Allday followed Inch towards the companion ladder and muttered, “My God, sir, I thought I yearned for small ships again!” Inch grinned. “You are getting old!” The sea thundered over the upper deck, and a goodly portion of it cascaded down the ladder towards them.

Allday swore and replied, “And, with respect, I should like to get older before I die!”

“Good morning, sir.” Inch touched his hat as Bolitho appeared at the companion and stepped over the coaming.

Bolitho nodded and walked to the lee rail, the sleep already gone from his mind in the keen, damp air. The daylight was as yet only a glimmer, and now that Hekla had gone about to run almost parallel with the coast he guessed they were barely more than two miles offshore. The wind had veered still more and now pushed steadily across the larboard quarter, the spray leaping occasionally above the stout bulwarks to sluice noisily away into the scuppers. He could see the land, although it was little more than purple shadow, and it was strange to accept the fact that due to the slow necessity of clawing away from it to gain the wind’s advantage, Djafou now lay less than thirty miles ahead of Hekla’s blunt bows. Inch had done well, and there was nothing in his long horseface to show he had been on deck for most of the time while his ship had tacked and beaten around one great circle to her present position.

Astern they were being followed by a thick sea mist, so that it gave a false impression of being motionless, an impression made a lie by the flying spray around the bowsprit and the bulging tan sails above the deck.

As he peered forward he saw a sheen of dull silver on the dancing wavecrests, and knew dawn was nearby, but as yet the eastern horizon was still lost in spray and shadow. A few gulls drifted and shrieked above the topmasts, and he wondered whether eyes other than theirs had seen their careful approach. Careful for reasons other than surprise. Even as he considered the treacherous coastline so close abeam he heard the leadsman chant from the chains, his cry almost lost in the crack and thunder of the sails.

“By the mark seven!”

But Inch appeared satisfied, and Bolitho knew he knew his shallow hull better than Bolitho did.

Shadows around the bomb’s decks were already taking on strength and personality, and he saw the hands at work around the guns, while others moved restlessly on the forecastle where Mr Broome, Inch’s elderly gunner, was examining his mortars.

But mortars were not the only teeth in Hekla’s defences. Apart from a few swivels, she mounted six massive carronades.

Altogether they would certainly find any weakness in her stout construction and timbers.

“By the mark five!”

Inch called, “Bring her up a point, Mr Wilmot!” His first and only lieutenant walked straddle-legged up the slanting deck, and as the helm squeaked over he shouted “Steady, sir! East by south!”

“By the mark seven!”

Inch said to no one in particular, “Damme, it’s like a sailor’s lot hereabouts. All ups and downs!” Bolitho set his teeth against the screech and scrape of a grind-stone from below the foremast where some of the seamen were busily putting new edges to their cutlasses. How overcrowded the deck appeared, mainly because in addition to her normal complement the Hekla carried the survivors from the Devastation as well as the remnants of his own landing party.

Inch rubbed a hand across his wind-reddened face. “Won’t be long now sir.” He gestured aloft. “I’ve a good man to watch for Restless. ”

Bolitho said, “There is supposed to be an inlet where this Messadi takes refuge. Shelter enough for his chebecks, and within reach of several villages for his needs.” He looked searchingly at Inch. “You will be able to fire the mortars without anchoring, I hope?”

“Aye, sir.” Inch frowned. “We have never done it before, of course.” He chuckled, all doubt gone. “But then we had never fired at a fortress either!”

“Good. Once you have awakened their nest, we will engage whoever comes out.” He looked at the sky. “Restless will close and give ready support once we have made contact.” Inch eyed him soberly. “And if she is not available, sir?” Bolitho shrugged. “Then she is not available.” Inch grinned again. “It’ll be like stirring wasps with a stick!”

Another cry from the leadsman took him away again and left Bolitho to his thoughts.

He watched the land hardening and taking on its true form, and recognised the same bleak hills and desolation as they had found in Djafou. It looked uneven but as yet unbroken by any sign of a cove or inlet, but he knew from boyhood it was deceptive. Once when a mere child he had taken out a small boat from Falmouth and had been horrified to find himself carried away on a swift coastal current. There should have been a safe cove nearby, but as the light faded he could see nothing but those grim, hostile cliffs. With all hope and most of his courage gone he had suddenly found it. Almost hidden by an overlap of cliffs, beyond which the water was flat calm, and his relief had given way in a flood of tears.

His father had been away at sea. It had been his brother Hugh who had come to find him and had boxed his ears for good measure.

Thin sunlight filtered above the cruising haze and he heard the masthead lookout call, “Oi think ’tis there on the lee bow, zur!

Broken water!”

Bolitho raised a telescope and eagerly scanned the murky shoreline. Then he saw the telltale cluster of small breakers marking the inward curve of a headland. He trained his mind until he fitted it into the mental picture of Inch’s chart, the place as described by Alava in his soft, gentle voice.

He heard a man slip and apologise awkwardly in the half-light, and saw Calvert feeling his way along the lee bulwark. He looked pinched and strained, and there were dark shadows under his eyes.

Inch cupped his hands. “Masthead! Any sign of Restless? ”

“None, zur!”

Inch said with unusual irritation, “That damn fellow must have lost himself!”

Bolitho looked at him. Maybe Inch was more worried than he showed, to be groping his way along this treacherous coast. Or perhaps he was masking his true feelings about the task he had been given? It was not going to be easy for him. He watched Inch nodding and whispering with his gunner and first lieutenant. Or was it that he was unwilling to be the one to witness Bolitho’s failure?

Slowly but surely the rounded headland was moving out to greet them, its summit already shining dully in the dawn light.

Very soon now.

Inch came aft. “With your permission, sir, I will fire the mortars as we come abeam of the point. That will give my people time to reload for the next shots as we pass the entrance. Mr Broome is confident that we will make a good deal of confusion, even if we hit nothing!”

Bolitho smiled. Inch had certainly discovered new confidence, and that in itself was infectious.

“Good. Then carry on.”

Inch shouted, “Send the hands to quarters, Mr Wilmot! You know what we have to do today.”

The carronade crews had been up and about for several hours, and apart from dousing the galley fire there was little else to do but wait and watch Mr Broome with his men grouped like high priests around their two crouching mortars.

Allday murmured, “They’ll wake the bastards up, God rot them!”

“By the mark three!”

The headland was hard and clear against the skyline now, leaning out into the lively wavecrests as if to nudge the bowsprit.

Broome raised his hand. “Stand clear o’ they mortars, lads!” Bolitho saw the spark of a fuse, the momentary jerk of the gunner’s shoulder, and held his breath.

The mortars fired within seconds of one another, and he was surprised the noise was negligible compared with the terrific shock of their recoil. He felt the deck bounce and vibrate beneath his feet with such force that his teeth were jarred painfully and his neck felt as if he had just been thrown bodily from a stampeding horse.

Inch was peering at him. “Fair shots, I believe, sir.” Bolitho nodded, not trusting his voice. Then he hurried to the rail and watched as the top of the headland glowed dull red, and seconds later the air trembled to a double, muffled explosion.

He heard Broome yelling at his crews to reload, the excited chatter from the waiting men on the main deck. What a strange, unnerving form of warfare, he thought. To be able to fire high over a solid land mass, unseen and unhampered by what lay beyond.

Inch rapped, “Watch your helm, Mr Wilmot!” He ran to the side and stared towards the nearest line of breakers. “We will have to wear ship if we draw much closer.” Broome bellowed, “Ready, sir!”

Bolitho said, “Hold your fire.” He waited as a line of spray-dappled reefs drifted past the lee side. “We will be across the point at any moment.”

He tore his eyes from the glistening rocks and imagined what would have happened if the hull beneath him had been any deeper.

Inch said, “Here it comes.” Then, “There’s a fire of some sort, so we must have hit the land.”

Bolitho tried to hold his telescope steady against the jarring pitch of the swirling currents. It was very dark inside the cove, and the glowing fire which was already dying appeared to be at the far end of it, like gorse alight on a tinder-dry hillside.

“Again.” He opened his mouth and was relieved to find the shock of the next salvo was less painful to his teeth. Even so, the violent leap of the deck planking spoke much for Hekla’s builders.

There was a single bright flash, blossoming out into a great wall of fire, reflected on the sheltered water inside the cove so that it appeared to double and treble in power and size. In the few seconds before it wavered and died he saw the low black shapes of several motionless craft, and felt almost sick with sudden relief.

Allday said, “They’re in there all right.” He shifted impatiently against the rail. “I’ll lay odds that singed their bloody beards!” Bolitho did not hear him. “Close enough, Commander Inch.

Put her about and we will see what happens next.” He walked aft to the taffrail to keep clear of the hurrying seamen as they ran to braces and halliards in readiness for wearing ship. So far, so good. The next minutes would tell whether he was wasting his time. If the pirates decided to remain in their deep cove, there would be nothing for it but to maintain a bombardment from the sea. The mortars had been impressive, but in fact could do little more but create panic under such conditions.

They needed stability and a good anchorage, with spotting parties ashore to signal success and failure after each shot.

He held the rail firmly as with blocks and rigging banging and humming in protest the Hekla swung her stern across the wind, canting still further in response to rudder and canvas.

Her deck seemed very wide for her stubby length, and every foot of it appeared to be crammed with scampering men as the manoeuvre was completed and the bomb laid close-hauled on the larboard tack, her stern once more towards the land.

She was a difficult ship to handle, he thought, and for the first time that he could recall in years he felt his stomach contracting with uneasy nausea.

But Inch was grinning and waving his arms, his voice quite lost in the din of wind and sea. Hekla was more than a command to him. She was like a new toy, still possessing secrets to excite him.

It took another half-hour to complete the manoeuvre and bring the ship back again to her original position with the headland on her lee bow. By that time the light had grown to such an extent it was possible to see the next line of round hills beyond the sea’s edge, the occasional small crescent of beach, as well as far more reefs than he had first imagined.

Inch said thoughtfully, “Wind’s dropping, sir.” He rubbed his chin, his palm rasping across bristles as he added, “May be a hot day after all.”

But there was plenty of mist and spray to hide the horizon, and in spite of the mounting patterns of light there was no warmth to case the chill from their sodden clothing.

Bolitho turned his back on the others. Inch was probably worried at the prospect of being so close to the land now the wind was falling away. He could tell from the manner in which some of the seamen were fidgeting and muttering on the main deck that they were uneasy, too.

It was unfair to keep Inch in such danger, but he must wait just a few moments longer. He kept hearing Giffard’s comments, like an epitaph. Perhaps he should have ordered the marines to march across country after all, regardless of human losses. But he knew he was only groping for misgivings. He was right, he must be. Even if all the marines available had reached the cove there was nothing to prevent those chebecks from slipping out to sea unhindered by their puny muskets.

He looked round as Calvert said, “Listen!” He dropped his eyes under their combined stares but added quickly, “I am sure I heard something.” It was almost the first time Calvert had spoken since he had come aboard.

Then Bolitho heard the sound, and sensed the same chill he had experienced aboard the Navarra. The steady, resonant beat of drums, so that without difficulty he could picture those lean chebecks with their powerful banks of oars, their grace and latent cruelty as they swept in to the attack.

He saw Inch watching him anxiously and snapped, “Stand by!

They are coming out!”

A ripple of excitement transmitted itself along the deck, and he saw the gun-captains pulling their men down from the bulwarks and breaking the tension of the moment with threats and curses.

Inch murmured, “We have them, sir. They cannot take the advantage from us.”

Bolitho crossed to him, his hand resting on his sword. “They need no advantage. They carry their own power.” A dozen voices shouted excitedly as the first of the chebecks thrust clear of the shadows, their long prows throwing back foam and spray as they rode over the low breakers.

The drums became clearer and more menacing as one by one they pulled away from the land, and Bolitho heard Inch counting aloud, realising perhaps for the first time the extent of his enemy.

Allday said quietly, “There are many more of ’em than last time, Captain.” He licked his lips. “Twenty, maybe twenty-two.” Bolitho watched them narrowly, his face a mask to hide his mounting concern. As soon as they were clear of the rocks the chebecks began to open out in a huge fan, so that the whole area of lively water was filled with flashing oars and intermingled bow waves.

On Hekla’s decks was total silence, the gun crews standing like statues to watch the oncoming horde of craft. It was a veritable fleet, the like of which none of them had ever seen, nor would live to describe if they failed to destroy it.

Bolitho strode to the rail, feeling the early excited anticipation giving way to sudden anxiety. He saw their faces turn towards him as he shouted, “Remember, they will no more have seen anything like your Hekla than you have laid eyes on them. I doubt they have faced a carronade before, so stand to and be ready.” He saw some of them glancing at each other and added harshly, “Let each gun-captain select his own target. Shoot as you have never done before, lads.” He looked towards the seamen by the swivels and those who crouched along the bulwarks with loaded muskets.

“Keep firing no matter what is happening. If they board us, we will be swamped.” He let his lips turn into a smile. “So make every ball strike home!”

He heard a scrape of steel and saw Inch drawing his curved hanger and tying it to his wrist with a gold lanyard. He looked at Bolitho and grinned almost apologetically. “It was a present,” he said.

A sullen bang echoed back from the shore and a ball whimpered low above the deck. A gun-captain stood back from his carronade but Bolitho shouted, “Hold your fire!” He felt the deck jerk as a chebeck’s bow gun belched smoke and a ball smashed hard into the Hekla’s waterline. The enemy’s formation had fanned out even wider now, so that the ship was almost encircled by them, the furthest ones like the extremes of the crescent flags which some of them were flying above their furled sails.

He watched the range falling away, heard the drums beating faster as the long oars drove the craft towards the slow-moving Hekla like cavalry charging a square of foot soldiers.

He tugged out his sword and held it above his head. “Easy, lads!” Some of the men near him were sweating in spite of the cool wind. To them it must seem as if the chebecks would drive right through their own ship.

The sword caught the frail sunlight as he swung it down. “Fire as you bear!”

Below the rail the nearest carronade exploded with a deafening roar, hurling its blunt barrel inboard on its slide while the crew darted towards it with their sponges and rammer. Bolitho felt the detonation in his head like some terrible pain, and watched the great sixty-eight-pound ball burst into the nearest bank of oars in a blinding orange flash. As the ball exploded to discharge its scything mass of grape the oars broke and flew in all directions, and he saw the hull lurching round to drive against the next chebeck in the converging line. Another carronade belched smoke and fire, and then a third from the opposite side as a chebeck pushed too near to the Hekla’s larboard bow to receive the heavy ball full in the prow. Yelling figures, the raked foremast and the chebeck’s unfired gun all vanished in a pall of choking brown smoke. As it fanned away Bolitho saw the boat already rolling over, the sea boiling across the submerged oars to finish the kill.

Swivels cracked and banged from both forward and aft, hurling their canister amongst the white-clad figures who still crowded the chebecks’ gangways, waving their scimitars and firing muskets to add to the frightful din of battle.

The hull shivered again, and Bolitho saw a ball smash into the bulwark, scattering seamen and leaving a trail of blood and flesh in its wake.

A chebeck crashed below the taffrail, her helmsman either dead or too crazed by the roar of guns to gauge his approach. As she ground and bumped across the stern the swivels raked her from stem to stern, and as she fell away the larboard carronades put two balls into her so that she broke apart and began to founder.

But two more were already alongside, and as seamen dashed to repel boarders the first yelling figures started to claw their way up and into the nets which Inch had rigged before dawn.

Bolitho cupped his hands. “Now, lads!” And through the hatch came the rest of the extra hands, amongst them many of his own ship’s company who had already faced death in the fight for Djafou.

Yelling and cheering they charged forward, thrusting with pikes and cutlasses at the boarders who hung kicking in the slack nets, impaled by the razor-sharp steel before they could get free.

Somewhere in the smoke he could hear warning cries and knew that up forward at least some of the attackers had hacked their way through the nets.

He shouted at Inch, “Stay here!” To Allday, “Follow me! We must keep these carronades firing or we are done for!” Sparks flew from the capstan and iron ricocheted overhead.

More balls slammed into the lower hull, although the chebecks’

gunners were probably killing as many of their own men as the Hekla’s as they fired their long cannon into the dense smoke.

He saw several seamen falling around the forward carronade, heard their cries as the first of the attackers loomed into view, scimitars and broadswords slashing and cutting in crazed fury.

A swivel barked from the forecastle and several of them fell kicking in their blood, but others were swarming through a great gap in the nets and locking steel with the seamen.

Bolitho seized a gun-captain’s shoulder and yelled into his face,

“See if you can put a ball into this one!” He saw the man nod dazedly before turning to call to his crew to reload.

Allday swung round and cut down a boarder who had somehow fought his way through Lieutenant Wilmot’s men in the bows. The man slithered along the deck, his teeth bared in a another wild shriek as a seaman drove a pike into his ribs.

Bolitho waved his sword and beckoned to another group of seamen below the mainmast. He felt a pistol ball fan his cheek and turned to see Wilmot fall, blood flowing from his mouth, when seconds before he had been leading his men into the attack.

He saw Inch yelling to some of his deck party to take up sweeps and stave off a blazing chebeck which was drifting dangerously close alongside. Above the crackle and roar of flames Bolitho heard terrible screams, and realised the oarsmen must be slaves, held captive by chains to their oars to endure the most horrible death of all.

A man dropped from overhead, his face smashed away by musket fire, another rolled kicking from a carronade, his foot crushed by the slide as the heavy muzzle blasted out into the dense smoke.

Bolitho saw the gun-captain waving at him, his teeth white in his blackened face, and knew he had managed to get a ball into the chebeck below the rent in the nets.

A bearded figure ducked beneath a pike and came towards him, his heavy sword scything in line with his stomach. He stuck out with his sword, saw a spark jump from the steel as the shock darted up his arm. It was enough to turn the man in his charge, and before he could recover he was beaten to the deck by a belaying pin wielded by Broome, the gunner.

Inch was suddenly beside him yelling, “They’re done for!” He was almost capering with wild excitement. “We’ve sunk more’n half and the others are in a bad way!” He waved his hat in the air, and as the smoke thinned above the sweating gun crews Bolitho saw the sea’s face littered with battered hulls and wreckage, while here and there a damaged chebeck pulled hurriedly towards the land. It would be a long time before Messadi’s name brought terror to these shores again, he thought dazedly. Broome roared, “By God, sir! There’s one across the bows!”

Through the smoke Bolitho saw the dovetailed flag very near, and somehow knew this was the leader’s chebeck. Messadi himself trying to get past the Hekla’s fury and escape to the cove once more.

He followed Inch aft to where the helmsmen stood astride two of their dead comrades and gestured with his sword, his voice suddenly loud over the silent carronades. “A guinea for the gun-captain who can bring her down!”

The realisation that they had won, the sudden understanding they had beaten an overwhelming force of a terrifying enemy, was enough. Cheering, or sobbing with exhaustion, they ran back to their tackles, while the swivels and even muskets cut the air apart in their efforts to pursue the fast-moving chebeck.

Bolitho saw a massive carronade lurch inboard, and the flash as its ball burst close under the chebeck’s raked stem. He turned his head as a second slammed into her ornate poop, scattering the packed figures in bloody gruel.

Everyone was yelling and shouting, and Bolitho clung to the shrouds trying to peer over the rolling bank of smoke as the enemy’s twin masts began to tilt over.

He heard Inch calling to him, but as he swung round to listen he felt something like a blow in his right shoulder. It was not much and yet he was falling, and as he dropped to his knees he stared with dulled surprise at the blood which ran down across his white breeches and covered the deck around him. But something else was happening. He was on his side, the great mainsail high above him, and beyond it a wedge of pale cloud.

Voices were calling, and he saw Inch running towards him, his face frozen with dismay.

Bolitho opened his mouth to reassure him in some way, but as he did so the pain came. So great and so terrible that a merciful darkness closed over him. Then there was nothing.

SLOWLY, almost fearfully Bolitho opened his eyes. It seemed to take an age for his vision to clear, and he felt his mind bunching itself to withstand the terrible pain which must surely come. He could feel the sweat running down his face and neck like iced water, but as he waited, dreading the return of torment, he realised he could find no other sensation. He tried to move his body, straining his ears to catch the sound of sea or creaking timbers, but there was neither, and as his uncertainty changed to something like panic he realised he was surrounded by total silence, and that the light was so dim he could have been in a tomb.

As he struggled to lift himself he felt the searing thrust of red-hot agony lance through his shoulder until he thought his heart would fail under it. He gritted his teeth, shutting his eyes tightly against the pain, and felt himself slipping back again into the nightmare. How long had it lasted? Days, hours, or was it an eter-nity since . . . He concentrated his failing reserve of will-power to try to remember, to keep his mind from cracking under the pressure in his body.

Figures and voices, looming faces and the vague motions of a ship were parts of the confused memories. Some episodes, although brief, stood out more than others, although they had neither order nor apparent relevance. Inch cushioning his head from the deck. And Allday’s agonised face coming down at him from every angle, again and again. And he had heard himself speaking too, and tried to listen, as if he had already become completely detached, his spirit hovering to watch the dying husk with nothing more than idle curiosity.

There had been other faces too, unknown to him, yet somehow familiar. Serious and young, calm and sad. His voice had come and gone repeatedly, and once when Bolitho had heard himself crying out in the enclosing darkness the stranger had said quietly, “I am Angus, sir. Coquette’s surgeon.” Bolitho tensed, feeling the sweat flooding across him as an extension of his own rising terror. The face and the stark memory of those quiet words brought back some of the reality like the shock of the wound.

He had been protesting, his reeling mind fighting against the pain and the unconsciousness to make the surgeon understand.

To stop him from touching him.

With a desperate sob he tried to move his shoulder, to discover some feeling in his arm and fingers. Nothing.

He let himself go limp again, ignoring the heated pain, and conscious only of a stinging despair which was blinding him.

As if torn from his innermost soul he heard himself cry out,

“Oh, Cheney! Cheney, help me! They’ve taken off my arm!” Instantly a chair scraped across stone and feet pattered towards him. He heard someone call, “He’s coming out of the coma! Pass the word!”

A cool cloth, was laid carefully over his forehead, and as he reopened his eyes he saw Allday peering down at him, his hard hands supporting his head so that someone else could sponge away the sweat of pain and fear.

He remembered the hands now. They had held him, pressing into his head as if to shut out the first pressure of Angus’s knife.

From a great distance he heard him ask, “How is it, Captain?”

Bolitho stared up at him, so astonished at seeing tears in Allday’s eyes that he momentarily forgot his own suffering.

He replied, “Easy, Allday. Rest easy.” How hoarse his voice sounded.

More faces swayed over him and he saw Angus thrust the others aside as he removed the sheet from his chest, felt his fingers probing before the pain struck at him again, making him gasp aloud.

He managed to say, “My arm. Tell me.” Angus glanced at him calmly. “Believe me, sir, it is still there.” He did not smile. “However, these are early days. It is well to be prepared.”

He moved out of Bolitho’s vision and said, “New dressing at once. And he must eat something. Broth maybe, and a little brandy.”

Bolitho strained his eyes up to Allday’s face. “Where am I?”

“The fortress, Captain. Hekla brought you in two days back.” Two days. He persisted, “And before?”

“Hekla took two days to reach here, Captain. The wind went against us.” He sounded desperate. “I thought we’d never reach this damned place.”

A total of four days then. Time enough for the wound to worsen. Why should he not face the truth as Angus was doing?

God knew, he had seen it happen often enough to others.

He said quietly, “Tell me, and no lies for my sake, is my arm to come off?”

Again he saw the wretched helplessness in Allday’s eyes.

“No, Captain, I am sure of it.” He tried to smile, the effort only adding to his misery. “We’ve been through worse than this before.

So let’s have no more such talk.”

“That is enough talking.” Angus’s face swam above him once more. “You will rest until the dressing is changed. Then I want you to take some food.” He held something against the light, dull-coloured and half flattened by the force of impact. “Some of these Arab muskets have great accuracy. This ball would have certainly killed you had you not turned your body at the time of delivery.” He smiled severely. “So we must be thankful for that at least, eh?”

A door grated and he added, “But then you have an excellent nurse.” He nodded curtly. “Over here, Mrs. Pareja. The captain will be ready in a moment.”

Bolitho watched as she moved down the side of the bed.

Perhaps after all he was still drifting in unreality, or maybe even dead.

She paused and looked down at him, her face very pale against the long black hair, grave and unsmiling. And beautiful. It was hard to picture her aboard the Navarra, nursing her dead husband against her bloodied dress and watching him with such anger and bitter despair.

She said, “You look a lot better.”

“Thank you for all you have done.” He felt suddenly helpless and empty under her calm stare and could not continue.

She smiled, showing her strong white teeth. “Now I know you are getting well. Your language has been a challenge for the past two days.”

She was still smiling as Angus cut away the dressing and replaced it methodically with a new one.

Bolitho studied her in silence. She had been here with him all the time. Seeing his fight against pain, tending to his body’s wants when he could do nothing to help himself or know what he was doing. He was conscious of his nakedness under the sheet, the hair matted over his forehead in sweat, and was ashamed.

She added quietly, “It seems you are a hard man to kill.” As Angus removed his bowl of bloodstained rags she looked at Allday and said, “Go and rest.” When he hesitated she added sharply, “Away with you, man! God knows you have not rested since your return, and from what I have heard, not since our charge here fell wounded!”

Bolitho shifted his left arm beneath the sheet and said hoarsely,

“My hand!”

Allday lifted the sheet and seized Bolitho’s fingers with his own. Bolitho felt the sweat running across his bared chest as he used his failing strength to grip the hand tightly.

“You do as she asks, Allday!” He tried not to watch his face.

“I’ll rest easier if I know you’re fit and ready when I need you.” He forced himself to smile. “True friends are hard to come by!” Allday moved away and Bolitho heard the door close.

“He’s gone.”

When Bolitho looked at her again he saw that her eyes were gleaming with tears.

She shook her head angrily. “Damn you, Captain, it is true what they say! You bewitch all those who come near! It must be the Cornish magic in you!”

“I fear the magic, as you call it, comes from others, Mrs. Pareja.” She sat down on the bed and stirred some broth in a bowl.

“My name is Catherine.” She smiled, and for an instant he saw some of the same boldness he had noticed aboard the Navarra.

“But you call me Kate. I was known by that name before I mar-ried Luis.”

She lifted his head to arrange a pillow carefully and then dipped a spoon into the bowl.

He said quietly, “I am sorry about your husband.” The spoon did not waver, and he allowed the thick soup to explore his throat, reviving him in spite of the pain.

She said, “You called out several times for Cheney. Your wife?” He looked at her. “She is dead.”

“I know. One of your officers told me.” She wiped his lips with a clean cloth before adding, “You talked a lot, although much of it I didn’t understand. Sometimes you spoke of home and some portraits on a wall.” She studied him gravely. “But we will not speak of such things just now. You are very weak and must rest.” Bolitho struggled to move his arm. “No. I do not want to be left.” Almost desperately he added, “Tell me of yourself!” She sat back and smiled as if recalling some event long past.

“My home was London. Do you know much of it?” He shook his head slightly. “I have visited there.” Surprisingly, she lifted her chin and laughed. It was a throaty, uninhibited sound, as if he had said something hilarious.

“I can see by your face you do not like London, my dear Captain. But I suspect that your London was different from mine.

Where ladies danced the quadrille and hid their blushes in bou-quets while the young blades made fine postures to excite their attention.” She tossed her head, so that the hair fell loosely around her throat. “It is a way of life I have tried to learn. But it now seems that my efforts were wasted.” For a moment her eyes became wistful, and then she said shortly, “Life can be cruel.” She stood up and placed the bowl on a table, and Bolitho saw that she was wearing a different gown, of yellow silk, low cut and painstakingly embroidered around the waist. She saw his eyes and remarked, “One of the Spanish ladies here gave it to me.” He asked, “Did you meet your husband in London?” He did not wish to disturb her memories, but somehow he needed to know.

“The first one.” She watched his puzzled expression and gave another bubbling laugh. “Oh yes, I have buried two husbands, in a manner of speaking.” She moved swiftly to the bed and laid a hand on his shoulder. “Do not look so worried. It is history. The first was a real dashing person. Together we were going to set the world ablaze. He was a soldier of fortune, a mercenary, if you like.

After we were wed he took me to Spain to fight against the Frogs.

But all the battles he fought were in taverns, over some woman or other. One day he must have met his match, for he was discovered dead in a ditch outside Sevilla. That was where I met Luis. He was twice my age, but seemed to need me.” She sighed.

“He was a widower and had nothing but his work to sustain him.” In a quieter tone she said, “I think he was happy.”

“Of that I am certain.”

“Thank you, Captain.” She turned her face away. “You did not need to say that.”

Once again the door scraped open but this time it was Gillmor.

He bobbed his head politely to her before crossing to the bed.

“I am sincerely glad to know you are recovering your health, sir.”

Bolitho saw the strain on his face and guessed Coquette’s captain had had more than his share of worry because of his own incapacity.

Gillmor hurried on, “The lookouts have just sighted the squadron returning, sir.” He breathed out slowly. “At last.”

“What are you hiding?” Bolitho felt a sudden touch of apprehension. “Something is wrong.”

“Euryalus is under tow, sir. She appears to have lost her bowsprit and fore topgallant mast. I have sent Mr Bickford in a cutter to meet the admiral.”

“I must get up!” Bolitho tried to free himself from the sheet.

“Take me to my ship, for God’s sake!” Gillmor stood aside and allowed the woman to press Bolitho back against the bed. “I am sorry, sir, but we have decided against it.”

Bolitho clenched his teeth against the pain. “We have decided?” Gillmor swallowed but stood his ground. “Commander Inch and I, sir. There is no sense in having you die now that the worst is past.”

“Since when do you give me my orders, Captain Gillmor?” The frustration and helplessness, the realisation he had thought more of his own suffering than of his duty to the squadron, filled him with an unreasoning anger.

She interrupted before Gillmor could reply. “Now, that is being childish! Do not excite yourself or I will call Mr Angus to you!” Gillmor said, “I am sorry, sir. But I think we will need you very soon, and in good health.”

Bolitho closed his eyes. “No. I am the one to apologise. To you both.” Then he asked, “Is Restless with the squadron?” Gillmor hesitated. “No, sir. But maybe she is too far to seaward to be observed by Giffard’s men.”

“Perhaps.”

Bolitho could feel himself getting drowsy again, the throbbing in his shoulder growing more insistent. It was difficult to concentrate on what Gillmor was saying, harder still to sort his thoughts into any semblance of order.

Gillmor said, “I will leave you, sir. As soon as we have any news . . .” He backed out of the room before Bolitho could protest.

“A good officer.” He felt her sit down again on the bed, the cool touch of a cloth across his forehead. “When I was his age I had a ship like Coquette. In the Great South Sea. That was another world.” It was growing more difficult to remember. “Lizards three feet long, and turtles big enough to carry a man. Unspoiled by civilisation . . .”

“Rest, Captain.” Her voice faded away as Bolitho sank into a deep, exhausted sleep.

Some hours later he awoke shivering violently and ice cold.

Although the shutters were closed across the windows he knew it was night, and as he moved his head from side to side he heard Allday say, “He’s awake, ma’am!”

A small lantern appeared around a screen and he saw their two figures peering down at him.

Allday whispered, “My God, I must call Mr Angus!”

“Wait.” She stooped over the bed so that he could feel her hair touching his face. Then, “Don’t fetch him yet. You know what these surgeons are like. They understand little more than the saw of the knife.” She spat out the word. “Butchers.”

“But look at him!” Allday was desperate. “We can’t leave him like this!”

Bolitho could not speak. He was very weak, and yet for the first time he could feel his right hand. His arm was too painful and stiff to move, but he could feel it. The sudden excitement of the discovery only added to his sweating fever, and he could not stop his teeth from chattering.

He heard her say quietly, “Go to the next room, Allday.” Then more firmly, “It is all right. I know what to do.” The door opened and closed, and Bolitho vaguely imagined Allday crouching like a dog on the other side of it. Then he heard a swift rustle of silk, and before the lantern vanished behind the screen he saw her body very white against the shadowed wall, her hair loose across her naked shoulders. The sheet was pulled down, and with hardly a sound she slid in beside him, her breast and thigh closely pressed against his body while she cradled his head into her arm. As the night passed, and between moments of deep sleep and distorted dreams, he heard her speaking softly to him, like a mother to a sick child, the sounds more reassuring than actual words. The heat of her body enfolded him like a warm cloak, driving out the chill and bringing a sense of peace to his throbbing mind.

When next he opened his eyes there were chinks of bright sunlight slanting through the shutters, and for a moment longer he thought all else had been another dream. Allday was lolling in his chair, and he saw the gleam of a yellow dress beside one of the windows where she sat in a high-backed seat.

She stood up and murmured, “You look so much better.” Then she gave a small, secret smile, and Bolitho knew it had not been any dream. “How do you feel?”

He felt his lips giving way to her smile. “Hungry.” Allday was on his feet. “A miracle.” Feet clattered in the stone corridor beyond the door and Keverne, followed by Calvert, entered the room. Keverne’s dark features relaxed slightly as he saw Bolitho smiling.

He said, “I came as soon as I was able, sir.” Bolitho propped himself on his elbow. “What happened?” The lieutenant shrugged wearily. “We sighted two French seventy-fours and gave chase. Darkness came down, but Sir Lucius insisted we keep after ’em,” he sounded bitter, “and in close formation.”

“Continue.” Bolitho could see it all in his mind. The ships trying to maintain Broughton’s fixed formation under full sail.

The wind and noise, the frantic efforts to watch the other ships’

stern lights.

Keverne said, “Just after dawn we sighted the enemy again. The admiral ordered Zeus to tack independently, but because of the close formation the signal was misread. Tanais got into difficulties and we collided with her larboard quarter. We lost the bowsprit and brought down the topgallant for good measure. By the time we got ourselves disentangled the Frogs were out of sight, heading north with every square of canvas to the wind, damn their eyes!”

“The damage?”

“It will only take a day to repair. I’ve already had the topgallant replaced, and they are working on the bowsprit and jib boom now.”

Bolitho looked away. If the enemy frigate which had destroyed the bomb vessel had not discovered all about the squadron, the two 74s would have no such doubts.

Keverne added, “Sir Lucius sent his compliments and says he will see you when convenient!” He looked curiously at the woman.

“You did a fine piece of work here, if I may say so, sir. I heard about Witrand. I’m sorry.”

Calvert said, “I had best return to the ship, sir.” He did not sound happy at the prospect.

Keverne ignored him. “What shall we do, sir?” He walked to the window and peered through the slats. “To me it all seems hopeless!” Bolitho thought of Draffen, of his lies and deceit, and felt the blood begin to pump painfully in his shoulder.

And out there aboard his flagship Broughton was imprisoned with his own doubts and apprehensions. But his pride would not allow him to ask Bolitho or anyone else for advice, so his burden must be all the greater. Bolitho could admire him for his pride, but could not accept Broughton’s unfailing rigidity.

Captain Giffard appeared panting in the doorway, his face the same colour as his tunic.

“Restless is rounding the headland sir!” Bolitho struggled up on his elbow again, shutting his mind against the pain.

“Signal her captain to report to me immediately!” He held Giffard’s eyes with his own. “To me, you understand?” As Giffard bustled away he added, “Return to the ship, Mr Keverne, and give my respects to the admiral. Tell him I will be returning aboard very soon.” He saw Allday dart a quick glance at the others. “Very soon. Just tell him that.” To Calvert he said quietly, “Sir Lucius suggested that you should be employed ashore. You will remain here for the present.” He saw the relief and gratitude and added, “Now go and watch for the sloop.”

When they were alone again he said, “I know what you are about to say, Mrs. Pareja.” He smiled gently. “Kate.”

“Then why are you being so obstinate?” Her cheeks were suddenly flushed, and he could see the quick movement of her breasts.

“Because it is now that I am needed!” He gestured to Allday.

“I must be shaved and I’ll need a clean shirt.” He made himself grin at Allday’s stubborn expression. “Now.” With Allday out of the room he said, “It is strange, but I am able to think more clearly than for some time.”

“It is because you have so little blood left!” She sighed. “But if you must, then I suppose you must. Men are made for war, and you are no exception.”

She moved to the bed and supported his shoulders until he was propped in a sitting position.

He asked slowly, “What will become of you after this affair is done?”

“I will not return to Spain. Without Luis I am a stranger there again. Perhaps I will go to London!” She smiled gravely. “I have my jewels. Far more than I had when I left there.” The smile became a chuckle. “You might visit me in London, eh, Captain?

When you come to receive some high and mighty appointment?” But when he looked at her he saw the smile was hiding something deeper. Pleading? It was hard to tell.

He leaned gently against her. “I will. Believe me.” Allday was putting finishing touches to Bolitho’s shirt and stock when Commander Samuel Poate of the Restless strode into the room.

He was small and pink, with the aggressive eagerness of a young pig, Bolitho thought. Now, as he stood with his hat beneath his arm, his upturned nose seemed to quiver with urgency and suppressed anger so that the similarity was even greater.

Bolitho snapped, “Your report, Commander, and be quick with it. There is a feeling within me that we may soon be called to act.” Poate had a clipped way of speaking, like a witness at a court-martial, wasting neither words nor time.

“After I landed Sir Hugo Draffen and the prisoner I stood out to sea to await his signal, sir. I waited but nothing happened, and when the wind fell away I had to anchor lest I be driven ashore.

We heard the explosions and guessed that a further attack was being made on Djafou, although I did not know by what means.

There was still no sight of Sir Hugo, and when the wind got up I beat out to sea again and patrolled along the coast.”

“Why did you allow the prisoner to be taken ashore?”

“Sir Hugo’s orders, sir. I had no option. He said something about his being a hostage, but I was kept too busy to fathom his reasoning.” His eyes gleamed coldly as he added, “But we did sight a man waving from a beach, and when I put a boat down I soon discovered him to be one of your seamen, sir. The survivor of a party sent to escort Lieutenant Calvert. He was near demented with terror, and I thought him half mad. But later he admitted to leaving the flag-lieutenant and a midshipman after an attack by tribesmen, and told of how he ran and hid for hours until he found a cave in the hillside.” Bolitho stood up very carefully, supporting himself against Allday.

Poate said, “From the cave he said he saw Witrand tortured and then beheaded, although I do not know how much of that is true.”

“It is fact, Commander.”

“But then he went on to say that as he hid there, watching this horror below him, he also saw Sir Hugo.” He took a deep breath.

“Any seaman trying to ingratiate himself with his officers after deserting in the face of the enemy would hardly be likely to invent such a story. He said he actually saw Draffen speaking with those who were torturing the prisoner!”

“I see.” He looked up, realising there was more to come. “Well?”

“I have since heard of how you were wounded and others killed aboard Hekla because you lacked my support, sir. But I was so enraged and sickened by what I had heard that I took my ship further along the coast where eventually, and with God’s good fortune, I discovered a small dhow.”

“Draffen?” Bolitho felt his blood churning in his veins like fire.

Poate nodded. “I have him below, sir. Under guard.”

“Bring him here.” He looked towards the sunlight and heard the wind hissing gently through the shutters. “You have done very well. Probably better than either of us can yet realise.” He heard Poate barking orders in the corridor and said, “Leave me, Kate. You too, Allday.” He smiled at their concern. “I will not start to wave my arms just yet.” Alone, he leaned against a chairback and moved his arm cautiously within a makeshift sling.

When Draffen entered with Poate, and Calvert bringing up the rear, there was little about him to betray either alarm or uncertainty.

He said calmly, “Perhaps you would be good enough to take me to the admiral? I am not content at being so badly handled by these people. ”

Calvert stammered, “You are under arrest . . .” Draffen turned towards him, his eyes cold with contempt. “Be silent, puppy!”

Bolitho said flatly, “It is useless to deny that you contrived to have Djafou reoccupied for your own future gain, Sir Hugo.” How strange that he could speak so calmly when his mind was sick with disgust. “Whatever the outcome here, you will be made to stand trial in England.”

Draffen stared at him and then laughed. “My God, Captain, what world do you live in?”

“Our world, Sir Hugo. I think that what we have discovered at Djafou will be more than enough to break your mask of innocence.”

Draffen spread his hands. “Slavery is a fact, Captain, no matter what the law might proclaim publicly. Where demand exists, so too must supply. There are those in the City of London who would place more value on the head of one fit slave than a whole boatload of your sailors who have died in battle, let me assure you of that! Learn your lesson well, as I have. Law and justice are for those who can afford it!”

Poate opened his mouth to interrupt as a bright spot of blood appeared suddenly on Bolitho’s clean sling. But he shook his head towards him and said, “Then I hope that those people will support you well, Sir Hugo, for I am sure the rest of England will condemn you for what you are. A liar, a cheat and . . .” he clenched his teeth against both pain and anger, “a creature who could stand by and watch a man tortured and then murdered. A prisoner under the King’s protection!”

For the first time he saw a spark of alarm in Draffen’s eyes.

But he answered harshly, “Even if it were true, Witrand had no such protection. As an army officer hiding under civilian guise he must be accepted as a spy.”

His mouth tightened as Bolitho said calmly, “No one but the admiral and I knew that, Sir Hugo. So unless you knew him already, which I believe is so, since you made no effort to see him aboard Euryalus, then you must have heard him give out his identity under torture. Either way you are branded!” He could feel the blood seeping down inside his bandages but could not stop himself. “By God, I detest the naked ritual of a hanging, but I’d give a month’s bounty to see you dance at Tyburn!” Draffen watched him warily. “Send these others from the room.”

“No bargains, Sir Hugo. You have caused enough death and suffering.”

“Very well. Then I will speak in front of them.” He placed his hands on his hips and said in a calmer tone, “I have, as you observed, powerful friends in London. They can make your future very hard, and put a blight on what hopes you might still have for advancement.”

Bolitho looked away. “Is that all?” Behind him he heard Draffen catch his breath and then reply harshly, “You have a nephew in the Navy, I believe? Your late brother’s bastard?”

Bolitho stood quite motionless, hearing Poate’s feet moving on the stones and Calvert’s gasp of alarm.

Draffen continued, “How will he feel when he learns that his late father turned a blind eye to my slavers when he commanded a privateer? That he grew rich from his connivance?” Bolitho turned towards him, his voice very calm. “That is a lie.”

“But some will believe it, and most of all, your nephew’s future will be finished, am I right?”

Bolitho blinked his eyes to clear away the mist of pain. He must not faint now. Must not.

“Had I some pity or regard for you at all, Sir Hugo, it would now be gone. Any man who could threaten the life of a young boy, who has had nothing in his upbringing but misery, deserves none.” He looked at Poate. “Take him out.” Draffen said quietly, “You have accused me of many things.

Whatever others may say, you shall give me satisfaction when you have the strength!”

“As you wish. You will find me ready enough.” He sat down heavily as Draffen was escorted from the room.

Then she was beside him again, scolding him as she guided him back to the bed.

He said, “I cannot write, so will you do so if I dictate? I must send my report to the admiral at once.” She studied him curiously. “Was that true about your brother?”

“Some, but not all.”

The door swung open again and Poate burst into the room.

“Sir! Lieutenant Calvert must have gone mad!” Bolitho gripped the chair. “What’s happened?”

“He has taken Draffen to the top of the tower and locked the hatch on us. When I demanded that it be opened he said nothing.” Poate sounded incredulous.

“Listen!” They all looked at Allday who was leaning from a window. Above the sigh of sea and wind Bolitho heard the sudden clash of steel, and felt moved.

It did not last long. Calvert appeared in the doorway, two swords beneath his arm, his face extremely composed, even sad.

He said, “I am placing myself under arrest, sir. Sir Hugo is dead.”

Bolitho replied quietly, “I was the one he challenged, Calvert.” He shook his head. “You forget, sir. He called me puppy before that.” He turned away, not even seeing Poate and the others who crowded outside the door.

“Anyway, sir, you’d never match him in a duel. Not with a sword in your left hand.” He shrugged wearily. “You are a fighter, sir, but, I suspect, not used to the more precise art of duelling.”

He swung round, his eyes flashing. “You saved me, and more than that, you gave me back my honour. I’ll not stand back and see you destroyed when I can help, perhaps better than anyone else.” Angus, the surgeon, pushed through the crowd and shouted,

“What madness is this? Can’t you see the state the captain is in?” Bolitho eyed him coldly. “Go to the top of the tower. You will find a body there.”

Then he said to Calvert, “You mean well, but . . .” Calvert shrugged. “But. What a great span that word can cover.

I know what may become of me, but I do not care. Perhaps I did it to avenge Lelean, I am not certain of that either.” He met Bolitho’s eyes with sudden determination. “Lelean needed me, just as the squadron needs you at this moment. Maybe that is the best reason for killing Draffen.”

He unbuckled his swordbelt and handed it to Captain Giffard.

The faces at the door melted away as Broughton’s voice rasped,

“Give him back his sword, Giffard!” He strode into the room, nodding curtly to Bolitho before saying, “Once I wronged you, Calvert. I cannot spare you the trial for your act.” He studied the lieutenant’s face with obvious interest. “But if and when we return to England, I will see to it that you are ably defended!

Calvert looked at the floor. “Thank you, Sir Lucius!” Broughton turned to Bolitho. “Now, seeing that you seem able and strong enough to conduct my affairs, it appears I must come to you, eh?” He glared round the room. “Get these people out of my sight!” He relented slightly. “Except you of course, dear lady, for I have learned that but for your, er, ministrations I would now be without my flag captain!” He smiled coolly as he ran his eye over her. “Which would never do.”

She met his eyes unflinchingly. “I agree, Sir Lucius. It would appear you have great need of him.” Broughton frowned and then gave a small shrug. “That was a fair match of words, ma’am.”

To Bolitho he said, “This is what I intend!” There was no hint of shock or anger at the manner of Draffen’s death. As in the past, Broughton had already discarded him. A memory, and nothing more. Later, in England, he might find it less easy to ignore.

He said, “It seems almost certain the French will try and drive us from here.” He paused as if expecting an argument. “Sighting those ships and then losing them because of Rattray’s stupidity over my signal makes me more inclined to accept your earlier remarks!” He nodded. “You certainly left Gillmor a good report before you sailed on that fool errand against the pirates.” He sighed. “Really, Bolitho, you must learn to accept that you are already out of reach of those more lighthearted events!”

“It seemed advisable to remove one threat before we took on another, sir.”

“Maybe.” He sounded cautious. “But by now the Franco–

Spanish alliance will know that the squadron which left Gibraltar is here on their porchway. Urgency to complete their plan will become even more apparent.” He nodded as if to confirm his thoughts. “I am not waiting for them. I propose to take the squadron towards Cartagena. For if only half the reports are true, that is where the enemy has been concentrating his transports and war vessels. What could be more likely? A further attempt to strengthen the relationship between the two countries after their defeat at St Vincent.”

Bolitho nodded. It was obvious the admiral had given the matter a great deal of thought during the past day or so. As well he might. For to return to Gibraltar and report that Djafou had been found useless, and Draffen had been killed by one of his own officers, would be asking for certain retribution. Broughton had already incurred the Admiralty’s displeasure over his part in the Spithead mutiny and the loss of the Auriga, and he more than anyone needed to obtain some credit, which the capture of the Navarra and a small brig hardly represented.

He replied, “It is very likely, sir. It is equally possible we may meet with the enemy in open water.”

“That is what I pray for.” Broughton paced to the window, showing some signs of agitation. “If we can bring them to grips we will have shown them that we are not merely a cat’s-paw. And that others will follow us in even greater strength.”

“And if we discover nothing at Cartagena, sir, what then?” Broughton turned and looked at him calmly. “Then, Bolitho, I am a ruined man.” He seemed to realise he had shown too much of a confidence and added abruptly, “We will weigh tomorrow morning. Commander Inch will return to Gibraltar with the brig and Navarra. He will also carry all the garrison and other, er, people we have gathered. I have no doubt the governor there will be pleased to use them for exchange with British prisoners of war.”

“I have ordered charges to be laid in the fortress magazine, sir.”

“Good. We will fire them as we leave.” He sighed. “So be it.” As he made as if to depart Bolitho asked quickly, I am hoping you may recommend Mr Keverne for command of the brig, sir?” The admiral turned his eyes instead on the woman. “I am afraid not. You already have shortages, and we will need every experienced officer. I will tell Furneaux to supply a prize officer.” He nodded to Angus as he came in wiping his hands.

The surgeon said, “He was dead, sir.” The admiral said indifferently, “As I expected. Now, Mr Angus, Captain Bolitho will remain here until half an hour before sailing tomorrow. Make all arrangements. Then send someone to find Calvert and tell him I wish some orders to be drafted for the squadron immediately.” He smiled suddenly, so that he looked years younger.

“Do you know, Bolitho, I was once tempted to match rapiers with Calvert, just to teach him a lesson! If I had, you would now be in command here, and your head instead of mine would be on the block!” It seemed to amuse him, for he was still smiling as he strode out of the room.

Bolitho leaned back in the chair and closed his eyes, feeling the energy and tension draining from him, leaving him spent.

Half to himself he said, “One more night.” She touched his hair with her hand, her voice husky. “Yes. One more night.” She hesitated. “Together.”

LIEUTENANT Charles Keverne stood by the quarterdeck rail with his arms folded while he watched the busy activity around and above him. The Euryalus had not re-entered the bay, but instead had anchored with her consorts off the beaked headland. Now, in the pale morning light, even the barren hills and skyline appeared less hostile, the fortress quiet and harmless.

He took a telescope from the midshipman of the watch and trained it towards the Tanais which was tugging at her cable in the freshening wind, her yards and decks also alive with seamen.

He could see the scars on her quarter where Euryalus’s massive bulk had left evidence of the collision, and was thankful he had managed to complete repairs to spars and rigging before the captain’s return.

Like the rest of the watching officers and seamen, he had studied Bolitho’s appearance through the entry port with both relief and anxiety. The smile had been genuine, and there had been no doubting his pleasure at being back on board his own command.

But the arm held stiffly in a sling, the twist of pain on his mouth as he had been assisted through the port, made Keverne wonder if Bolitho was yet fit enough for his work.

The ship had been fairly buzzing with speculation since their unhappy return after the fruitless chase, and collision with Tanais.

Broughton’s temper had matched the occasion, and for that reason too he hoped Bolitho would be able to advise his superior as well as control the teeming affairs of his own ship.

Keverne thought back over what he had done so far. The task of replacing some of the men killed and injured in the attacks on Djafou, the re-embarkation of the marines, and all the business of preparing to get under way once more. But he would have to speak with Bolitho about the officers. With Lucey and Lelean dead, and Bolitho far from fit, it left them very shorthanded when they were most needed.

Lieutenant Meheux strode aft along the larboard gangway and touched his hat.

“Anchor’s hove short, sir!” He seemed cheerful enough. “I’ll not weep to quit this hole for all time!” Partridge said, “Flag’s comin’ down on th’ fortress, sir.” Keverne raised the glass again. “So I see.” He watched the ensign as it disappeared below the ramparts and wondered how it would feel to be the last man to leave after the fuses had been lit.

He beckoned to a midshipman. “My respects to the captain, Mr Sandoe. Inform him that the anchor is hove short and the wind has backed to the sou’ west.”

Partridge watched him scurry away. “Bit o’ luck that. ’Twill save all the damn sweat to clear the ’eadland.” Keverne tensed as a set of tan sails glided clear of the fortress.

It was the brig, Turquoise, and in the clear morning light she looked lively and beautiful. Another chance gone. She could have been his. Momentarily he wondered if Bolitho had decided to retain him as first lieutenant merely because of his own disability. He turned his mind away just as quickly. Neither Bickford, who had been with the captain, nor even Sawle, whom he heartily disliked, had been offered the command. So it was obviously Broughton’s hand which had written the order to make a mere lieutenant from Valorous rise like a shooting star towards the first real step of promotion.

He stamped his feet with sudden irritation. What a waste it had all been. And no doubt when they reached the enemy coast they would discover some new frustration for the admiral to complain about.

“Navarra’s clear, sir!”

Keverne watched the prize ship setting her topsails as she tacked heavily below the fortress walls. Like all of the little convoy destined for Gibraltar, she was crammed with people, prisoners and civilians alike. It would be an uncomfortable passage, he decided glumly.

There was a step beside him and Bolitho said, “It looks like a good wind.” He glanced searchingly along the upper deck. “Make a signal to the squadron. Up anchor. Then get the ship under way, if you please. We will lay a course nor’ west by north as Sir Lucius has instructed.”

Keverne shouted, “Stand by the capstan!” A midshipman was scribbling on his slate watched by the signal party who had already bent on the required flags.

Midshipman Tothill said, “Hekla’s clearing the fortress now, sir!”

Bolitho took a telescope and trained it towards the little bomb vessel. But for a cutter to retrieve the demolition party at the last possible moment, Hekla was the last to leave the bay. Leaving it with its relics of suffering and death, its memories of conquest and surrender. Perhaps one day someone else would try to reoc-cupy the place, to repair the fortress and install once more the means of slavery and oppression. But maybe by then the world would have turned once and for all against such methods, he thought.

The Hekla’s topsails filled to the wind as she ploughed into the first inshore troughs. Holding the telescope with one hand was not easy, and he was dismayed to discover that he was already breathless from exhaustion. But just a moment longer. He edged the glass slowly across Hekla’s forecastle where the seamen in their checked shirts ran in orderly confusion to complete the new tack, and then saw Inch clinging to the low rail, his thin body leaning against the steep tilt as he waved his hat in the air. It was not hard to recall him on the exposed deck as the carronades kept up their savage bombardment, or his shock and grief at seeing him fall to that unknown marksman. Now, with his mixed flotilla and chattering passengers, he was taking another turn in his life, and it was to be hoped he reached Gibraltar without meeting an enemy.

He stiffened as he saw another figure moving carefully across the deck to Inch’s side. Even although the Hekla was now a good half-mile distant he could see her hair whipping out to the wind, the yellow dress very bright in the glare. She too was waving, her teeth white in her tanned face, and he imagined he could hear her voice once more, as he had listened to it in the night when all else was still and silent.

“Take the glass, Mr Tothill.”

Then, stiffly, he braced his legs and waved his own hat slowly back and forth. Some of the others watched him with surprise, but by the ladder Allday saw Bolitho’s face and gave a grateful smile.

It had been a close-run thing. And but for her . . . he shuddered involuntarily and turned to watch as Calvert walked moodily along the gangway and leaned against the nettings. He seemed to be more inside himself than ever, and hardly spoke, even to the other officers. That was a rare pity, Allday decided, for the flag-lieutenant was unaware how he was admiringly discussed on the crowded messdecks since his return. Allday shook his head. No doubt Calvert had a rich father who would save his neck, but maybe he no longer cared. As he stared down into the lively water alongside his face registered nothing at all.

“Ah, Calvert!” Everyone looked round as Broughton strode briskly from the poop. He raised his voice. “Come here!” Calvert wandered aft and touched his hat, his eyes guarded.

“Sir?”

“There is a lot I want done today.” Broughton watched idly as the Hekla butted her blunt bows into a lazy roller.

Then he looked at Bolitho and pursed his lips into the shadow of a smile. “So perhaps you would dine with me after we have done with the writing, eh?”

Allday saw Calvert’s jaw dropping open and felt more amazed than ever. Even Broughton, it appeared, had changed towards him.

Bolitho turned, caught unaware by the admiral’s voice. “I beg your pardon, sir. I did not see you.” Broughton nodded. “Ah.”

“The squadron has acknowledged, sir!” Tothill was oblivious to the brief exchange. “At the dip!”

Bolitho turned and shouted, “Carry on, Mr Keverne!” As the flagship’s signal vanished from her yards the deck became alive to the turmoil of making sail. Bolitho gripped the rail and looked up as the topmen swarmed along the yards, and with a bang and thunder of canvas the released sails exploded to the wind.

“Anchor’s aweigh, sir!” Meheux looked very small, outlined against the opposite headland as he waved his hand in the air.

With a deep surge the Euryalus sidled heavily above her reflection, her lower gunports awash as with her seamen heaving on the braces and the wheel hard over she came ponderously but with dignified obedience under control of wind and rudder.

Keverne was yelling through his trumpet, “Lee braces, there!

Put those laggards to work, Mr Tebbutt! Valorous has the edge on you today!”

Bolitho leaned over the stout rail and watched the anchor, streaming yellow weed from its massive flukes as it was catted home by Meheux’s frantic seamen.

He shifted his gaze across the opposite side and saw Coquette and Restless already spreading their topgallants and bounding through fountains of spray as they drew rapidly away from the heavier ships.

Partridge called, “Nor’ west by north, sir!” He wiped his watering eyes as he peered up at the braced yards, the hardening quiver of the main topsail as it forced the ship over. “Full an’ bye, sir!” Broughton snatched a glass and then said irritably, “General signal. Maintain proper station.” He turned easily to study the Valorous, as with her jib flapping in momentary confusion she wallowed round to follow in her admiral’s wake.

Keverne asked, “May I set the topgallants, sir?” Bolitho nodded. “Make the most of the wind!” Even as Keverne hurried back to the rail there was a low, menacing rumble. Every spare glass flashed in the sunlight as they turned to watch the distant fortress. The rumble erupted with terrible suddenness into several towering walls of flame and black smoke. They seemed endless and indestructible, hiding completely what was happening beneath.

Then as the wind pushed the smoke reluctantly across the headland Bolitho saw the ruins of the fortress. The inner tower had fallen completely like the shattered chimney of an old kiln, and the rest of the walls and ramparts were blasted into rubble.

More inner explosions followed in slow succession, like a controlled broadside, and he imagined Inch’s gunner, Mr Broome, lovingly placing his charges of destruction. He caught his breath as a tiny dark sliver edged out through the smoke, the boat carrying Broome and his men to a hairbreadth safety.

Giffard said, “A lot has happened in that place, by God!” Broughton watched the set of Bolitho’s shoulders and smiled briefly. “There is certainly no denying that, Captain Giffard!” When eight bells chimed out, and the forenoon watch started to go about its affairs above and below decks, the small squadron was already seven miles from the land.

In his stern cabin Bolitho rested on the bench seat and watched the Valorous outlined against the fading shoreline. It was little more than a blur, a rolling bank of purple, above which the darker smoke of Djafou stained the blue sky in one great sprawling pall.

He thought of Lucey and Lelean, of Witrand and so many others who had been left there forever. Only Draffen had sailed with the squadron, his corpse carefully sealed in a cask of spirits for a more fitting burial whenever the ship might touch England again.

He leaned against the sill, his ears catching the familiar strains of rigging and shrouds, his aching shoulder positioned to avoid the slow plunge and quiver of the hull around him.

Once again he had avoided the fate of others. He touched his shoulder and winced. It would soon be time to have the dressing changed, when he would again hold his breath for fear the wound had worsened.

Then he thought of Catherine Pareja and that last night together in the tower. The simplicity and desperate need as they had lain quite still listening to the murmur of waves on the rocks below the walls. Had he not been so badly wounded would he still have behaved like that? Would he have allowed it to happen?

Even as he remembered their quiet embrace, he knew the answer, and was ashamed.

Spargo, the Euryalus’s surgeon, proffered one of his square, hairy hands and said, “Here, sir, take a good grip.” Bolitho stood up from his desk and glanced at Keverne. “He is a hard taskmaster.” He smiled to hide his anxiety. “I fear we are not giving him enough to do.”

Then he took Spargo’s hand in his own, feeling the cramp tugging at his arm as he exerted all the grip he could muster.

It had been three days since the squadron had left Djafou, and every few hours during that time Spargo had come to attend to the dressings, to probe and examine the wound until Bolitho had imagined he would never be free of its torment.

Spargo released his fingers. “Not too bad, sir.” He spoke with grudging satisfaction, which Bolitho had discovered earlier to be true praise for another man’s work. “But we shall have to see.” As ever, his sheet anchor was a warning. Just in case.

Keverne relaxed slightly. “I will leave you now, sir. That con-cludes the ship’s affairs for today.” Bolitho eased his arm back into the sling and walked to the windows. A good half-mile astern he watched Valorous taking in her royals, the seamen like black dots on her yards as they fought with the salt-hardened canvas. It was nearly noon. Three days of battling with unusually perverse winds and every eye watching the dazzling horizon for a sail. Any sail.

The squadron’s position was now about forty miles south-south-west of Cartagena, and had there been an enemy of any sort in view, Broughton’s ships would have been ready and well placed to intercept. As he glanced briefly across the papers on his desk which Keverne had been discussing, he heard the crisp tap of shoes overhead where Broughton paced the poop in solitary detachment, fretting over the failure to find an enemy, or to throw any light on his movements. Bolitho could pity him, for he knew there were already other pressures mounting which could not be postponed much longer.

Buddle, the purser, had been to see him this forenoon, his face gloomy as he had told of falling water supplies and several ran-cid casks of meat. Throughout the squadron it was the same. You could not expect this many men to be without replenishment for so long, especially as there was still no certainty of obtaining more water and provisions.

He sighed and looked at the door as it closed behind the surgeon.

“So we have Sawle promoted to fifth lieutenant to replace Lucey.

That still leaves a vacancy in the wardroom.” He was thinking aloud. “Midshipman Tothill might be able to take it, but . . .” Keverne said shortly, “He is only seventeen and has had little experience of gunnery. In any case, he is too useful with his signals to be spared as yet.” He grinned. “In my opinion, sir.”

“I am afraid I agree.” He listened to the shoes pacing back and forth. “We will have to see what we can do.”

Keverne gathered up the papers and asked, “What are our chances of finding the enemy, sir?” He shrugged. “In all truth, I do not know.” He wanted Keverne to leave so that he could try to exercise his arm and shoulder.

“Coquette and Restless should be cruising off Cartagena by now.

Maybe they will return soon with new intelligence.” There was a rap on the door and Midshipman Ashton stepped into the cabin. He no longer wore a bandage around his head and seemed to have recovered from his tough handling better than anyone had expected.

“Sir. Mr Weigall’s respects, and a sail has been sighted to the nor’ east.”

Bolitho looked at Keverne and smiled. “Sooner than I thought.

I will go on deck.”

On the quarterdeck it was blazing hot, and although the sails were drawing well to a steady north-westerly, there was little freshness to ease the demands of watchkeeping.

Weigall was watching the poop, as if afraid he would not hear Bolitho’s approach.

“Masthead reports that she looks like a frigate, sir.” To confirm his words the voice pealed down again, “Deck there!

She’s Coquette! ”

Broughton came down from the poop with unusual haste.

“Well?”

Ashton was already swarming into the shrouds with a big telescope, and Bolitho said quietly, “What would we do without frigates?”

Minutes ticked past, and by the compass a ship’s boy upended the half-hour glass under Partridge’s watchful eye.

Then Ashton yelled, “From Coquette, sir!” The merest pause.

“Negative.”

Broughton swung away, his voice harsh. “Nothing there. The ships have sailed.” He turned to Bolitho, his eyes squinting against the glare. “We must have missed them! God, we’ll not see them again!”

Bolitho watched the frigate swinging round on her new tack, the big black and white flag still streaming from her yard. One flag, yet to Broughton and perhaps many more it meant so much.

The enemy ships had quit the harbour and by now could be almost anywhere. While the squadron had floundered around Djafou, and had exhausted their resources in the fruitless business of capture and demolition, the enemy had vanished.

Broughton murmured in a tired voice, “Damn them all to hell!” Bolitho looked up sharply as the masthead lookout shouted,

“Valorous is signalling, sir!” The admiral said bitterly, “Furneaux will be dreaming of his own future already!”

They all turned as Tothill shouted, “From Valorous, sir! Strange sail bearing west!”

“Must be almost astern of us, sir.” Bolitho looked at Keverne.

“Inform the squadron.”

Broughton was almost beside himself with impatience. “She’ll put about the moment she sights us!” He peered towards Coquette.

“But it’s useless to send Gillmor. He’d never be able to beat into the wind in time to engage her.”

Bolitho felt his arm throbbing, perhaps from his own excitement. The stranger could be another lone merchantman, or an enemy scout. She might even be the van of some great force of ships. He dismissed the latter idea. If the newcomer was part of the force from Cartagena he was well out of station, and the enemy would have no wish to waste any time if they were after Broughton.

He took a telescope and climbed swiftly on to the poop. It was getting less painful to manage the glass with one hand, and as he trained it past Valorous he saw a small square of sail, seemingly resting on the horizon line.

But far above the deck Ashton with his powerful telescope already had a much better view.

“Two-decker, sir!” His voice was shrill against the sounds of rigging and canvas. “Still closing!” Bolitho hurried back to the quarterdeck. “It would be better if we shorten sail, sir. At least we will know for sure then.” Broughton nodded. “Very well. Make the signal.” Time dragged by, with the hands going for their midday meal, and the air becoming heavy with the odour of rum. There was, after all, no point in disrupting the daily routine when there was plenty of time to decide on a course of action, if any.

The other ship was coming up very fast, especially for a two-decker. It was easy to see her great spread of canvas as she plunged in pursuit. Her captain had even set her studding sails, so that the hull seemed weighed down by the towering pyramid of hardbellied canvas.

Ashton yelled excitedly, “She’s signalling, sir!”

“For God’s sake!” Broughton was gnawing at his lip as he stared up at the midshipman on the crosstrees.

Tothill had swarmed aloft to join Ashton, and together they were already peering at their signal book, seemingly indifferent to the deck so far below their dangling legs.

Bolitho said, “A friend, sir. A reinforcement perhaps. But at least we might glean some news.”

He stared up at the masthead, unable to believe his ears as Tothill yelled, “She’s Impulsive, sir, sixty-four! Cap’n Herrick!” Broughton turned sharply and looked at Bolitho. “Know him?” He did not know how to answer. Thomas Herrick. How often he had thought of him and Adam, had wondered at their destinations and experiences. Now he was here. Here.

He replied, “For years, sir. He was my first lieutenant. He is my friend also.”

Broughton eyed him warily and then snapped, “Signal the squadron to heave to. Make to Impulsive. Captain, repair on board.” He watched the flags breaking into the wind and added,

“I hope he’ll be of some use.”

Bolitho smiled and said simply, “Without him, sir, this ship would still be under French colours!” The admiral grunted. “Well, we shall see. I will be aft when he comes aboard!”

Keverne waited until Broughton had gone and then asked,

“Did he really help take this ship, sir? In a small fourth-rate like that?”

Bolitho eyed him pensively. “My own ship was almost done for. Captain Herrick in his little sixty-four, which is a good deal older than you are, came to grips without hesitation!” He waved his hand across the busy quarterdeck. “Just there it was, by Mr Partridge. The French admiral surrendered.” Keverne smiled. “I never knew.” He stared at the orderly deck as if expecting to see some sign of the bloody battle which had swayed back and forth across it.

Tothill slid down a backstay shouting, “All acknowledgements hoisted, sir! Close up!”

Bolitho looked at Keverne. “Execute. And have the side manned to receive our guest.”

Bolitho guided his friend below the poop, out of the glare and the din of flapping canvas, and then faced him by the companionway.

“Oh, Thomas, it is good to see you!” Herrick’s face, which had been tight with concern at seeing Bolitho’s wounded arm, split into a wide grin.

“I don’t have to say how I felt when I heard my orders to join your squadron.”

Bolitho steadied himself against the sickening motion as Euryalus floundered in a beam sea and studied him eagerly.

Rounder in the face, with a few grey hairs showing beneath his gold-laced hat, but still the same. The same eyes, of the brightest blue Bolitho had ever seen.

“Tell me about Adam. Is he with you?”

“Aye.” Herrick looked at the marines below the ladder which led to Broughton’s quarters. “Burning himself to ashes in eagerness to see you again.”

Bolitho smiled. “After you have spoken with Sir Lucius we will talk.”

Herrick gripped his good arm. “We will that!” As he stood aside to allow Herrick on to the ladder he saw the twin gold epaulettes on his shoulders. A post-captain now. In spite of everything, Herrick, like himself, had endured.

Broughton half rose from his desk as they entered the spacious cabin. “You have despatches for me, Captain?” He was very formal. “I was not expecting another ship.” Herrick laid a sealed envelope on the desk. “From Sir John Jervis, sir.” He grimaced. “I beg pardon, I meant Lord St Vincent, as he is now titled.”

Broughton tossed the envelope to Calvert who was hovering nearby and snapped, “Tell me the news. What of the damned mutiny?”

Herrick watched him guardedly. “There was some bloodshed, and more than a few tears, but after Their Lordships made certain concessions the people agreed to return to duty.”

“Agreed?” Broughton glared at him. “Is that all that happened?” Herrick looked past him, his eyes suddenly sad. “They hanged the ringleaders, sir, but not before some of the officers were removed from the ships as unsuitable to hold authority!” Broughton stood up violently. “How did you hear all this?”

“My ship was in the mutiny at the Nore, sir.” The admiral stared at him as if he had misheard. “Your ship?

Do you mean you just stood by and let them seize her from you?” Herrick replied evenly, “There was no choice, sir.” Bolitho saw a gleam of the same old stubbornness in his eyes as he continued, “Anyway, I agreed with most of their demands. I was allowed to remain aboard because they knew I understood, like many other captains!”

Bolitho interrupted swiftly, “That is interesting, Captain Herrick.” He hoped Herrick would feel the warning in his voice.

“Sir Lucius too had much the same experience at Spithead.” He smiled at Broughton. “Is that not so, sir?” Broughton opened his mouth and then said, “Ah. Up to a point.”

Herrick stepped forward. “But, sir, I have not yet told you my own news.” He glanced at Bolitho. “I met with St Vincent at Cadiz and was ordered to find your squadron. He requires the bomb vessels for an attack on Teneriffe, I believe. Rear-Admiral Nelson is to lead it.”

Broughton commented harshly, “Rear-Admiral now, is he?” Herrick hid a smile. “But two days back we sighted a strange sail off Malaga. I laid my ship between it and the shore and gave chase. It was a frigate, sir, and although my sixty-four is fast, she’s no match for that. But I kept up the pursuit, and only lost her this very morning. I imagined it was her when I sighted your rearmost ship.”

Broughton said dryly, “Very exciting. Well, you lost her, so where’s the cause for glee?”

Herrick watched him calmly. “I heard of what happened, sir.

I’d know that ship anywhere. She was Auriga. ” Bolitho said, “Are you certain, Thomas?” He nodded firmly. “No doubt about it. Served with her for some months. Auriga, quite certain.” Calvert laid the opened despatches on the desk but Broughton swept them aside as he groped for his chart.

“Here! Show me, Herrick. Mark it on the chart!” Herrick glanced enquiringly at Bolitho and then stooped over the desk.

“She was heading almost due east, sir.”

“And you nearly overhauled her? In a two-decker?” Broughton sounded desperate.

“Aye, sir. Impulsive may be old, and her hull is so ripe that I fear it would fall apart but for the copper, but she’s the fastest ship in the fleet.” There was real pride in his voice. “Auriga might have gone into Cartagena, sir. In which case . . .” Broughton shook his head. “Never. My patrols would have seen and engaged her.” He rubbed his chin vigorously. “Due east, you say? By heaven, we might still run her to earth!” He looked at Herrick. “And by God I’d not have hung a few miserable mutineers! I would have hanged the lot of them!” Herrick said respectfully, “I can well believe it, Sir Lucius.” Broughton did not seem to hear, “Signal Gillmor to give chase at once. He can do anything he likes to hold or delay Auriga.

Restless can maintain watch to the windward of us.” He glanced at Herrick. “You will close to visual distance with Restless, ” he gave a short smile, “as your ship is so swift, and relay my instructions to her without delay.” He nodded curtly. “Carry on.” Outside the cabin Herrick asked, “Is he always like that?”

“Usually.” Bolitho paused by the quarterdeck ladder. “Is Adam doing well? I mean, could you . . .” Herrick grinned. “He is ready to sit his exam for lieutenant, if that is what you mean.” He watched Bolitho and then added,

“Shall I send him across to you?”

“Thank you. I am short of officers.” He smiled, unable to hide his eagerness. “I would appreciate it.” Herrick touched his arm. “I have taught him all I know.”

“Then he will be ready.”

Herrick’s grin was huge. “I had a good teacher, remember?” Almost before Herrick’s boat had cast off from the chains the Euryalus’s yards were alive with flags. Coquette went about with the ease of a thoroughbred, as if a string had been severed to free her from the other ships, and as the seamen poured up from the gangways Bolitho felt as if he was being given a new strength.

Partridge muttered, “Cap’n seems ’appy ’bout somethin’!” Keverne nodded. “So it would appear.” Then he snatched his speaking trumpet and hurried towards the rail.

ALLDAY opened the cabin door and announced, “Mr Midshipman Pascoe, Captain!” In spite of the attempted formality his face was breaking into a great grin of pleasure.

It was late evening, and but for a brief encounter when the boy had clambered hurriedly from the boat, he had not been able to speak with him. It had been a strange meeting. He had seen Pascoe’s face changing from excitement to caution, a sort of reserved shyness, as he had removed his hat and said, “Coming aboard to join, sir.”

Bolitho had been equally formal, aware of Keverne and the others nearby watching the unexpected reunion.

He had said awkwardly, “Mr Keverne will give you your duties.

You are to take the position of acting sixth lieutenant. I am sure Mr Keverne will be able to equip you with the necessary clothing and anything else you might need . . .” He had broken off as a battered midshipman’s chest had been hauled unceremoniously from the boat alongside. It was then that he had fully realised the importance of that moment in time.

Pascoe had said quietly, “I thought you might wish me to transfer to your ship, sir.” He’d paused. “I hoped. So I was ready . . .” Now, as Allday closed the door to leave them together for the first time, he felt the warmth flooding through him, yet was aware of the change which had grown between them.

“Here, Adam, sit down by me.” He gestured to the table which Trute had laid with unusual care. “The food is not too exciting, but doubtless no worse than you’ve been accustomed to.” He fumbled with a decanter, aware the whole time of the boy’s eyes watching him. How he had changed. He was taller and looked more confident, more sure of himself. And yet, there was the same dark restlessness, like that of a young colt, which he had remembered since their parting two years ago.

The boy took the glass and said simply, “I have been waiting for this moment.” Then he smiled, and Bolitho was again reminded of those other faces in the portraits at Falmouth. “When Captain Herrick told me you were wounded . . .” Bolitho raised his glass. “Let us forget about that. How have you been?” He ushered him to the table, vaguely conscious as always of the deck’s steady vibration and the regular rolls of the hull as the ship plunged in pursuit of Coquette in accordance with Broughton’s orders.

He pulled a steaming dish of beef towards him. It was recently from the cask and was probably already going bad. But in the warm lantern light, and served as it was on the best cabin pewter, it looked almost luxurious. He hesitated, suddenly confused by his inability to use the knife. The realisation both angered and embarrassed him. This was to have been a perfect moment, spared of duties on deck, and for once almost free of pain.

Pascoe reached across the table and took the knife from his hand. For a moment their eyes met and then he said softly, “Let me, Uncle!” He smiled again. “Captain Herrick has trained me to do all manner of things.”

Bolitho watched him as he bent over the plate, the hair, as black as his own, falling rebelliously over his eyes as he sawed busily through the tough meat.

“Thank you, Adam.” He smiled to himself. Seventeen. It was so easy to remember what it had been like as a young midshipman. And Adam was actually enjoying himself. There was neither pity nor deception in his voice as he chatted excitedly about the Impulsive’s part in the mutiny, of Herrick and all the dozens of things which had changed him from a young boy to a confident replica of his father, and himself.

Bolitho had difficulty in eating the meat even after it had been cut into small pieces for him. But Adam had no such qualms and helped himself again and again from the platter.

Bolitho asked, “How can you keep stuffing yourself and be as thin as a stick?”

Adam eyed him gravely. “A midshipman’s lot is a hard one.” They both laughed and Bolitho said, “Well, maybe your days in the gunroom are numbered. Once an examination can be arranged, I see no reason why you should not sit for lieutenant.” The boy dropped his eyes. “I will try not to betray that trust.” Bolitho watched him for several seconds. This boy could never betray anyone. He was the one who had been wronged. Again he had the pressing feeling that he wanted to do something about it and without more delay. The wound in his shoulder was a warning. The next time might be final.

He said clumsily, “There is a lawyer in Falmouth named Quince.” He hesitated, trying to make his voice sound matter-of-fact. “When we return home I would like you to come with me and see him.”

Pascoe pushed the plate away and wiped his mouth. “Why, Uncle?”

Why? How could so great a question be crammed into one tiny word?

He stood up and walked along the swaying deck towards the windows. Below he could see the frothing wake gleaming like snow in the light of a stern lantern and imagined he could see Valorous following at a discreet distance through the darkness. In the thick glass he saw Pascoe’s reflection as he sat at the table, his chin in his hands. Like a child for these moments of privacy and value which might soon pass.

He said, “I want to be sure that you have the house and property when I am dead, Adam.” He heard the boy gasp and cursed himself for the crudity of his words. “I know that with luck I will be bothering you for years to come.” He turned and smiled at him. “However, I want to be certain about this thing!” Pascoe made to rise but Bolitho crossed to the table and laid one hand on his shoulder.

“It would have been yours one day had life been kinder. I intend to see that right is not ignored by others.” He hurried on, unable to stop himself “You do not bear our family name, but you are as much a part of it and of me as would otherwise be possible.” He squeezed his shoulder, seeing the boy wipe his eyes with his hand.

“Now away with you to your watch. I’ll not have my officers saying behind my back that I show favour to some upstart nephew!” Pascoe stood up very slowly and then said quietly, “Captain Herrick was right about you.” He walked from the table, his face hidden until he turned again by the door. “He said you were the finest man he ever met. He also said . . .” But he could not finish it and almost ran from the cabin.

Bolitho walked to the stern windows and stared unseeingly at the leaping spray. He felt at peace for the first time since . . . he could not remember when that had been. Perhaps at last he would be able to help the boy. To right some of the wrong which had been done to him. At least he had been spared meeting with Draffen. To hear his hints about Hugh’s implication with slavery would turn the knife in his heart yet again and might damage him to an extent beyond repair.

There was a tap at the door. It was Ashton. “Mr Meheux’s respects, sir.” His eyes wandered to the greasy plates. “He would like to take in another reef. The wind is rising from the nor’ west.” Bolitho nodded and picked up his hat. The moment of peace was to be laid aside again.

“I will go up directly.” He walked to the door adding, “When I return, I will not think it amiss if the rest of that meat has vanished.” He smiled as he closed the door behind him. It was the same frugal food as was served to the ship’s company. But seated in the undreamed-of splendour of his captain’s cabin, Ashton would think it a banquet, although what Trute would say was hard to imagine.

The morning watch still had an hour to run when Bolitho strode on to the quarterdeck. Although he had been up and about several times during the night, he felt remarkably fresh, and his shoulder was sore rather than painful. He paused to peer at the swinging compass card. North-east, as it had remained since his last inspection before dawn.

The sky was very clear, with a washed-out look, and in a fresh north-westerly wind the sea stretched in an endless display of small white-horses from horizon to horizon.

As he had sat toying with his breakfast and lingering over his last supply of good coffee he had waited for the call from a lookout or the scamper of feet as someone came to bring a message that Coquette had been sighted. But as daylight strengthened and the deck above his head had echoed to the sluice of water and swabs, with all the usual chatter between the seamen, he had known there was no ship to see.

Now, as he walked towards the quarterdeck rail, his face impassive to shield his sudden uncertainty, he knew too that he must dissuade Broughton from continuing the chase.

For over seventeen hours since Broughton had sent Coquette in hot pursuit of the captured frigate the squadron had pressed on with every sail set to maximum advantage.

During the night when they had altered course to this present tack there had been several breath-stopping moments as Valorous had surged out of the gloom like a phantom ship bent on smashing into Euryalus’s stern.

He had examined his chart while he had finished the coffee in the private world beyond his cabin bulkhead. They were now some sixty miles due south of Ibiza and still pushing further and further into the Mediterranean. Ironically, Broughton’s determination to recapture the Auriga had taken them back across the same waters as before, and the ships were now less than eighty miles north by east from Djafou.

Keverne gauged it was time to speak. “Good morning, sir.” He smiled. “Again.”

Bolitho looked past him and saw the Impulsive’s bulging topgallants far out on the lee quarter, pale yellow in the sunlight.

Broughton had decreed that she should play a lone role on the squadron’s flank. She was faster than the others, and without a frigate at his disposal, and only the little Restless away on the horizon, Broughton had little choice in his deployment.

He said, “Signal Tanais to make more sail, if you please. She is out of station again.”

Keverne frowned and touched his hat. “Aye, aye, sir.” Bolitho walked to the weather side and commenced his morning pacing. Tanais was a little to leeward of the line, but hardly sufficient to warrant a signal under their peculiar circumstances.

Every ship was doing her best, and the squadron had logged in almost regular seven knots since the last alteration of course.

Keverne was probably thinking he had mentioned it merely to remind him of the earlier collision with the two-decker. Imagined perhaps that Bolitho was making an offhand criticism.

His feet moved faster in time with his thoughts. Keverne could think what he liked. There was more than his comfort at stake this morning. On the face of it Broughton’s insistence was fair enough. Coquette and Restless had been off the Spanish coast when the captured frigate had somehow passed between the separated groups of vessels. It was equally possible that Auriga could not regain the Spanish coast without losing her lead and exposing herself to a clash with the pursuers. The prevailing north-west wind, which was so favourable to Broughton’s ships, would soon make short work of Auriga’s advantage. He frowned. It was getting him nowhere. Anyway, that was yesterday, when there had still been some real hope of a capture. But Auriga’s captain may have had no intention of turning towards Spain or France.

Majorca or Port Mahon, further east even to some secret mission all of her own, she might be heading on and on with all the speed her sails could muster.

Perhaps if he had not been so concerned with his own personal affairs, his pleasure at seeing the boy again he might have confronted Broughton earlier. He frowned angrily. Always the perhaps and the maybe.

“Good morning, sir.”

He halted and saw Pascoe watching him from the top of the starboard gangway.

Bolitho relaxed slightly. “How are you settling in?” The boy nodded. “I have been all over the ship, sir.” He looked suddenly grave. “It is hard to realise that it was here where the French surrendered.” He walked a few paces aft and stared at the damp. “I was thinking of Mr Selby, the master’s mate, who died to save me. I often think about him.” Bolitho clenched his hand behind him. Would it never end?

Always Hugh seemed to be at his shoulder, making mock of his efforts to forget. What would Adam say now, this second, if he knew Selby had been his own father? Perhaps their blood had been so strong that even the deception had been only temporary.

He knew too that the boy’s words had made him realise something else. He was jealous. Jealous because he still remembered a father he had not knowingly seen, and because it was something which could not be shared. Suppose he did discover the truth about Hugh and learn that his identity even at the moment of death had been denied him? At the time it had been vital for his own safety, as it was now for the boy’s future. But would those things seem important to him if he found the truth?

He realised Adam was studying him anxiously. “Is something wrong, sir? Your shoulder?”

Bolitho shook his head. “I am bad company today.” He smiled.

“I am glad you still remember Mr Selby.” A lie, or was he being genuine? “I often find it hard to accept that this is the same ship which cost us so dearly to win.”

Pascoe said quickly, “The admiral is coming, sir.” He walked away as Broughton crossed the deck and gazed bleakly at the horizon.

Bolitho made his customary report and then said, “I think we should put about, sir.” There seemed to be no reaction. “Maybe Gillmor will call her to give battle, but I think we have little to gain by continuing.”

Broughton’s eyes swivelled towards him. “Do you?”

“Yes, sir. Coquette should be able to take the enemy well enough, for all the French company will be new to their ship. Gillmor has already proved himself very capable in ship-to-ship actions.”

“We will continue!” Broughton’s jaw tightened. “Auriga may try and retrace her course soon, and I want her! ” Bolitho said quietly, “It is like taking a hammer to crack an egg, sir.”

Broughton swung on him violently, his face suddenly livid. “My new orders state that unless I have secured a base to my satisfaction I am to return to the fleet off Cadiz! Do you know what will be said?” He raised his voice. “Do you?” He did not wait for a reply. “It will be put to me that I failed to complete any part of my mission. That I lost contact with the enemy because I allowed Auriga to be taken. My fault, my damned ruin, it is as simple as that!” He saw Meheux watching from the opposite side of the deck and barked, “Tell that officer to find himself some work, or I’ll make him sorry he was born!”

Bolitho said evenly, “Impulsive’s first report of sighting the frigate . . .”

The admiral interrupted, “Impulsive? In God’s name how do we even know she tried to catch that bloody ship? She was in the Nore mutiny, her captain seems almost proud of the experience, so is it not likely his company hindered the chase? Maybe they saw Auriga as a symbol of their own damn treachery at the Nore!”

“That is unfair, sir!”

“Unfair, is it?” Broughton’s reserve had completely gone and he was oblivious to some seamen working at the guns nearby, their faces screwed tight with expectancy. “I’ll tell you what I think.” He stuck out his chin, his face barely inches from Bolitho’s. “I believe that you have not learned even the first thing about senior command. I know you are popular! Oh yes, I’ve seen the way people like you.” He stared suddenly across the nettings, his eyes empty. “Do you imagine that I never wanted to be admired as well as obeyed? By God, if you ever attain flag rank you will learn there is no middle road to follow!” Bolitho watched him in silence. He was still angry at Broughton’s slanderous attack on Herrick, but at the same time he could guess the full extent of his disappointment and despair. Auriga was indeed a symbol, but not as described by Broughton. To the admiral she represented the very beginning of his misfortune, almost from the moment he had hoisted his flag at the foremast.

He said, “I believe that Captain Herrick’s discovery of the Auriga was a pure accident, sir. Just as his arrival here was totally unexpected, so too the enemy would have been surprised.” Broughton tore his mind from some inner thought. “So?”

“Our departure from Gibraltar was seen, and we have been sighted by other enemy ships, and some which we might not even have known were there.” He persisted, seeing the returning hostility in Broughton’s eyes. “After all, sir, why should Auriga come here?”

“I have no more idea of that than you, Bolitho.” His voice was icy. “But I am going to find and take her. When we return to the fleet it will be as a complete squadron. One which will be ready to re-enter the Mediterranean and act with the full authority at my disposal!”

He made as if to walk away and then added, “Inform me the moment you sight Coquette! ” Then he strode beneath the poop.

Bolitho walked to the rail and stood looking down at the sailmaker and his mates squatting on every square foot of deck, needles flashing while they carried out their endless repairs to some of the canvas. Everywhere around and above him there were men at work. Splicing and greasing, reeving new lines or merely putting a touch of paint where it was most needed. A squad of marines was climbing heavily to the foretop to do their drill at a swivel gun, and on the larboard gangway he saw Pascoe in close conversation with Meheux.

All this was what Broughton had failed to see. He saw all these men as some sort of threat, or a form of weakness which might imperil his own set plans. Yet here was the true strength, without which any ship was just timber and cordage. Broughton spoke often enough of loyalty, but he had failed to realise that it was merely another word for trust. And trust was two-sided, not the personal possession of one man.

He looked up sharply as Tothill called, “Gunfire, sir!” Bolitho pressed his hand on the rail and leaned forward, straining his ears above the constant shipboard sounds. There it was, very faint, like surf booming in a deep cave. But it would be faint, with the wind so strong across the larboard quarter.

Trute, who was carrying a tray of empty mugs, was almost knocked from his feet as Broughton burst from beneath the poop, his face contorted with sudden agitation. He was hatless, and still carrying a pen in his hand like a baton.

“Did you hear that?” He peered round at the swaying figures of the watchkeepers. “Well, did you?” He crossed to Bolitho’s side, his eyes slitted in the sunlight. “What price your damn caution now?”

Bolitho watched him impassively. He was more relieved than angered by Broughton’s tirade. With luck, Gillmor could disable the Auriga or even take her completely within the hour, and then this escapade would be over.

He said to Keverne, “Tell the masthead to report the instant he sights them.”

Tothill said, “Sir, Impulsive is signalling.” Broughton glared at him. “I suppose your friend Herrick will expect all the credit for it!”

Bolitho took a glass and levelled it towards the distant two-decker. She had turned slightly, and he could see her leaning heavily to the wind, her masthead pendant as straight as a pike.

Tothill scrambled into the shrouds, his large telescope swaying about like an unruly cannon. His lips moved soundlessly, and when he looked down at the quarterdeck his face seemed very pale.

“Impulsive to Flag, sir. Strange sail bearing west by north.”

“Acknowledge!”

Bolitho turned to the admiral who was still bending his head to catch the far-off sounds of gunfire.

He said, “Did you hear that, sir?”

Broughton stared at him. “Of course I did! I’m not bloody deaf!”

The masthead lookout’s voice made him start. “Deck there!

Sail fine on the larboard bow, sir! I kin see flashes!” Broughton rubbed his hands. “We’ll have Auriga to heel any minute now!”

“I think we should detach Impulsive to investigate the other sighting, sir.” It was like speaking to a deaf man. It was obvious Broughton could think of nothing but the two frigates fighting it out on the sea’s edge.

Tothill again. “From Impulsive, sir. Estimate four strange sail.” For the first time Broughton seemed to tear himself away from his anxiety over the Auriga.

“Four? Where the hell are they coming from?” Impulsive had shortened sail and was growing smaller as she fell astern of the squadron’s line. Bolitho bit his lip hard and was thankful for Herrick’s initiative. To proceed like this was sheer madness. The newcomers, and they could only be hostile, were coming down towards the squadron’s flank with full advantage of the wind. If Herrick could ascertain exactly what they were about, there might still be time to put Broughton’s ships into some sort of order.

Keverne said, “Gunfire seems to have stopped, sir.”

“Good.” Broughton was frowning. “Now we shall see.” Captain Giffard remarked, “Pity Coquette is so far ahead. We could use her now to spy out the land, eh, sir?” Bolitho saw the marine recoil as Broughton snapped, “What did you say?”

Before he could repeat it Bolitho swung on Broughton, his eyes suddenly angry. “Damn them, they must have known! I daresay that Brice told what he knew when he was taken, and the rest they guessed.” He knew Broughton was staring at him as if he had gone mad, but continued bitterly, “They sent Auriga to us, knowing what you would do!” He gestured with his good arm across the nettings. “And you did it, sir!”

“What in hell’s name are you babbling about, man?” Bolitho said flatly, “Auriga was the bait. One which you were unable to ignore because of your own outraged dignity!” Broughton flushed. “How dare you speak like that? I’ll have you put under arrest, I’ll . . .”

Tothill’s voice was hushed. “Impulsive to Flag, sir. Strange fleet bearing west by north.”

Bolitho walked slowly to the rail. “Not ships, Sir Lucius, but a fleet.” He turned and looked at him, suddenly very calm. “And now these men whom you despise and have accused of every vice from mutiny to sloth will have to fight and die.” He let the words sink deeply. “For you, sir.” Tothill said shakily, “Impulsive requests instructions, sir.” Broughton stared at the pen which he was still gripping in his hand. In a strange tone he murmured, “It was a trap.” Bolitho kept his eyes on Broughton’s face. “Yes, Colonel Alava was right after all. And the French motives towards Egypt and Africa are every bit as true as he described.” He jerked his head towards the cruising patterns of white-horses. “This battle is important to the enemy. So important because they know that this one crushing victory, the complete failure on our part to return our presence in the Mediterranean, will be more than enough to pave their way to success!”

Tothill seemed almost fearful to intrude. “From Impulsive, sir.

Estimate ten sail of the line.” Broughton appeared unable to move or react.

Eventually he said thickly, “And fight them we will.” But there was no conviction in his voice.

Bolitho pushed the pity from his mind. “We have no choice in that, sir. They have the advantage, and if we run, can hunt us at leisure until they pin us against the land like moths.” He added bitterly, “No doubt there are other ships already sailing from Toulon or Marseilles to ensure the trap is not short of teeth!”

The admiral took a grip on himself. It was almost a physical thing to watch as he screwed up his eyes and spoke in short, stac-cato sentences.

“Make a general signal. We will put the squadron about and approach the enemy on an opposite tack. Ship to ship we can . . .” He saw Bolitho’s expression and said desperately, “For God’s sake, it will be two against one!” Bolitho turned away, unable to watch Broughton’s apparent helplessness.

“Deck there! Sail in sight to wind’rd!” Bolitho nodded. So they were already visible, and coming in fast for the kill.

Ten ships-of-the-line. He gripped his hand against his side, willing himself to think instead of allowing his mind to grow numb before such odds. Two to one, Broughton had said, but Impulsive was not much more than a large frigate. Old too, her hull rotten from rough usage over the years. He smiled sadly.

Ripe, as Herrick had described it.

He swung round, his mind suddenly steady again.

“With your permission, sir, I believe we should re-form in two divisions.” He spoke fast, seeing the plan of battle like counters on a map. “The French have a liking for fighting in a set line of battle. Too much time in port has left them little scope to exercise much else.” Like you, he thought, as he watched Broughton’s uncertainty. “We can take the weather division, with just Impulsive astern of us. Rattray can lead the lee division with the same order as before. If we can break the enemy’s line in two places we might still give a good account of ourselves.” Broughton was still wavering, so he added harshly, “But ship to ship and line to line you will witness your squadron dismasted within one half-hour of close action!”

Lieutenant Bickford said quietly, “I can see Auriga, sir.” He lowered a big signal telescope. “She has struck to Coquette. ” It was like a final taunt at Broughton’s unbending determination to recover her.

Broughton looked at Bolitho and said, “I am going below for a moment. You have my authority to put your plan to the test.” He seemed about to add a rider but said savagely, “I wish Draffen was up here to see for himself what his deceit has cost us.” Bolitho watched him go and then beckoned to Keverne and Tothill. “General signal. Squadron will tack in succession and steer due west.”

Keverne hurried to the rail yelling at the watching seamen.

As pipes shrilled and the men ran to their stations Bolitho watched the signal flags soaring aloft, the colours very bright against the pale sky.

As one acknowledgement after another was reported he said,

“Another general, Mr Tothill. Prepare for battle.” He made himself smile at the midshipman’s intent expression. “Yes, it seems we will fight this fine morning, so keep a good eye on your people.” Order had settled over the decks as petty officers checked their watch-bills, and Partridge stood close to the helmsmen in readiness to follow the Tanais round and across the wind.

Tothill called, “Acknowledgements close up, sir!” They were ready. “Execute!”

As Keverne waited, balanced on his toes to watch first Zeus and then Tanais labouring round with all their sails in confusion, Bolitho said to him, “Lay her on the starboard tack while I prepare instructions for the other captains.”

“And then, sir?” Keverne kept his eyes on Tanais.

“You may beat to quarters and clear for action.” He smiled.

“And this time you will do it in eight minutes!” Keverne yelled, “Stand by on the quarterdeck! Man the braces there!”

“Ready aft, sir!”

Bolitho turned at the sound of that voice and saw Pascoe standing by the afterguard at the mizzen braces, his hat pulled over his unruly hair as he squinted into the bright sunlight.

For an instant their eyes met, and Bolitho made to lift his hand to him. But the sudden stab of pain reminded him of his wound and he saw the dismay on the boy’s face, as if he too was sharing it with him.

“Helm a’lee! Let go and haul!”

Figures darted in every direction, and groaning under the thrust of wind and tiller the Euryalus began to turn, until like a giant tusk her jib boom pointed once again at an enemy.

“ALTER COURSE a point to larboard, Mr Partridge.” Bolitho walked to the lee side to watch the Zeus which was almost directly abeam at the head of the other seventy-fours. It had taken less than an hour to put the squadron about and for individual captains to form up in their present divisions, and he was grateful they had had sufficient time for getting to know each other’s ways.

“West by south, sir!” Partridge sounded grim.

“Steady as you go.”

Bolitho walked forward to the quarterdeck rail and ran his eye along his command. How much more space and vision to see and think now that Euryalus was in the van. With her great courses clewed up and topsails braced round to hold her on a steady starboard tack he could see the enemy like some painted panorama of battle. The ten ships were sailing in an almost perfect line, their approach diagonal to that of the British squadron. To an untrained eye it would appear as if the way ahead was completely sealed by this great line of ships, and even to the experienced onlooker the sight was enough to chill the imagination.

He made himself walk a few paces athwart the silent quarterdeck, darting an occasional glance towards Zeus to ensure she was still keeping on station to leeward. Astern of her, Tanais and Valorous followed at regular intervals, their double lines of guns glinting in the hard sunlight like rows of black teeth.

The Euryalus’s high poop hid most of the Impulsive from view, but he could see her furled topgallants and whipping masthead pendant, and just as easily picture Herrick standing stolidly on his deck, feet apart, with those bright blue eyes watching the flagship.

Keverne asked quietly, “Do you think the Frogs have guessed what we are about, sir?”

Bolitho gauged the distance for the tenth time between the two small divisions. Captain Rattray’s Zeus was about three cables distant, and he saw a gleam of scarlet as her marines began to climb up to the fighting tops. The best marksmen would be in dire need today.

He replied, “Our divisions are so ill-matched that I hope the French admiral imagines us to be unprepared.”

As well he might, he thought grimly. Five ships in two unequal divisions approaching that unwavering line like huntsmen trotting towards some unbreakable barrier.

He looked once more at his own ship. Keverne had cleared for action in eight minutes in spite of everything else. From the moment the drummer boys had started their nerve-jarring tattoo the seamen and marines had gone to quarters with the intentness of men under sentence of death. Now there was only silence. Only here and there was there any movement. A ship’s boy scampering with sand to give the gun crews better grip on the deck.

Fittock, the gunner, in his felt slippers making his way once again down to the threatening gloom of the magazine.

Nets were rigged above the decks and chain slings on each yard, and at every hatch an armed marine had been posted to prevent those terrified by the sights of battle from fleeing below to illusionary safety.

How clean and open it all seemed. The boats were either cast adrift or being towed astern, and below the gangways he could see the gun crews, naked to the waist, as they stared at their open ports and waited for bedlam to begin.

And it would not be long. He raised a glass and steadied it upon the leading enemy ship. She was less than two miles away on the larboard bow and therefore almost directly across Zeus’s line of advance.

She was strangely familiar, but it had taken Partridge to explain the reason. He had said with professional interest, “I knows ’er, sir. Le Glorieux, Vice-Admiral Duplay’s flagship. Met up with ’er once off Toulon.”

Of course he should have seen it. It was like the one additional twist of fate, for Le Glorieux came from the same yard as Euryalus, to the same specifications down to the last keel bolt. But for her colouring, the broad scarlet stripes between her gunports, she was an exact twin of his own command.

He shifted the glass slowly to starboard and then held it on the two vessels in the middle of the line. Unlike the rest, they wore the red and yellow colours of Spain, placed for security’s sake in the centre where they could follow their admiral without having to display too much initiative. Initiative which had already cost their French allies dearly at St Vincent.

He heard Calvert murmuring to Midshipman Tothill, and when he lowered the glass saw him poring over the signal book, as if giving one last effort to make himself useful. Poor Calvert.

If he survived this day, arrest and trial awaited him in England.

Draffen’s friends would see to that.

Bolitho turned and saw Pascoe standing by the quarterdeck nine-pounders, a hand resting on his hip, and one foot on a bollard. The boy did not see him and was staring towards the enemy line.

He said to Keverne, “If possible we will break through by the Spanish ships. It will be the weakest point, if I am any judge.” Keverne was watching Zeus. “And Captain Rattray, sir?” Bolitho looked at him gravely. “He will act as he sees fit.” He thought of Rattray’s heavy, bulldog face and guessed he would need no urging to close with the enemy. Only one thing counted now, that they could separate the French flagship from her consorts long enough to break the line and obtain the advantage of the wind. After that it would be every man for himself.

Vice-Admiral Broughton strode out into the sunlight and nodded curtly to the officers on the quarterdeck.

For a moment longer he looked at the lee division of ships, his eyes clouded with doubt and anxiety. Then he said, “The din of battle I can endure. But the waiting is torture.” Bolitho watched him thoughtfully. He appeared calmer again.

Or was it resignation? The admiral was wearing his beautiful sword, and beneath his coat the scarlet ribbon of the Bath. Was he so despairing that he was even offering himself as target to some French marksman? All at once he felt sorry for Broughton.

Recriminations and accusations were pointless now. He was watching his squadron and his proud hopes sailing towards what must seem certain destruction.

He asked, “Will you walk a while, Sir Lucius? I find it helps ease the tension!”

Broughton fell in step beside him without protest, and as they strode slowly up and down Bolitho added quietly, “The centre of the line is the best choice, sir. Two Spanish seventy-fours.” Broughton nodded. “Yes, I saw them. Astern of them is the second-in-command.” He halted suddenly and snapped, “Where the hell is Coquette? ”

“She is making good some repairs, sir. Auriga too has suffered damage to foremast and mizzen.” He added quietly, “They will not be of much use yet.”

Broughton looked at him for several seconds, his eyes very still.

Then he asked, “Will our people fight?” He held up his hand urgently. “I mean really fight?” Bolitho turned away. “Have no fear on that score. I know them, and . . .”

Broughton interrupted, “And they know you. ”

“Yes, sir.”

When he looked forward again the enemy line had extended itself across either bow, so that it seemed to hide all of the horizon with a wall of sails. At any moment now the French admiral might guess what was happening, in which case they were beaten before they had made even the smallest impression on him. Had they been given more time, or better still the fluidity and independence denied to them by Broughton’s rigid demands, they could have sent some meaningless signal to Rattray and the others. It would have made the enemy believe that at any moment now they would tack and engage his line in the same hidebound traditional style still approved by so many. But without previous experiments of that sort, any false signal would throw their meagre resources into terrible and fatal confusion.

Unless . . . He looked at Broughton’s strained profile.

“May I suggest a general signal before the one to engage, sir?” He saw a nerve jumping in Broughton’s throat, but his eyes were unblinking as he stared at the oncoming ships. He persisted.

“From you, sir.”

“Me?” Broughton turned and looked at him with surprise.

“You said earlier that our people know me, sir. But this is my ship, and they understand my ways, as I have tried to appreciate theirs.” He gestured towards Zeus. “But all these ships are yours, and they are depending on you today.” Broughton shook his head. “I cannot do it.”

“May I speak, sir?” It was Calvert. “The signal should read ‘My trust is in you.’” He flushed as Keverne strode towards him and clapped him on the shoulder.

“By God, Mr Calvert, I never thought you had the imagination!”

Broughton licked his lips. “If you really believe . . .” Bolitho nodded to Tothill. “I do, sir. Now get that bent on and hoisted immediately. We have little time left.” He saw the sunlight flashing on glass as several officers on Zeus’s poop watched the sudden array of flags streaming from Euryalus’s yards.

But he turned swiftly as the air quaked and shook to a sudden roar of gunfire. The French flagship had fired, the orange flame spurting from gun after gun as she discharged a slow broadside towards the oncoming squadron. With the approach being diagonal, most of the balls were blind, and he saw them ripping through the short wave crests and throwing up water spouts far beyond the lee division. The smoke rolled down from the enemy in a steep brown fog, until only Zeus’s topmasts were visible.

Broughton was gripping his sword-hilt, his face tight with fixed concentration as another French ship fired and a ball slapped through the fore topsail and shrieked away over the water.

Bolitho said tersely, “Listen, sir!” He strode to the admiral’s side. “Hear them?”

Faintly above the wind and the dying echo of cannon fire came the sound of cheering, distorted and vague, as if the ships themselves were calling the tune. As word was shouted from gun to gun and deck to deck the Euryalus’s seamen joined in, their voices suddenly loud and engulfing. Some stood back from the main deck twelve-pounders and waved to Broughton, who still stood like a statue, his face as stiff as his shoulders.

Bolitho said quietly, “You see, sir? They don’t ask for much.” He turned away as Broughton muttered, “God help me!” More ships were firing now, and some of the balls were flick-ing across the water close by, and he saw several holes in the Zeus’s sails as she continued purposefully into the smoke.

He turned as Broughton said firmly, “I am ready. Signal the squadron to engage.” Before he hurried back to the rail he saw that Broughton’s eyes were bright with shock or surprise at hearing the cheers. Cheers for a short, trite signal which at the threshold of death could mean so much.

Bolitho shouted, “Make the signal, Mr Tothill!” To Keverne,

“Man the braces. We will endeavour to keep station on Zeus until the last moment.”

More crashes echoed across the shrinking arrowhead of water, and he felt the deck shudder as some hit home. He saw Meheux walking behind the forward guns, his sword bared as he spoke to some of the crews, his round face completely absorbed.

“Ready, sir!”

Bolitho raised his hand very slowly. “Steady, Mr Partridge!” He felt the pain throbbing in his shoulder to mark the rising tension in his blood. His hand sliced down. “Now!” The flags vanished from Euryalus’s yards, and while men threw themselves on the braces and the wheel squealed against the rudder lines he saw the French line changing as if on a great gate, swinging across the bowsprit until Euryalus was pointing directly towards it at right-angles.

A quick glance told him Zeus was leading her own division in obedience to the signal, her sails flapping violently as more balls screamed through them from the enemy guns. But instead of a converging bunch of ships, the French gunners now had the more slender targets to compete with. End on, their gundecks still silent, the two British lines moved steadily towards them, although because of the gentle turn to starboard Euryalus was a good ship’s length ahead of Zeus.

Bolitho gripped the rail as smoke rolled down from the flashing guns. Iron shrieked above the quarterdeck, and here and there a severed line or block fell unheeded on the taut nets.

“Steady!”

He wiped his eyes as more smoke swirled above the deck and watched the nearest set of topmasts standing, as if detached, fine on the larboard bow. He felt the deck jerk again as more shots smashed into the hull, and recalled suddenly the time he had described the superiority of her French build to Draffen. It was macabre to think of him down in the undisturbed darkness of a lower hold in his cask of spirits while the rest of them waited to fight and die.

He strode to the nettings as a small patch of colour showed itself above the smoke. The Spanish flag was flapping from her gaff, and he knew he had not mistimed his approach.

“Stand by on the gundecks!”

He saw the midshipmen scamper to the hatchways and imagined Weigall and Sawle down there in their world of semi-darkness, the great muzzles glinting perhaps in the open ports.

Meheux was facing aft, his eyes fixed on the quarterdeck, and Bolitho noticed that he had his sword sloped across his shoulder as if on parade.

With sudden alarm he clapped his hand to his hip and said,

“My sword!”

Allday ran forward. “But, Captain, you can’t use it yet!”

“Get it!” Bolitho touched his side and marvelled at the stupid value he had given to wearing the sword. And yet it was important to him, although he could not put words to it.

He waited as Allday slipped the belt around his waist and said,

“Left-handed or not, I may need it today.” The coxswain took up his position by the nettings and watched him fixedly. While he had his cutlass the captain would not need his arm, he would lay an oath on that.

A new sound made several faces turn upwards. Screaming and sobbing, like some crazed spirit, it passed overhead and faded into the drifting smoke.

Bolitho said shortly, “Chain shot.” The French usually tried to dismast or cripple an enemy if at all possible, whereas the British gunnery was normally directed at the hulls, to do as much damage and create sufficient carnage to encourage surrender.

The smoke glowed red and orange, and he heard cries from the forecastle as more chain shot scythed past the carronades to cut away shrouds and rigging like grass.

A strong down-eddy of wind thrust the smoke to one side, and while gunfire continued up and down the enemy line Bolitho saw the nearest Spanish seventy-four less than half a cable from the larboard bow. Just before the smoke billowed down again she stood there on the glittering water, clear and bright, her gold scrollwork and elegant counter throwing back reflections, while on her tall poop there were already flashes of musket fire.

To starboard the second Spanish ship was wallowing slightly out of line, her jib and fore topsail in torment as her captain tried to avoid the oncoming three-decker.

When he looked at Broughton he found him as before.

Standing motionless with his hands hanging at his sides as if too stricken to move.

“Sir! Walk about!” He pointed at the nearest ship. “There are sharpshooters there this morning!”

As if to verify his warning several splinters rose like feathers from the planking, and a man beside a gun screamed in agony as a ball smashed into his breast. He was dragged away gasping and protesting, knowing in spite of his pain what awaited him on the orlop.

Broughton came out of his trance and began to pace up and down. He did not even flinch as a corpse bounced down from the main yard and rolled across the nets before pitching overboard.

He seemed beyond fear or feeling. A man already dead.

More crashes and thuds against the hull, and then as the smoke cleared once again Bolitho saw the Spanish ship’s stern swinging level with the foremast. They were passing through the line, and the realisation almost unnerved him. He gripped the rail and tried to make himself heard above the din.

“Both batteries, Mr Meheux! Pass the word!” Fumbling and cursing, he tried to draw his sword with his left hand. It was hopeless.

A voice said, “Here, let me, sir.” It was Pascoe.

Bolitho took the worn hilt in his hand and smiled at him.

“Thank you, Adam.” Was he thinking the same in that small fragment of time? That this old sword would be his too one day?

He held it above his head, seeing the hazed sunlight touch the keen blade before the smoke rolled inboard again.

“As you bear!” He counted the seconds. “Fire!” The ship gave a terrible lurch as deck by deck, gun by gun, the deadly broadsides flashed and bellowed from either beam. He heard the groan of falling spars, the sudden screams in the smoke, and knew that the nearest ship had been badly mauled. And it had not even begun. The lower batteries of thirty-two-pounders were roaring above all else, their recoil shaking the hull, to its very keel as their double-shotted bombardment raked the two ships with merciless accuracy. The one to starboard had lost both her fore and main topmasts, and charred canvas dropped alongside like so much rubbish. The nearest two-decker was idling downwind, her steering gone and her stern gaping to the sunlight like a great black cave. What the broadside had done within her gundecks was past speculation.

A blurred shape was edging around the other Spaniard, and Bolitho guessed it must be the French second-in-command.

Euryalus’s lower battery had already reloaded and raked the Frenchman’s bows almost before she had drawn clear of her consort. He saw her guns belching fire and smoke, and knew she was shooting with little attention to accuracy.

“Stand by to tack, Mr Partridge!”

They were through. Already the disabled seventy-four was lost in smoke and there seemed an immense gap before another ship, the third in the line, could be seen.

Yards creaking and voices yelling above the thunder and crash of gunfire, Euryalus turned slowly to follow the enemy line. The difference was startling. With the wind’s advantage on their side it was possible to watch the enemy unhindered by gunsmoke, and he breathed with relief as the deck cleared and he saw that masts and yards were still whole. The sails were pitted with holes, and there were several men lying dead and wounded. Some had been hit by marksmen in the enemy’s tops, but most had been clawed down by flying wood splinters.

Somewhere astern there was a sickening crash, and when he leaned over the nettings he stared with disbelief as Impulsive swung drunkenly in a welter of broken spars, her passage through the enemy’s line only half completed. Her foremast had gone completely, and only her mizzen topsail appeared to be intact.

There were great gaps in her tumblehome, and even as he watched he saw her main topmast fall crashing into the smoke to drag alongside and pull her still further under the guns of a French two-decker. Chain shot had all but dismasted her, and he could already see another French ship tacking across her stern to rake her, as Euryalus had just done to the Spaniard.

He made himself turn back to his own ship, but his ears refused to block out the sounds of that terrible broadside. He saw Pascoe staring through the smoke, his eyes wide with horror.

He shouted, “Cast the boats adrift!” The boy turned towards him, his reply lost in a sudden burst of firing from ahead. Then he ran aft, beckoning to some seamen to follow him.

Bolitho watched coldly as the wind pushed his ship steadily towards the next Frenchman’s quarter. He was staring at her stern, knowing that her captain would either stay and fight or try to turn downwind. In which case he was doomed, as Impulsive had been. He had to grind his teeth together to stop himself from speaking Herrick’s name aloud. Casting the boats adrift had been more to ease the boy’s pain than with any hope of saving more than a handful of survivors.

Almost savagely he shouted, “Stand by on the fo’c’sle, Mr Meheux! Carronade this one!”

“Fire!”

The first guns roared out from the larboard battery, and then the air shivered to the deeper bang of a carronade. Timber and pieces of bulwark flew from the enemy’s poop, and the mizzen, complete with tricolour, toppled into the rolling bank of smoke.

Broughton was shouting at him. “Look! God damn it!” He was all but jumping with excitement as like a great finger a jib boom and then a glaring figurehead thrust ahead of the nearest ship.

“Zeus has broken the line!” Keverne waved his hat in the air.

“God, look at her!”

Zeus came through firing from either beam, her sails in rags and most of her side pitted and blackened with holes. Thin ten-drils of scarlet ran from her scuppers, as if the ship herself was bleeding, and Bolitho knew that Rattray had fought hard and at a great price to follow the flagship’s example.

As far as he could tell the action had become general. Guns hammered from ahead and astern, and there were ships locked in combat on every hand. Gone was the prim French line, as were Broughton’s divisions. Gone too was the French admiral’s control, separated as he was downwind, blinded by smoke in a sea gone mad with battle.

Broughton shouted, “General signal! Form line ahead and astern of admiral!”

Tothill nodded violently and ran to his men. There was not much chance of anyone complying, but it would show the others that Broughton was still in command.

And there was Tanais, her mizzen gone, her forecastle a splintered shambles, but most of her guns firing as she raked the enemy and pushed after Zeus, her ensign ripped by musket fire as she passed.

More gunfire echoed through the smoke, and Bolitho knew it must be Furneaux fighting for his life in a press of disabled but nevertheless deadly ships.

“Ship on the starboard quarter, sir!” Bolitho hurried across the deck and saw a French two-decker, unmarked, her sails showing not a single hole, thrusting towards him, her speed gaining as she set her forecourse and topgallants, so that she leaned heavily under the pressure.

While everyone else had been engaged, her captain had taken his ship out of the line to try to regain an advantage. As she turned slightly, shortening her silhouette until almost bows on, Bolitho saw the Impulsive. Dismasted, she was so settled in the water that her lower gunports were already awash. A few tiny figures moved vaguely on her listing decks and others were jumping overboard, probably too stricken by the slaughter to know what they were doing.

Keverne asked harshly, “Do you think many will survive?”

“Not many.” Bolitho looked at him steadily. “She was a good ship.”

Keverne watched him as he walked back to the rail. To Pascoe he said, “He is taking it badly. In spite of his bluff, I know him well by now.”

Pascoe glanced astern at the sinking ship beneath her great pall of drifting smoke. “His best friend.” He looked away, his eyes blind. “Mine, too.”

“Deck there!” Maybe the masthead lookout had been calling before. Amidst all the noise his voice would have been unnoticed.

Keverne looked up as the man yelled hoarsely, “Ship, sir! On the larboard bow!”

Bolitho gripped his sword in his left hand until his fingers ached. Through the shrouds and stays, just a fraction to larboard of the massive foremast, he saw her. Wreathed in the endless curtain of gunsmoke she loomed like a giant, her braced yards almost fore and aft as she edged very slowly across Euryalus’s course.

Bolitho felt the hatred and unreasoning fury running through him like fire. Le Glorieux, the French admiral’s flagship, was coming to greet him, to repay him for the shameful destruction done to his ships and his overwhelming confidence.

He seized the sword even tighter, blinded by his hatred and sense of loss. She, above all, would be Herrick’s memorial.

“Stand by to engage!” He pointed his sword at Meheux. “Pass the word! Double-shotted and grape for good measure!” He saw Broughton staring at him and rasped, “Your contemporary lies yonder, sir.” He could feel his eyes stinging and knew Broughton was speaking to him. But he could see nothing but Herrick’s face staring up through the smoke as his ship died under him.

Broughton swung round and then strode along the starboard gangway, his epaulettes glinting in the dim sunlight.

His feet seemed to be carrying him in spite of his wishes, and as he walked above the smoke-grimed gun crews he paused to nod to them or to wish them good luck. Some watched him pass, dull-eyed and too dazed to care. Others gave him a grin and a wave. A gun-captain spat on his heated twelve-pounder and croaked, “Us’ll give ’ee a victory, Sir Lucius, don’ you fret on it!” Broughton stopped and seized the nettings for support. Aft, above the chattering seamen and the marines who were already levelling their muskets through the smoke, he saw Bolitho. The man who had somehow given these men a faith so strong they could not weaken even if they wanted to. And in their own way they were sharing it with him.

Bolitho was quite motionless by the rail, the sling white against his coat and the sword hanging in his hand by his side. He saw too the captain’s coxswain at his back, and Pascoe watching him with something like despair.

It was then that he made up his mind. Bolitho had given them, and him, all this, yet now that he was crushed by grief none of them could help.

Almost angrily he strode aft and snapped, “By God, we’ll teach that fellow a lesson, eh, lads?” He felt his tight skin cracking into a grin. “How about it, Mr Keverne? Another three-decker for the fleet!”

Keverne swallowed hard. “As you wish, sir.” Bolitho lifted his head and looked at him. “Thank you, Sir Lucius.” He sighed and rested his sword on the top of the rail.

“Thank you.”

When he looked again at the French flagship she seemed much clearer. And his mind had become empty of everything but the need to destroy her.

Broughton was on the opposite side of the quarterdeck and peering at the French two-decker.

“She’s wearing!” He gestured to Bolitho. “Look!” Bolitho saw the enemy ship swinging heavily away to expose her full broadside to Euryalus’s starboard quarter. Either her captain had failed in a first intention to cross their stern, or had changed his mind about drawing too near.

Then the Frenchman fired. Being the first time she had taken part in the desperate battle the broadside was well timed and aimed, and as the thick smoke billowed along her hull Bolitho felt the deck lurch sickeningly, the air suddenly alive with splinters and that terrible screaming sound they had heard earlier.

The deck gave one more tremendous lurch, and as his hearing returned he heard Giffard yelling, “The mizzen! The bastards have got it!”

Before he could follow Giffard’s agonised stare he saw the slic-ing shadow sweep across the poop, as with rigging and shrouds and screaming men falling on every hand the mizzen, complete with topsail and yards, thundered amongst them.

Trailing lines and braces tore through the crouching gun crews and startled marines like deadly snakes, as with a further savage crash the mast toppled drunkenly over the side. Another blaze of gun flashes made the smoke writhe above the deck, and he felt the chain shot whirling overhead and crashing into the hull with a scream of metal.

Blackened figures pushed past him, and he saw Tebbutt, the boatswain, waving an axe, urging his men to hack away the great weight of wreckage alongside. Mast and spars, mangled corpses and a few trapped seamen from the top who were still trying to struggle free before they were carried astern, all were acting like a sea anchor, dragging the ship round in a nightmare of smoke and deafening explosions.

Where there had been a line of marines seconds earlier was a grotesque heap of ripped and pulped bodies, broken muskets and a fast-spreading pattern of blood. Giffard was already yelling orders, and other marines were stepping blindly amongst the carnage to fire their muskets into the choking smoke.

In the middle of it all Bolitho saw Broughton dragging a sobbing midshipman to the shelter of the mainmast trunk, his hat gone, but his voice as sharp as ever as he yelled, “Reload and run out, damn you! Hit ’em, lads! Hit ’em! ” Bolitho climbed over a great pile of fallen blocks and cordage, almost blinded by smoke, and shouted, “Mr Partridge! More men on the wheel! She’s broaching to!”

But the master did not hear. One section of chain shot had cut his rotund body almost in half, so that Bolitho had to fight back the vomit as he saw the horror below the poop.

Part of the double wheel had been carried away, but cursing and gasping more seamen slithered and stumbled towards it, throwing themselves on the spokes.

With a long shudder the mizzen slipped clear of its lashings and plunged into the sea. Bolitho felt the ship responding almost immediately, but as he pushed past some more hurrying figures he saw the French flagship and knew it was too late. With his ears and brain cringing against the thunder of the thirty-two-pounders he tried to think of some last-minute alternative. But the pull of the heavy mizzen, the momentary loss of control by the rudder, had thrown Euryalus off course, so that now her bowsprit was pointing directly at the enemy’s forecastle. Collision was unavoidable, and even had there been greater distance between them, the sails were too pitted, too torn to give anything but small steerage way.

He saw Keverne and yelled, “Up forrard! Repel boarders!” More crashes rocked the hull, and he watched the French two-decker passing slowly down the starboard side, her guns firing, her masts and sails unharmed.

He pulled himself to the rail and sought out Meheux in the confusion of smoke and yelling gun crews. He saw the shining bodies of half-naked seamen, powder blackened and almost inhuman as they hurled themselves on the tackles and sent the gun trucks rumbling and squealing back to the ports. Up and down the line captains jerked their lanyards and the muzzles spat out tongues of flame, while the smoke came funnelling inboard to blind and torment the desperate crews.

But Meheux needed no telling. He was crouching beside one of the guns, shouting at its captain, his eyes very bright in his grimy face. More balls screamed above the deck, and a seaman who had been running with a message fell in a flounder of arms and legs, his head lopped off by the ball.

Then Meheux raised his sword, and the gun crews stooped and crouched behind their ports like athletes awaiting a signal.

“On the uproll!” Meheux glared along his line of men. “Fire!” Every one fired at once, and Bolitho saw the Frenchman’s foremast and main topmast vanish into the smoke together. The lower batteries were firing again, and hampered by her trailing spars the French two-decker took the broadsides again and again. When the smoke drifted above the Euryalus there was no more firing from the enemy.

Bolitho almost fell as the bowsprit and jib boom ploughed into the French flagship’s shrouds and with a further grinding convulsion both hulls came together.

The smoke was bright with darting flashes of muskets and swivels, and Bolitho watched Lieutenant Cox of the marines leading his men across the forecastle to close with the enemy.

Below decks the larboard guns recommenced firing, as swinging like parts of a mammoth hinge the two ships angled towards each other. Right forward the gun muzzles were almost touching, and Bolitho felt the enemy’s shots crashing through the hull, upending guns and turning the lower batteries into places of slaughter and stark horror.

Musket balls ricocheted and whined around the exposed quarterdeck, and Meheux peered at the maintop where the swivel gunners were firing towards the enemy’s poop.

He yelled, “Shoot down those marksmen!” But the noise was so great they did not hear. Desperately he climbed on to the gangway and cupped his hands to try again. A marine, wild-eyed and grinning, peered down at him and then swung the swivel towards the other ship’s maintop. Even as he jerked the lanyard Meheux took a ball full in the stomach, and with his eyes already glazing in stunned surprise he rolled over the rail and fell unseen beside one of his beloved twelve-pounders.

Broughton watched the French marksmen as they fell to the vicious cannister. Some hung kicking across the enemy’s main yard and others, more fortunate, fell to the deck below and died instantly.

Then he said calmly, “Our people are not holding them off.” Bolitho looked along the larboard gangway and saw the enemy boarders already overflowing on to the forecastle, while others swayed back and forth between the two hulls, steel against steel, pike against musket.

Here and there a man would fall out of sight to be ground between the two massive bilges, or a solitary figure would find himself isolated on his enemy’s deck to be hacked down with neither thought nor mercy.

A marine officer dropped screaming, his white crossbelt already soaked in blood, and Giffard snarled, “Cox is gone!” Then with an oath he was charging along the gangway, soon to be lost in the packed mass of figures.

The two hulls were grinding closer and closer, and with a violent jerk Euryalus’s bowsprit splintered and tore free, the jib flapping uselessly above the confusion like a banner.

More men were clambering across from the other ship, and Bolitho saw some of them fighting their way steadily aft towards the quarterdeck. A young lieutenant appeared as if by magic on the ladder, his sword swinging as he hurled himself across the deck. Bolitho tried to parry him to one side, but saw the French officer’s eyes wild with triumph as he knocked the blade away and turned on his heels for the fatal blow.

Calvert thrust Bolitho aside, his face calm as he snapped, “This one is mine sir!” His blade moved so fast that Bolitho did not see it. Only the Frenchman’s face slashed from eye to chin as he reeled gasping against the rail. Calvert’s wrist turned deftly and then he lunged, taking the Frenchman in the heart.

He said, “Amateur!” Then he was down amongst more of the attackers, his hair flying as he sought out another officer and fought him back against the ladder.

Keverne staggered through the smoke, blood dripping from his forehead. “Sir!” He ducked beneath a swinging cutlass and fired his pistol into the man’s groin, the force of the shot hurling him bodily amongst the others. “We must get clear!” His voice was very loud, and Bolitho realised dazedly that the guns had ceased firing. Through open ports on both ships men jabbed at one another with pikes or fired pistols in a madness of hatred and despair.

Bolitho gripped Keverne’s arm, his sword hanging from his wrist on its lanyard. “What is it, man?”

“I—I’m not sure, but . . .”

Keverne pulled Bolitho against him and thrust at a yelling seaman with his sword. The man faltered, and Bolitho saw Allday run from aft, his cutlass driving forward and down with such force that the cutlass’s point appeared through his stomach.

Keverne retched and gasped, “The Frenchman’s afire, sir!” Bolitho saw the admiral slip to his knees, groping for his sword, and watched helplessly as a French petty officer charged towards him with a bayoneted musket.

A slim figure blocked his path and Bolitho heard himself yell,

“Adam! Get back! ”

But Pascoe stood his ground, armed only with a dirk, his face a mask of stricken determination.

The bayonet lunged, but at the last second another figure jumped through the smoke, his sword dark with blood as he parried the blade up and clear of the boy’s chest. The musket exploded, and Pascoe stood back, horrified as Calvert crumpled at his feet, his face blown away. With a sob he struck at the petty officer with his dirk, hurting him sufficiently to make him recoil.

Allday’s cutlass finished it.

Bolitho tore his eyes away and hurried to the side. Beyond the enemy’s mainmast he could see a steady plume of black smoke.

Figures darted down the hatchway, and he heard sudden cries of alarm, the urgent clatter of pumps.

Perhaps in the confusion a lantern had been upended, or a blazing wad from one of the guns had found its way through an open port. But there was no mistaking the signs of fire, nor the desperate urgency now needed to get clear.

He shouted, “Pass the word. Lower battery reload. Fire on the order!”

He stared round at the shattered planking, the sprawled corpses and sobbing wounded. It was a faint hope, but it was all he had.

Unless they got away from Le Glorieux’s embrace they would become one inferno together.

A midshipman yelled, “Ready, sir!” It was Ashton.

“Fire!”

Seconds later the lower battery erupted in a great, blasting roar.

It felt as if the ship would fall apart, and as smoke and pieces of wreckage flew high above the nettings Bolitho saw the other ship reel drunkenly under the full weight of the lower battery’s broadside.

The French flagship’s sails were still drawing and quivering in the wind, and as she idled clear she began to move slowly towards the Euryalus’s bows. The smoke was rising thickly from her main hatch, and Bolitho felt himself shaking uncontrollably as the first tip of flame licked above the coaming like a forked tongue.

All resistance had ceased on Euryalus’s deck, and the French boarders left behind by their ship watched in silence, their hands in the air, as Le Glorieux continued to draw away.

Broughton said hoarsely, “They’re finished!” There was neither pride nor satisfaction in his voice. Like the others, he sounded completely crushed by the ferocity of the battle.

Tothill limped to the rail. “Zeus is signalling, sir.” When Bolitho looked down at him he saw the midshipman was grinning even though uncontrollable tears were cutting sharp lines through the grime on his face.

He asked quietly, “Well, Mr Tothill?”

“Two of the enemy have struck to us, sir. One has sunk, and the rest are breaking off the action.” Bolitho sighed and watched with silent relief as the enemy flagship began to drift more swiftly downwind. As the smoke of battle faded reluctantly away he saw the other ships scattered across the sea’s face, scarred and blackened from conflict. Of Impulsive there was no sign, and he saw the sloop Restless, which must have arrived unseen in the battle, drifting above her shadow, her boats in the water searching for survivors.

He felt a sudden heat on his cheek, and when he turned saw the French three-decker’s sails and rigging ablaze like torches. The lower gunports were also glowing bright red, and before a man could speak the air was torn apart with one deafening explosion.

The smoke surrounded the destruction, changing to steam as with a jubilant roar the sea surged into the shattered hull, dragging it down in a welter of bubbles and terrible sounds. Guns crashed from their tackles, and men trapped below in total darkness ran in madness until caught by either sea or fire.

When the smoke finally cleared there was only a great, slow-moving whirlpool, around which the flotsam and human fragments joined in one last horrible dance. Then there was nothing.

Broughton cleared his throat. “A victory.” He watched the wounded being carried or dragged below. Then he looked at Calvert and added, “But the bill is greater.” Bolitho said dully, “We will commence repairs, sir. The wind has eased slightly . . .” He paused and rubbed his knuckles into his eyes, trying to think. “Valorous looks in a bad way. I think Tanais can take her in tow.” He heard distant cheering and saw the men on the Zeus’s battered forecastle waving and yelling as they edged past. They could still cheer after all that. He turned to watch as some of his own company scrambled into the shrouds to return the cheers.

He said quietly, “With men like these, Sir Lucius, you never need fear again.”

But Broughton had not heard him. He was unbuckling his beautiful sword, and with a small hesitation handed it to Pascoe.

“Here, take it. When I needed it, I dropped it.” He added gruffly, “Any damn midshipman who tackles the enemy with a dirk deserves it!” He watched the astonishment on the boy’s dark features. “Besides, a lieutenant must look the part, eh?” Pascoe held the sword and turned it over in his hands. Then he looked at Bolitho, but he was standing rigidly by the rail, his fingers gripping it so tightly that they were white.

“Sir?” He hurried to his side, suddenly fearful that Bolitho had been wounded again. “Look, sir!”

Bolitho released the rail and put his arm round the boy’s thin shoulders. He was desperately tired, and the pain in his wound was like a branding iron. But just a little longer.

Very slowly he said, “Adam. Tell me.” He swallowed hard. He could barely risk speaking. “That boat!” Pascoe stared at his face and then down into the sea nearby.

A longboat was pulling towards the Euryalus’s shot-scarred side, crammed to the gunwales with dripping, exhausted men.

He replied hesitantly, “Yes, Uncle. I see him, too.” Bolitho gripped his shoulder more tightly and watched the boat’s misty outline as it nudged alongside. Beside its coxswain he saw Herrick peering up at him, his strained face set in a grin while he supported a wounded marine against his chest.

Keverne came striding aft, an unspoken question on his lips, but paused as Broughton snapped, “If you are to have Auriga, Mr Keverne, I would be obliged if you would take command here until such time as a transfer is possible!” He looked at Bolitho with his arm round the boy’s shoulder. “I think my flag captain has done enough.” He saw Allday hurrying down to the entry port. “For all of us.”

Epilogue

THE ADMIRALTY messenger ushered Bolitho and Herrick into a waiting room and closed the door with hardly a glance. Bolitho walked to a window and looked down at the crowded highway, his mind conscious only of sudden anticlimax. It was very quiet in the waiting room, and through the window he could feel the late September sunlight warm against his face. But down below, the people who hurried so busily about their affairs were well wrapped, and the many horses which trotted with carriages and carts in every direction gave some hint of the coming winter with their steaming breath and bright blankets.

Behind him he heard Herrick moving restlessly around the room, and wondered if like himself he was preparing for the coming interview with resignation or anxiety.

What an unnerving place London was. No wonder the messenger had treated them with such indifference, for the entrance hall and corridors had been crammed with sea officers, few of them lowlier than captains. All intent on their own worlds of appointments, ships, or the mere necessity of appearing busy in the centre of Britain’s naval power.

Nearly three months had passed since the French flagship had blasted herself apart in one terrible explosion, during which time he had been more than fully occupied getting the battered squadron to Gibraltar without further losses, and there await orders.

As the many wounded had died or made some kind of recovery, and the ships’ companies had worked without respite to repair as much of the damage as possible under the Rock’s limited resources, Bolitho had waited for some acknowledgement of their efforts.

Eventually a brig had arrived with despatches for Broughton.

Those ships ready and able to set sail would do so immediately.

Not to join Lord St Vincent off Cadiz, but for England. After all they had achieved and endured together it was hard to see the small squadron scattered.

Valorous was almost beyond repair, and with Tanais, which was in not much better state, had remained at Gibraltar. With the two French seventy-fours taken as prizes the remainder had sailed, and in due course anchored at Portsmouth. There again, the necessary business of dispersal and repair was continued. But it meant bidding farewell to many more familiar faces. Keverne, who had received his just promotion to commander, had been given Auriga.

Captain Rattray had been carried ashore to Haslar Hospital, where with only one leg and half blinded by splinters he would probably end his days.

Furneaux had died in the battle, and Gillmor had received separate orders to take his Coquette and join the Channel Fleet, where as always there was a shortage of frigates.

As day had followed day in Portsmouth harbour Bolitho had found time to wonder how Broughton’s report had been received at the Admiralty.

With the span of time behind him, their findings and hard-ships at Djafou, the last desperate battle with twice their number of the enemy seemed to fade and become less real. Broughton had appeared to feel much as he did, for most of the time he had remained aloof in his quarters or paced alone on the poop resisting every contact but the requirements of duty.

Then, just two days ago, the summons had arrived. Broughton and his flag captain were to report to the Admiralty. One unexpected addition had been for Herrick. He too was to accompany them. He had already confided that it was probably to explain more fully the loss of his Impulsive, but Bolitho thought otherwise. It was more likely that Herrick, being the only captain not completely involved in the squadron’s previous affairs, was being called as an impartial witness and to give his own assessment. It was to be hoped he would not allow blind loyalty to damage his own position with his superiors.

But whatever happened, Adam’s step on the first real rung of the ladder was secure. He had received his commission with an ease which had apparently surprised him, and even now was aboard Euryalus, probably fretting about his uncle’s future, or lack of it.

A door opened and Broughton walked through the room towards the corridor. Bolitho had not seen him since he had left the ship, and said quickly, “I hope all went well, Sir Lucius?” Broughton seemed only then aware of his presence. He eyed him flatly. “I have been appointed to New South Wales. To manage the vessels and affairs of our naval administration there.” Bolitho tried to disguise his dismay. “That would appear to be quite a task, sir.”

The admiral’s eyes flickered to Herrick. “Oblivion.” He turned away. “I hope you fare better.” Then with a curt nod he was gone.

Herrick exploded, “By God, I know little of Broughton, but that is damned cruel! He’ll rot out there while some of these powdered poppinjays in London grow fat on the efforts of such men!” Bolitho smiled sadly. “Easy, Thomas. I think Sir Lucius expected it.”

He turned back to the window. Oblivion. How well it described such an appointment. Yet Broughton had a name and power. A man of influence.

He thought with sudden bitterness of the Auriga’s chief mutineer, Tom Gates. He could see him sitting across the table in the little inn at Veryan Bay, and again confronting Captain Brice in his cabin.

Almost the first sight he had witnessed at Portsmouth Point had been the weathered remains of Gates swinging from a gibbet as a grisly reminder of the price of revolt. How strange was fate. Auriga’s second lieutenant had been released by the French in exchange for one of their own officers. His appointment had taken him to another frigate, where hiding under a false name he had discovered Gates. All hopes and ambition gone, and left only with the need to hide amongst his own sort, Gates had ended on a halter like so many others after the mutiny.

The door opened again and a lieutenant said, “Sir George will see you now.” When Herrick hung back he added, “Both of you, please.”

It was a fine room, with many pictures and a large bust of Raleigh above a lively log fire.

Admiral Sir George Beauchamp did not rise from his desk but gestured briefly to two chairs.

Bolitho watched him as he leafed through some papers.

Beauchamp, distinguished for his work on reorganisation at the Admiralty since the outbreak of war. A man noted for his wis-dom and humour. And his severity.

He was thin and rather stooped, as if bowed down by the weight of his resplendent gold-laced coat.

“Ah, Bolitho.” He looked up, his eyes very cold and steady. “I have been studying the reports and your findings. It makes interesting reading!”

Bolitho heard Herrick breathing heavily beside him and wondered what Beauchamp would say next.

“I knew Sir Charles Thelwall, your previous admiral.” Beauchamp eyed him calmly. “A fine man.” He turned back to the papers again.

Still no mention of Broughton. It was almost unnerving.

The admiral asked, “Do you still believe what you did and that which you discovered was worthwhile?” Bolitho replied quietly, “Yes, sir.” The question had been casually put, yet he believed it summed up all that had gone before.

He added, “The French will keep trying. They must be held. And stopped.”

“Your action at Djafou and handling of what must have appeared a hopeless situation was good. Sir Lucius said as much in his report.” He frowned. “As well he might.”

“Thank you, sir.”

The admiral ignored him. “New tactics and ideas, fresh objectives, all are necessary if we are to survive, let alone win this war.

But the knowledge and understanding of the people who have to fight and die for our cause is vital! ” He shrugged wearily. “You have that understanding. Whereas . . .” He left the rest unsaid, but in Bolitho’s brain the word returned. Oblivion.

Beauchamp peered at a gilt dock. “You will remain in London for a day or so while I arrange your new orders, understood?” Bolitho nodded, “Yes, sir.”

The admiral walked to a window and studied the passing carriages and townspeople with apparent disdain. “Captain Herrick will leave for Portsmouth immediately!” Herrick asked thickly, “May I ask the reason, sir?” Beauchamp faced them again, his mouth set in a thin smile.

“Commodore Bolitho will be hoisting his broad pendant in Euryalus as soon as he returns to Portsmouth!” He looked hard at Herrick’s amazed face. “I knew he would ask for you as his flag captain, so I thought we would try and waste less time than is customary under this roof!”

He stepped forward, his hand outstretched. Seeing Bolitho’s arm strapped inside his coat he offered the other hand, saying sharply, “Our bodies too often become charts of our misfortunes, eh?” He smiled. “I am giving you a squadron, Bolitho. Just a small one, but enough for you to put your ideas to best advantage.” His grip was firm. “Good luck to you. I hope I’ve not made a mistake.”

Bolitho looked away. “Thank you, sir.” The room seemed to be spinning. “And for giving me Captain Herrick.” The admiral was back at his desk. “Oh, nonsense!” But as they left the room together he was smiling with quiet enjoyment.

Out on the highway, amidst the hurrying figures and blowing leaves, Bolitho said, “I think maybe I am dreaming, Thomas.” Herrick was grinning hugely, “I can’t wait to see your nephew’s face when I tell him!” He shook his head. “A broad pendant. God damn them, I thought they would never give you your proper reward!”

Bolitho smiled, his emotions pulling in two directions.

Broughton had warned him what it would be like if he ever attained flag rank. A superior being, unreachable and beyond personal touch. It was a challenge, something he had always wanted.

And yet, when the watch turned out on deck to shorten sail or to up anchor, how would it feel? Another in command of the same ship, while he remained an onlooker.

He said, “You had best return to the inn, Thomas. If you catch the Portsmouth Flyer you can be aboard Euryalus tomorrow night!”

Herrick watched him, his face suddenly grave. “I’ll tell Allday to prepare things for you, sir.”

“Yes.” He touched his arm. “We have come a long way, Thomas.

And I would not have wished for a better companion, or friend.” He watched Herrick’s sturdy figure until he had vanished into a side street and then turned to stare at the busy scene around him.

He made to cross the road but paused to allow a fine pair of greys drawing an emerald green carriage to pass. But the coachman was reining them back and had his brightly polished boot hard on the brake.

Bolitho waited, still dazed by all that had happened and the speed of life in this great city.

The carriage window opened and a voice said, “I heard you were at the Admiralty, Captain.”

He looked at the elegant woman who was smiling down at him like a conspirator. It was Catherine Pareja.

He stammered, “Kate!” He could find no other words.

She rapped on the roof. “Robert! Help the captain in.” And as Bolitho sank on to the seat beside her she added, “We will dine together.” Her mouth lifted in that familiar smile. “And then . . .” Her laugh was lost in the rumble of wheels as the carriage moved rapidly into the throng of vehicles and horses.

From his lofty window Admiral Beauchamp watched them go and nodded thoughtfully. He had made a good choice, he decided.

Definitely a man to be reckoned with.