enough for a ship-to-ship engagement, when there is nothing opposite you but another broadside. But today we cannot afford to be erratic.” He smiled at their shining, grimy faces. “So watch your charges, and make sure each ball is a good one.

He took Meheux aside and dropped his voice. “I believe they will try and attack from ahead and astern simultaneously. It will divide our resources and give the enemy some idea of our ability!

The lieutenant nodded. “I am wishing we had not seen this damned ship, sir.” He grinned ruefully. “Or that we had sunk her with a full broadside!”

Bolitho smiled, remembering Witrand’s own words. Better for both of us had we never met. Well, it was too late for regrets now.

He paused in the doorway, his eyes passing over the busy seamen, the cabin’s air of dejection at being so badly used.

“If I fall today, Mr Meheux,” he saw the sudden alarm in the lieutenant’s eyes and added quietly, “you will carry on with the fight. This enemy will offer no quarter, so bear that well in mind!” He forced a smile. “You were the one who was pleading for battle yesterday. You should be well satisfied!” He walked swiftly towards the sunlight again, past the unattended wheel, to where Grindle stood watching the approaching craft as if he had never moved.

Along both bulwarks of the upper deck the Spanish sailors stood or crouched beside their guns, the largest of which were twelve-pounders. Here and there, wherever they could find some sort of cover, he could see some of the passengers, hastily provided with muskets from the arms chest, while others had appeared carrying elaborate sporting guns from their own baggage to add their weight to the defences.

He shut his ears to the distant drums and tried to visualise the ship’s firepower as it would display itself within the next few minutes. Several of the larboard guns were useless, upended and smashed by the Euryalus’s brief onslaught. Much depended on what the enemy would do first.

The pumps were still working steadily enough, and he wondered whether Pareja’s translation had brought home to those trying to control the intake of water the true value of their work.

Or whether at the first crash of gunfire they would run from the pumps and give the sea its own victory.

There had been a good few peasant women amongst the passengers. Tough, sun-dried creatures, who had not shown either resentment or fear when he had suggested they might help by assisting on the pumps, For, as he had wanted to explain, there were no longer any passengers in the Navarra. It was a ship’s company upon whose determination and strength depended survival and life itself.

Grindle called, “Them’s splittin’ up, sir!” The two rearmost vessels were already swinging steeply from the line and pulling parallel with the drifting Navarra, their long stems cutting the water apart like scythes as they glided purposefully towards the bows.

Bolitho looked along the upper deck to where Witrand was standing by the foremast, a pistol in his belt and another laid nearby on a hatch cover. Ashton was with him, his pale face screwed up with determination and pain as he waited for his orders from the poop.

Bolitho called, “You may run out, Mr Ashton.” He bit his lip as the guns squeaked protestingly towards the open ports. Now the gaps in the defences were all the more apparent, especially on the larboard side and quarter where the damage was most severe.

He beckoned to Pareja who had been standing as if mesmerised below the poop ladder.

“Tell them to fire on the order. No random shots, nor do I want them to waste time and energy by aiming at empty sea.”

He narrowed his eyes against the glare and watched the two graceful craft turning slowly as if to cross the Navarra’s bows.

They were about two cables clear. Biding their time.

Astern it was much the same, with the three boats moving in perfect unison towards the larboard quarter, and at a similar distance.

He could hear Meheux rapping out orders, and wondered if he had any faith in his ability to hold off the attackers.

He stiffened, realising that one bank of oars on the leading boat had halted, poised above the sea, so that even as he watched the hull seemed to shorten until it was pointing directly towards him. Only then did the motionless bank of oars begin to move again, but at a slower pace, the water creaming back from her stem in a fine white arrowhead.

There was a sudden puff of dark smoke from her bows, followed instantly by a loud bang. He saw the water quiver as the invisible ball hurled itself just a few feet above the surface to smash hard into the Navarra’s side directly below where he was standing. He heard sharp cries of alarm from below, a momentary pause in the pumping, and saw several figures leaping up and down on the enemy’s forecastle as if in a frenzy of excitement.

Another bang, from ahead this time, and he saw a tall waterspout leap skyward some three cables abeam. The other chebeck had fired and missed, but the plume of spray gave a good hint of the size of her gun.

Helplessly the Spanish seamen waited by their ports, staring at the mocking squares of empty water and tensing their bodies for the next ball.

They did not have to wait long. The boat closest to the larboard quarter fired, and the ball smashed hard into the poop, hurling wood splinters across the sea alongside and making the deck quiver violently.

Bolitho snapped, “I am going aft, Mr Grindle.”

He trusted Meheux to obey his orders more than he did his own ability to remain inactive under this searching, merciless bombardment. Yet that was how it must be if they were to have even a shred of hope.

He found Meheux leaning against the gun, his eyes wary as he watched the oared hull gliding easily towards the quarter, now a cable away.

Bolitho tensed as the chebeck’s bow gun belched smoke and fire, and felt the ball crash into the transom below him. Probably close to the damage already made worse by the storm.

Meheux said between his teeth, “My God, she’ll come apart with much more of this, sir!”

Bolitho looked along the gun barrel, noting the stiffness in the naked backs and shoulders of the seamen, who like Meheux were expecting the next shot to be amongst them.

Bang. The muffled explosion was followed by the telltale shiver as a heavy ball struck the Navarra’s hull right forward. But he could not be up there as well as here. And this was the ship’s vital and most sensitive part.

The next shot from astern cleaved through the empty gunport on the transom, and Bolitho gritted his teeth as he listened to it smashing deep into the hull, the attendant cries and screams which told him it had found more than mere timber this time.

Meheux snarled, “What is he waiting for, damn him?” Bolitho realised that the enemy had not fired again, although his previous timing between shots had been regular and extremely quick. He watched, hardly daring to hope, as with sudden determination the chebeck began to edge across the Navarra’s stern.

For a moment longer he tortured himself that it was just an illusion. That the Navarra was really moving slightly in some additional undertow.

Meheux said breathlessly, “He’s coming in for the kill, sir!” He darted Bolitho a quick glance, his eyes wild with admiration.

“By God, he thinks we are undefended here!” Bolitho nodded grimly. The chebeck’s commander had tested their ability to hold him off and was certainly moving closer for a direct shot into the Navarra’s stern. Seeing the damage, the two ports left empty in the transom, he might well believe her to be helpless.

Meheux said sharply, “Right, my boys.” The men seemed to come alive around the gun. “Now we shall see!” He stooped behind the breech, his eyes glittering above it in the sunlight like two matched stones as he watched the enemy’s slender masts edging into direct line astern. “Right traverse!” He stamped with impatience as the men threw themselves on their handspikes.

“Well!” He was sweating badly, and had to dash it from his eyes with his torn sleeve. “Point!”

McEwen stepped clear, pulling his trigger lanyard until it was bar taut.

“Ready!” Meheux swore obscenely as the chebeck swung momentarily out of line before the drum brought the oars back under control.

In the sudden stillness Bolitho’s voice was like a pistol shot.

“Now, Mr Meheux!”

“Aye, sir.”

The seconds felt like hours as Meheux stayed crouched behind the gun like a carved figure.

Then with a suddenness that caught Bolitho unprepared even though he had been expecting it, Meheux leapt aside and yelled,

“Fire!”

In the close confines of the cabin the noise was like a thun-derclap, and as the men reeled about coughing and choking in the dense smoke, Bolitho saw the gun hurl itself inboard on its tackles, felt the planking shaking wildly beneath him, and wondered dazedly if it would tear itself free and smash him to pulp against the bulkhead. But the tackles held, and as the billowing smoke funnelled clear of the windows he heard Meheux yelling like a maniac, “Look at the bastard! Just see him now, lads!” Bolitho pushed towards the windows and stared with amazement at the leading boat which seconds before had made such a picture of grace and purpose. The massive thirty-two-pound ball must have ploughed right amongst one bank of oars, for many appeared missing, and beneath the pall of smoke he could see the slim hull broaching to, the remaining bank of oars hacking and slashing at the water in a wild attempt to hold it steady.

Meheux roared, “Stop your vent! Sponge out!” To Bolitho he shouted, “Double-shotted this time, sir?”

“If you can be quick, Mr Meheux! Bolitho’s ears were still cringing from the explosion, but he could feel his sudden desperate excitement rising to match the lieutenant’s as he added,

“And grape for good measure if you have any!” To the seamen who worked so eagerly in the shattered cabin the gun was as familiar as those which shared their daily lives.

The strain and tension of waiting helplessly and watching the enemy shoot into the battered hull without being able to hit back was past in an instant. Yelling and whooping they rammed home the charges, watched closely by McEwen, who was too experienced a gun-captain to allow anything to alter his sense of vigilance. He even fondled each ball before allowing it to be rammed into the muzzle, making quite sure it was as perfect as could be hoped for in a Spanish ship.

Bolitho saw the damaged chebeck begin to edge painfully towards the starboard quarter and managed not to watch the seamen frantically trying to reload before she was gone from view.

But a Long Nine normally had a crew of fifteen men to attend to its needs. Meheux had half that number.

“Run out!” He had done it in two minutes.

The other two chebecks were reversing their swoops and back-ing away from the Navarra’s sudden challenge. One of them fired, but the shot must have passed well clear for none of them saw where it fell.

Meheux yelled hoarsely, “Left traverse!” He dashed to the side of the cabin, squinting his eyes as he tried to gauge the enemy’s speed.

Bolitho heard more crashes and shouts from the upper deck and said, “I must leave you.”

Meheux did not even hear him. “Left, left, left! ” He snatched up a handspike and threw his own weight to the gun. He was still peering and squinting over the breech as Bolitho tore himself away and ran back to the poop.

He had just reached the sunlight again when Meheux fired. As he ran to the starboard side he saw the double-shot smash into the chebeck’s hull, watched with fixed fascination as the narrow deck began to tilt over, the packed mass of figures surging towards the shattered side like sheep stampeding down a steep hill. The two massive balls must have smashed the hull close on the waterline. The strain and impetus of the oars would have done the rest.

Even now the hull was settling down, the milling figures of her crew spilling over the gunwale or running in confusion towards the bows. Neither of the other chebecks was making any attempt to draw near to save life or pursue the attack, and he wondered momentarily whether the stricken boat contained their leader.

He felt Grindle tugging his arm. “One of ’em’s turnin’, sir!

She’s comin’ straight for the bows!” Bolitho stared along the deck and saw a chebeck’s slim masts bearing down at full speed, her furled sails appearing to be within feet of the Navarra’s jib boom. At the last possible moment it changed course and swept purposefully towards the ship’s larboard bow, the oars swinging back against her hull like some great seabird folding its wings as it glided in for a closer embrace.

Bolitho yelled, “Larboard battery! Fire! ” As Ashton staggered along the line of guns each one lurched inboard, the smoke billowing across the enemy craft, the balls doing little damage but cut her foremast in two like a young sapling under an axe.

Bolitho felt the grinding shudder, saw grapnels thudding over the gangway, and dragged out his sword.

“Repel boarders!” He saw the Frenchman snatch up his pistols and push some of the dazed seamen towards the side. “Mr Ashton!

The swivel gun!”

He saw Allday charging along the deck towards him, his cutlass already drawn and shining dully in the smokey sunlight.

He snapped, “I told you to stay with Mr Ashton!” But knew it was useless. Allday would never leave his side in a fight, no matter what he said.

Heads were already coming up and over the bulwark, which having no boarding nets was protected only by its gangway.

Bolitho watched the seamen hacking and slashing with pikes and cutlasses alike, heard the yells and cries rising to a deafening crescendo as more and more dark-skinned attackers fought their way up the ship’s side. Some were already on the forecastle, only to vanish like blown paper as the swivel gun belched fire and swept them away in a hail of canister.

“Jesus! Watch your back, Captain!” Allday swung his cutlass and hacked a turbaned figure across the face, cutting the jaw away before even a scream could escape.

Bolitho saw a bearded giant wielding an axe cut down two Spanish seamen and then run crazily towards one of the hatchways. He thought of the women and children, the terrified wounded, and what could change any spark of hope into a raging defeat if this giant got amongst them. Before Allday could intervene he was across the hatch, one foot on the coaming, as the onrushing man skidded to a halt, the axe poised above his head, still bloody from its earlier victims.

The axe started to descend and Bolitho leapt to one side, his sword darting under the man’s massive forearm, swinging him round above the hatch, his teeth bared in agony as the razor-edged blade grated against and between his ribs. Bellowing and roaring like a wounded beast he still came on, the axe making a silver arc as he slashed at Bolitho, forcing him back and back towards the poop. A seaman charged forward with a boarding pike, but the giant knocked it to one side and brought the axe across the man’s neck without even losing its precision, sending the man flailing across the deck, his head almost severed from his body.

Bolitho knew that if he was pinned against the poop the other man would cut him down just as easily.

He braced himself, and as the man raised the axe above his head, seemingly oblivious to the terrible wound left by the sword, he darted forward, the blade pointed straight for his bearded throat. But his shoe slipped on a patch of blood, and before he could recover he felt himself falling hard against one of the guns, the sword clattering from his hand and beyond his reach.

In those split seconds he saw everything like one great painting, the faces and expressions standing out as if fixed in the mind of an artist. Allday, too far away to help, parrying with a red-turbaned pirate. Grindle and some seamen grappling wildly below the larboard gangway, sword-blades flashing and ringing, eyes wide with ferocity and terror.

He saw too the man with the axe, pausing, balancing on his great bared toes as if to measure this final blow. He was actually grinning, savouring the moment.

Bolitho did not hear the shot through all the other awful sounds, but saw his attacker tilt forward, his expression changing to one of complete astonishment and then a mask of agony before he pitched forward at his feet.

Witrand’s pistol was still smoking as he lowered it from his forearm and yelled, “Are you ’urt, Capitaine?” Bolitho groped for his sword and stood up, shaking his head.

“No, but thank you.” He grinned. “I think that we are winning this fight!”