1756 born Falmouth, son of James Bolitho

1768 entered the King's service as a Midshipman on Manxman

1772 Midshipman, Gorgon (Richard Bolitho - Midshipman and Midshipman Bolitho and the 'Avenger')

1778 promoted Commander, Sparrow. Battle of the Chesapeake (Sloop of War)

1782 promoted Captain, Phalarope; West Indies; Battle of Saintes (To Glory We Steer)

1784 Captain, Undine; India and East Indies (Command a King's Ship)

1787 Captain, Tempest; Great South Sea; Tahiti; suffered serious fever (Passage to Mutiny)

1798 Battle of the Nile (Signal- Close Action!)

1800 promoted Rear Admiral; Baltic; Battle of Copenhagen (The Inshore Squadron)

1802 promoted Vice-Admiral; West Indies

1805 Battle of Trafalgar

1812 promoted Admiral; Second American War

1815 killed in action aboard his flagship, following Napoleon's escape from Elba

Alexander Kent

SIGNAL - CLOSE ACTION!

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For Winifred, with my love

First published in Arrow 1976

9 11 13 14 12 10 8

© Bolitho Maritime Productions Ltd 1974

This book is sold subject to the condition that it shall not, by way of trade or otherwise, be lent, resold, hired out, or otherwise circulated without the publisher's prior consent in any form of binding or cover other than that in which it is published and without a similar condition including this condition being imposed on the subsequent purchaser

First published by Hutchinson 1974

Arrow Books Limited Random House UK Ltd, 20 Vauxhall Bridge Road, London SW1V 2SA

Random House Australia (Pty) Limited 20 Alfred Street, Milsons Point, Sydney, New South Wales 2061, Australia

Random House New Zealand Limited 18 Poland Road, Glenfield Auckland 10, New Zealand

Random House South Africa (Pty) Limited PO Box 337, Bergvlei, South Africa

Random House UK Limited Reg. No. 954009

A CIP catalogue record for this book is available from the British Library

ISBN 0 09 912940 X

Set in Monotype Garamond

Printed and bound in Great Britain by Cox & Wyman Ltd, Reading, Berkshire

Contents

i

The Squadron

7

2

Small Beginning

22

3

Alone

42

4

The Captives

57

5

The Only Way Out

75

6

Attack at Dawn

93

7

One Company

109

8

Aftermath

127

9

Wine and Cheese

113

io

Committed

160

ii

The Letter

178

12

Divided Loyalties

195

13

Pursuit

214

14

Run to Earth

229

15

Disaster

247

16

The Captain's Report

264

17

Storm Clouds

281

18

The Din of War

296

Epilogue

316

Like leviathans afloat Lay their bulwarks on the brine; While the sign of battle flew On the lofty British line.

campbell

The Squadron

Beneath Gibraltar's towering and craggy protection, the mixed collection of anchored shipping tugged at their cables and waited for the sudden squall to abate. Despite streaks of pale blue which showed themselves occasionally between the brisk clouds, the air was cold, with a bite in it more common in the Bay of Biscay than the Mediterranean.

Considering its strategic importance, Gibraltar's anchorage was unusually deserted. A few storeships, some brigs and schooners finding shelter or awaiting orders made up the bulk of vessels there, and of major men-of-war there were but three. Anchored well apart from the other hotchpotch of local craft were three ships of the line, seventy-fours, which in this month of January 1798 were still the most popular, and the most adaptable, vessels in any plan of battle.

The one anchored nearest to the land bore the name Lysander across her broad counter, a name to match the figurehead which stared angrily from beneath her bowsprit. It was a fine figurehead, with the black-bearded Spartan general adorned in crested helmet and breastplate, originally carved by Henry Callaway of Deptford. Like the rest of the big two-decker, it was well painted, with a look of newness which belied the ship's eleven long years in the King's service.

Back and forth, up and down her wide quarterdeck her captain, Thomas Herrick, walked with barely a pause to peer towards the shore. If he considered his ship's appearance and condition, it was more from anxiety than pride. The months of work in England to get Lysander ready for sea, the whole wearing business of re-commissioning and gathering what amounted to practically a raw company had gone on without a pause. Stores and powder, water and provisions, weapons and the men to handle them. Herrick had more than once

And yet, despite the delays and infuriating slackness amongst dockyard men and chandlers, he had seen his ship grow from a disorganised chaos to a living, vital creature.

Frightened men brought aboard by the unrelenting press-gangs, and others gathered by motives as varied as patriotism or merely fleeing into the Navy to avoid a hangman's halter, had been slowly and painstakingly moulded into something which, if still far from perfect, could offer hope for the future. The first squall in the Bay as Lysander had crawled south towards Portugal had brought some weakness to light. Too many seasoned hands in one watch, too many landsmen in another. But under Herrick's careful watch, and the efforts of Lysander's remaining backbone of professional warrant officers, they had at least come to terms with the awesome maze of rigging, the rebellious and treacherous folds of canvas which made up their daily lives at sea.

Once at anchor below the Rock, Herrick had waited with growing apprehension for this particular day. More ships had arrived and anchored nearby. The other two seventy-fours, Osiris and Nicator, the frigate Buzzard and the little sloop of war Harebell were no longer separate entities but part of a whole. By order of the Admiralty in London they had become one. The squadron, in which Herrick's ship would hoist the broad pendant of commodore, and over which and through all imaginable circumstances Richard Bolitho would at any moment now be exercising his right of command.

It was strange when Herrick hesitated to consider the matter. It was only four months since he and Bolitho had returned to England from this same sea. After a bloody battle in which Herrick's own ship had been destroyed and a complete French squadron routed or taken, they had gone to the Admiralty together. It still seemed like a dream, a memory of long past.

The result of that visit had been far-reaching. For Richard Bolitho an immediate promotion to commodore, and for Herrick the post of flag captain. Their admiral had been less fortunate. Packed off to govern a penal colony in New South Wales, the very swiftness of his fall from grace had somehow measured the step between authority and oblivion.

Herrick's first overwhelming pleasure of being appointed flag captain to Bolitho had been slightly marred by another of the Admiralty's changes of heart. Instead of Bolitho's own ship, Euryalus, the great one hundred gun three-decker which he had originally seized as a prize from the French, they had been given the Lysander. Easier to handle than a great first-rate, possibly, but Herrick suspected that another officer more senior than Bolitho had claimed the ex-Frenchman for himself.

He paused in his pacing and ran his eyes along the busy decks. Seamen were working on the gangways and boat tier. Others swayed high overhead amongst the black criss-cross of shrouds and stays, halliards and braces, making sure that no frayed lines, no broken wisps of hemp would greet the new commodore as he stepped through the entry port. The marines were already in position. No need to worry about their Major Leroux. He was speaking with his lieutenant, a rather vacant young man called Nepean, while a sergeant checked each marine's musket and appearance.

The midshipman of the watch must have an aching arm, Herrick thought. He was very conscious of his captain's presence, and was holding a heavy telescope to his eye, obeying the last order, to report immediately when the commodore's boat shoved off from the jetty.

Herrick shifted his gaze outboard towards the other vessels of the small squadron. He had had little to do with them so far, but already knew quite a lot about their various captains. From the little sloop which regularly bared her copper as she rolled uncomfortably in the squall to the nearest two-decker, Osiris, they all seemed to have some sort of link. Nicator's captain, for instance. Herrick had discovered that he had served with Bolitho during the American Revolution when they had both been lieutenants. Their reunion might present pleasure or otherwise, he thought. Commander Inch of the dizzily swaying Harebell had commanded a bomb vessel with the old squadron, here in the Mediterranean. Of Buzzard's captain, Raymond Javal, he had learned little but gossip. Hasty temper. Hungry for prize money. He had all the makings of a typical if awkward frigate captain.

He let his gaze rest on the Osiris once again and tried to conceal his irritation. She was almost a twin to the Lysander, and her destiny was firmly in the hands of Captain Charles

Any sort of fresh beginning had faded as Farquhar had drawled, 'I say, you don't seem to have spent much on the old ship, eh?' That same maddening smile. 'Our new lord and master won't like that, y'know!'

Suddenly, the lower line of black gunports opened along Osiris's sloping side, and with perfect precision the whole battery of thirty-two pounders trundled into the weak sunlight. As one.

Something like panic ran through Herrick's mind. Farquhar would never allow his ambitious brain to be fogged by some stupid memory or dislike. He had kept his eye on what mattered most to him. Which at this particular minute was to impress the commodore. It happened to be Richard Bolitho, a man more dear to Herrick than any other living being. But if it had been Satan himself Farquhar would have been ready.

As if to make the final stab the midshipman of the watch shouted excitedly, 'Barge shoving off from the jetty, sir!'

Herrick licked his lips. They felt like dry ashes.

'Very well, Mr. Saxby. My compliments to the first lieutenant. He may muster the hands now.'

*

Richard Bolitho walked to the quarter windows of the broad cabin and looked towards the other ships. Despite the importance of the moment, the solemnity of being received aboard his own flagship for the first time in his life, he could not contain his excitement. It was like wine and laughter all bubbling up inside him, held in check by some last reserve.

He turned and saw Herrick watching him from beside the screen door. Some seamen were carefully arranging chests and boxes which had been swayed up from the barge, and he could hear his coxswain, Allday, bawling angrily at someone to take care.

'Well, Thomas, that was a fine welcome.'

He strode across the deck with its neat covering of black and white chequered canvas and took Herrick's hand. Overhead he could hear the thump of boots as the marine guard departed, the returning familiar sounds of normal routine.

Herrick smiled awkwardly. 'Thank you, sir.' He gestured at the baggage. 'I hope you've brought all you need. It seems we may be a while from home.'

Bolitho studied him gravely. Herrick's stocky figure, his round, homely face and those bright blue eyes were almost as familiar as Allday's. But he seemed different somehow. It was only four months, and yet. . .

He thought of all that had happened since that visit to the Admiralty. The discussions with men so senior and powerful that he still could not grasp that promotion could mean so much. Whenever he had mentioned his anxiety over the progress being made with his new flagship he had seen that amused look in their eyes.

The admiral who had given him his appointment, Sir George Beauchamp, had put it into words. 'You'll have to forget that sort of thing now, Bolitho. The captain must deal with the running of a ship. Yours is a more exacting task.'

Eventually he had taken passage to Gibraltar in a fast frigate, pausing in the Tagus with despatches for the flagship of the fleet employed on blockade duty. There he had been given an audience with the admiral, the Earl of St. Vincent, so titled because of his great victory eleven months back. The admiral, still affectionately known as 'Old Jarvy' by many of his subordinates, but only when he was well out of earshot, had greeted him briskly.

'You've got your orders. See you carry 'em out. It's been months since we knew what the French were up to. Our spies in the channel ports reported that Bonaparte visited the coast many times to lay plans for invading England.' He had given his dry chuckle. 'I think my medicine off Cape St. Vincent taught 'em to tread warily where the sea is concerned.

Looking back it was hard to measure how much the admiral had managed to explain and describe in that brief interview. He had been on active duty with hardly a break, and yet he had been able to sum up the situation in home waters and the Mediterranean better than any Admiralty official.

The admiral had walked with him to his quarterdeck and had said quietly, 'Beauchamp is the man to plan this sort of mission. But it needs seagoing officers to push those ideas to reality. Your squadron's efforts last year in the Mediterranean told us a great deal about French intentions. Your admiral, Broughton, did not perhaps understand their true significance until it was all too late. For him, that is.' He had given Bolitho a grim stare. 'We must know the worth of putting a fleet into these waters again. If we divide our squadrons for a bad purpose, the French will soon explore our weakness. But your orders will tell you what you must do. Only you can decide how you are going to do it.' Again that dry chuckle. 'I wanted Nelson for the task, but he is still sorely weakened by the loss of his arm. Beauchamp chose you for this tickle at Bonaparte's underbelly. I hope for all our sakes it was a wise choice.'

And now, after all the discussions, the searching through reports to discover the value of countless ideas of the enemy's motives and objectives, he was here in his own flagship. Beyond the thick glass windows were other ships, all linked by the dovetailed broad pendant which had broken at the masthead as he had climbed aboard to the slap of muskets and the din of fifes and drums.

And he still could not believe it. He felt the same as before. As eager to get to sea as he had been in the past whenever he had joined a new ship.

But the difference would soon display itself in all manner of ways. When Herrick had been his first lieutenant he had stood between his captain and company. The link and the barrier. Now Herrick, as flag captain, would stand between him and his other officers, his little squadron and every man-jack aboard each individual ship. Five vessels in all, with over two thousand souls divided amongst them. It was that kind of assessment which brought home the reality of his command,

He asked, 'How is young Adam ? I did not see him when I came aboard.' As he said it he saw the stiffness come to Herrick's face.

'I was about to tell you, sir. He is with the surgeon.' He looked at the deck. 'A slight accident, but, thank God, no real harm done.'

Bolitho replied, 'The truth, Thomas. Is my nephew ill ?'

Herrick looked up, his blue eyes suddenly angry. 'A stupid argument with his opposite number in the Osiris, sir. Her sixth lieutenant gave some sort of insult. They went ashore on their separate duties but arranged to meet and settle the matter.'

Bolitho made himself walk slowly to the stern windows and stare down at the swirling water around the rudder.

'A duel?'

Just the sound of the word made him feel sick. Despairing. Like father like son ? It was not possible.

'High spirits more like.' Herrick sounded unconvinced. 'Neither was badly hurt, though I gather Adam nicked the other fellow the worse.'

Bolitho turned and regarded him calmly. 'I will see him directly.'

Herrick swallowed. 'With your permission, sir, I should like to deal with the matter myself.'

Bolitho nodded slowly, feeling a great gap yawning between him and his friend.

He said quietly, 'Of course, Thomas. Adam Pascoe is my nephew. But he is one oiyour officers now.'

Herrick tried to relax. ‘I am deeply sorry to trouble you in your first hour, sir. Not for the whole world would I wish that.'

'I know.' He smiled gravely. 'It was foolish of me to interfere. I was a flag captain and often resented my superior's hand in my own affairs.'

Herrick looked around the big cabin, eager to change the subject.

'I hope everything is to your liking, sir. Your servant is preparing a meal, and I have had some hands detailed to stow your chests for you.'

'Thank you. It seems most satisfactory.'

He stopped. It was happening again. The formal tones. The offering and an acceptance. When they had always been used to sharing. Understanding.

Herrick asked suddenly, 'Will we be putting to sea soon, sir?'

'Aye, Thomas. Tomorrow forenoon if the wind stays favourable.' He pulled the watch from his pocket and snapped open the guard. 'I would wish to see my officers —' He faltered. Even that was changed. He added, 'To see the other captains as soon as is convenient. I received some more despatches from the governor here, but after I have read them I should like to tell the squadron what we are about.' He smiled. 'Don't look so troubled, Thomas. It is as hard for me as for you.'

For a brief moment Bolitho saw the old light in Herrick's eyes. The warmth and trust which could so easily turn to hurt.

Herrick replied, 'I feel like an old foot in a new shoe.' He smiled, too. 'I'll not let you down.'

He turned and left the cabin, and after a discreet pause Allday and two seamen carrying a large case strode through the door. Allday glanced swiftly round the cabin and seemed to approve.

Bolitho relaxed very slowly. Allday was always the same, and for that he was suddenly grateful. Even his new blue jacket with the large gilt buttons, the nankeen trousers and buckled shoes which Bolitho had purchased for him to reveal his new status as a commodore's own coxswain did little to hide his thickset, rugged individuality.

Bolitho unfastened his sword and gave it to him.

'Well, Allday, what do you make of her, eh ?'

The man eyed him calmly. 'A well-found ship,' he hesitated over the word, 'sir'.

Even Allday had been made to alter his ways. Never in the past had he called him anything but 'Captain'. It was their own unrehearsed arrangement. The new rank had changed that, too.

Allday read his thoughts and grinned ruefully. 'Sorry about that, sir.' He glared at the two seamen who were watching them curiously, the case balanced between them. 'But I can wait. It'll be Sir Richard afore long, and that's no error!'

Allday waited until the seamen had gone and said quietly, 'I reckon you'd like to be left alone now, sir. I'll see that your servant is warned about your customs.'

Bolitho nodded. 'You know me too well.'

Allday closed the door behind him and glanced coldly at the ramrod-stiff marine sentry outside the cabin. To himself he murmured, 'Better'n you'll ever know.'

On the quarterdeck once more, Herrick walked slowly to the nettings and stared at the other ships. It had been a bad beginning. For both of them. Perhaps it was all in his own mind, like his dislike for Farquhar. The latter obviously did not give a damn for him, so why should he get so easily ruffled?

Bolitho had looked exactly as he had known he would. The same gravity which could alter in an instant to a youthful exuberance. His hair was as black as ever, his slim figure no different, apart from the obvious stiffness in his right shoulder. He counted the months. Nearly seven it must be now, when Bolitho had been marked down by a musket ball. The lines at the corners of his mouth were a little deeper. Pain, responsibility ? Parts of each, he decided.

He saw the officer of the watch eyeing him cautiously and called, 'We will signal the squadron, Mr. Kipling. All captains repair on board when I so order.'

He pictured them putting on their best uniforms. Inch in his tiny cabin, Farquhar in his lavish quarters. But each and all would be wondering, as he was. Where bound? What to expect ? The price for both.

Alone in his cabin Bolitho heard feet thudding along the deck overhead, and after a momentary hesitation threw off his dress coat with its solitary gold stripe and seated himself at his desk. He slit open the large canvas envelope but still hesitated over reading the neatly written despatches.

He kept seeing Herrick's anxious face. They were almost the same age, and yet Herrick seemed to have grown much older, his brown hair marked here and there like hoar frost. It was hard not to see him as his best friend. He had to think of him as a strength, the flag captain of a squadron which had never acted as a single unit before. A rough task for any man, and for Thomas Herrick ... he tried to hold back the sudden doubts. Herrick's poor beginnings, the son of a clerk, his very honesty which had marked him out as a man who could be trusted under any known circumstances, could hinder his overall judgement. Herrick was a man who would obey any lawful order without question, with no consideration for his own life or ruin. But to assume control of the squadron if its commodore should die in battle ?

It was strange to realise that Lysander's original masters had fallen at St. Vincent. Her commodore, George Twyford, had been killed in the first broadsides, and her captain, John Dyke, was even now enduring a living hell in the naval hospital at Haslar, too cruelly maimed even to feed himself. The same ship had survived them and many more. He looked around the neat cabin with its well-carved chairs and dark mahogany table. He could almost feel them watching him.

He sighed and began to read the despatches.

*

Bolitho nodded to the five officers who stood around the cabin table and said, 'Please be seated, gentlemen.'

He watched them as they eased their chairs towards him, their mixed expressions of pleasure, excitement and curiosity.

It was a very special moment, and he guessed they were all sharing it with him, if for varied reasons.

Farquhar had not changed. Slim and elegant, with the self-assurance he had carried even as a midshipman. Now a post-captain of thirty-two, his ambition shone in his eyes to match his gleaming epaulettes.

Francis Inch, bobbing and horse-faced, could barely restrain his great beam of welcome. As commander of the sloop he would be vital for inshore work and sweeping ahead of the squadron.

Raymond Javal, the frigate's captain, looked more like a Frenchman than an English sea officer. Very dark and swarthy, with thick greasy hair, he had features so narrow that his deepset eyes seemed to dominate his whole appearance.

He looked at Captain George Probyn of the Nicator and gave a brief smile. They had served together in the old Trojan when the American Revolution had erupted to change the face of the whole world. Yet it was almost impossible to see him in those times. He sat hunched against the table like a large, shabby innkeeper. A year or so older than Bolitho, he had left the Trojan in much the same manner as himself. To take command of a captured blockade runner and sail her as a prize to the nearest friendly port. Unlike Bolitho, however, whose chance had led directly to his first command, Probyn had been captured by an American privateer and had fretted out most of the war as a prisoner until an exchange had been made with a French officer. Those vital years in his early service had obviously cost him dearly. He looked uneasy, with a sly, darting way of examining his fellow captains and then looking down into his clasped hands.

Herrick said formally, 'All present, sir.'

Bolitho looked at the table. In his mind's eye he was seeing his written orders. You are hereby authorised and directed to proceed with jour squadron to ascertain by every means in your power the presence and destination of considerable armaments...

He began quietly, As you will know, the enemy has spent much time in seeking out some flaw in our defences. Apart from our successes at sea, we have been able to do litde to stop the spread of French progress and influence. In my view, Bonaparte has never changed from his original tack, which was and still must be to reach India and seize our trade routes. The French admiral, Suffren, almost succeeded during the last war.' He saw Herrick's eyes flicker towards him, no doubt remembering when they had sailed together in the East Indies, seeing for themselves the determination of their old enemy to regain ground lost in that uneasy peace. 'Today Bonaparte must know that any delay in his preparations can only give us time to gain strength.'

They all looked round as Inch exclaimed cheerfully, 'We'll show them, sir!' He grinned at the others. 'Like we did before!'

Bolitho smiled. Glad that Inch, if ignorant of the facts, had not changed. Thankful that his excited comment had broken some of the distance between himself and the others.

'Thank you, Commander Inch. Your optimism does you credit.'

Inch bobbed and flushed with pleasure.

'However, we have no real intelligence of which way the French will move first. The bulk of our fleet is operating from the Tagus, to keep a wedge between the French and their Spanish allies. But the enemy may attack Portugal because of our presence there, or indeed he may attempt to invade Ireland again.' He could not conceal his bitterness. As they intended when our own Navy was beset with misfortune which broke last year in the great mutinies at the Nore and Spithead.'

Farquhar looked at his cuff. 'Should have hanged a thousand of the devils, not a mere handful!'

Bolitho eyed him coldly. 'Perhaps if a little more thought had been given to our sailors' wants in the first place, no punishment would have been needed at all!'

Farquhar smiled up at him. 'I take the point, sir.'

Bolitho looked at his scattered papers, giving himself time. He had risen too easily to Farquhar's intolerance.

He continued, 'Our duty will be first to examine the progress of French preparations in the Gulf of Lions. At Toulon, Marseilles and any other port about which we can discover enemy activity.' He looked at each of them gravely. 'Our fleet is stretched to the limit. We cannot afford to allow the enemy to scatter it to the extent it can be devoured piece by piece. Likewise, we must not have a large fleet at one end of the ocean while the enemy is at the other. Seek, find and bring 'em to battle, it is the only way!'

Javal said harshly, 'And mine is the only frigate, sir.'

'Is that an observation or a complaint ?'

Javal shrugged. 'A malady, sir.'

Probyn darted him a quick glance. 'It is a vast responsibility.' He looked at Farquhar. 'If we meet with superior forces we will be without support.'

Farquhar eyed him coolly. 'But at least we will know they are nearby, my dear George!'

Herrick said, 'It is a serious matter!'

'Apparently.' Farquhar's eyes flashed. 'So let us tackle it seriously.'

Bolitho made them all turn towards him. 'One thing is certain. We must work together. I do not care what you may think of the value of these orders. We must interpret them into deeds. Drive them to a rightful and profitable end.'

Farquhar nodded. 'I agree, sir.'

The others remained silent.

'Now, if you will return to your commands and relay my wishes to your people, I will be pleased to have you aboard to dine with me tonight.'

They all stood up, already planning how they would rephrase his words to their own subordinates. Like Bolitho, each one of them, except Inch, would probably wish to be alone in his own ship to prepare himself and his ideas for whatever lay ahead. But they would have little enough time together, Bolitho thought. He needed to know each of them better, just as when a signal broke from Lysander's yards his captains would read the mind of the man who made it.

One by one they made their farewells. Probyn was the last to leave, as Bolitho knew he would.

He said awkwardly, 'Good to see you again, sir. They were great times we once shared. I always knew you would be successful, famous even.' His eyes moved hurriedly round the cabin. 'I have been less fortunate. Through no fault of mine. But without influence . . .' He did not finish it.

Bolitho smiled. 'It makes my appointment all the easier to have old friends in company.'

The door closed and he walked slowly to the heavy mahogany wine cabinet which he had brought from London.It was beautifully worked, every join and surface the mark of a craftsman.

He was still looking at it when Herrick returned from seeing the other captains over the side into their various boats.

He sighed. 'Went well, I thought, sir.' He saw the cabinet and gave a low whistle. 'Now there is a thing of beauty!'

Bolitho smiled. 'It was a gift. More useful than some, I'd say, Thomas.'

Herrick was examining it carefully and said, 'I have your nephew outside, sir. I have dealt with his foolishness. Some extra duties to entertain his busy mind. I thought you'd like to see him.'

He touched the cabinet, adding, 'May I enquire who gave you this fine piece, sir ?'

Bolitho replied, 'Mrs. Pareja. You will recall her, of course.'

He checked himself as something like a shutter dropped behind Herrick's eyes.

Herrick said flatly, 'Yes, sir. I remember her well.'

'What is it, man?'

Herrick faced him. 'With ships coming fresh from England, sir, there is always rumour, scandal if you like. There was some talk about your meeting with that lady in London.'

Bolitho stared at him. 'In God's name, Thomas, this doesn't sound like you.'

Herrick persisted, 'Because of it, your nephew crossed swords with another lieutenant.' He added stubbornly, 'A matter of honour they call it.'

Bolitho looked away. And he had been imagining it was because of Pascoe's background, his dead father. Traitor and renegade.

He said, "Thank you for telling me.'

'Somebody had to, sir.' The blue eyes were pleading. 'You've done so much, for all of us, I'd not wish to see it thrown away because of a - '

'I thanked you for telling me, Thomas. Not for your opinion of the lady.'

Herrick opened the door. 'I will call him in, sir.' He did not look back.

Bolitho sat down on the bench seat below the stem windows and watched a fishing boat sculling below the two-decker's counter. The fisherman glanced up at him without expression. Probably in the pay of the Spanish commandant across the water in Algeciras, he thought. Taking the names of the ships. Tit-bits of information which might convey something in return for a few coins.

The door opened and Adam Pascoe stood inside the cabin, his hat tucked under his arm.

Bolitho stood up and walked towards him, feeling something like pain as he saw the way the youth was holding his arm away from his ribs. Even in his lieutenant's uniform he looked the same lean boy who had first been sent to him as a midshipman.

He said, 'Welcome aboard, sir.'

Bolitho forgot the weight of his new responsibility, his unwanted clash with Herrick, everything but the youth who had come to mean so much.

He embraced him and said, 'You've been in trouble, Adam. I am sorry it was of my doing.'

Pascoe watched him gravely. 'I would not have killed him, Uncle.'

Bolitho stood back from him and smiled sadly. 'No, Adam, but he might have finished you. Eighteen years is a beginning, not an end.'

Pascoe pushed the black hair from his forehead and shrugged. 'The captain has given me enough extra duties for my pains.' He looked at Bolitho's shoulder. 'How is the wound, Uncle?'

'Forgotten.' He led him to a chair. 'Like your own, eh ?'

They smiled like conspirators as Bolitho poured two glasses of claret. He noticed that Pascoe's hair was cut in the new style, without any queue at the nape of his neck like most sea officers. He wondered what sort of a navy it would be when his nephew's broad pendant flew one day.

Pascoe sipped the wine. 'They are saying in the squadron that this command would have been Nelson's had he not lost his arm.' He watched him questioningly.

Bolitho smiled. There were few secrets in the fleet. 'Perhaps.'

Pascoe nodded, his eyes distant. 'A great honour, Uncle, but-'

'But what?'

'A great responsibility also.'

Herrick reappeared at the door. 'May I ask what time you would wish the other captains to return aboard, sir?'

He looked from one to the other and felt strangely moved.

About twenty years between them, yet they looked like brothers.

Bolitho replied, 'I will leave it to you.'

When Herrick had gone Pascoe asked simply, 'Is anything between you and Captain Herrick, Uncle ?'

Bolitho touched bis arm. 'Nothing that can harm our friendship, Adam.'

Pascoe appeared satisfied. 'I'm glad.'

Bolitho reached for the decanter. 'Now, tell me what you have been doing since I last saw you.'

2 Small Beginning

Bolitho moved restlessly around his day cabin, one hand reaching out to touch objects not yet familiar. Around and above him the Lysander's seventeen hundred tons of timbers and spars, artillery and men creaked and groaned to the pressure of a rising north-westerly wind.

He had to forcibly restrain himself from peering from one or other of the quarter windows to see how the rest of his squadron were getting on with preparations for weighing. He heard occasional shouts and the thump of bare feet as seamen raced in all directions to complete last minute tasks, and he could picture Herrick as he, too, fretted over each delay. It was all Bolitho could do to leave Herrick alone on the quarterdeck.

As a captain, Bolitho had been made to take his ships to sea in every sort of condition. From a lively sloop to the towering three-decker Euryalus in which he had been flag captain he had experienced the anxious moments before the anchor broke from the sea bed.

For Herrick it would be much the same, if not worse. To look at a captain on his own quarterdeck, remote and aloof from the bustle and confusion all around him, protected from criticism by his authority and his gleaming epaulettes, any idler might think he was beyond ordinary fears and feelings.

Bolitho had thought much in that way when he had been a junior lieutenant, or for that matter a midshipman. A captain had been a sort of god. He had lived an unreachable existence beyond his cabin bulkhead, and had but to scowl to have every officer and seaman quaking.

But now, like Herrick, he knew differently. The greater the responsibility the greater the honour. Equally, you had further to fall from grace if things went badly.

Allday came into the cabin and rubbed his large hands. There were droplets of spray on his blue jacket, and he had a kind of wildness in his eyes. He too, was feeling it. Eager to quit the land again. Like a hunter who goes to pit his strength against the unknown. Needing to do it, but never knowing if each time was the last.

The coxswain grinned. 'They're doing well, sir. I've just been up to the boat tier to watch over your barge. There's a fair breeze from the nor'-west. The squadron will make a goodly sight when we beat clear of the Rock.'

Bolitho tensed, his head to one side as something clattered and dragged along the deck above. A voice bellowed harshly, 'Belay that line, you bugger!'

He bit his lip, imagining all manner of things going wrong.

Allday watched him thoughtfully. 'Cap'n Herrick will see us clear, sir.'

'I know.' He nodded as if to seal the conviction. 'I know.'

'He'll not be wanting to let you down.'

Allday removed the sword from its rack on the bulkhead and waited for Bolitho to lift his arms while he buckled it round his waist.

He said softly, 'Same old sword, sir.' He touched the worn hilt. 'We've come a few leagues together.'

Bolitho looked at him gravely. 'Aye.' He let his fingers run over the sword's guard. 'And I dare say it will outlast the both of us.'

Allday grinned hugely. 'That's better, sir! You sound just like a flag officer!'

The door opened silently and Herrick stepped into the cabin, his hat under one arm.

'The squadron is ready to weigh, sir.' He sounded very calm. 'Anchors hove short.'

'Very well, Captain Herrick.' He kept his tone formal. ‘I will come up directly.'

Herrick hurried out and his footsteps could be heard clattering quickly up the ladder to the poop above the stern cabin. He would be taking into account the position of other shipping, which mercifully was sparse. The strength of the wind and the nearness of shoals. He would be aware that there were more eyes than Bolitho's on him this forenoon. The other captains who had appeared so relaxed and jovial

Bolitho said quietly, 'I am ready, Allday.'

Allday hung back below the cabin skylight and gestured above him. 'Up there, sir.'

Bolitho stood beside him and stared up towards the black mass of rigging, and beyond it to the towering main mast with its whipping broad pendant at the truck.

'Yes, I see it.'

Allday studied him gravely. 'That pendant is yours by right, sir. There's many watching it this day who'd have it off you if they had the chance. But while it flies, they will obey. So leave the worrying to others, sir. You've got fatter fish to cook.'

Bolitho faced him with surprise. 'Admiral Beauchamp said much the same. If not in the same words, then in the same sense.' He slapped Allday's arm. 'And thank you.'

As he strode beneath the poop and out past the big double wheel he was very conscious of the watching men all around him. Once on the quarterdeck, with the wind throwing beads of spray above the netdngs and gangway, he saw the press of figures at halliards and braces, the scarlet coats of the marines in the afterguard where they waited to add their weight to that of the seamen.

'Attention on the quarterdeck!'

That would be Gilchrist, the first lieutenant, and Herrick's right hand man. Tall and lean like a bean pole, with a permanent frown, he looked much like a disapproving schoolmaster.

Beyond him were some of the lieutenants, the midshipman of the watch and numerous other nameless faces.

Bolitho touched his hat to the deck at large, comparing, despite his determination to avoid it, all this with what he had known and loved as a captain. He would have made certain that he had met and memorised the features and name of every officer aboard just as soon as was possible. The first lieutenant especially. He glanced at Herrick's stocky figure by the quarterdeck rail and wondered if he, too, was making a comparison.

A voice at Bolitho's elbow said thickly, 'A fine day, sir, if I may make so bold.'

Bolitho turned and saw a broad, red-faced lump of a man who seemed to fill the space of three. Not so much in height but in beam and depth, he stood with his fat legs straddled as if for a sudden gale, his heavy, mournful features studying Bolitho with unmasked curiosity.

He added, 'I'm Grubb, sir. Sailing master.'

Bolitho smiled. 'Thank you, Mr. Grubb.'

He should have known. There had been many tales lingering in the ship about Ben Grubb, Lysander's master at St. Vincent. He had, it was said, played on a tin whistle as the seventy-four had nudged through the enemy formation and after the marine drummer boys had been cut down by grape-shot.

He looked over Grubb's vast untidy shape and decided it was probably true. He was an odd mixture. His features were like the rest of him. Wrecked by countless winds and storms, the damage well aided by heavy drinking. There was something rather fearsome about him, too. And from now on he would be one of the most valuable men in the squadron.

Grubb took a watch the size of an apple from one pocket and examined it before saying, ' 'Bout now, I'd suggest, sir.'

Bolitho nodded and turned towards Herrick. He saw Pascoe and one of the midshipmen ready and waiting with the signal party, a petty officer writing on his slate.

'Very well, Captain. We will get the squadron under way, if you please.'

He made himself walk slowly across the littered deck, trying not to look down at the various blocks and tackles which the quarterdeck division had been preparing since dawn. It would be a splendid sight for the Lysander's people to see him catch his toe and pitch headlong amongst them. Strangely enough, the dreadful picture helped to steady him, and he was able to concentrate on the other ships as one by one the flags soared up to the yards to acknowledge Herrick's signal 'Up anchor'.

He heard a midshipman call, 'All acknowledged, sir!'

Then Pascoe's voice, quivering slightly to betray his own excitement. 'Stand by on the quarterdeck!'

Gilchrist's feet thudded across the planking, and even through his speaking trumpet his tone was disapproving.

'Mr. Yeo, have more hands put to the capstan bars! I want no delays!'

Bolitho did not turn. Yeo was the boatswain. He would meet him in due course. He saw the little Harebell rolling drunkenly, her yards alive with busy seamen. Her cable was up and down, and he thought he saw Inch's scarecrow figure by the quarterdeck rail, one arm pointing across the countless white cat's-paws which moved down with the wind and turned the anchorage into a miniature sea.

Bolitho took a telescope from the midshipman of the watch. As he trained it towards the other two-deckers he asked, 'And what is your name?'

The midshipman was staring at him, almost transfixed.

'Saxby, sir.'

Bolitho watched the seamen dashing aft along Nicator's gangways. Saxby was about thirteen. Round-faced and innocent looking. His otherwise pleasant appearance was spoiled when he opened his mouth as both his front teeth were missing.

He steadied the glass and shut Gilchrist's metallic voice from his mind. It was all taking far too long. Caution was one thing. This amounted to a nervous crawl.

He snapped, 'There is some delay, Captain Herrick.'

'Sir?' Herrick sounded off guard.

'Execute the signal, if you please.' He hated doing it, but there was more at stake than personal feelings.

He heard the bark of orders, the muffled shouts of the topmen as they clawed along the vibrating yards.

Then, as the signal was hauled down at the rush, the cry echoed aft from the forecastle, 'Anchor's aweighl'

Lysander's broad hull dipped heavily to one side, as with her anchor swinging free and the wind already banging and thundering in her released topsails she started to swing down across the choppy wavelets.

'Man the braces there 1'

Feet skidded on damp planking, and more men ran wildly from the capstan to lend a hand.

One by one, the three ships of the line went about like ponderous beasts, while further to seaward the frigate Buzzard and Inch's sloop were already spreading more sail to stand clear of their big consorts.

Somebody cried out sharply, and Bolitho heard the crack of a starter across a man's naked back.

High above the deck the topmen were racing each other in their efforts to beat the rest of the squadron as Herrick shouted, 'Get the forecourse on her, Mr. Gilchrist!' He added sternly, 'And tell that bosun's mate to be less free with his rope's-end, or I will know the reason!'

Bolitho walked to the opposite side and watched as Osiris tacked heavily astern of the Nicator. She made a fine sight. Her topsails set and hard-bellied to the wind, she was heeling so steeply that her bow wave was almost up to the lower gun ports. Her forecourse and then mainsail flapped and then filled as one, so that in the hard sunlight they looked like white metal.

He said, 'Nicator is falling astern. Signal her to make more sail.'

It might be that Captain Probyn was too busy to notice that his ship was already badly out of line with the other seventy-fours. Equally, he could be testing his commodore's mettle and powers of observation.

The signal midshipman called, 'Nicator's acknowledged, sir.'

Probyn's topmen were already setting the fore topgallant sail. It was just a bit too quick, Bolitho decided. Probyn was testing him.

Grubb was peering at the sails overhead, the compass and his helmsmen, and all without apparently shifting a muscle. Only his eyes moved, swivelling up and down, forward and abeam, like lanterns in a rough scarlet cliff.

Within an hour the squadron was free of the approaches, the three ships of the line making a proud sight under reduced canvas as they stood clear of the land. To leeward, their pyramids of pale canvas already blurred in haze, Buzzard and Harebell tacked busily under all possible sail to take station well ahead of their commodore.

Herrick called, 'Very well, Mr. Grubb. Steer east-sou'-east.'

Then he crossed to the nettings where Bolitho stood with one foot on the truck of a quarterdeck nine-pounder.

Bolitho looked at him and gave a quiet smile. 'Well, Thomas, how does it feel now ?'

Herrick's face lost some of its lines. It was like seeing a cloud moving away, Bolitho thought.

Herrick replied, 'Better, sir.' He let out a deep breath. 'A whole span better!'

Bolitho shaded his eyes to look towards the land. There were probably couriers already galloping along a coast road even at this very minute. But there was no point, in slipping like poachers through the Gibraltar Strait under cover of darkness. He had his orders, but the Earl of St. Vincent had made it very clear it was up to him how he interpreted and executed them. It would do no harm for the enemy to know a British force was once more abroad in the Mediterranean.

He let his gaze move up to the masthead, to the big dovetailed flag which was now as stiff as a plank in the steady wind. His flag.

He looked along the crowded decks at the scurrying seamen, the great coils of rope and lashings which to any landsman would seem like a hopeless tangle. And still further to the beakhead, beneath which he could just see one of the Spartan general's massive shoulders. Inch's sloop was a mere sliver of white against the horizon haze, leading the squadron. He smiled to himself. As he had once done in his own first command at the Chesapeake. Another ship. Another war.

Herrick asked, 'Do you have any instructions, sir ?'

He looked at him, seeing Pascoe watching from the lee rail, one hand on his hip.

'The ship is yours, Thomas.' He made to turn away and added, 'What did you have in mind ?'

'I should like to exercise the gun crews.' Herrick tried to relax. 'I am satisfied with the sail drill at present.'

Bolitho smiled. 'So be it.'

He realised that Gilchrist was hovering close by and added, ‘I will be in my cabin.'

As he walked towards the wheel he heard Gilchrist say coldly, 'I have two men for punishment. Slackness on duty, and insolent to a bosun's mate.'

Bolitho hesitated. Floggings at this early stage would be bad enough under any conditions. With the little squadron standing out to sea where almost any sail might be a Frenchman or a Spaniard, it was hardly in keeping with their proud mission.

He heard Herrick say something and Gilchrist's quick retort, 'His word is good enough for me, sir!'

Bolitho strode aft beneath the thick deck beams. He must not interfere.

He passed the marine sentry by his cabin door and frowned. Not yet, anyway.

*

A full day after leaving Gibraltar the promise of a fast passage to the Gulf of Lions received a setback. Perverse as ever, the wind dropped away to a faint breeze, so that even with all available canvas set to her yards the Lysander was barely able to command three knots.

The squadron was scattered from its original formation, and each of the two-deckers moved with little enthusiasm above her own perfect reflection.

Bolitho had sent the frigate to scout far ahead of the main force, and as he paced restlessly back and forth across the poop deck he was thankful for taking that one small precaution. Captain Javal would be able to take advantage of the inshore winds, and it was to be hoped he would use them to some purpose. He smiled despite his impatience. Both he and Farquhar were still frigate captains at heart, and the thought of Javal's freedom, out of reach from any signal, was enough to rouse the envy of a man tied to a ponderous seventy-four.

He heard Herrick speaking with his first lieutenant and thought suddenly of the flogging on the previous afternoon. The usual brutal ritual of administering punishment had aroused little excitement amongst the assembled company. But as Bolitho had watched from the poop as Herrick had read briefly from the Articles of War he had imagined he had seen something like triumph on Lieutenant Gilchrist's narrow face.

He had expected Herrick to take Gilchrist aside and warn him of the dangers of unnecessary punishment. God alone knew that the penalties for thoughtless hardship could be harsher than the actual event. The mutinies at Spithead and the Nore should have been warning enough even for a blind man.

But as he paused to glance down at the quarterdeck he could see little between the two officers other than what you might expect under normal circumstances.

Gilchrist touched his hat and then walked forward along the weather gangway, his shoes clicking on the planking as he strode in the strange bouncing manner which Bolitho had already noticed.

After a moment he ran lightly down the larboard ladder and joined Herrick at the weather nettings.

He said, 'A snail's pace. I wish to heaven we could find that wind again.'

Herrick watched him warily. 'Lysander's copper is clean, sir. And I have checked each sail myself and there is nothing we could do to gain even half a knot.'

Bolitho turned, surprised at his tone. "That was not a criticism, Thomas. I know a captain can do many things, but controlling the elements is not one of them.'

Herrick forced a smile. ‘I am sorry, sir. But I have been feeling it badly. So much is expected of us. If we fail before we have begun . . .' He shrugged. 'A whole fleet may suffer later.'

Bolitho stood up on some bollards and steadied himself against the nettings while he peered across the quarter to where Nicator was steering lethargically on the same larboard tack. Her topsails were barely filling, and her masthead pendant lifted only occasionally against the empty sky.

Of the land there was no sign, although the lookouts, clinging like tiny monkeys high above the deck, would be able to see it as a purple blur. The southern shore of Spain. He shivered in spite of the clammy heat, remembering the other times he had come this way. He wondered why Herrick was being so evasive. It was so unlike him to concern himself with what might happen because of 'maybes'. Again that nagging doubt. Was it because he was feeling his responsibility as too heavy a burden?

He said without turning, 'Your senior, Thomas. What do you know of him ?'

Herrick sounded guarded. 'Mr. Gilchrist? He's competent in his duties. He was in Lysander as second lieutenant when she fought at St. Vincent.'

Bolitho bit his lip. He was angry with himself for being unable to hold his silence for more than a day at sea. More than that, he was hurt in a way he could not explain. Thomas Herrick was a friend, and over the years when they had fought and almost died in one battle after another, had endured thirst and fever, fear and despair, he had never felt such a gulf between them.

He said, 'I did not ask about his appointments!' He had not meant it to sound so blunt. 'I want to know about the man? 'I have no complaints, sir. He is a good seaman.' 'And that is enough ?'

'It has to be, sir.' Herrick was watching him with something like desperation. 'It's all I know.'

Bolitho stepped down and took out his watch. 'I see.'

'Look here, sir.' Herrick moved his hands vaguely. 'Things change. As change they must. I feel so marooned from my ship and people. Whenever I try to rouse the old style of things I become entangled with the affairs of the squadron. Most of my wardroom are young lieutenants, and some have never heard a gun fired in anger. Young Pascoe, the most junior lieutenant aboard, has seen more action than they have.' He was speaking quickly, unable to check the sudden flow of words. 'I've excellent warrant officers, some of the best I've sailed with. But you know how it is, sir, the word has to come from aft, it must!’

Bolitho studied him impassively. He wanted to take Herrick aside. To the cabin or a place beyond the scope of watching eyes. To tell him he understood. But then their roles would be as before. Bolitho thinking of a ship's routine and crowded world between decks and Herrick waiting to put his thoughts into deeds like the excellent subordinate he had always been.

He made himself say, 'Yes, it must be so. A ship relies on her captain. As I do.' Herrick sighed. 'I had to speak - '

Bolitho added slowly, 'I did not agree to your appointment because of our friendship. But because I thought you were the most fitting man for the task.' He saw his words hitting Herrick's face like blows and continued, 'I have not changed my mind about that.'

From the corner of his eye he saw the master's vast bulk surrounded by serious-faced midshipmen as they gathered for the noon ritual of using their sextants to estimate the ship's position. By the rail Lieutenant Fitz-Clarence, the officer of the watch, was making a convincing show of studying the men working above on the main yard, but the stiffness of his shoulders betrayed that he was also trying to hear what his two superiors were discussing.

Bolitho said, 'So let's have no more gloom, eh? There'll be enough to fret about if we close with an enemy. That has not changed either.'

Herrick stepped back a pace. 'Aye, sir.' His face was grim. 'I am sorry if I disappoint you.' He watched as Bolitho returned to the poop ladder before saying quietly, 'I will endeavour not to do so again.'

Bolitho strode right aft to the taffrail and clasped the gilded scrollwork with sudden despair. Try as he might he seemed unable to meet Herrick, to cross the bridge between them.

'Deck thar!' The lookout's hoarse cry made him start. 'Harebell's signallin'!'

Bolitho hurried to the poop rail and checked himself, fretting until Fitz-Clarence, L.ysander's second lieutenant, came out of his thoughts to shout, 'Aloft with your glass, Mr. Faulkner! I want that signal, and I want it now!’

The midshipman of the watch, who seconds earlier had been drowsing by the nettings, congratulating himself on being spared Mr. Grubb's formidable instruction in the intricacies of navigation, fled to the lee shrouds and began to climb rapidly towards the maintop. .

Fitz-Clarence surveyed his progress, hands on hips, his elegant head thrown back as if he expected the midshipman to slip and fall. The lieutenant seemed to like striking poses. He was very smart, even dapper, and what he lacked in height he obviously tried to replace with a constant show of authority.

Herrick stood by his elbow, hands behind him. Bolitho noticed that the hands were clasping and unclasping, making a lie of his outward calm.

Eventually the boy's shrill voice floated down to them. 'From Harebell, sir! Buzzard in sight to the nor'-east!'

Bolitho thrust his hands into his pockets, his fingers gripping his watch to steady his sudden anxiety.'

Captain Javal was retracing his course to rejoin the squadron. He must have sighted something either too powerful to deal with or to warn his commodore that the enemy were even now giving chase.

He saw Herrick hurry to the ladder, and seconds later he joined him at the rail.

Bolitho said, 'Signal the squadron to close on the flagship. We will shorten sail directly to make their task easier.'

Herrick stared astern, his gaze very clear in the reflected glare. He said with surprising bitterness, 'Osiris is already gaining, sir. Captain Farquhar must have eyes like a cat.'

Bolitho watched him in silence. Reading Herrick's mind as if he had shouted it aloud. He knew that if Farquhar was here as flag captain there would have been no hesitation. No need for the commodore to suggest the obvious.

Herrick touched his hat and returned to the ladder. But Gilchrist was already on the quarterdeck, his speaking trumpet in his hand as he snapped, 'Bosun's mate!, Pipe all hands to shorten sail! Take the name of the last man aloft!'

He turned to look at Herrick, adding, 'Council of war, sir ?' It sounded like a challenge.

Herrick nodded. 'Aye, Mr. Gilchrist.' He hesitated. 'Captains repair on board.'

Bolitho looked away, realising that he had been willing Herrick to speak out. To silence Gilchrist's arrogance once and for all.

The hands came hurrying from their work above and below in answer to the shrill of calls, barely glancing round as they ran to their stations for shortening sail. Bolitho saw Pascoe buttoning his coat as he followed his own men to the quarterdeck, touching his hat to Gilchrist, who responded with, 'Take a firm hand of your people, Mr. Pascoe.'

Pascoe looked at him questioningly, his eyes flashing in the sunlight. Then he nodded. 'I will, sir.'

'By heaven you will indeed!' Gilchrist's voice made several seamen pause to stare. 'I'll have no favourites in my ship!'

Pascoe glanced briefly at Bolitho on the poop and then turned on his heel, his seamen closing around him like a protective barrier. Bolitho looked at Herrick. But he was on the weather side, withdrawn from all of them.

He relaxed very slowly. Gilchrist had made his play openly but too soon. He had displayed to his commodore that he would expect to be upheld by him even against his own nephew. Gilchrist was a remarkable man. There was a lot more to him than Herrick recognised or understood. No mere lieutenant would dare to speak as he had done at such short acquaintance. No amount of personal influence could save a lieutenant from a flag officer, even a mere commodore, should the latter choose to use his authority to his own ends. He had never sailed with Gilchrist before, nor had he even met him. But Lysander's first lieutenant knew a great deal about him, nonetheless. Knew enough to understand that Bolitho would never use personal ties to show favouritism. But for what purpose ?

He walked to the opposite side of the deck, feeling the sudden heat on his face as the great maincourse was brailed up to the yard, allowing the glare to enfold the deck like a dying fire.

And from whom was Gilchrist drawing such confidence? He turned to watch the other two-deckers, overhauling steadily, and moving into a short, uneven line. Farquhar? Was he so eager for promotion that he had gained an ally for just that reason ? He certainly had both influence and the funds to tempt a man. Or was it Probyn ? From what he had seen of that one it seemed unlikely. He was lucky to hold a command in this squadron at all, let alone risk his good name for spite. He thought of Herrick. Impossible.

Allday appeared on the poop deck and touched his forehead.

'It'll be an hour or so afore Buzzard's up to the squadron, sir.' He looked meaningly at the open skylight. 'Your servant has cooled some wine in the bilge for you.'

Bolitho hardly heard him.

'I hope Javal brings us good news.'

Allday studied him, momentarily taken aback. It was not like Bolitho to speak so openly about his thoughts. He must be worried about something. To Allday it seemed impossible that Bolitho should be troubled about the squadron's affairs, for in his eyes he could do almost anything. Nor about the dark-eyed Catherine Pareja back there in London. There had been talk in plenty, but that had probably been born of envy, he thought. God knows she was a fine looking woman and did not give a damn for what people might say about such 'goings-on'. One thing was certain, she was responsible for Bolitho's recovery from his wound after their last visit to this sea. But that was over and past. It was unlikely they would meet again.

So what then? Lieutenant Pascoe? He grinned. He was a lively young devil. Very like his uncle, and the same as some of the faces in the portraits Allday had seen at the old house in Falmouth.

He started as Bolitho said sharply, "The wine will be red-hot by the time you have decided to stand clear of the companion way!'

Allday stood aside feeling slightly better. He waited until he heard Bolitho speaking with Ozzard, the cabin servant, through the open skylight, and then sauntered down to the quarterdeck where the afterguard were still busily making up halliards and securing the braces after trimming the sails.

Pascoe looked up as he passed. 'You look like a dog with two tails!'

Allday grinned. 'Now then, Mr. Pascoe, it's not fair to take advantage of a poor sailorman!'

Pascoe shook his head. 'Advantage of you} When that day comes Bonaparte will be crowned King of England !'

Gilchrist's shadow fell between them.

'I believe that you have been given extra duties, Mr. Pascoe ?' He stared at him flatly. 'By the captain?'

'Yes, sir.' Pascoe regarded him without expression.

'Then be so good as to get on with your tasks, Mr. Pascoe.' He glanced at Allday. 'And not waste time with the commodore's coxswain.' He tapped one foot gently on the deck. 'A good seaman no doubt, but hardly fitting company for a King's officer, eh ?'

Allday saw the sudden flash of anger in the youth's eyes and said hastily, 'My fault, sir.'

Gilchrist's mouth twisted very slightly. 'Really. I do not recall asking for the opinion of a common seaman. I am not accustomed to passing the time with - '

They all turned as Bolitho appeared beside the wheel.

He said harshly, 'In that case, Mr. Gilchrist, I would be obliged if you would take a glance at the weather forebrace and attend to it, instead of, what was it you said ? Passing the time in idle gossip!'

Gilchrist opened and shut his mouth like a landed fish. Then he said, 'At once, sir.'

Herrick appeared by the rail. 'Is something wrong, sir?'

Bolitho looked past them, his eyes angry. 'Very, Captain. And when I discover what it is I will be glad to let you know.' He glared at the others. 'All of you!'

*

Bolitho stood beside the cabin table as Javal leaned across it. The other captains waited in silence, their bodies swaying while Lysander lifted and dipped heavily in irregular troughs.

Javal explained, 'Sighted her at first light, sir.' His tanned fingers cradled the Spanish coastline as if to trap what he had seen. 'Small vessel. Schooner most like.' He glanced calmly at Bolitho, his greasy hair still showing droplets of spray as evidence of the haste with which he had been pulled to the flagship by his boat's crew. 'I expect her master took sight of Buzzard and thought prudence to be more use than valour.'

Farquhar did not try to hide his disappointment. 'A schooner, you say ? God damn it, Javal, I'd hardly think it proper to run for the squadron because of a mere toy!'

Javal ignored him, his dark eyes still on Bolitho. 'I have good men for lookouts. I reward 'em from my pocket if they do their work to my satisfaction. I find that more profitable than flogging 'em for failing in their vigilance.' His eyes seemed to flicker towards Osiris's captain. 'Unlike some.'

Herrick stepped nearer, as if to stop a flare-up of tempers. "Then tell us, Javal. My sailing master assures me that a wind is close by, and I've little room for passengers. Especially the squadron's captains.'

Javal showed his teeth. Like the man, they were jagged.

'She was running with the wind and had all canvas spread. Yet she was making precious little headway.' He looked at Bolitho. 'Strange for a Mediterranean schooner, I'd have thought, sir?'

Bolitho leaned above the chart, his mind going back and forth over Javal's report. With Buzzard and Harebell sweeping ahead and to windward of the squadron it was unlikely they would have failed to sight the schooner had she overreached them along the coast.

He saw Javal's strong fingers touch a point on the chart. Almost to himself he said, 'Out of Malaga, you think ?'

Javal nodded. 'Almost certain, sir. And heading to the east'rd. In my opinion she'll remain at anchor here' he tapped the chart again, 'until nightfall, or such time as she believes her way is safe.'

Bolitho walked quickly to the stern windows and watched the slow caress of wind over the blue water. Here and there, just the merest dab of white foam. Grubb was right. The wind was returning as he had prophesied.

Captain Probyn said thickly, 'This damn schooner might be anything at all. Or nothing. I agree with Farquhar, there's no point in -'

He turned as Farquhar strode to Bolitho's side, his handsome features suddenly eager.

'I think there is a point after all.' Farquhar watched Bolitho's profile. 'The Dons have an arsenal at Malaga, I believe? A great foundry for artillery?'

Bolitho smiled slightly, his eyes searching. 'Yes. I could be mistaken, as could Captain Javal's lookouts, but a coastal schooner makes good speed, unless well laden.'

He returned to the table, the others crowding on either side of him.

'The Dons will wish to show their ally they can help in any future campaign against us. Bonaparte needs armaments of every kind, and the waters around Malaga dictate that small ships be used to carry just such weapons.' He straightened his shoulders, feeling the wound beneath his coat like a burn. 'It is a small beginning, but it is sooner than I had hoped. We will close the land at dusk and cut her out. At best we may gain information. At worst will seize another vessel for the squadron, eh ?' He could not contain his smile of excitement. It was like a tonic. 'Does anyone not agree ?'

Probyn shook. his head, his features still brooding over Farquhar's change of heart.

Javal said, 'I know the bay where she is anchored.' He was thinking aloud. 'After dark we should be able to take her with little trouble.'

Bolitho could sense them waiting for his next words.

He said, 'You will take charge, Captain Javal. I will make a signal to Harebell to assume your duties until this affair is settled.' He looked at Herrick. 'I will transfer to Buzzard with some of our own people, say twenty or so good hands. Seamen, not marines. I want no boots and bayonets for this venture.' He smiled at Javal. 'I trust you will agree to that?'

Javal gave a wolfish grin. ' Willingly!'

Herrick asked quietly, 'And the squadron, sir?'

1 will give you your orders.' He said it deliberately, excluding the others. Showing Probyn and Farquhar where his trust lay. 'You can stand closer inshore tomorrow, if you feel it prudent. It not, we will make a rendezvous to fit in with Captain Javal's plan of attack.'

He glanced quickly around their faces. Farquhar, cool and expressionless. But his fingers tapping a little tattoo on the table betrayed his true feelings. Thinking perhaps that he could do the work better than Javal. Better than Herrick.

Probyn, his heavy face lined with doubt, watching Javal as if to discover something. Considering maybe the extent of Javal's prize money if he succeeded in taking the schooner, or what would become of the squadron if Buzzard and the commodore came to grief.

And Herrick? He was never any use at hiding his doubts. His face was set with worry, his eyes almost hidden in a frown as he peered at the chart, seeing perhaps the whole venture laid in bloody ruins.

There was no such anxiety troubling Javal.

'Then I suggest we make a start, sir.' He rubbed his hands. 'Or the bird may quit the coop.'

If he was feeling any dismay at being accompanied by his commodore he was concealing it admirably, Bolitho thought.

He replied, 'Yes. Return to your ships. My flag captain will make known the final orders by signal.' He lowered his voice. 'I wish to make one thing clear. The squadron will stay together. I want no foolhardy risks taken, but if an opportunity presents itself I want no hesitation either.'

They hurried from the cabin and he added slowly, 'Pass the word, Thomas. Some volunteers and a boat to ferry them to Buzzard without delay. Send Allday to manage it, if you will.' He looked up, seeing the same wretchedness on Herrick's face. 'Well?'

Herrick said, 'Must you go, sir? Let me take charge of the attack.'

Bolitho watched him. He was more afraid of controlling the squadron than he was of the raid. Of being killed even.

'No. Javal is a hard man. And two captains in one ship are never close to success. Rest easy, man, I have no wish to end up dead, or rotting in a Spanish prison. But we must make a beginning. Show our people that we can lead as well as we can command their daily lives.' He reached out impetuously and touched his arm. It was as stiff as a teak rail. 'It applies to the pair of us, as well you know.'

Herrick gave a deep sigh. 'I tell myself that I must never be surprised at your ideas. Ever since I can recall -' He shook himself. 'I will pass the word to Allday at once.' He swung round, his sudden determination making him appear almost pathetic. 'But I'll be greatly pleased to see you back inboard again

Bolitho smiled and walked to his sleeping compartment and the big chest in which he kept a pair of pistols. As he knelt over the lid he felt the ship tilting more readily to the wind, the urgent clatter of blocks and rigging to betray its growing power. He looked up, seeing himself in the small cabin mirror, the unruly lock of black hair above his right eye. He grimaced sadly, touching the deep scar which was partly hidden beneath the lock. An early reminder of what could happen in a split second. Like the dull ache in his shoulder. The small step between life and oblivion.

Allday clattered into the adjoining cabin, the hilt of his cutlass glinting under his blue jacket.

'Party ready, sir.' He was already reaching up for Bolitho's sword. 'All fighting Jacks!' He grinned. 'Picked 'em myself.'

Bolitho let him buckle his sword around his waist. He asked mildly, 'Were they not volunteers?'

The big coxswain grinned all the broader. 'Of course, sir. After I told 'em my point of view, so to speak.'

Bolitho shook his head and strode out of the cabin without looking back.

A cutter was pitching and creaking at the main chains, and the picked seamen were crowded amongst their weapons and the hands at the oars in an untidy mass.

Bolitho glanced around the quarterdeck and at the men who were already at the braces and along the yards overhead preparing to make more sail once the cutter had returned.

Herrick stood with the side party at the entry port, his features composed again.

Bolitho was about to reassure him, to tell him to take good care of the ship in his absence. But Lysander was Herrick's ship, not his.

Instead he said lightly, 'Until we meet again, Captain Herrick.'

Then he swung himself out of the port towards the waiting boat.

By the time he had reached the stern-sheets and regained his breath the cutter was clear of the ship's side, the oars losing their confusion and falling into a slow rhythm across the choppy water.

It was then Bolitho realised that Pascoe was also in the boat, his dark eyes alight with excitement as he waved to someone on the two-decker's gangway.

Allday hissed angrily, ‘I knew you'd want him left on board, sir. No sense in putting all the eggs in one basket, so to speak.' He hid his face from the oarsmen. 'It was Mr. Gilchrist who gave the order.'

Bolitho nodded. If he had harboured any doubts about Herrick's first lieutenant, they were gone now. By ordering Pascoe into the cutting-out party he had achieved two things. He could say that Bolitho was taking his nephew as an act of favouritism. He would share fully in any glory if the attack was successful. And if it was not? He looked at the youth, seeing his excitement as he had once known it at eighteen years. If that happened, then Allday's comment would be only too true.

He stared across Pascoe's shoulder and watched the frigate's masts spiralling and swaying in the wind.

Pascoe said brightly, 'By God, I'd like to command a ship like Buzzard!’ He saw Bolitho's expression and added, 'One day, sir.'

Bolitho said, 'We will deal with this business first, Mr. Pascoe.' He smiled. 'But I understand your feelings.'

Allday fingered his cutlass and looked from one to the other. Now he had two to watch over. He frowned as the boat's coxswain failed in his first attempt to steer under the frigate's lee chains. And if anything happened to either of them he would settle Lieutenant bloody Gilchrist's hash for him no matter what.

The last seaman had barely scrambled aboard when Javal shouted, 'Hands aloft and get the ship under way, Mr. Mears 1 We've a lot of distance to cover before nightfall!'

He looked at Bolitho and doffed his hat. 'You are most welcome, sir. Though I fear you may find my quarters a mite cramped.'

Bolitho returned his smile and replied evenly, 'I have commanded three such vessels in my time, Captain Javal, but thank you for the reminder.'

Allday glanced down as Pascoe nudged him in the ribs.

Pascoe murmured quietly, 'I think my uncle made his point very well, don't you?'

Allday grinned, suddenly reassured.

'And that's no error, Mr. Pascoe!'

3

Alone

Under topsails and jib the thirty-two gun frigate Buzzard stood close-hauled on the larboard tack, her yards braced round so tightly that from the deck they appeared almost fore and aft.

Bolitho gripped the hammock nettings and strained his eyes through the gloom. The light had gone suddenly, as was natural in these waters, and he was conscious of the muttering between Buzzard’s master and her first lieutenant as they peered at the compass or inspected the set of each flapping sail.

Javal seemed confident enough and content to leave the navigation to his subordinates. Like him they were well-used, a trained and self-reliant team. There was nothing false about Javal, and no trimmings in his quarters, which for a successful frigate captain were spartan. The cabin furniture consisted mostly of heavy chests, scattered about and within easy reach when required.

Javal joined him, his eyes screwed up against the spray which spattered above the nettings with each steep roll.

He said, 'The coast is about a mile or so on the larboard bow, sir. If am to weather the headland I'll have to stand clear very soon or come about for another approach. I wanted a wind, but this one blows too merrily for my liking.' He pulled a stone bottle from his coat. 'A drink, sir ? A warming swallow of Hollands will do you good.'

There was no offer of cup or goblet, so Bolitho held the fat bottle to his lips, feeling the gin running down his tongue like fire.

Javal remarked offhandedly, 'Took quite a few bottles off a blockade-runner last August in the Channel. Better than._ nothing.' He swung round, his voice harsh. 'Watch your helm, damn your eyes! You'll have us in irons before the nest hour!'

Bolitho smiled. That sudden spark of anxious rage had shown that Javal was more human than he wished him to believe. It was never easy to close a little known shore in the dark. Harder still with a senior officer breathing down your neck.

He replied, 'I agree.'

Javal said, 'I'm putting my first lieutenant in charge. The launch and the cutter should suffice, but in case there is a chance of a hue and cry being carried inshore to some Spanish garrison, I'd suggest a small landing party below the headland.' He hesitated. 'Your lieutenant perhaps ?'

"Very well.' Bolitho looked across the blurred procession of white-capped waves. 'Mr. Pascoe is young, but has seen action enough.'

Javal studied him curiously. 'I will attend to it.'

He hurried away barking out orders to the already assembled seamen. Blocks squeaked noisily and the boats began to move above the tier, the hands guiding them without effort, as if it was all in broad daylight.

Bolitho tried not to listen to the clatter of weapons, the occasional hesitation as a man failed to answer his name on a check list.

Allday loomed out of the darkness and said, 'It'll be a hard pull in this wind, sir.' He seemed to sense something. 'Can I help?'

Javal strode past. 'We will heave-to, if you please!' In a louder tone he called, 'Mr. Mears! Stand by to lower boats!'

Bolitho said swiftly, 'Go with Mr. Pascoe. He will take the jolly boat.'

Allday understood but replied awkwardly, 'But my place is with — ' He grinned. 'But you are right, sir.'

Bolitho saw the gleam of white breeches against the opposite bulwark and heard Pascoe say, 'I'm going now, sir.'

Bolitho moved to his side. 'See you take care, Adam.' He tried to make light of it. 'Your aunt would never forgive me if anything happened.'

Pascoe turned his head as some seamen dashed past, their chequered shirts very pale and stark.

'I must go, sir.'

Bolitho stood aside. 'Good luck.'

Moments after the frigate had laboured round into the wind, her remaining sails booming in confusion, the three boats were in the water alongside, and then soon pulling away towards the land.

Javal rubbed his hands. 'Bring her about and steer sou'-east by east, Mr. Ellis. And put two good hands in the chains just to be sure we do not gut the keel out of her!'

He crossed to Bolitho's side and waited in silence until his ship was once more under command of wind and rudder. Then he said cheerfully, 'This is always the worst part. The waiting.'

Bolitho nodded, his ears trying to hold on to the swish and creak of oars. But they had gone, swallowed in the other sea noises.

He said, 'Aye. I'd prefer to be going with them.'

Javal laughed. 'God's teeth, sir! I wish to make the Navy my career for many years yet. What chance would there be of that if I allowed my commodore to be taken ?' It seemed to amuse him greatly.

Bolitho snapped, 'I dare say.'

Javal cleared his throat and said in a more sober tone, It will be all of four hours before we know anything, sir. My first lieutenant is very experienced. He has been with me for some eighteen months. He has cut out several such vessels without many losses to us.'

Bolitho nodded. 'I will use your cabin again, if I may. A short sleep will refresh me for tomorrow.'

He could almost hear the lie being thrown back in his face. Sleep? It would be easier to walk on water.

Javal watched him grope towards the cabin hatch and shrugged. Bolitho was probably worried about this first action under his overall command. Surely he would not be troubled at the thought of a man or two being, killed ? He reached for the stone bottle and shook it against his ear. It would help the hours to pass more quickly, he decided.

*

Bolitho felt his way to the glowing compass bowl and peered at the steeply tilting card. Buzzard's head was almost north-east.

The master said helpfully, 'Beg pardon, sir, but the wind 'as backed two points or so. An' some rain 'as bin fallin'.'

Bolitho nodded and walked forward, his body angled against the deck and the wet pressure of wind across the quarter. It would be dawn soon, and already he could see the nine-pounders on the gun deck standing out like black bars below the weather gangway:

Javal was by the quarterdeck rail, hatless, and with his hair whipping in the wind.

He said shortly, 'Nothing yet.' He looked at him briefly. 'Did you sleep well, sir ?'

Bolitho rested his hands on the rail, feeling the hull shivering and straining like a living thing. He had been unable to remain in the cabin a moment longer. The hours had been an eternity, and Javal's quarters like a damp, unsteady prison.

'A little, thank you.'

'Deck there! Land on th' weather bow!'

Javal snapped, 'Leadsmen to the chains again, Mr. Ellis! Lively now!' In a calmer voice he added, 'That will be the headland. We have clawed round in a mad circle during the night. With the damned wind backing on us, I feared we might be blown hard aground.'

Bolitho said, 'I see.'

He looked away, hiding his feelings from the other man. What had happened ? Where was a signal ? Any sign that the raid had been completed ?

Javal remarked, 'Mears should have fired a gun or a rocket.' Even he sounded uneasy. 'God damn it, we'll be too close inshore within the hour.'

Bolitho ignored him and tried to imagine what it was like beyond the dim shadow which the lookout had reported as land. If Lieutenant Mears and his boats had failed to take the schooner, or for some reason had been unable even to grapple with her, they would have to pull back to the Buzzard as best they could. In a stiff wind, and after a night at the oars, they would be in need of help, and quickly.

From forward came the cry, 'By th' mark seven!'

Javal said quietly, 'Jesus!'

The master called anxiously, 'It shallows fast hereabouts, sir!'

'I am aware of that fact, thank you!' Javal glared at him. 'Watch your helm!'

'By th' mark five!' The leadsman's chant sounded like a dirge.

Javal muttered, 'I will have to alter course to starboard, sir.' The words were being dragged from his throat.

Bolitho looked at him, noticing how the people and objects around the quarterdeck had assumed shape and reality in the first dull light.

He said briskly, 'Do your duty, Captain Javal.'

He turned away, sharing the other man's despair.

'Deep four!'

Bolitho thrust his hands behind his back and walked aft. The frigate was sailing in about twenty-four feet of water. It was only minutes before she ran her full length ashore. Over his shoulder he saw the land reaching out towards the bowsprit. Mocking him.

'Man the lee braces!' Feet scampered across the decks. 'Put up the helm!'

With a squeal of blocks the yards creaked ponderously above the decks, and as the wheel was hauled over and over Buzzard started to swing once again towards the open sea.

Javal said harshly, 'Steer due east. Lay her as close as you dare to the headland.'

'By th'mark ten!'

Bolitho watched the land as it started to slip past the forecastle, the faint marks of white at its foot where the wind drove the sea into beaches and small coves.

'Deck there! Sail on the weather bowl Comin' round the point!'

Javal sucked in air. 'Run out the larboard battery, Mr. Ellis!' He added sharply, 'Belay that order!' His face glowed faintly in a bright red flare which had just burst clear of the land. 'Stand by to shorten sail!' To Bolitho he exclaimed, 'The schooner, by God! Mears has taken her!'

Even without a glass Bolitho could see the low-hulled vessel thrusting away from the encroaching land, her great sails rising like wings above the choppy wavecrests. At her counter he saw the darker shapes of Buzzard's boats being towed astern, a lantern rising and dipping at her foremast to confirm the capture. Perhaps Mears feared that because of the delay, his failure to signal earlier, he might be met with a broadside rather than cheers.

Javal snapped, 'We will come about. Lay her on the starboard tack and steer sou' by west until we have more sea room.' He glanced at Bolitho by the nettings. 'You will wish to rejoin the squadron, sir ?'

'Yes.'

He walked clear of the busy seamen and marines as they ran to obey the pipe. It was over, and as far as he could tell, without a shot being fired. He found he was shaking badly. As if he had been there with them.

When Buzzard leaned steeply on her new tack Bolitho saw the schooner following suit, her lee bulwark almost awash. She was certainly deep laden.

He said abruptly, 'Heave-to at your discretion, Captain. Signal your lieutenant to close within hailing distance.'

Javal eyed him doubtfully. 'Aye, sir. If you say so.' He saw Bolitho's expression and said no more.

Bolitho walked slowly to the nettings, shutting out the sounds of the unexpected preparations to heave-to once again. He did not even hear the squeak of halliards as the signal flags ran up the yards and broke to the wind. He was watching the boats surging along under the schooner's stern. The jolly boat was not one of them.

*

Lieutenant Mears had no intention of shouting his news from the captured schooner's deck. While Bu^ard rolled heavily in short, steep waves he crossed the narrow gap between the two ships in his cutter, its sleek hull lifting and rearing like a dolphin until it was made fast to the frigate's chains.

In the stern cabin the sea's noises were muted, like surf booming in a long cave.

Bolitho kept his hands clasped behind him, his head lowered between the deck beams as Mears, still panting, told his story.

'We pulled under the headland as planned, sir. Then we separated. I took my boat direct for the schooner's seaward side, and Mr. Booth headed his around and under her bowsprit. There is no doubt that the schooner's master was expecting the weather to worsen and was anchoring for the

night. Our suspicion he had sighted Buzzard was ill-founded.' Bolitho asked quietly, 'And the jolly boat?' Mears rubbed his eyes. 'Your lieutenant was ordered to take it to the western side of the headland and beach it. If the Dons had tried to send for help from the land, Mr. Pascoe's party would have been able to intercept them.'

Javal snapped, 'You took your damn time, Toby.' The lieutenant shrugged limply. 'The first part went well. There was only an anchor watch, and they didn't even raise a shout until our fellows were amongst 'em. No boarding nets, no swivel guns, they almost died of fear.' He hesitated, sensing the tension around him for the first time. 'We waited for the jolly boat to come around the point and join us again. When it failed to appear I sent Mr. Booth in the cutter.' He spread his hands helplessly. 'With dawn close by, and every minute adding to the chance of discovery, I dared not fire a signal until I had received news of the landing party.'

Javal nodded grimly. 'That was well said, Mr. Meats. Some would have left the few to save the many.' Bolitho asked, 'What did your people discover?' 'It had been raining, sir.' Mears looked at the stern windows, streaked with salt and droplets of spray. 'As it is now. Booth found the beached jolly boat with its hull stove in and two seamen dead nearby. Another was lying in some dunes. They had all been killed by sword thrust, sir.' He fumbled inside his stained coat. 'Mr. Booth found this in the sand. I could not understand it. It is surely an admiral's sword -'

He broke off as Bolitho snatched the glittering hilt from him and held it to the windows. The blade was snapped like a carrot halfway from the ornate guard. It was like yesterday. Vice Admiral Sir Lucius Broughton on the splintered quarterdeck of his flagship. Handing his beautiful sword to an astonished Adam Pascoe and saying gruffly, 'Any damn midshipman who tackles the enemy with a dirk deserves it! Besides, a lieutenant must look the part, eh ?'

He heard himself say, 'It was an admiral's once. It belongs to Mr. Pascoe.' He touched the stain on the hilt. Blood and wet sand. He added quietly, 'He would not part willingly with it.' The others stared at him.

Then Mears said, 'Mr. Booth searched as long as he could, sir. There were many hoofmarks in the beach, leading from inland. He feared that his own party might be challenged at any moment, and I had given him a direct order to return to me if -'

'He did not find the lieutenant anywhere ?' Mears shook his head. 'Nor your man either.' 'No.' Bolitho stared out of the streaked windows. 'Allday would not leave him.' 'Sir?'

Bolitho turned towards them. 'What of the schooner ?'

Mears collected his wits. 'You were right, sir, She is filled to the deck beams with powder and shot. And -' he looked at Javal's grim face, ' - two of the finest cannon I have ever laid eyes on. Siege artillery, if I'm any judge, and only newly tested.'

'I see.'

Bolitho tried to concentrate his mind on what their capture could mean. Adam was gone. Allday, too. Probably out there dying. Waiting for a rescue which could never come.

Mears said, 'I am afraid the schooner's master was killed when he tried to jump overboard. But I found papers and charts in his cabin. Enough to show that he had orders for Toulon.'

Javal exclaimed, 'By God, you were right about that, too, sir. The Dons are working like fiends to help their powerful ally at Toulon!' He dragged a bottle from one of his sea chests. 'You did well, Toby. Take a drink while we decide what to do.' He looked at Bolitho. "The wind is rising, sir. We had best get under way again.'

'Yes.' Bolitho felt the deck lurching unsteadily as the wind hissed against the hull. 'Detail a prize crew to take the schooner direct to Gibraltar. Fetch your clerk and dictate a despatch for the admiral there. He will know what best to do about the cannon.'

Mears grinned wearily. 'She is a fair little prize, sir. Worth a penny or two.'

Javal glared at him and said quickly, 'I am sorry about your lieutenant, sir. Had you known him long ?' 'He is my nephew.'

The two officers looked at each other, appalled. Javal said, 'By God, if I'd only known, sir, I would have sent one of my other officers.'

Bolitho looked at him gravely. 'You did what was right. You were short-handed. But in any case, honour and danger must be shared as equally as possible.'

Mears suggested, 'If I took one of the boats under sail, sir ?'

'No.' Bolitho looked past him. 'In daylight you would stand less than a dog's chance.' He turned his back. 'Carry on with your duties, Captain Javal. There is nothing we can do here.'

The screen door slammed shut and Bolitho sat down heavily on the bench seat below the windows. He turned the broken sword over several times in his hands, seeing the boy's pleasure at receiving it, his pitiful pride when they had met for the first time.

He looked up, startled, as if he expected to see Allday nearby, as he always was when he sensed he was needed. Now there was not even him. There was nobody.

Somewhere beyond the bulkhead he heard a sailor singing some strange song which he did not recognise. Probably dreaming of his tiny share of the prize money, or of some girl back in England.

Feet clattered overhead, and he heard someone bawl, 'Bring the boats alongside and man the tackles!' The recovered boats were thudding against the hull, and he thought he heard someone give a cheer as the schooner made ready to part company.

Javal opened the door, his face wet with rain. 'Schooner's about to leave, sir. Are you sure you do not wish to send a separate despatch to the admiral?'

'No, thank you. You were in charge of the cutting-out. It is right that your name should be on the despatch.'

Javal licked-his lips. 'Well, thank you indeed, sir. I just wish there was something I could do about -' He broke off as voices shouted across the upper deck and the hull dipped more heavily in the wind. 'I'd better go, sir. Get her under way before we lose a spar or two.'

He hurried out, and moments later Bolitho heard his voice through the partly open skylight.

'Set the forecourse, Mr. Mears, though I fear we will have to take in a reef or so before long. We are rejoining the squadron.'

'By God, I'd not have his conscience on a matter like this, sir.'

Javal's reply was swift and sad. 'Conscience does not come into it, Toby. Responsibility sweeps it out of the window.'

*

Allday sat with his shoulders against a slab of broken rock and watched the horses which were picketed at the foot of a slope. Across his lap Pascoe lay quite still, his eyes shut in a tight frown as if he were dead. Squatting or lying dejectedly nearby, six other sailors were waiting like Allday to see what was going to happen next.

He squinted up at the sky, wishing the rain would return to ease his raging thirst. By the set of the sun it must be about noon, he decided. Around him the rough, winding track appeared to turn inland. He sighed. Away from the sea.

He felt Pascoe stir on his cramped legs and placed one hand across his mouth.

'Easy, Mr. Pascoe !'

He saw his dark eyes staring up at him, the pain and the memory of what had happened flooding back.

'We are resting a while.' He nodded carefully towards the soldiers by the horses. 'Or they are any rate.'

As Pascoe made to move he pressed one hand on his chest. It felt cool despite the sun overhead. He brushed a fly away from the livid scar on Pascoe's ribs, the mark which had been left by the duel at Gibraltar.

'What... what happened?'

Pascoe felt his body as if to seek out his limbs one by one. Like the rest of them he was without shoes or belt, and wore only breeches and the remains of his shirt.

Allday murmured, 'The bastards took everything they could. I think they killed two of our lads back on the road because they were wounded and couldn't keep pace with the horses.'

He thought of the pitiful screams and then the silence, and was glad Pascoe had been unconscious.

'Then how did?-' Pascoe's eyes clouded over. 'You carried me this far?'

Allday tried to grin. "The soldiers are not Dons but native troops. Moors most likely. But even these bastards recognise an officer.'

He watched the soldiers warily, wondering where they were being taken. And it had all happened so suddenly. The sound of horses' hoofs squeaking in the wet sand just a few yards from the beach where they had dragged the boat. A patrol, some soldiers returning to camp, he still did not know or care.

In minutes the horsemen would have passed them by, too busy with idle chatter to notice the inert shapes along the beach.

But Pascoe had said, "They will see Lieutenant Mears and the two boats, Allday.' There had not even been a slight hesitation. 'If they warn the schooner our people will be cut down whatever they try to do.'

And so while Mears and his men had taken the schooner intact, on the other side of the headland Pascoe had made his stand.

With drawn sword he had run up the beach shouting, 'At 'em, lads I'

It had ended just as swiftly. The clash of steel, men cursing and slashing in the darkness while the horses wheeled like great shadows from all sides.

Pascoe had been knocked senseless by a sabre, and the seamen had thrown down their weapons. The soldiers had stripped them of their possessions and had beaten them systematically without emotion or any sign of pleasure. Then, kicking and punching the dazed men they had driven them ahead of the horses, on to the road, away from the sea.

Pascoe licked his dry lips and then touched the bruise on his head. 'It feels like hammers on an anvil.'

'Aye.'

Allday tensed as the senior horseman shouted something to his companions. They were well armed. A dozen in all. He glanced at the surviving sailors. They looked beaten. Frightened.

The horseman walked slowly towards the little group and stood looking down at Pascoe. He was tall and very dark, and wore a pale-coloured fez with a dangling cloth to protect his neck from the glare. He pointed with his whip and nodded at Pascoe.

'Teniente! Teniente!'

He gave a slow smile, displaying some very yellow teeth, then spat deliberately on Pascoe's leg.

Allday struggled free of Pascoe's body and lurched to his feet.

'You mind your manners, you bloody hound, when you're talking to a King's officer!'

The man stepped back, the smile vanishing as he yelled to his men.

Allday felt his arms pinioned by at least three soldiers before he was thrown face down on the wet sand, his wrists wedged to the ground by the boots of his captors. He kept his eyes on Pascoe's pale face, willing him to remain still.

The biting slash of a whip across his spine was like a hot iron. He clamped his jaws together, holding his breath as the shadow of the man's arm rose and fell again. And again.

He concentrated his stare on two small insects which were moving by his face, shutting out the voices above him, the swish of the whip, the searing pain on his bare skin.

Then it stopped, and he rolled to one side as one of them kicked him savagely in the ribs. Half blinded with sweat and sand he staggered to his feet, seeing Pascoe's face and knowing that the soldiers wanted just one excuse to kill all of them.

But they were mounting their horses, calling to each other as if nothing out of the ordinary had occurred.

Pascoe gripped his arm. 'Let me help.' He tore off his shirt and dabbed at Allday's scarred back. 'It was all my fault.'

'Now don't you think like that, Mr. Pascoe. You did what was right an' proper, and well you know it. You could have lain low and we'd have got back to Buzzard with no bother.' He gritted his teeth as the bloodied shirt moved across his skin. 'But a whole lot of our lads would have paid for it.'

The horsemen wheeled round them, and a sailor cried out as one struck him with his whip. They moved off along the road again, their bare feet soon bleeding on stones and rough chip-pings, their tongues almost clinging to their lips with thirst.

Allday looked up briefly as the senior horseman cantered to the head of the ragged procession, and felt slightly better. He had someone to hate. Someone who would be the first to know it, if once he got the chance. He turned painfully to watch Pascoe. He was striding along at the head of the little group, his jaw set against the pain, his dark eyes fixed on some point in the far distance.

God, he thought, our Dick would be proud of him. If only he was here to see.

*

Over his shoulder, her hull and reduced sails bending and wavering through the thick glass windows, the Osiris followed obediently in Lysander's wake, with the other two-decker astern of her.

Farquhar and Probyn were sitting on opposite sides of the table, while Herrick waited by Bolitho's elbow, his face anxious as he watched the brass dividers and rule moving across the chart.

Bolitho said, 'The schooner which Captain Javal took two days back carried a few other items of interest. She was en route for Toulon, but there was a letter addressed to the captain of another, and I suspect larger ship, which is now lying here,' he rested the points of the dividers on the coastline, 'some forty miles sou'-west of Cartagena. A small bay used by fishermen, I believe, but now probably taken for a safe anchorage by Spanish transports.' The dividers ran along and up the coast towards the Gulf of Lions. 'All the way there must be such ships waiting to carry materials of war to Bonaparte's army. He must be preparing for an invasion.'

Herrick asked quietly, 'What do you intend, sir ?'

'Had I known the content of the letter I would have held on to the schooner and used her against her old masters.' The dividers beat a slow rhythm on the chart. 'But no matter. The Dons will not know she has been taken yet. There is still time.'

Probyn said bluntly, 'Unless some of the landing party were captured, sir. Made to tell what they know of our intentions.'

Herrick snapped, 'That's a bloody stupid thing to say!'

'No, Thomas.' Bolitho looked at him impassively. 'It is a possibility. We must face up to it.'

Try as he might Herrick could not drag his gaze from the broken sword which now lay on Bolitho's desk.

He said, 'I find it hard, sir.'

'I know.' He held his gaze for a few seconds. 'He is close to you also.'

He turned away, forcing himself to retain control of his emotions. Is, is, is. He must not allow himself to think of Adam as gone into the past.

He looked at the other captains. 'We must obtain a new element of surprise. Attack and probe, gain all the knowledge we can of the enemy's strength, and hurt him when he least expects it.'

Farquhar nodded slowly. 'If we attack this shipping, sir, and then put out to sea in another direction, the enemy will not know what we are doing, or what our true mission might be.’

Bolitho replied, 'Exactly. It is something I learned, and learned well from the French. One determined ship can tie down a squadron. A determined squadron can hamper a whole fleet.'

They fell silent until Probyn said, "The Dons may send a force down from Cartagena. There is little sea room for what you plan to do.'

'I will post Captain Javal to watch over our backs.' He faced him calmly, watching for an argument. 'The Dons may be prepared for a local attack, another cutting-out expedition or the like. A ship of the line is not what anyone will anticipate.'

Probyn gasped, "No sane man certainly 1'

Bolitho nodded grimly. 'Lysander will make the attack.' He looked at Farquhar. 'You will stay to seaward and act as the situation dictates.'

Farquhar's eyebrows rose very slightly. 'My decision then, sir?'

Herrick interrupted harshly, 'You'll not rate a broad pendant yet, dammit!'

Farquhar gave a cool smile, 'The idea never entered my mind.'

Bolitho tugged at his neckcloth. It seemed to be choking him.

He said, 'I will send you written orders directly. So now, gentlemen . . .'

Herrick ushered them to the door and closed it behind them.

Bolitho sat down in a chair and rested his head in his hands as the calls shrilled from the gangway to mark the captains' departure. Outside the cabin the sea was deep blue, like ruffled silk, as the wind ghosted the ships gently eastward. If only it had been like this when Buzzard's boats had taken the sleeping schooner. It would have halved the time. Saved lives.

Herrick looked at the snapped sword. 'If he is still alive, there may be a chance to arrange an exchange - '

Bolitho stood up violently. 'Do you not think I have gone over and over what might or might not be done!' He swung away, his eyes blurred. 'Send Allday to me with - ' He broke off, and for a long moment they stared at each other like strangers.

Then Herrick said tonelessly, 'I'll attend to the details, sir.'

Bolitho opened his mouth to prevent his leaving, but no words came. When he looked again Herrick had gone.

Ozzard, the cabin servant, slipped through the door and moved diagonally towards the sleeping compartment, his eyes averted.

Bolitho sat on the bench and watched him. He knew little about Ozzard, other than he was capable and had served the previous commodore well. It was said he had been a lawyer's clerk and had volunteered for the Navy because of some crime he had committed against his employer. He was a very quiet man, and was moving now like a soft-footed poacher as he laid out a clean shirt for his commodore.

Bolitho saw the way his hands moved, the shirt shaking as he unfastened the collar.

He is terrified of me. Fearful that I will punish him merely to ease my own pain.

The realisation helped to steady him, and he was suddenly ashamed.

He said quietly, 'Thank you, Ozzard, I can manage now.'

The man regarded him nervously. 'If you're sure, sir?' He backed away, as if still expecting Bolitho to turn on him. By the door he hesitated and then said, 'I've had some education, sir. If you like I could come back and read to you. It might help to pass the dme. And you wouldn't have to say anything.'

Bolitho turned away from him, hiding his face. 'No, not just now, Ozzard. But I appreciate the thought.' He saw the man's reflection in the sloping windows as he moved silently from the cabin. 'More than I can tell you.'

4

The Captives

Richard Bolitho stood by the quarterdeck rail and watched the sunset. It painted the sky in great rust-coloured patterns and gave a sharp edge to the western horizon. Lysander moved comfortably under forecourse and topsails, her broad hull tilting hardly at all to the west wind which had followed her for most of the day.

He stared along the length of the ship, through stays and shrouds and beyond a greasy plume of smoke from the galley runnel. He could just make out the tiny outline of Harebell's sails as she moved ahead of her flagship, her yards holding the dying sun like uplifted crosses.

The rest of his ships had disappeared to the south that afternoon, and under Farquhar's command would even now be making more sail to beat their way around and ahead of Lysander's point of attack. He pictured the chart in his mind, collecting the scraps of information which had formed into a loose strategy. He could almost see the line of the shore, the hills behind the bay, the depths of the sea and places where there was no depth at all. Against that he had another list of items he did not know. What the enemy were doing there, or if indeed they were there for any purpose which warranted risking his ships.

The main topsail billowed and flapped noisily as the wind dropped and then gathered strength again. The master's mate of the watch relaxed and made some joke with the helmsmen, and at the lee side of the deck Lieutenant Fitz-Clarence readjusted his vigilant pose.

Bolitho tried not to let his mind drift from what he had to do. But with the ship so quiet, and with no questions to answer or problems to solve, he was unable to stay aloof from his anxiety.

Two days since he had returned on board, two further days since Javal's men had taken the schooner. She would be at Gibraltar by now, opposing winds or not, unless she had run foul of an enemy. She would be sold in a prize court, maybe taken into the King's service. Her few remaining crew members would either be sent to a prison hulk or offered an alternative fate, that of signing on aboard a British man o' war. After five years of conflict you heard a dozen languages and dialects in any king's ship.

And Adam ? He walked slowly to the nettings and stared hard at the sea. The land was beyond even a lookout's vision, and the sky was already so dark that it was difficult to see the horizon's division, which moments ago had glowed like hot copper.

Another lieutenant had appeared on deck and was murmuring with Fitz-Clarence, while from forward and deeper in the fat hull he heard the shrill of a call, the pad of bare feet as the next watch prepared to take over the ship until midnight.

A freak breeze fanned the stench aft from the galley, and he realised just how empty his stomach was. But the thought of oatmeal gruel and greasy lumps of boiled meat, left-overs from the midday meal, were enough to revolt him against eating anything.

Herrick appeared through the cabin hatch and crossed the deck.

‘I've told Mr. Gilchrist to muster all officers and senior warrants in the wardroom after eight bells, sir.' He hesitated, seeking out Bolitho's mood in the gloom. 'They're looking forward to meeting you very much.'

'Thank you, Thomas.'

He turned slightly as a bosun's mate ran along the starboard gangway, followed by various other members of his watch.

A ship's boy was inspecting the flickering compass light, another the hour-glass nearby. Two stiff marines swayed gently at attention as they suffered a close scrutiny by their corporal. How black their red coats looked in the darkness, Bolitho thought. Made more so by their gleaming crossbelts and breeches. They were the sentries. One for Herrick's quarters. One for his own.

The master was rumbling away to a midshipman. The latter seemed bent almost double to write something on his slate, the pencil very loud in the clammy stillness.

The newly arrived lieutenant straightened himself away from the rail and touched his hat formally.

'The watch is aft, Mr. Fitz-Clarence.'

Fitz-Clarence nodded. 'Relieve the wheel, if you please, Mr. Kipling.'

More grunts and shuffles, and then a helmsman called, 'Course east-be-north, sir! Steady as she goes!''

Grubb sniffed noisily. 'And so it should be! I'll be back on deck afore the glass is turned!' It sounded like a threat.

Bolitho shivered. 'I'm ready, Thomas.'

He heard the bell chime out from forward, a gust of laughter as a topman slithered down a backstay nearly knocking another to the deck.

They walked to the cabin hatch and Herrick said, 'The fact that the wind has backed to the west'rd makes me think Mr. Grubb is right. We will have an easier task to drive inshore than I'd thought possible.'

Down the ladder and past a seaman carrying a biscuit sack from the wardroom. He pressed his shoulders against a cabin door as if afraid he might hinder or touch either commodore or captain.

Bolitho saw the lantern light playing across the breeches of the nearest guns. Some of the ship's twenty-eight eighteen-pounders, yet they managed to look at peace. It was hard to picture them enveloped in smoke and powder, bursting inboard on their tackles as their cheering, noise-crazed crews sponged-out for another broadside.

Further aft he saw the bright rectangle of the wardroom door, and beyond it the movement of Lysander's officers, and every available man of warrant rank, too, who could be spared from duty on deck.

Herrick paused and said uncertainly, 'It seems a long time since a wardroom was my home.'

Bolitho looked at him. 'And mine. When I was twenty I thought that life became easy when you were promoted captain. I soon learned differently. And now I know that each span of authority has its snares, as well as its privilege.'

Herrick nodded. 'More the former than the latter, in my opinion.'

Bolitho tugged his coat into place, the movement involuntary and unnoticed. Herrick had not mentioned Adam or any part of the cutting-out since his return aboard. But he guessed it was rarely absent from his thoughts. He remembered when Pascoe had served with Herrick as a midshipman aboard his little two-decker, Impulsive. It was strange how he had felt about it. Jealous perhaps? Afraid that the boy's trust in Herrick might change to something closer than he himself could offer ?

It all came surging up again, like a demon which had been biding its time.

Like the moment when he had arrived at Gibraltar, which should have been the proudest time in his service. Hearing about Adam's gesture on his behalf, risking disgrace or maiming in a forbidden duel.

There must be something deep in our family, he thought bitterly. With little training or effort, so many of them had proved unnaturally skilful with the sword. He could recall exactly standing face to face with a French lieutenant aboard a privateer in the East Indies. Face to face, both almost spent, but each holding on to that madness which only battle can sustain. He had felt something like pity for the man. Willing him to give in. Knowing, even as he parried the other's blade aside for that last fatal blow, that he could not help himself.

He said sharply, 'Well, Thomas, let us be about it then.'

The Lysander's wardroom was packed with men. As Herrick led the way aft Bolitho was again reminded of his own youthful days as a junior lieutenant in a ship of the line such as this. Then, he had wondered about the men who lived and dreamed in the cabins above the wardroom. Admiral or captain, it had made little difference then.

He glanced at the expectant faces as they stood back to make a passage for him. Some he vaguely recognised from their duties about the upper deck. Others he did not know at all.

The immature expressions of the lieutenants set against the more controlled scrutiny of the warrant officers. Grubb's great shape beside Yeo, the boatswain, and against the stern-most eighteen-pounder a severe looking man who he guessed was Corbyn, the gunner.

The scarlet coats of the marines seemed to overshadow the untidy clump of midshipmen, there were about eight or nine of them present, while managing to stay slightly apart from all the rest, Edgar Mewse, the purser, and Shacklock, the surgeon, completed the gathering.

Gilchrist reported, 'All present, sir, but for the fourth lieutenant, Mr. Kipling, who has the watch. And Mr, Midshipman Blenkarne who shares it with him.'

Herrick cleared his throat and then laid his hat on a table. 'Thank you.'

Bolitho nodded. 'Be seated, gentlemen. I will be as brief as I can.'

He waited impassively as they scrambled for chairs and sea chests, the most comfortable places going to the most senior, until a mere handful of midshipmen were left nothing but the hard deck to sit upon.

Bolitho said, 'The flag captain will have told you what we are about. The bones of the plan are that we shall close the land on the day after tomorrow at first light and destroy what enemy shipping we cannot take as prizes.'

He saw two of the midshipmen nudging each other cheerfully. One he recognised as Saxby, his wide, gap-toothed grin as broad as if he had just been promised a month's leave on full pay.

'If the wind goes against us we will stand off and act accordingly.' He glanced at Grubb's battered face. 'But the master has promised full co-operation from a higher authority than mine.'

There was laughter and a good deal of humour at Grubb's expense. He remained immovable in their midst, but Bolitho could see the pleasure his comment had given him. He knew Herrick was watching him all the time. He of all people would see through his mask, his efforts to show the assembled officers that their commodore was a man beyond and above inner despair.

Bolitho had lost many good friends at sea. There was no friendship stronger than one born in the demanding hardship of a man o' war. Sea and disease, the sword or a cannon's harvest had pared away many such faces. It was no wonder that these men could accept Pascoe's absence. Hardly any of them had been together long enough to know the pain of such a loss.

He realised they had fallen silent, that he must have been standing for several seconds without speaking.

Almost harshly he continued, 'To create as much confusion as possible, we will land Lysander's marines under cover of darkness.'

He sought out Major Leroux who was sitting, arms folded and stiff-backed, beside his lieutenant. He had met Leroux only formally, but he had been impressed. It was always difficult to break the inbuilt contempt for the marines, the 'bullocks', which was common amongst most ships' companies. Their rigid ideas of drill and organised discipline in the worst of situations were at odds with the more casual and boisterous behaviour of the average seaman. Bolitho had come up against many marine officers, and although he had soon grown to respect their loyalty and prowess in battle, he had rarely discovered one who had displayed much initiative. Nepean, the marine lieutenant, for instance, was fairly typical. Impeccably dressed and ready to answer the call to duty at any hour, his eyes had the empty glassiness of one quite happy to obey rather than to lead.

But Major Jermyn Leroux was totally different. Tall and square-shouldered, he had the outward appearance of a scholar, despite his military bearing. Bolitho had spoken with him on the quarterdeck about the training and recruitment of his marines, but never once had Leroux made an idle boast, or suggested he could offer something beyond his means.

He said, 'I will discuss the final details with you tomorrow, Major.'

Leroux nodded. He had still, rather sad eyes, and an expression of a man who felt strangely out of place.

He replied, 'Allowing for marines who are sick and otherwise unfit for duty, sir, I can muster ninety men.'

'That will be sufficient.' Bolitho turned to Herrick. 'Swivels in the boats, and grapnels in case we need to scale any defences.' He did not wait for any comment but added, 'When Captain Javal took the schooner there was a need for stealth. This time I want our force to seem far greater than it really is.'

One of the eightecn-pounders which shared the wardroom with its occupants squeaked slightly against its lashings as Lysander dipped her massive bulk into a trough. Bolitho heard faint shouts from the watch on deck, the groan of the rudder beneath the counter as the helm was corrected.

He said, 'We have rare freedom to act as we choose on this mission. We must lose no opportunity to discover what the enemy is planning. Neither can we turn from the chance to damage his security.' He looked at Herrick. 'If there are any questions ?'

Gilchrist stood up, his forehead partly hidden by a deck beam. 'Will there be no seamen in the landing party, sir ?'

'A minimum.' Bolitho kept his voice calm. 'The bay which Lysander will have to enter and cross may be well defended. There will certainly be a battery of sorts, even if it is only light artillery. Captain Herrick will need every available hand on brace and gun tackle, I can assure you.'

The hint of action ran round the wardroom like wind through ripe corn. But Gilchrist stood his ground, his bony figure angled slightly to the deck's tilt.

He asked, 'Major Leroux will be in overall charge then?'

'No, Mr. Gilchrist.' He felt Herrick stiffen at his side. 'I will.'

Gilchrist gave what could have been a shrug. 'A risk surely, sir.' He glanced at the other officers like someone sure of an audience. 'We were all grieved to hear of Mr. Pascoe's er - disappearance. To invite another disaster in your own family . . .'

Bolitho looked down at his hands. It was strange that he could hold them so still when he felt like seizing the man and beating him senseless.

He replied calmly, 'If Captain Herrick has no objection I am taking you ashore with me, Mr. Gilchrist. You will be able to see for yourself where the value of risk may lie.'

Gilchrist stared at him then at Herrick. He stammered, 'Thank you, sir, it is an honour.' He sat down without another word.

Herrick said, 'If nobody else has anything to offer ?'

Lieutenant Fitz-Clarence stood up and gave Bolitho a determined stare. 'We will show them, sir! God help me, we'll pistol the vermin!' He was almost glowing with excitement. In his mind's eye he probably saw Gilchrist already dead and himself as first lieutenant.

Bolitho gave him a nod. 'Well said, Mr. Fitz-Clarence. But mark this.' He looked around the wardroom. 'All of you. Whatever you may think of the Dons, do not imagine they are like the French. When this war began the French fleet was almost in irons for want of good senior officers. Far too many were senselessly butchered in the Terror, merely to placate a mob. But that is over and done with. New men with fresh ideas are alive in their fleet. The handful of older officers who survived the guillotine are respected again, and their zeal will be all the sharper now that they know the price of failure. Armies can fight bravely under almost any conditions known to man. But without power over the sea lanes, without the life-blood of supplies and replacements they are like marooned sailors, halfway to a living death.'

Fitz-Clarence was still on his feet, but his face had lost some of its assurance.

He said lamely, 'Well, sir, I am still confident of our success.'

Herrick waited for him to be seated. His blue eyes were fixed on Bolitho. 'Perhaps you would care to join me in my cabin?'

'Thank you.' Bolitho picked up his hat. 'My throat is dry.'

He walked between the silent officers, knowing the air would explode into supposition and general excitement once the door was shut behind him.

Outside the wardroom Herrick said quietly, 'Let me go, sir. I asked before. Now I'm pleading.'

They walked in silence to the ladder and up again to the next group of cabins.

Herrick threw open the door of his quarters and gestured to his servant to leave. As Bolitho seated himself by the table he opened his cabinet and produced a bottle of claret.

Bolitho watched him, seeing all the arguments building up in his friend's mind as he busied himself with the glasses. If some other seventy-four was wearing the commodore's broad pendant Herrick would have the great stern cabin to himself. Strangely enough, it was hard to see him there.

'Now, Thomas.' Bolitho took a glass and held it to a deck-head lantern. 'I know what you are about to say. Let me speak first.' He sipped the claret slowly, hearing the sea sluicing along the lower hull and dashing spray against the closed port. 'You think I feel my nephew's disappearance so grievously that I am prepared to throw my life away as a gesture. To say I do not feel it would be a lie. Equally, it would be false of me to say that my upbringing, my very way of life, would not stop me from such a vanity. Like you, Thomas, I have seen too many good men, so many fine ships and ideals thrown to the winds because of the conceit of perhaps only one man in authority. I swore I would never allow my own feelings to make others suffer, and for the most part I have, I think, been true to that.'

He was on his feet, pacing slowly the few yards along the length of the cabin. Herrick sat on the breech of a nine-pounder, his eyes glinting in the yellow light as he followed his restless movements.

'When my wife, Cheney, died -' He broke off, aware for the first time that he was moving round the cabin. 'Enough of that. You shared it all. You brought news of her death, a burden for any man to carry, let alone a friend.'

Herrick looked at him wretchedly. 'I know.'

'I suppose that Adam has come to mean so much because of my loss. I told myself that if or when I fell in battle, or died of some other cause, he would gain the advantages of the Bolitho family, advantages which should have come his way by happier circumstances.' He shrugged helplessly. 'You never think that fate might take one and leave the other behind, Thomas.'

Herrick rolled the glass in his fingers, searching for the right words.

'That is why I ask the chance to go with the marines.' He stopped, seeing the refusal in Bolitho's grey eyes.

'No. The day after tomorrow we will land on an enemy coast. Not some rock or island, or an outpost in the Indies, but in Europe. Do you think it right to commit our people to such a venture without leadership ?' He laid one hand on Herrick's shoulder. 'Come along, Thomas, be honest. Were there not many times in the past when you have maligned your senior officer for leaving you to take the cuffs and stabs while he stayed clear of danger ?' He shook him gently. 'I asked for honesty'

Herrick gave a half smile. 'On some occasions.'

'Some?' Bolitho watched him with sudden affection. 'By heaven, you took me to task enough, let alone a commodore or admiral!'

Herrick controlled the smile. 'That was different.' 'Because you are you, Thomas. And I am the same man as I was then.'

Herrick put down his glass. 'And Mr. Gilchrist?'

'I need an experienced sea officer.' His tone hardened slightly. 'He sent young Adam into that boat. Perhaps because he has experience of battle despite his years. Or maybe for some other, less praiseworthy reason.'

Herrick looked at the deck. 'I find that hard to believe, sir.' He faced him again, his features more determined than they had been since the ship had left Gibraltar. 'But if I discover a truth in it, he will know it.' His eyes were like a stranger's. 'And pay.'

Bolitho smiled gravely. 'Easy now. Perhaps I am speaking hastily.' He moved to the door and heard the marine sentry drawing his boots together. 'But we had best concentrate on the immediate future. Otherwise we will all be made to pay for it!'

*

Allday thrust the hair from his eyes and said hoarsely, 'It seems we have arrived, Mr. Pascoe.' His lips were so dry from thirst that he could barely speak, and the sun across his head and shoulders burned as mercilessly as it had all day, and the one before that.

Pascoe nodded and lurched against him. Behind them the five gasping seamen staggered like drunkards, staring without comprehension at the lip of the hill track, the hard, glittering horizon beyond. The sea once again.

The forced march had been a nightmare, and while the mounted troopers had made a show of drinking as much as they pleased, they had made certain their prisoners were given hardly anything. When two wrinkled peasant women had offered some water by the roadside the horsemen had ridden at them threateningly, driving them away, laughing when one had gone sprawling in the dust like an untidy bundle.

They had lost one more of their number. A seaman called Stokes. He had sat watching the troopers on the previous evening as they had prepared to make camp for the night. He had been unable to drag his eyes from the great skin of coarse red wine which was being handed round amongst the troopers, his raging thirst, the pain of his lacerated feet making him a picture of misery and despair.

After a muttered conversation the troopers had beckoned him over, and to the other prisoners' astonishment and envy had offered him the skin of wine, gesturing and grinning at him to take his fill.

When they had finally realised what was happening it was already too late. As Stokes drank and drank to his capacity, his face and chest soaking in spilled wine, the soldiers urged him on, and then supporting him bodily, while others poured more into his gaping mouth.

Starved, sun-dried and already terrified as to what his fate might be, Stokes had changed in that instant into a raving madman. Capering and reeling, vomiting and falling in all directions, he was pitiful to watch. And whenever he had dropped choking on the ground they had begun all over again.

This morning, as the prisoners had been freed from their ropes and herded on to the rough track, they had seen Stokes still lying where he had last fallen, his body surrounded in a great red stain of dried wine, like blood, his face a mask of flies.

When Pascoe had tried to reach him he had been kicked back to the others. None of the troopers even went to see if Stokes was still breathing. It was as if they had tired of a game and wished only to get on towards their destination.

Allday shaded his eyes and studied the blue sea beyond the hill rise. What a barren place it was. Mountains inland, and this part all ups and downs in stony gullies. His torn feet told him he had walked every inch of it.

A whip cracked, and once more they started to shuffle forward. As they panted up the last slope Allday said breathlessly, 'Ships, by Godl'

Pascoe nodded. 'Three of them!' He seized Allday's arm. 'Look at all those people!'

The track which led down to the foreshore and joined another, better-made road was alive with tiny moving figures. Like ants, which at a distance appear to move without purpose or direction, it was evident as they drew nearer that the activity was well ordered. Dotted about were armed soldiers and civilian supervisors who stood like rocks amidst the tide of human movement.

Pascoe said, 'Prisoners.'

'Slaves, more like.'

Allday saw the whips in the hands of the guards, the fearful way the ragged prisoners moved around each vigilant figure.

He turned his head towards the ships. Two brigs and one larger vessel, a transport. All three anchored close inshore, and the water between them and a newly constructed pier was an endless coming and going of oared boats and lighters. There were lines of neat tents by the hillside, and across the bay, scored out of the grass and gorse of a low headland, was what appeared to be a battery, the flag of Spain lifting and curling high above it.

Pascoe murmured, 'The ships look well laden.'

They fell silent as the senior horseman cantered towards them, his whip trailing down his leg and along the road. He pointed at the seamen and barked an order. Two troopers dismounted and gestured with drawn sabres towards the first line of tents. The whip swung round, separating Pascoe and Allday from the others and at the same time pointing to another, smaller line of tents.

Outside one Allday saw an officer watching them, shading his eyes with his arm as the horseman urged them towards him. Allday silently thanked God. The officer might be a Spaniard, but he was far better than their captors.

The horseman dismounted and reported to the officer, who after a slight hesitation walked towards them. He was very slim and wore a white tunic and scarlet breeches. As he drew closer Allday noticed that his smart uniform and gleaming cavalry boots were less so, and like the man himself, showed signs of having been out here in this terrible place for some while.

He walked around them very slowly, his dark features thoughtful, but without any sign of emotion.

He stopped in front of them again and said in careful English, 'I am Capitan Don Camilo San Martin, of His Most Catholic Majesty's Dragoon Guards.' He had a sensitive face, marred by a thin, even cruel mouth. ‘I would be obliged if you would honour me with your er, titles ?' He held up one neat hand. 'But before you begin, I must warn against lies. That fool of a man told me how his patrol discovered you and your sailors. How after a great fight he was able to overpower you and bring you to me.' He seemed to draw himself up in stature. 'I am in command of this er, enterprise at the moment.'

Allday breathed out slowly as Pascoe replied, 'I am Lieutenant Adam Pascoe of His Britannic Majesty's Navy.'

The Spaniard's sad eyes moved to Allday. And this? I understand he, too, is an officer.' His mouth lifted slightly. 'Of some lesser value perhaps ?'

'Yes.' Pascoe swayed but kept his voice level. 'A warrant officer.'

Allday found time to marvel at Pascoe's quick thinking after what he had just endured. The Spaniard seemed content with the lie. If they were to be separated now, there was no chance of escape, if chance there was.

'Good.' Capitan San Martin smiled. 'You are very young, Teniente. I am right therefore to suppose that you were not alone? That you are from an English ship, eh?' He held up his hand in the same tired gesture. 'I know. You are an officer and bound to your oath. That I respect. In any case, the question must have an obvious answer.'

Pascoe said hoarsely, 'My men, Capitan. Could you order your soldiers to take care of them.'

The Spaniard seemed to consider it. 'In good time. But for the moment you and I have matters to discuss.' He pointed to his tent. 'Within. The sun is cursed hot today.'

Inside it was cool, and as Allday's eyes grew accustomed to the shaded interior he realised he was walking on a thick carpet. After the rough road it was like a gentle balm for his torn and blistered feet.

San Martin remarked, ‘I see from your back that you had some rough handling on your way.' He shrugged. 'They are ignorant savages. But good fighters. My grandfather used to hunt them for sport.' It seemed to amuse him. 'But we must change with the times.'

An orderly brought some goblets and began to fill them with wine.

San Martin nodded. 'Sit down, if you wish. You are now prisoners of war. I suggest you make the most of my hospitality.' He smiled again. ‘I was once a captive of the English, and exchanged a year back. I learned to improve my understanding of your people, as well as the language.'

Pascoe began, 'I must insist, sir - '

He got no further. San Martin stared up at the roof of the tent and shouted, 'Do not insist with me, Teniente!' The sudden effort brought a rash of sweat across his features. 'I have but to say the word and I can make you vanish! How do you enjoy that' eh ? Those animals you saw out there working on the road and defences are criminals, who but for the urgency of this task would be in their rightful places, chained to the oars of a galley or rotting on gibbets. I could have you flung amongst them, Teniente. How would you like to eke out your life chained to a great sweep, sitting in your own filth and living hour by hour to the beat of a drum, the lash of a whip, eh?' He was almost beside himself. 'You would have very little time to insist, that I promise you.'

Allday saw the soldier with the wine bottle shaking badly. He was obviously used to his master's violent outbursts.

He continued more calmly, 'Your ship, or ships perhaps, are in our waters to do us some harm.' He gave a slow smile. 'Your commander, do I know of him ?'

He did not wait for answer but strode from the tent.

Pascoe whispered quickly, 'He does not know about the schooner.'

'To hell with the schooner, Mr. Pascoe. What will you tell him?'

Before he could reply the Spanish captain was back again. With great care he laid a loop of stout cord on the table and stood back to examine it.

'You will see that it is joined at both ends.' He sounded matter of fact. 'There are two large knots in it, here and here.' He tapped it with his finger. 'A circle of pain. Our inquisitors found it of some use for obtaining confessions of guilt in the Americas, I believe.' He looked hard at Pascoe. 'If I had this placed around your head, each of the knots would fit against an eye. By twisting the cord from behind, tighter and tighter, I am assured the agony is unbearable.' He picked up the cord and threw it to the orderly. 'And of course, the climax comes when both eyes are forced from their sockets.' He snapped an order to his orderly who almost ran from the tent. 'Like grapes.'

Allday exclaimed hoarsely, 'You'll not let those devils use it on our lads!'

'I have told you!' San Martin's face was working with emotion. 'You are prisoners of war. You will be treated as such while you are under my guard.' He sat down, his chest working painfully. 'Now drink your wine.'

Allday dropped his goblet as a terrible shriek echoed round the tent. As Pascoe made for the entrance two pistols appeared in San Martin's hands as if by magic.

'Stand! It is not one of your wretched sailors! It is only a prisoner. The effect will be the same after they have watched his pain!'

San Martin's eyes remained as still as the two pistols as he studied Pascoe's horrified face. The terrible screams continued for what seemed like an hour, but when they ceased the sound remained in the tent like a curse from hell.

San Martin replaced the pistols in his belt and said, 'Sailors talk a great deal. I will go now. Do not try to leave the tent or I will have you killed.' He picked up his hat and banged dust from its yellow plume. 'When I have spoken to the sailors I will know about your ships, and probably much more as well.'

The tent seemed very silent after he had gone.

Pascoe sank down on to the carpet and retched uncomfortably. 'He's right.'

Allday watched his despair, the quiver of his blistered shoulders as he tried to control himself.

'No one but a fool would stay voiceless after being made to watch that torture.'

The Spanish captain, true to his promise, was back within an hour. He seated himself on one corner of a brass-bound chest and said calmly, 'One of your men was very willing to speak with me.' He smiled sadly. 'Do not look so troubled, Teniente. Mine would sell my very soul if they were in the same position.' He became formal. 'Your ships have been in these waters for over a week, yes? You are sailing to spy upon the French, our ally. Such matters are not my concern. My orders are to command over these dogs until the bay is properly defended.' He tapped his chin with the rim of a wine goblet. 'I did discover one piece of news which may be of use to those better placed to use it. Your ships took a Spanish vessel.' His mouth twisted with sudden fury. "Those fools who brought you here were so drunk with their victory they allowed a ship to be stolen from under their noses!'

Allday thought of the knotted cord and could almost feel pity for the senior horseman with the whip.

As if to confirm his thoughts, San Martin snapped, 'It will not happen again!'

He calmed himself with an effort. 'No matter. Your war is over. I will have you transported to more er, secure quarters where you can be held in accordance with your station.' He eyed them dully. 'I will send for some food.'

He was obviously disinterested in matters relating to any ship, friend or foe, now that he had attended to his prisoners.

Two armed soldiers escorted them to a nearby tent, and a short time later the same orderly brought a basket of bread and fruit and a large earthenware jug of coarse wine.

Pascoe said bitterly, 'Then it's over, Allday. We'll not see England for a long while.' He looked away. 'If ever.'

Allday stood by the tent flap, careful not to show himself to the sentry outside.

He replied, 'Nothing's over yet.' He added grimly, 'Be thankful for one thing. That gibbering seaman who spoke with the Don was one of Cap'n Javal's men. They all were in our party.'

Pascoe looked up at him. 'What difference does it make ?'

Allday walked from the flap and poured a mug of wine.

'Any Lysander would have known you to be the commodore's nephew.' He saw the shot go home. 'Think what the Don would have made of that, eh ? They'd have used you as something to bargain with maybe.'

Pascoe stared at him. 'I am sorry. I did not think.'

'Not that our Dick'd -' He broke off and grinned. 'Beg pardon, I was forgetting my place.'

'Go on. Please.'

Allday shrugged. 'I've sailed with your uncle for a long time.' His voice was far away. 'We've seen and done a lot together. I've watched him ache for the brave lads who've fallen at his bidding. Seen him walk about a deck as if in a dream, while the planks have spouted splinters from sharpshooters trying to mark him down.' He shook himself, ashamed at betraying a deeply guarded confidence. 'He would not risk his people even for you.'

Pascoe scrambled to his feet and crossed to his side. 'For us, you mean.'

Allday smiled. 'Ah well, it's good of you to put it like that. But cox'ns are easier to get than blood relations!' Pascoe sighed. ‘I wish I could do something for him.'

A shouted challenge made Allday peer through the flap again.

'There's a rider dashing into the camp as if the goblins of Exmoor were at his tail!' Pascoe said, 'Let me look.'

Together they watched San Martin as he stood outside his tent, his dark head lowered as he squinted at a mounted trooper who was gasping for breath and shouting his message from the track below the tents.

Allday muttered, 'Something's afoot.'

Pascoe gripped his arm. 'I understand a little Spanish.'

Something in his tone made Allday forget the scene by the tents.

Pascoe added quietly, 'A fisherman has sighted a ship, a big ship.'

They stared at each other for several seconds.

Then Allday said thickly, 'If it's one ship on her own, we know which one she'll be, don't we, Mr. Pascoe ?'

They turned back to the sunlight as San Martin yelled a stream of orders which were terminated by the urgent blare of a trumpet.

Allday thought of the headland battery, the one bitter turn of luck which had let a Spanish fisherman send a warning.

'You just said you wished you could do something?' He saw Pascoe nod with slow understanding. 'So be it then. For if Lysander, or any other King's ship pokes her beakhead into the bay now, it'll be the last damn thing she does on this earth' an' that's no error!'

San Martin's voice was suddenly very close, and Pascoe said quickly, 'We'll have some wine.' He thrust a full mug into Allday's fist. 'Say something!'

Allday gulped on the wine and nearly choked. 'I can remember as if it was yesterday, when I was in the old Hyperion and-'

San Martin threw open the tent flap and strode into the shade.

'Good.' He looked at the wine and the bread. 'Good.'

Pascoe asked, 'The trumpet, sir. Does it mean danger?'

San Martin studied him searchingly. 'Of no importance. To you.' He moved round the tent like a trapped animal. 'I was going to have you put aboard a ship today. But I will have to wait until tomorrow. I am sending you to Toulon. The French admiral has more time than I to deal with such matters.' Allday said gravely, 'It is war, sir.'

San Martin regarded him for a long moment. 'Riding a fine mount into battle is war. Commanding this miserable rabble is not.'

He paused by the entrance. 'I will probably not see you again.'

They waited until his footsteps had receded and then Allday said, 'Thank God for that!’

Pascoe ran his fingers through his hair, combing out grit and sand.

'He is keeping the ships here until tomorrow.' He was thinking aloud. 'So our ship must be very near.'

Allday watched the side of the tent as it pressed inwards with the hot wind.

'If the wind holds as it stands now, Mr. Pascoe, Lysander will be standing inshore right enough.'

'You're sure it will be Lysander?' The youth watched him gravely.

'And aren't you ?'

He nodded. 'Yes.'

'Then it will be tonight or first light, I reckon.' Allday swallowed another mouthful of wine. 'So we'd best put our heads together and think of some way to warn her off.'

He remembered what Pascoe had said earlier. We'll not see "England again for a long while. If ever. Whatever they could do to warn the ship, and whatever the result of their sacrifice might be, one thing was certain. They would both pay for it dearly.

5 The Only Way Out

Bolitho tugged his hat firmly over his forehead. Lysander's heavy, thirty-four foot launch dipped into the lively wavecrests and soaked the occupants with spray. He peered astern but the ship was already lost in darkness, while on either quarter he could see the white splashes from oars as the two cutters held their station on him. Despite the careful preparations, oak looms tied with greased rags and the tight stowage of weapons and equipment, the combined sounds seemed tremendous.

He turned his attention ahead of the launch, and could just discern the oudine of the gig, the occasional splash of phosphorescence as a seaman in her bows marked their progress with a boat's lead and line.

The gig was commanded by Lysander's senior master's mate, named Plowman, who had been highly recommended by the master himself. Bolitho thought that if Grubb could not take part in the raid personally, then Plowman was the next best choice. Grubb had confided in his thick, wheezing voice that Plowman had served in a Welsh trader along these shores in happier times. 'Leastways, that's what 'e says, sir. I reckon 'e was doin' a bit of blackbirdin' with the Arabs!'

Slaver or not, Plowman was taking the little procession of overcrowded boats straight inshore without the slightest show of hesitation.

It was strange that the more important the work, the lowlier the man who was most needed.

He felt Gilchrist shifting his bony figure beside him, the quick nervous breathing as he clutched his sword between his knees.

Bolitho tried not to think of the possibility of disaster. That already, out there in the blackness, muskets and blades were waiting to cut them down in the shallows. Perhaps Gilchrist was thinking much the sarne,

Someone lost the stroke in one of the cutters and he heard Steere, the fifth lieutenant, call anxiously 'Easy there! Together¹.'

The boats were so heavily laden with marines as well as their oarsmen that it took plenty of brawn to pull them. The resulting splashes and creaks, grunts and curses were only to be expected.

The bowman called, 'Gig's 'eaved-to, sir!'

Bolitho leaned forward, suddenly aware that the white, writhing patterns no longer came from Plowman's oars but from sea against land.

'Easy all!' The launch's coxswain tensed over his tiller bar. 'Stand by in the boat!'

Gilchrist snapped, 'I can't see a damn thing!'

The two cutters were backing water vigorously, their pale hulls gleaming in the darkness as an offshore swell swung them in a dance.

Metal rasped and boots shuffled as the marines prepared to quit the boats. It only needed one of them to loose off his musket or fall against the seaman who was holding the lanyard of a stem-mounted swivel gun and stealth would go by the board.

Bolitho held his breath, watching Plowman's gig loom from the darkness and touch the launch with barely a shudder. Hands reached out to hold them together, and after a few more fumbling thuds Plowman appeared in the sternsheets, his teeth very white as he muttered, 'There seems a fair beach up yonder, sir.' His breathing was even, as if he was actually enjoying himself. Remembering perhaps when he and his men had gone after live cargo. 'Not very big, but by the looks of the water I'd say we're safer here than gropin' to the next bay.'

'I agree.'

Bolitho tried not to think of the time. It was like a mental hour-glass, the sand running away remorselessly. Plowman added, 'I'll lead then.'

He made to turn towards the bows but stopped as Bolitho said, 'Once we are ashore you will take charge of the boats. You have done well, Mr. Plowman, to get us this far. I'll see it's not forgotten.'

Plowman protested, 'I could put one of my lads in charge, sir.'

'No. We will need you again later. I don't want Mr. Grubb's right-hand man getting lost in Spain 1 The master would never pardon me!'

Several men chuckled and Plowman sighed. 'That's true, sir.'

Fifteen minutes later the gig and then the big launch thrust into hard sand, and while seamen stumbled waist-deep in water alongside, and oars and weapons went in all directions, Bolitho ran with Gilchrist up the beach, their swords in their hands.

This would be the moment. Bolitho halted by some scattered rocks, his eyes straining in the darkness, trying to pitch his ears above wind and sea.

But no challenge came, no ripple of flashes from the higher darkness above the beach. And with each precious minute more and more men were squelching out of the shallows and hurrying to their allotted positions. The crossbelts grew in numbers, and when the cutters, which had watched warily for any sign of attack, came in also, the small cove seemed to be full of silent figures.

Major Leroux strode up the beach. 'All mustered, sir.'

'Very well. Have the boats stand off. Pass the word to Mr. Plowman to remain close inshore for one hour and then, return to the ship as arranged.'

He watched Leroux beckoning to his orderly. One hour. It should be long enough to know if they had an even chance of success.

As the boats and their depleted crews splashed astern from the beach, Bolitho could sense the uncertainty around him. Despite their military code, the marines were not land animals. The thought of being left in foreign territory, denied a link with their ship and the only way of life most of them understood would be uppermost in their minds.

He said, 'Send out your scouts, Major Leroux.'

The marine nodded. 'We will need some good men to flank us, too.'

He hurried away, and in no time at all the whole landing party was on the move.

It was much as Grubb and Plowman had described, although the track which followed the high ground above the beach was rougher than expected. Men swore savagely in the darkness, and occasionally Bolitho heard Nepean or one of his sergeants demanding silence under all manner of threats.

After an hour Bolitho ordered a rest, and while the marines sat or crouched on either side of the track he called his officers together.

'It will be growing lighter in five hours.'

He saw Midshipman Luce shaking stone chippings from one shoe, and thought again of Pascoe. In the poor light he was not unlike him. They had been, no were good friends.

'According to my calculations we have a gully to cross and then we will be very near to the bay. The chart describes the first headland as loose and worn down by the sea. So it is my guess that any defending battery must be mounted on the opposite headland.'

Gilchrist said angrily, 'We can never march all that way before Lysander begins her attack.'

'Are you speaking to me, Mr. Gilchrist?' His voice was so mild that Luce jammed on his shoe and stood very still to listen.

'I'm sorry, er, sir.' Gilchrist sounded off balance. 'It was an opinion.'

'I am glad to know that.' He looked at the others. 'But we must seize any pieces which might be capable of crippling Lysander before the attack begins. Unprepared for our visit the Spaniards may well be. But the bay will be like a nest of hornets once the first shot is fired.'

Leroux tightened his sword-belt. ‘I agree, sir. And the sooner we get to the gully, the better I'll be pleased.'

Bolitho looked round, feeling the dust and grit against his face. The wind was holding. It was to be hoped that Herrick's 'lady luck' did the same.

He said, 'Get them moving again.'

Leroux strode away, and after a few whispered commands the marines clumped on to the track. In the darkness their belts made a long, undulating snake of crosses.

And still nothing moved from the outer darkness. Not a stray dog, nor some befuddled fisherman groping his way to a boat to prepare for the dawn. It was as if the whole of the shore had been abandoned.

Stranger still, Bolitho found that he was able to think without interruption, his gait almost relaxed as he strode beside the middle section of marines. He thought of the times he had sailed past this coastline in both directions. Now he was actually walking along it. Names on the chart crossed through his mind like memories. Cartagena, which lay less than forty miles away. Alicante, Valencia, each held a place in his memory. And five years back, in this same war, Spain had been an ally of England.

He realised that a whispered command was coming back down the line, and as he hurried forward he saw Leroux and Nepean in close conference with a corporal.

Leroux did not waste words. 'This is Corporal Manners, sir. A good skirmisher by any standards.' He looked steadily at Bolitho. 'He's been leading the scouts.'

Bolitho kept his tone level, although he knew that something was very wrong. 'Your advance party has reached the gully ?'

Leroux nodded. 'Tell the commodore, Manners.'

Hie marine's dialect was like a sound of home. Manners explained, 'The gully is there as we expected, zur. But there must have been a great cliff fall. It's almost sheer-cut, like the side of an abbey.' He hesitated. 'I was a tin miner in Cornwall afore I signed on, zur.'

"Then you will know what you are talking about.'

Bolitho looked past them, his mind grappling with the totally unexpected.

Manners added, 'I could try an' get down with the grapnel an' line, zur.'

Bolitho shook his head. 'Under cover of darkness it would be fatal.' He looked at Leroux. 'What do you think ?'

The major replied, 'It would take hours. Even if we could do it, the men would be in poor shape for a pitched battle afterwards.'

'And Lysander would already be in the bay.'

He felt despair crowding in on him. He had been blind, too stupid to plan for this one real barrier which made all other preparations a waste of time. And lives. He had relied on the chart's sparse information and his own eagerness. His mind rebelled at the word. For vengeance ?

'We will have to march them around the gully, sir.' Leroux was watching him. Sharing his anxiety. 'However -'

'Indeed, Major Leroux. That one word however tells all.'

Lieutenant Nepean remarked, 'We will circle whatever defences there are in the bay, sir, and storm the battery from inland.'

Leroux sighed. 'Pass the word to Sergeant Gritton. We will follow the scouts as before.' In a quieter voice he said to Bolitho, 'There is nothing else we can do now.'

It could have been a reproach, but it was not.

Gilchrist's tall figure came out of the gloom. 'I hear that we are cut off by the gully, sir.'

'That is so.' He tried to discover his reactions. 'So we will have our forced march after all.'

He saw the marines plodding past again, muskets slung, heads bowed as they watched the legs of the men in front. Most of them did not know where they were, let alone what they were doing here. Trust. The word came at him like a shout. It was all they had, and he had thrown it back at them.

Gilchrist said in a dull voice, 'It is what follows that troubles me, sir.' He turned to take up his position with the next file of marines.

Leroux snapped, 'That man puts an edge to my patience, sir.'

Bolitho glanced at him. 'Captain Herrick is satisfied with his competence.'

Leroux slashed at a gorse bush with his curved hanger and replied, 'It is not for me to speak of others behind their backs, sir.'

'Remember that word we were using, Major ?' Bolitho heard the hanger cut angrily at another patch of gorse. 'However?'

'I know that Captain Herrick has served with you before, sir. The whole squadron knows it. He is a fine man, and a fair one. It is hard to be either in a ship of the line, from my experience.'

'I will agree to that, Major. Thomas Herrick has been my friend since the American Revolution. He has saved my life more than once.'

'And you his, to all accounts, sir.' Leroux darted a swift glance at his panting file of marines. 'He has a sister, sir, did you know that ?'

'Yes. She means a lot to Captain Herrick. The poor girl has had much to endure, that I also know.'

'Yes. She is a cripple. I met her once when I went to Kent on a mission for the captain when we were refitting Lysander. To see a face so fair, and so betrayed by her useless limbs, is enough to break a man's heart.' He added slowly, 'Mr. Gilchrist has asked for her hand in marriage.'

Bolitho gripped his sword hilt and stared into the darkness until his eyes hurt him. He had been so busy with his own affairs he had not once considered Herrick's other world. Herrick had begun his service as a poor man without privileges. Compared with officers like Farquhar, or himself for that matter, he still was poor. But over the years he had managed to save, to swell his meagre beginnings with prize money and the reward from his promotion to post-captain.

Leroux said, 'Captain Herrick's mother died just before we sailed from Spithead. So you see, sir, his sister is all alone now.'

'He did not tell me.' Bolitho's mind went back over those first moments when he had joined Lysander at Gibraltar. 'But maybe I gave him no chance.'

He fell silent, and Leroux hurried on towards his scouts, leaving him to his thoughts.

Herrick loved his sister dearly. To find her a husband would be more important than almost anything. Even his loyalty to him. He thought, too, of Gilchrist's hostility, and forced himself to ask why he should want to marry a crippled girl. He could find an explanation for neither.

He lifted his head and stared up at the stars. So cool and aloof from all their pathetic efforts on earth.

So often in the past when he had served, fretting and impatient under his superior officers, he had told himself he could do better. But they had had fleets to command, great events to consider and manipulate. He had been given just one small chance to show his ability, to prove that he could now join that elite group of men whose flags flew with pride for all to see and obey.

As he listened to the weary, dragging boots of the marines at his side he knew he had failed.

What can you see now ?' Pascoe kept his voice to a whisper as he watched the sentry outside the tent flap.

At the back of the tent Allday was bent almost double while he peered through a small hole cut with an improvised blade which he had fashioned from a drinking cup.

Allday held up his hand to silence him. From the rear of the tent he could see part of the beach below the camp, the glitter of stars on choppy water and a riding light from one of the ships. There was no moon, so that any small glow from fire or lantern shone out with false brightness, even from as far as the other headland.

It was past midnight, from what he could judge, but there had been plenty of activity in and around the camp with barely a pause since that trumpet call.

It was quieter now, but above the headland he could see a few pin-pricks from lanterns, and guessed that the battery was fully manned and getting ready for the dawn. Something red wavered for just a few seconds and then died as quickly. He felt sweat on his neck and chest. That was a furnace door being opened and closed. They were heating shot to welcome the ship with fire.

He ducked down, and together the two of them lay side by side on the ground, faces almost touching.

Allday whispered, 'The battery's heating shot. That must be why we've got a native trooper as a sentry. Every Don in the camp will be an artilleryman, and needed for those damned cannon.'

Pascoe's face was pale in the darkness. 'What shall we do ?'

Allday gestured at the flap. 'Just one guard, is there ?'

'Aye. They seem to think we're safe enough.'

Allday grinned in spite of the mounting tension. 'With good reason, Mr. Pascoe! Not much harm we can do if we start walking, is there?'

'I know.' It sounded like a sob.

'Easy.' He touched his shoulder, feeling the rawness left by the sun. 'If we can make an explosion, like the way we spoke of, we might be able to drive the ship away.'

Pascoe nodded firmly. 'How can we cross the camp ? It must be all of a mile to the other side.'

Allday looked at the rear of the tent. 'If there is more than one guard, we are dead before we begin.' He let his words sink in. 'But if I take this one before he shouts for aid, one of us can wear his uniform.'

Pascoe wriggled on his stomach to the flap again. 'He's sitting down.' He came back again, moving like a poacher. 'I think he may be asleep. But take care.' He touched his wrist. 'There could be more guards close by.'

Allday examined his crude knife and said, 'If I get taken before I can do anything, you stay still and pretend to be asleep. Don't let on that we were doing it together.'

Pascoe showed his teeth. 'The hell with you, Allday!'

Allday smiled. 'That's more the sound of it, Mr. Pascoe!'

Pascoe stayed by the flap, shutting his ears to the steady scraping sound of Allday cutting through the tough canvas. The sentry did not move, and Pascoe was certain that someone would hear the steady thud of his heart against his ribs. The noise stopped and he took a quick glance across his shoulder.

'Are you going now ?'

But he was alone.

He rose on one knee, holding his breath as Allday's shadow flitted round the side of the tent, his bare feet soundless on the sand. It was as if he had transformed himself into a great, enveloping cloak. One moment he stood there, towering above the dozing soldier. Then he was down and around him, merging the shadows into one, with little more noise than a brief yawn.

He tugged open the flap as Allday came back through the narrow entrance, dragging the inert soldier behind him.

Allday spoke through his teeth. 'Dare not light a lantern. You'll have to dress best you can. Here, pull his tunic off while I get his breeches. He stinks like a sow.' He groped quickly for a belt. 'Ah, he has a pistol, too.'

Pascoe felt the man's skin under his fingers. It was clammy and hot, but unmoving.

Allday muttered, 'I think I broke the bastard's neck.'

Pascoe stared at him and tore off his own breeches. He stood naked for a few hesitant seconds before struggling into the dead soldier's. His own breeches were almost torn to shreds, but they were part of his remaining link. He tightened his lips. There was no link any more.

Next the tunic and belt. Allday was right. He would never have been able to get his powerful bulk into this man's clothing.

He heard Allday moving across the tent, the gurgling of wine, and wondered how he could drink at a time like this. He gasped as Allday's dripping hands clamped around his face and neck and down the open collar of his tunic.

Allday said grimly, 'Got to make you as dark as possible see ?

He clapped the fez on Pascoe's head and draped the neckcloth carefully to hide as much of his face as possible.

Pascoe picked up the musket and checked it. Fortunately it was a new one, probably French.

‘I’m ready.'

Allday dragged the corpse aside and covered it with a piece of canvas.

'Good. Now just loop some cord round my wrists behind my back. This has got to look right an' proper.' He grinned. 'Not too tight, mind.'

They looked at each other in silence.

Then Pascoe said, 'If they take me alive . ..'

Allday shook his head. 'They won't. Me neither.'

Outside the tent it seemed almost cool, the deep shadows of tents and earthworks unreal and menacing.

Allday wondered what the guards did with the slaves and prisoners during the night. All being well they would get a rude awakening wherever they were.

It was all so easy. They walked quickly down the slope from the officers' tents and onto a rough, partly completed track which Allday guessed led towards the new pier. Dying embers from a fire glowed redly by an unlimbered wagon, and between the big wheels he could see several sleeping figures.

He heard Pascoe's footsteps close behind him, the regular tapping of his musket against his hip as he carried it slung over one shoulder.

Something moved away from a pile of timber and he hissed, 'Avast,Mr. Pascoe!'

Pascoe unslung his musket and jammed the muzzle into his spine, pushing him along as fast as he dared. The shadow called something and then laughed before turning away again into the darkness.

Allday murmured, 'Well done, but I hope you're watching your trigger finger!'

They continued in a straight line, using the dark margin below the stars to show the way to the headland. There were no lanterns there now. The gun crews would be resting by their weapons. They had little to fear.

Allday halted and felt Pascoe stop immediately. 'What is it?'

Allday said quietly, 'There's someone directly ahead of us. Right in our path.'

Pascoe whispered, 'We daren't stop here. We're out in the open.'

'Aye.' Something about the figure standing in their way worried Allday. 'Just laugh if he says anything. I'll try and jump on his back as we pass.'

But the man did not challenge them, nor turn as they moved abreast of his lonely vigil.

He was tied to a post, his eyeless sockets huge and black above his bared teeth. Allday stayed silent, knowing it was the senior horseman who had beaten with with his whip.

Pascoe said it all for him. 'If they do that to one of their own . . .'

After a few more minutes Allday said, 'I think we'd better rest here. Take our bearings.'

They were almost on the sea's edge, the sand made uneven by the comings and goings of many feet as the anchored ships and lighters had been loaded.

The nearest one, a brig, seemed harder in outline, Allday thought. The dawn was closer than he had believed. How inviting she looked. He thought of the task they had set themselves and shuddered. Any ship would seem so just now.

He turned his attention to the low headland. Two humps, about a cable apart, marred the otherwise level outline. So there were two batteries. It was unlikely there would be more than one magazine. The Spanish captain had hinted that he had enough to do without adding to his work at this stage.

'We'll take the inner one, if you agree ?'

Pascoe nodded. 'The one with the oven.' He nodded again. 'It's more likely that the magazine will be there. They'll not want too many delays when cradling heated shot into a primed gun!'

Allday watched his silhouette. It could have been the commodore speaking.

'I think I can see a path. We'll follow it. If we're wrong, we'll double back and try elsewhere.' Pascoe added firmly, 'It'll be a quick death.'

But their choice of direction was the right one. The path widened as it curved around the back of the headland, and even to Allday's sore feet felt smoother.

Sheltered once more from the sea it was much quieter. They heard other sounds. Rustlings in the salt-dried grass, the distant neigh of tethered horses, a persistent whistle from some night-bird on the search for prey.

They turned yet another bend and found themselves staring straight at a tall wooden gate. It was wide open, and in the dim light of a hanging lantern they saw some crude steps leading up the hill to a point which must be directly below the first battery.

Allday asked quickly, 'Do you have that whip ?'

Pascoe fumbled with the unfamiliar belt. 'Yes, why '

He broke off as two figures moved slightly from inside the doorway.

Allday snapped, 'Use it! Lively, or we'll never reach that bloody gatel'

Both of the sentries were armed, Allday could see their bayonets glinting in the yellow glare. They were both Spaniards, artillerymen by the look of their boots and wide breeches.

He caught his breath as the whip passed against his shoulder. 'Harder, for God's sake!'

Pascoe gasped and struck out again, remembering with sudden clarity the way the horsemen had beaten them. Without emotion or pity.

The two sentries were watching with little curiosity. In this awful place it was a regular spectacle.

Then a musket clattered as one of them brought it up from the ground, and Allday bounded forward, dragging it from the astonished sentry's grip and driving the butt into his face in one savage thrust.

Pascoe ran to join him, but the second guard was already dashing wildly up the steps, his voice yelling like a madman's.

Allday threw up the musket and fired, seeing the man hurled round by the force of the ball before falling out of sight. They heard his body rolling down a slope in a small avalanche of loose stones and earth.

'Come on!' Pascoe ran up the steps and almost charged headlong into a sentry who was trying to let himself through another entrance which was guarded by a stout studded door.

Allday reached out and seized his neck, turning him easily and then smashing his head into the door.

It swung open into a narrow passageway, and as more shouts and running feet echoed overhead Pascoe said breathlessly, 'Bolt the door.' He held up a lantern. 'This must lead to the powder room.'

'It's dry enough.' Allday dragged two heavy barrels against the door. 'Be easy with the lantern.' He sniffed. 'I'll wager they're wondering what the hell is happening down here!' He cocked the second musket.

Boots and muskets hammered on the heavy door, and then just as suddenly fell silent.

Pascoe looked at his companion. 'Here goes then.'

*

Major Leroux handed Bolitho a small pocket telescope. 'I doubt if you will be able to see much yet, sir.'

Bolitho raised himself up on his knees, feeling the ache in his limbs and back from the long march overland. Scattered around the hillside gorse and dried grass he could see the belts and breeches of the marines as they lay gasping for breath in untidy clusters.

The sky was paler, as were the stars, there was no doubt about that. But horizon and land were still interlocked, and only where the shoreline was edged with pale sand could he get a true idea of their position. They were on a hillside, behind and about level with the headland. In the small glass he could see the crude gashes where the ground had been dug into earthworks and pallisades, the occasional flicker of light from a single lantern. It played on a pair of fat gun breeches, probably twenty-four pounders, he thought.

Leroux was leaning on his elbows, sucking quietly at a round pebble.

'Down this steep slope and up the next to the pallisade, sir. Even allowing for there being no other protection at the rear, we might lose half our men in a charge.' He glanced at his weary marines. 'Shipboard life takes the wind out of 'em. They're not infantry or line soldiers.'

Somewhere in the distance a dog barked with sudden vigour. It was like the beginning of another day.

Bolitho snapped, 'This morning they will have to act like soldiers, Major. We must attack without delay. Before the trumpet calls the garrison to arms.'

He felt the other officers moving closer to him. He kept his gaze directed towards the sea, the three dark shapes of the anchored ships. Perhaps they could silence the battery and then fight their way to some boats. All because of that gully. And his own blindness.

He said shortly, 'Mr. Steere, you will take what seamen remain with us and head for the beach. Mr. Luce will accompany you.' He nodded to Leroux. 'Carry on. We had best move directly.'

Leroux touched his sergeant's arm in the gloom. The man jumped as if he had been hit by a ball.

The major said curtly, 'Sergeant Gritton. Pass the word. Fix bayonets. Check each man. When I give the signal, the whole line will advance at the trot.'

The marine straightened his hat. 'Yessir.' He might just as well have been ordered to polish his boots from the little emotion he showed.

Men stirred along the hillside, and steel clicked against steel as the bayonets emerged to glint feebly in the dull light.

Bolitho drew his sword and said quietly, 'We will make as much noise as we can. It is the best weapon today.'

He swung round as a single shot echoed and re-echoed round the hills like a ricochet.

For a moment he imagined that a picket had sighted his marines, or worse still they had been outmanoeuvred even as they prepared to mount their attack on the battery.

Nepean called, 'Down there, sir! I saw a flash. A man fell, I think.'

There were muffled shouts, and the single lantern on the battery began to move across the flat ground behind the earthworks as if carried by a spirit.

Leroux muttered, 'It's no signal, by God. There must be a madman at work.' He added bitterly, 'In heaven's name, look at the confusion! There's no chance of a surprise now!'

Bolitho could see even without the major's telescope the surging figures along the battery wall. Most were very pale, as if only partly dressed, rudely awakened by that mysterious shot,

He replied harshly, 'It is our only chance, Major.' He lurched to his feet and waved his hat towards the astonished marines. 'Are you with me ?' He could feel the madness rising in his throat like bile, the fierce pounding against his ribs as if his heart was trying to break free.

With something like a growl the marines stumbled from their positions and as one and then another pointed his bayoneted musket towards the battery Leroux yelled, 'Charge!'

Down the slope, yelling and cheering like wild things, the marines soon forgot the order to keep down their speed. Faster and faster, feet kicking over grass and stones, the wavering line of bayonets brighter now as a faint glow showed above the headland.

Here and there a man fell, only to stagger upright again, find his musket and double after his yelling companions.

Bolitho heard a few shots, but who was firing and where they went he did not know. He knew it was getting harder to maintain the pace, and realised they were going up now instead of down.

He gasped out, 'Lively 1 Make for the palisades!'

Some louder bangs came from above, and he heard a man gurgle and roll away down the slope.

But several marines had fallen behind and were kneeling to take aim above the heads of the others. A ball slammed past Bolitho's head and he heard a voice scream out with agony from the battery wall.

Leroux was yelling, 'A path! Sergeant Gritton, take 'em up there!'

Crack, crack, crack! Balls ripped into the pallisade from both sides, and as if from a great distance Bolitho heard the urgent clamour of a trumpet.

They had to reach that wall. Breach it before help came from the camp. They had all heard the horses. Cavalry would disperse the tired marines and destroy them piecemeal.

He almost fell across a sprawled soldier in a gateway, before he was pushed aside by a yelling marine at the head of the leading section. His mind reeled but clung to the strange fact that the gate was open, the sentry killed.

Up some steps and around a narrow bend where he saw some half dozen Spaniards beating against a broad door with weapons and fists, oblivious it seemed to the onrushing marines.

One turned, then the whole bunch of them scattered from the door, fighting each other to climb up and over a partly finished wall.

Whooping like fiends the marines charged amongst them, the bayonets lifting and stabbing, the awful cries drowned by their own excited madness.

Bolitho shouted, 'Stand fast, marines!' To Leroux he gasped, 'Stop them, for God's sake! We must get through that door!'

Shots banged down from the battery and several marines fell kicking, but as others were still hurrying up the steps it seemed likely they would soon be unable to move, to escape the hidden marksmen.

He saw Sergeant Gritton with a great axe standing framed against the door, heard the mighty clang as the blade hacked into the studded timber.

Leroux fired a pistol and handed it to his orderly as a body spilled over the rampart and pitched amongst the yelling marines.

'He'll never get it down in time!'

He fired his other pistol and cursed as the ball whimpered harmlessly towards the sky.

'Ready, lads!' Gritton was almost screaming. 'It's openin'!'

Bolitho thrust himself through the press of men, aware that the door was swinging inwards, knowing that no axe had done it, and that in the next seconds his men might be smashed down by a blast of canister.

Gritton was bawling, 'Shoot, lads! Let's be at the bastards!'

Then another voice, louder even than the sergeant's. 'Avast there, Sergeant Gritton! Hold your fire, damn you!'

Bolitho felt himself being carried bodily through the door on a tide of cursing, cheering marines, and as they burst into a roughly-hewn passage and fanned out on either side he stared at the two figures who were etched against a solitary lantern.

Leroux gasped, 'One of us! Shoot that soldier, Gritton!'

The 'soldier' threw down his musket, and as his arms were seized by two marines he called hoarsely, 'It's me!'

Bolitho pushed the marines aside and gripped the youth around his shoulders, 'I must be dreaming!'

Allday shouted, "Then so must we, sir!'

Leroux was at his side again. "This is the main magazine, sir!' He stared at Pascoe's stained face. 'Did you . .. ? I mean, were you going to. . . ?'

Pascoe said huskily, 'We planned to blow the magazine. The commandant here knows a ship is nearby.' He looked at Allday, the strength suddenly gone out of him. 'And we knew she would be Lysander.'

Allday nodded, his filthy face split into a grin. 'What we didn't know was that we'd see the bullocks this fine morning!'

Bolitho controlled his reeling thoughts. They might still be too late to do anything. But it no longer seemed so black, so impossible as it had just moments ago.

'Major, take some men to the battery. Tell your sharpshooters to fire with care. I doubt you'll get much opposition. They'll not be keen to shoot down here and build their own inferno.' He looked at Pascoe and Allday. 'As you were quite prepared to do.'

Allday said, 'One thing, sir. There's a second battery on the outboard end of the point. I think this is the only magazine, but-'

He broke off as the passageway shook to a sudden explosion. There was cheering, too, and the sporadic clatter of musket fire.

Bolitho nodded. 'That was a gun from the other battery, I'm thinking.'

Pascoe made to follow him as he ran after the marines, but he said, 'No, Adam. Yours has been the lion's share of danger. Remain here with these wounded marines until I know what to do.'

As he hurried along the dimly lighted passageway, past great vats of shot, barrels of powder and cradles for carrying the massive balls up to the furnace, he kept thinking of what had happened. Pascoe and Allday had survived. Not only that, they were here, with him, though how they had managed it he could not begin to comprehend. If he had been turned back completely by the gully, or had arrived at the camp perhaps minutes later, they would have blown up the magazine and battery, and themselves also. He felt the emotion pricking his eyes. To make that sacrifice, such a reckless gesture,

Another great bang brought dust filtering from the beamed roof, but he took time to sheath his sword, to compose himself, as Leroux, hatless with blood above his eye ran down some steps and shouted, 'Lysander is in sight, sir. The other battery has opened fire on her, but this one has struck to us.' He sighed heavily. 'Listen to my lads. Their huzzas are a reward enough.'

Bolitho flinched as another bang echoed around- the magazine.

'Traverse some of the cannon to point on the other battery. There is heated shot, I believe.'

Leroux led the way up the steps, his coat scarlet again in a rectangle of dull light from the sky.

Bolitho felt the salt air across his face, and watched the cheering marines as they hurried about the earthworks, firing as they went towards the other battery. He ignored the hiss of balls which flicked past him and stared fixedly at the high pyramid of canvas which appeared to be rising from the sea itself.

The seventy-four was moving very slowly into the bay, her lower hull still in deeper shadow. Herrick was coming in, just as he had known he would. No battery on earth would prevent his attempt to complete the plan of attack, nor frighten him from his attempt to rescue the landing party.

A gun crashed out from the battery, and he gritted his teeth as a tall waterspout erupted violently alongside the ship's hull. Too close.

He snapped, 'Hurry your men, Major! Tell them that the sea is their only way out!'

6 Attack at Dawn

'Course nor'-east, sir!' The helmsman's voice was hushed.

'Very well.' Herrick moved restlessly to the weather side of the quarterdeck and peered towards the land.

As he turned to look along the upper gun deck he realised he could see some of the crews quite clearly, although at first glance it seemed as dark as before.

He walked aft to where Grubb stood near the wheel with Plowman, his best master's mate.

'There should have been a signal by now, Mr. Grubb.'

He ought to have held his silence and kept his anxiety to himself. But it seemed endless. Lysander's slow and careful approach towards the hidden land, the nerve-stretching tension as the men stood to their guns on each deck, while others waited at braces and halliards in case he should order a sudden change of tack.

Occasionally from right forward in the chains he heard the leadsman's cry, the splash beneath the bows as he made another cast.

There was no chance of a mistake. With the wind holding steady across the larboard quarter, the sea depth checking with that shown on the chart, plus Grubb's vast local knowledge, there was no room for doubt.

The sailing master looked even more shapeless with his arms thrust deep into the folds of his heavy coat.

'Mr. Plowman repeats 'e saw the landin' party safe away, sir. No challenge, nor even a sight of a whisker from the Dons.' He shook his head and added gloomily, ‘I agrees with you, sir. There ought to 'ave bin a signal long since.'

Herrick made himself walk forward again to the foot of the great main mast, where Fitz-Clarence was surveying the gun deck below the rail.

Herrick said, 'It's damn quiet.'

He tried to imagine what Bolitho and the marines were doing. Hiding, captured, perhaps already dead.

Fitz-Clarence turned and looked at him. 'It's lighter, sir. Much.' He raised one arm to point towards the land.

Herrick could see without being told that the nearest wedge of darkness had mellowed, and it was possible to see a crescent of sand, the lively movement of spray across some scattered rocks. Lysander was standing very close inshore, but the depth was safe. At any other time it would have been the perfect approach, the ideal conditions which were usually missing when most needed.

'By th'mark ten !'

Grubb confirmed it by muttering, 'The 'eadland must be fine on the larboard bow, sir.' He coughed throatily. 'We'll be able to spit on it within 'alf an hour!'

Below the quarterdeck rail he heard someone give a short laugh, the immediate bark from a gun captain to silence him.

The hands had been at their quarters since last night when they had dropped the boats and he had watched them pull towards the land. Down there, and deeper still on the lower gun deck, the waiting seamen were probably whispering their doubts, making jokes about their captain's caution. What would they say if he lost the ship, and them with her ?

Fitz-Clarence remarked, 'Pity we are out of contact with Harebell, sir.'

Herrick snapped, 'Attend to your duties, Mr. Fitz-Clarence!'

It was perhaps only a casual comment. Or did the lieutenant mean that if he was too nervous to make a decision one way or the other, he should signal for the little sloop to make the first move?

He walked a few paces up the tilting deck, feeling the crews of the nine-pounders watching him as he went past. Every gun was loaded and ready behind its closed port. The cutlasses and boarding axes had been honed on a grindstone on the main deck. It seemed hours ago.

He saw Lieutenant Veitch, who was in charge of the upper deck battery of eighteen-pounders, lounging by the hatchway, chatting with his two midshipmen. Perhaps they did not even care. They were like he had once been. Content to leave it to others. When the events moved too swiftly for thought it was always too late anyway. He shifted his feet and watched the dawn light growing above the land. He had been in many sea fights. Had seen so much, and had known the mercy of survival. But this sort of work was beyond him.

High above the deeply-shadowed decks he heard the topsails and forecourse flapping and then filling hungrily to a sudden thrust of wind. Higher still the topgallant sails were set and drawing well, and he thought he saw one of the masthead lookouts kicking his legs to hold back the chill of the damp air.

He moved across to the opposite side of the deck, strangely spacious without the marines. He tried to picture each one of the officers throughout his command, from Fitz-Clarence, with his elaborate guise of complete self-confidence, to those like Lieutenant Kipling on the lower gun deck, and Veitch who was apparently so relaxed with his crews below the bulging canvas. With Gilchrist ashore, and Lieutenant Steere with him, he was short-handed enough. But those who remained were barely moulded into a team as yet, and the progress of their gunnery under fire was still to be tested.

'By th' mark seventeen!'

He heard himself say, 'Bring her up a point, Mr. Grubb.' 'Aye, aye, sir!'

Herrick ignored the sudden scuffle of bare feet as men hurried to trim the yards. He had made a small decision. There was time yet to change it.

He thought of the rest of the squadron, and mostly of Captain Farquhar. Farquhar had his instructions. With the other two-decker, and Buzzard to watch over their flank, he would be ready to come to his aid as soon as he received the word. When daylight made it possible to contact Harebell. . . Herrick shook himself with sudden desperation. It would all take time. Too much time. Bolitho and the landing party had not made their signal as arranged. To take Lysander into the bay without either support or intelligence from the shore was madness. Bolitho had made that plain enough.

'Course nor'-east by north, sir I'

'Very well.'

Herrick thought of Farquhar once again. He would love to have him ask for help. Equally, he would despise him if he failed now to make a decision. He was flag captain. How sour the title tasted at this moment.

He said slowly, 'We will enter the bay, Mr. Grubb.' He looked towards Fitz-Clarence's squared shoulders. 'Run out the larboard battery, if you please.'

As the pipe ran from deck to deck and the port lids were heaved open, Herrick heard a muffled cheer, as squealing like disturbed hogs the Lysander's guns were trundled out. He tried to compose his thoughts, seeing Bolitho's calm face in his mind.

Fitz-Clarence reported warily, 'Larboard guns run out, sir.'

'Thank you. Pass the word forrard to the carronades. Fire only on my command. It is always hard to mark a land target -' He broke off, sensing the lieutenant's curious stare. 'As you will discover.'

Lysander was heeling quite steeply to the press of sail, but Herrick knew from experience that it was better to hold on to as much agility as possible under these circumstances. No ship had ever got the better of a well-sited shore battery. It was like trying to kill a flea with a feather.

He crossed to the weather side and held on to the hammock nettings and watched the surge of white water below some fallen rocks. The western headland was slipping abeam, and as Lysander's jib boom picked up the first thin ray of light like a lance he saw the bay and the solid land-mass beyond.

He snapped, 'Alter course two points, Mr, Grubb. Steer nor' by east.' He knew Grubb was protesting silently behind him but concentrated on the span and depth of the little bay. It might be empty. Perhaps they had all been wrong from the beginning.

As the braces were manned again, the yards trimmed to hold the wind, he made himself walk aft to the compass, feeling the eyes of the two helmsmen on him as he checked the course and then turned to examine the set of each sail.

'Nor' by east, sir.'

He nodded. 'Good.'

Grubb added, 'She's full an' bye, sir, as close 'auled as she can be.'

Herrick was peering up at the great sails, noting how they were starting to flap and shiver. The yards were braced tight round, and the ship must be losing way despite the press of canvas. But it would give him the maximum time and room to move.

'Deck there! Musket fire on the larboard bow!' A pause and then from the foremast lookout, 'Ships at anchor, sir! Three on 'em!'

The sudden crash of a large cannon made more than one man yelp with alarm.

Herrick held his breath, counting seconds, until with a whine and a loud splash the ball plummeted down well clear of the opposite side.

'Let her fall off a point, Mr. Grubb.'

Herrick listened to the squeak of steering gear, the noisy response from the topgallant sails as the Lysander's jib boom edged round very slightly towards the out-thrust pointer of the other headland.

Bang. He was astonished to realise he could now see a pale beach behind the anchored vessels. And some running figures, like insects, without personality.

Bang. There was a great chorus of shouts as a ball smashed down hard alongside the bow, hurling a curtain of spray over the forecastle.

Plowman remarked, 'Good shootin'.'

Grubb said, 'Means they was waitin' for us. Must 'ave known all along.'

Fitz-Clarence shouted, 'One of the ships! She's trying to get under way!'

Herrick wiped his forehead. He felt frustrated at every turn. Sickened with the new understanding that even surprise was denied them.

'A brig, sir!' Young Saxby shouted wildly, 'She's cut her cable!'

Herrick saw the flutter of pale canvas as the brig set her foresail and jib, the way her outline was shortening as freed from her anchor she started to pay off towards the sea. The same wind which carried Lysander towards the tell-tale waterspouts of falling shot would take her to safety.

He drew his sword and walked briskly to the quarterdeck rail. It was a climax of bitterness and worry, of concern for Bolitho and for his own ability.

'Mr. Veitch! As you bear! I want that brig held!'

The lieutenant came out of his trance and yelled, 'Gun captains! On the uproll!' He crouched behind one of his eighteen-pounders, peering through the open port. 'Fire!'

The whole battery belched fire and smoke in a long, ragged salvo. As the smoke came funnelling back through the ports, and the gun crews threw themselves into action with sponges and rammers, Herrick saw the sea around the brig pockmarked with great circles of white spray.

Gun trucks squealed as the eighteen-pounders were heaved and manhandled up the sloping deck to their ports. Captain by captain held up his hand, and then Veitch roared, 'Fire!'

Again the long-drawn-out crash of cannon fire, the bright red and orange tongues spitting out from the hull, their heavy balls skipping across the water and throwing up great hoods of spray over and around the brig. When the smoke had drifted clear Herrick saw that the brig's main mast was gone and she seemed to be drifting helplessly out of command, her decks in chaos.

He shouted, 'Cease firing! Mr. Fitz-Clarence, I want both cutters ready to lower in five minutes.' He was wiping his eyes as more stinging powder-smoke breezed up over the quarterdeck. 'You take command.' He gripped the lieutenant's arm and swung him towards the nettings. 'That middle vessel is a transport of some sort. Deep hulled. Cut her out before they try to scuttle her. If you get any resistance, stand off, and I'll rake her as we pass.' He pushed him towards the ladder and yelled, 'Mr. Veitch! Shorten sail! Get the to'ga'n's'ls off her!'

Grubb peered aloft as a ball slapped through the main topsail like a great metal fist, leaving a hole as big as a man's waist.

He said, 'Gawd A'mighty.'

Herrick strode about the deck, his mind grappling with one situation to another. As the ship's angle lessened to the reduced pressure of sails the boarding nets were raised, and with a chorus of yells and cheers the two cutters were swayed up and across the gangway. Men tumbled over the side, cutlasses and muskets held high, while other hands unlashed the oars and thrust away from the ship's fat side.

More crashes came from the land, and one ball shrieked through the weather shrouds and made a seaman drop, gasping on to the nets which were spread to protect the guns from falling debris.

And how quickly the light had filtered and strengthened within the bay. Herrick turned from watching the two boats thrashing around the counter and realised he could see the hill battery, a plume of smoke above it. It would soon be time to wear ship, he thought. Beat back across the bay and cover the cutting-out party and their boats.

Bang. He turned swiftly as a ball slammed into the lower hull, shaking it to the very planks under his shoes.

Under topsails, forecourse and jib, Lysander was making very slow progress, and as a target she could not have looked better.

Herrick said harshly, 'We will stand off shortly, Mr. Grubb.' He shut his ears to someone screaming. 'We have done all we can.'

Two more balls skipped over the blue water like a pair of darting sharks. One whipped between the two cutters narrowly missing the frantic oar blades, the other thudded into Lysander's side just below the beakhead.

He made himself watch the efforts of the two cutters. One had already grappled the heavy transport ship, the other was exchanging musket fire with darting figures along her poop.

He must recall the boats also. The whole venture was a shambles. He turned to Midshipman Saxby, who was standing with the signal party, when he heard a man yell with disbelief, 'Sir! On t'other battery, sir!'

From the yards and the gun decks men began to cheer, and as Herrick stared fixedly at the hairline mast above the Spanish battery he saw the flag jerking to the top, the same one which was streaming from Lysander's peak.

Grubb muttered, 'I can see scarlet! Them bloody bullocks got there after all!'

The rest of the voices were drowned in one tremendous explosion. It swelled out and down from the headland, hurling rocks and fragments right along the beach and scattering some soldiers who had been trying to approach the battery from there.

Herrick tried to control his grin. 'Heave-to, Mr. Veitch!' He nodded sharply. 'Yes, you. Promotion comes fast in a ship of war!'

He pointed at the transport. The explosion in the remaining battery had finished all resistance, and he could see Fitz-Clarence's men swarming aboard, the Spanish flag dipping to confirm the capture. The second brig was under way, her sails filling as she made all possible speed to escape destruction.

Herrick watched her calmly. 'Harebell will catch that one.'

Sails awry and thundering, Lysander came up into the wind. No more shots were fired from the land, and along the foreshore only the dead and injured remained to mark the extent of the bombardment.

'Get more boats lowered.' Herrick gauged the slow drift across the bay. 'We may have to anchor, but I want every man-jack picked up.'

Saxby shouted, 'Commodore's coming along the beach now, sir!' He was hopping up and down. 'And here come the marines!'

Herrick gripped the rail and watched the untidy procession with something like awe. He saw Lieutenant Steere standing up to his waist in water beside a boat which his seamen must have unearthed somewhere. The hesitant steps of the wounded being carried aboard, the two cutters speeding from the prize ship to help the others.

Grubb ambled to his side. 'It'll give the Dons somethin' to bite on, sir.'

Herrick nodded. One ship sunk, a larger one captured, and the defences in ruins.

He stiffened. 'Mr. Saxby! Give me your glass!'

Grubb stared at him. 'What is it, might I ask, sir ?'

Herrick handed him the glass and replied quietly, 'The commodore has his nephew with him.'

The master gave a low whistle. 'His cox'n, too, be God.' He snapped the glass shut. 'I don't reckon I can stand any more miracles in one day!'

Herrick walked slowly along the gangway, unable to take his eyes from the approaching boat. It had been a near thing. He had almost not made the decision. Perhaps Grubb was right about miracles.

He sought out Veitch's figure on the quarterdeck. 'Stand by to receive the commodore!'

Moments later Bolitho clambered up and through the entry port. His face was grimy with smoke and his elbows were showing through his sleeves, but he was smiling in a way which Herrick had almost forgotten.

Bolitho said, 'That was a fine piece of timing, Thomas!'

'I almost obeyed your orders, sir.' Herrick grinned awkwardly. "Then I remembered what you would have done in my place.'

Bolitho threw back his head and took several deep breaths. It had been very close. Leroux's men had fired three heated balls into the other battery, and he had thought they might surrender. But they had been urged on and rallied again and again by a slim, fanatical officer. Allday had said he was the camp's commandant. The Spaniard had also managed to keep up an accurate bombardment with his seaward cannon, and at least two balls had hit Lysander, maybe more.

Then, as the ship had seemed about to tack away from the merciless cannon fire, one of Leroux's heated shots had ploughed into the battery's powder store. It had ended there, and he had seen the Spanish captain torn apart in the blast, his sword still waving in the air.

He turned and watched as Pascoe limped through the port, accompanied by cheers and laughter as some of the gun crews clustered round to slap his shoulders or point at his wine-stained uniform.

Herrick shook his head. 'And I doubted if we could do it, sir.'

Bolitho eyed him sadly. 'With men like these I could do just about anything, Thomas.'

Allday walked past, his bare feet held painfully away from ring-bolts and gun tackles.

Bolitho unbuckled his tarnished sword and handed it to him. 'Here, Allday. I'll be down directly.'

Allday looked at him, the strain coming back to his face. 'Aye, sir.'

Bolitho added quietly, 'I'll take it amiss if the level in my decanters is still high when I examine them.' He watched him fondly. 'I'm grateful for your safety.'

Herrick waited until Allday had vanished through the cabin hatch before saying, 'It is the first time I have known him robbed of a reply, sir.'

Bolitho watched the marines climbing or being hauled bodily through the port, the looks of bewilderment, pain and sheer pleasure at being safe and alive. He could feel his own wildness ebbing away, and imagined what it had been like for Pascoe and Allday.

He shook himself from his thoughts. 'Well, Captain Herrick, get the boats secured and signal our prize to up-anchor and take station to lee'rd.' He clapped him lightly on the shoulder, his smile returning. 'We will rejoin the squadron directly.'

*

Bolitho waited in silence until Herrick had completed his examination of the chart. Through the stern windows he could see the captured Spanish transport wallowing heavily in Lysander's wake, and wondered for the hundredth time at his decision not to send her to Gibraltar as another prize.

Herrick straightened his back and looked at him. 'I agree, sir. According to our calculations we are standing into the channel between Spain and the island of Ibiza. Mr. Grubb assures me that Cape San Antonio is some twenty-five miles off the larboard beam.'

Bolitho leaned across the chart and studied the scattered bearings and soundings along the Spanish coastline. Two days since Herrick had sailed into the bay to rescue them before ordering Inch's Harebell in hot pursuit of the remaining brig. Either the brig was faster than she had appeared, or Inch had lost his sense of direction. The latter was more than likely, he decided.

Herrick said bluntly, 'I can discover no reason why we have not met with the squadron, sir.' His eyes remained steady as he added, 'Captain Farquhar knew very well that we might need support.'

Bolitho walked to the stern windows and watched the Spanish ship's foresail billowing in the uncertain wind. She was a strange catch. Filled to the deck seams with powder and shot, with fodder for horses and mules, and enough tents to shelter an army, she remained a mystery. She was named Segura, and once clear of the land he had sent for her master, a squat, furtive looking man who had been openly dumbfounded by Bolitho producing a letter which Javal's men had brought from the captured schooner.

The Spanish master had insisted in halting English that he did not know his ultimate destination. Indeed, there was nothing in his quarters to prove otherwise, and unless he had hurled his orders overboard at the first sign of danger, he was as much in the dark as his captors.

He did not seem like a clever liar. He had admitted that he had been told to take his cargo to a rendezvous in the Gulf of Valencia where he could expect an escort and maybe other merchant vessels under charter for the military. He had pleaded that he was a poor sailor who had no wish to become involved in war. The Spanish commandant who had been in charge of loading his vessel had given him instructions which would place him under French control. There were many vessels, the master had said, which the French were using throughout the Mediterranean to support their newly-founded outposts.

Should he ignore this unexpected catch? If some sort of rendezvous did lie ahead, it would be better to re-form the squadron before making a new intrusion into enemy waters.

But Farquhar was not here. There was little variation in wind, nothing in fact which should have prevented the other ships from making contact.

He said slowly, 'Perhaps Captain Farquhar was involved with the enemy.'

'Perhaps.' Herrick sounded doubtful. 'But the fact remains, sir, Harebell has not returned, with or without a prize, and we are alone. Very much so.'

Bolitho nodded. 'True. I think we will maintain the present course. Farquhar may decide for reasons of his own to rejoin us closer to our final destination.' He ran his fingers over the chart and the area marked Golfe du Lion. 'The French are stirring up an ants' nest, Thomas. They have more in mind than invading England, I think.' He moved his hand to the shores of Africa. 'I am certain it will be here?

He thought suddenly of the vivid flash above the ramparts as Leroux's men had fired a glowing ball into the Spanish powder store. In this short while how his men had changed. They had rarely hesitated, and he had been moved by their efforts even when the attack had seemed hopeless.

The news must have reached higher authority by now. Even as far ahead as France. If the squadron was feeling its way, so, too, the enemy must be wondering at its intentions.

He walked aft yet again and stared at the prize ship. Lieutenant Fitz-Clarence was in command, no doubt relishing his unexpected promotion.

Herrick said, 'If Harebell doesn't return within a day, I fear we must assume her lost.' He rubbed his chin. 'And that'll mean we will be without "eyes".' He added with sudden bitterness, 'Damn that Javal! I'll wager he's away after some fat capture to line his pockets!'

Bolitho watched him thoughtfully. 'That is as may be. Or perhaps the whole squadron is destroyed?' He touched his arm and smiled. "That was a joke, Thomas. But do not imagine I am untroubled.'

He turned as a tap came at the screen door. It was Pascoe, a stranger almost in his proper uniform.

'You sent for me, sir ?'

'Yes.' Bolitho gestured to a chair. 'Have you had any more time to think about your ordeal?' He saw the youth's dark eyes go distant and added, 'It could be important, Adam.'

Pascoe stretched his legs. ‘I had the impression that the Spaniards are so willing to aid their ally that they will do anything but fight. They were using galley slaves, felons, anyone who could lift and carry to build defences and prepare ways of loading all manner of vessels.'

Bolitho looked at them and smiled. 'With the Earl of St. Vincent's ships watching Cadiz and the Biscay ports, I think it unlikely that all this is for England's benefit.' He nodded firmly. 'This is what I intend. On to Toulon and the smaller French ports close by where, with luck, we shall meet with our other ships. Then south-east to Sicily where we can water our vessels and make discreet enquiries.' His smile broadened as he watched Herrick's doubt. ‘I know, Thomas, the Kingdom of the Two Sicilies is at peace with France. It does not follow it is at war with us, eh ?'

He looked at the open skylight as he heard the lookout's hail, 'Deck there! Sail on the larboard bow!'

Herrick stood up. 'If you will excuse me, sir.' He gave a shy grin. 'Though I fancy you still find it hard not to run on deck with the rest of us!'

Bolitho waited for him to leave and then said, 'And you, Adam, how are all the aches and pains ?'

Pascoe grinned. ‘I never knew a body had room for so many bruises.'

Feet padded overhead, and Bolitho could picture the midshipman of the watch being chased to the shrouds with the biggest telescope available. Harebell was obviously alone. No matter. One more prize might have helped their esteem with the admiral, it would not have been worth risking their only sloop.

Pascoe asked quietly, 'I would wish to ask something, sir?'

Bolitho faced him, seeing the determination, a touch of anxiety. 'You've earned the right to ask as you will.'

Pascoe did not return his smile. 'The lady, Uncle. Catherine Pareja. The one you - ' He faltered. 'You knew in London.'

'Well?' He waited. 'What of her?'

'I was wondering. Did you take her home, I mean, to your house in Falmouth ?'

Bolitho shook his head slowly. Seeing her face. Feeling her warmth, her need of him. 'No, Adam. Not to Falmouth.'

Pascoe licked his lips. 'I did not mean to pry.'

'It is all right.' Bolitho crossed the chequered deck and gripped his shoulder. 'It is important to you, I can see that. But my feelings mean a lot to me, too.'

Pascoe tossed the hair from his eyes. 'Of course.' He smiled. 'I understand.' He hesitated again. 'I liked her. Which was whyI-'

Bolitho eyed him gravely. 'Which is why you crossed swords. For my name.' 'Yes.'

Bolitho walked to his desk and took out the broken sword.

'Take this. It was a comfort to me when everyone else thought you were dead.' He saw him holding it as if it was red-hot. 'But save it for the enemy, not for those who try to hurt you with words.'

He looked round as feet clattered down a companion ladder and seconds later Luce, who was apparently midshipman of the watch, hurried into the cabin and reported, 'Captain Herrick's respects, sir. It is Harebell in sight, and she will be in signalling distance within the half-hour.' His eyes flickered towards Pascoe. 'No other sail in sight, sir.'

'Thank you, Mr. Luce.' Bolitho compared the pair of them. Pascoe was a year older than Luce, if that. He was glad they had each other's friendship in the teeming and often heartless world of a ship of the line. 'My compliments to the captain.'

He needed to go on deck, up to the foretop if necessary, despite his hatred of heights, to see what was wrong with Inch and his overdue sloop. He sighed. It was quite useless.

The others were watching him, and Pascoe asked, 'May I go with Mr. Luce ?'

'Of course.' He watched them leave. Nothing changed.

He had just completed writing his notes on the raid when Herrick came to the cabin again, his face relaxed into a smile.

'Harebell has signalled, sir. Two sail to the nor'-west. If I wronged Captain Farquhar, then this is the moment to admit it.'

Bolitho moved quickly to the chart, recalling the change of wind, the feel of sand and dust on his cheek as he had listened wretchedly to the Cornish marine's news about the impassable gully.

He said, 'Admit nothing, Thomas. Not even Farquhar could drive his ships that fast to get them to the nor'-west of us!'

He snatched up his hat. 'Inch must have lost his brig, but by God he's brought bigger fish to us today 1'

Herrick hurried after him, his face working with fresh doubt and apprehension.

It was very bright on the quarterdeck, and the sun was almost directly above the main yard. Bolitho nodded to Veitch, who had the watch, and then strode to the weather side, his eyes reaching out beyond the forecastle to the glittering horizon and its attendant haze.

Herrick yelled, 'Make to Harebell. Investigate. Keep station to lee'rd.'

Bunting slipped and slithered in colourful confusion across the deck until to Luce's satisfaction it was properly bent on to the halliards and was soon breaking to the wind.

'Harebell's acknowledged, sir.'

Herrick said sourly, 'Should damn well think so. Francis Inch always was too quick off the mark.' He grinned despite his anxiety. 'The idiot!'

Minutes dragged by, and groups of seamen, who moments earlier had thought of nothing but their midday meal, poor though it was, were thronging to shrouds and gangways to stare towards the sloop's small outline.

Luce had swarmed halfway up the weather shrouds and had his glass steadied against the ship's easy plunge and roll.

Below him, Pascoe was looking up, his eyes slitted against the fierce glare, hands on his hips. Remembering perhaps, Bolitho thought, when he had been a signals midshipman.

Grubb said mournfully, 'If they're to be two more prizes, we'll be 'ard put for trained 'ands to manage this ship.'

Luce's cry brought sudden silence to the quarterdeck gossip. 'From Harebell, sir! Enemy in sight!'

Bolitho walked slowly to the cabin hatch and leaned against the handrail. In his mind he could already see them, beating down the coast towards him. He had seen them long before the sloop's confirmation, perhaps when Luce had come to the cabin.

He said, 'Signal Inch to close on the Segura.' He waited, seeing their mingled expressions of doubt and excitement. 'When he draws nearer you can signal him to keep the prize under his lee. We'll not lose her if we can help it.'

Herrick asked flatly, 'And us, sir ?'

Luce called again, 'From Harebell, sir. Two sail of the line.'

'Us, Thomas?'

Herrick moved closer, shutting out the watching officers nearby. 'Will we take on the pair of them ?'

Bolitho pointed slowly along the bare horizon. 'Unless you can see anyone else, Thomas.'

Gilchrist came hurrying aft, his feet tapping in his strange bouncing gait. He looked straight at Herrick.

'Orders, sir?'

Bolitho said calmly, 'Beat to quarters, Mr. Gilchrist. And I want the ship cleared for action in ten minutes.'

Gilchrist strode away, his long arms beckoning urgently to the marine drummer boys.

Bolitho turned to Herrick again. 'And get the t'gallants on her, Thomas. I want the enemy to see how eager we are.' He held him back, adding softly, 'No matter how we feel, eh ?'

He walked to the poop ladder and started to climb. At his back he heard the staccato beat of drums and the immediate stampede of hurrying men as Lysander's company answered the call.

Bolitho leaned on the poop rail and shaded his eyes to watch the sloop's outline changing yet again as she heeled on another tack, trying to fight her way across the wind to rejoin her flagship. Soon now the enemy would show his face.

Bolitho examined his own feelings. It was his first sea action since last year.

He watched the haze around Harebell's masts, remembering the other times. Was that why he had ordered more canvas to be set ? To get it over with, if only to discover his own strength or weakness ?

Below decks he heard the screens being torn down, the clatter of gear being dragged free of guns and hatchways. From the age of twelve he had been a part of this life, shared it, endured all it could offer and threaten.

He looked at the men darting around their guns on the upper deck, the marines marching stolidly along either side of the poop as if on a routine parade.

Now he was the commodore. He smiled grimly. But without a squadron.

7

One Company

Cleared for action, sir.' Gilchrist's face was inscrutable. Nine minutes exactly.'

Bolitho did not hear Herrick's reply and walked unhurriedly to the weather side of the deck. With her great mainsail brailed up and every visible gun manned and ready, the ship had taken on an air of tension and of menace.

Herrick came towards him and touched his hat. 'Apart from seven sick or injured men, sir, the ship's company is at quarters.' He watched him enquiringly. 'Shall I pass the order to load and run out ?'

'Later.'

Bolitho took a telescope from its rack and trained it towards the larboard bow. The sea's face glittered painfully in the glare. Like a million dny mirrors. More silver than blue. He stiffened as first one and then the other of the ships swam across his lens.

Herrick was still watching his face. Searching for something. Their fate, perhaps.

Bolitho said, 'Seventy-fours, at a guess. This wind is making it heavy going for them.'

He held the glass on the leading ship. She was turning away, displaying her length, the twin lines of chequered gunports. Her sails were in disarray, he could see them criss-crossing with shadows as her master tried to hold the wind until he had completed his change of course.

He said, 'She handles badly, Thomas.' He bit his lip, trying to picture his own ship from the. enemy's viewpoint. It would take an hour before they were at grips. To have a chance against two powerful seventy-fours he must hold on to the wind-gage. At least until he could rake one, or pass between the pair of them. He added slowly, 'Too long in port maybe. Like us, they need all the drill they can manage.'

Bolitho watched Harebell's slender hull passing across the bows on a converging tack, her officers steeply angled on the small quarterdeck. He thought he saw Inch waving his hat, but forgot him as Luce's men hoisted the signal for Harebell to take up her new station. As a mere spectator, at worst a survivor who would carry the news to the admiral or Farquhar.

He walked to the gangway and ran his eyes along the upper deck. The worst part. The waiting. It was a pity only half the company had found time to eat before the call to quarters.

He asked, 'Do we have any beer left, Thomas ?'

Herrick nodded. 'I believe so. Though I doubt that the purser will be pleased to broach it at this moment.'

'But he will not be fighting.' Bolitho saw his remark rippling along the nearest group of gun crews. 'Pass the word for it to be issued directly.'

He turned away. It was a cheap way of raising their morale. -But it was all he had.

He returned to the quarterdeck and stood with one foot balanced on a nine-pounder. Its captain peered up at him and knuckled his forehead. Bolitho smiled at him. The man was old, or looked it. His hard hands covered with tar, his arms entwined with fierce, blue-coloured tattoos.

He asked, 'And who are you?'

The man showed his uneven teeth. 'Mariot, sir.' He hesitated, doubtful at prolonging a conversation with his commodore. Then he said, 'Served with your father, sir, in the old Scylla.'

Bolitho stared at him. He wondered if Mariot would ever have told him had he been on another gun in some other part of the ship.

He asked, 'Were you there when they took off his arm ?'

Mariot nodded, his faded eyes far away. 'Aye, sir. He were a fine man, I served none better.' He grinned awkwardly. 'Savin' your presence, sir.'

Herrick stopped beside him, his face questioning.

Bolitho said, 'This man served with my father, Thomas.' He shaded his eyes to look for the enemy. 'What a small world is bound up in a navy.'

The man shook his head. 'I can't righdy recall, sir.' He patted the gun's breech. 'But young enough for this little lady!'

Bolitho walked slowly back and forth across the deck, his ears deaf to the cheerful shouts which were welcoming the first of the beer. All in one company. A man who had been with his father in India. Allday, his trusted coxswain and friend who had first been brought to him by a press-gang. Herrick, once a junior lieutenant under him, and Adam Pascoe, his brother's only son, perhaps the link between all of them.

Herrick was saying, 'They may be handled poorly, sir, but I'd be happier if we had some support. Even a frigate to snap at their damned backsidesI'

Bolitho paused at the nettings, realising that he was soaked in sweat. 'Lysander fought and defeated the Athenian fleet nearly four hundred years before our Lord was born. He captured Athens a year later, if my old tutor was to be believed.' He smiled at Herrick. 'Surely he will not let us down today?' He added in a quieter tone, 'Be easy, Thomas. Your people are watching you. Show one sign of doubt and we may well be done for.'

Herrick linked his hands behind him, his chin on his neckcloth. 'Aye. I'm sorry. It is strange how you never get used to the one thing you've worked and trained for. The sight of an enemy's sail, the sound of his broadside. Keep going until he's struck or gone under.' He added with unusual bitterness, "Those fancy people in England who go all weepy at the sight of a King's ship working out of harbour never spare a thought for the poor devils who have to man 'em. Who die every day just to keep them in comfort and safety.'

Bolitho watched him impassively. It was easier to see the old Herrick now. Quick to speak out for the underdog, no matter how much wrath he incurred from his superiors. Which was probably why he was still a junior post-captain.

He asked, 'And your sister, Thomas, how is she keeping ?'

Herrick brought his thoughts under control. 'Emily?' He looked away. 'She is missing our mother, no doubt, although she took some looking-after towards the end.'

Bolitho nodded. 'And you have hired someone to take care of Emily while you are at sea ?'

Herrick faced him, his eyes staring into the sun. 'May I ask, sir, are you coming to the matter of Mr. Gilchrist ?'

'I had heard something, Thomas.' He was surprised at Herrick's tone. His readiness to defend an understanding.

Herrick's eyes were almost colourless in the glare. 'Emily is taken with him. He is a reliable officer, if hasty-tempered at times.' He lowered his head. 'And what he has, he has earned, sir.'

'Like you, Thomas.'

'Indeed.' Herrick sighed. 'And I care very much for what Emily wants. God knows, she has had precious little in this world!'

'Deck there!'

Gilchrist was striding across the deck, his hands cupped. 'What is it?' 'Leadin' ship is makin' more sail'

Herrick snatched a telescope and hurried to the rail. 'Damn their eyes! They will try to divide our defences.'

Bolitho watched him, seeing his mind at work with how best to present his ship to the enemy, yet still holding on to what they had been saying.

Gilchrist said sharply, 'They'll not get too near, sir. They'll more likely use chain-shot or langridge to try and cripple us. Then rake our stern at leisure and at little risk.'

Bolitho said, 'Make a signal to Harebell. We will alter course. Steer sou'-east.'

Herrick asked huskily, 'Is it wise, sir? There's less than a league between us. If we hold on as we are, we might be able to outsail them. With the wind in our favour it'd be hours before the Frogs could beat round and come after us.'

Bolitho took the glass from him and trained it on the two ships. They were moving, wide apart, towards Lysander's larboard bow. They were having a hard time to stay so close-hauled, and turning any more towards the wind would put them all aback. Less than three miles. Herrick had always been good at estimating distance. Lysander would touch the leading two-decker bow to bow almost at right angles and then the second Frenchman would act as he saw fit. Go to larboard and present a broadside as Lysander fought herself free from the first embrace, or luff and work round under their stern while they were actually engaging the other one.

Herrick's plan gave them and the prize an excellent chance of escaping both. It also meant running away, with a real possibility of a long stern-chase until they met up with another enemy force. He cursed Farquhar silently. With three ships facing them the enemy would soon change their tactics.

He walked aft, feeling Grubb's eyes on him as he checked the compass. North-east by north, with the friendly west wind holding across the quarter. He looked at Grubb's ruined features.

'Well? Will it hold, d'you think?'

'The wind, sir?' He wiped his watery eye. 'Aye.' He nodded his head towards the nearest gun crews and beyond to the upper deck. 'It's them I ain't so sure of.'

Gilchrist was striding past and halted on the other side of the wheel, his voice scornful. 'Really, Mr. Grubb! If we are to weep before we fight, I see no hope for anyone!'

Grubb stared at him stubbornly. 'You was in this ship at St. Vincent, sir. Like me an' some of the others.'

'Yes.' Gilchrist had a way of speaking to Grubb but projecting his words to Bolitho. 'I'm proud of it.'

Grubb shrugged. 'They was a trained company. Cap'n Dyke 'ad 'ad this ship in more scrapes than I can shake a stick at.' He turned to Bolitho. 'You knows, sir.' He did not actually look at Gilchrist. 'Better'n anyone, if I'm a judge.'

Bolitho walked forward to the rail, deep in thought. 'Have Harebell and the prize acknowledged ?'

Gilchrist followed him, his shoes tapping. 'Aye, sir.' 'Then tell me! I'm not a damned magician!' He calmed himself. 'Execute the signal.'

He looked at Grubb's reddened face. 'Lay her on the starboard tack.'

Men rushed to the braces, the afterguard's boots keeping perfect time as they hauled the mizzen yards round, letting the sails empty and then billow out again, tilting the ship on an opposite tack.

Bolitho raised his glass, his legs straddled as the deck clipped under him. He found he could shut out the bellowed orders, the flap and thunder of sails overhead, and hold on to the small, silent world in the lens.

He saw a darker shadow pass across the leading ship's foresail. She was edging slightly away, feeling a new strength as she allowed the wind to move a few points further abaft her beam. 'Course sou'-east, sir!'

Gilchrist snapped, 'Mr. Luce, what of the others ?'

Luce was equally sharp in his reply, well aware of the tension between his superiors. 'Harebell and prize on station astern, sir.'

Bolitho pursed his lips and watched his two enemies. They were getting larger every minute, and he could see the bright tricolours at their peaks, the flash of sunlight on raised telescopes or weapons. They would have seen the commodore's broad pendant. A valuable capture. A suitable ending to this impudent gesture.

Herrick was beside him. 'They're both falling off a few points. Our change of course has aided them. They could take the wind-gage from us if we overreach them.'

'Which is why we must make certain they don't.' He pointed his arm at the other ships. 'I have given them more wind, as you say, Thomas. If we continue on this tack we will be abeam of the leading Frenchman in a half-hour. His consort may then try to rake our disengaged side.'

'However.' He saw Major Leroux turn slightly and smile at him. 'What they will not be able to do is steer upwind with us so near. They would be in irons.'

Herrick was unimpressed. 'I know. But now, they don't have to worry about that, sir.'

Bolitho looked at him. 'Consult with the master and your first lieutenant. In ten minutes I intend that we shall wear ship.' He saw an unspoken protest on Herrick's face but continued, 'We will then lay her on the same tack as earlier and steer nor'-east.'

He watched the slow understanding moving over his features like sunlight through departing cloud.

Herrick said slowly, 'By God, we'll either collide with one of 'em or - '

'Or we shall pass between them. They cannot luff without risking damage to spars and canvas. If they turn and run downwind we will rake their sterns. If they stay as they are, we will engage from either battery as we sail through.' He held on to-Herrick's stare. 'After that, your guess is as good as mine!'

He added, 'Now attend to it. I'm going to speak with the people.'

He strode to the quarterdeck rail and waited until most of the seamen were peering aft towards him. He saw Lieutenant Veitch, arms relaxed, standing with his back to the enemy, his hanger already unsheathed and glinting. Near him, two midshipmen and a gunner's mate. All part of the pattern. The red-coated marine at each hatch, ready to stop any terrified man from fleeing below. And along either side, half hidden by the gangways which joined forecastle to quarterdeck, were the men who would see the enemy through the ports. Would keep their heads no matter what. Or go under.

Bolitho said, 'Up yonder, lads, are two fine French gentlemen.' He saw the stiff grins of the older men, the nervous twisting of heads of the others, turning as if they expected to see the enemy right here on board. 'For most of you this is the first time. While you serve your country it will not be the last. A few days ago you did well. A prize taken, another ship sunk by these eighteen-pounders.'

He pictured two similar lines of men on the deck below, waiting in almost complete darkness for the ports to open and run out the massive thirty-two pounders. They would be trying to hear what he was saying, the word being carried by ship's boys and midshipmen, and probably distorted along the way.

'But this is no brig, lads. Nor a newly-built shore battery.' He saw the words reaching them. 'Two ships of the line, and fine vessels they are.'

He heard Grubb whisper, 'Anytime now, sir.'

Bolitho looked along the crowded deck, well sanded to save the men from slipping in battle. 'But they have a fault, nonetheless. They are crewed by Frenchmen, not Englishmen!'

He turned aft, seeing the men waving and cheering, the grins on the faces of the midshipmen, as if they were going on a Royal cruise. He felt sickened with himself. Angry that he could make it sound so simple.

He said sharply, 'Pass the order to load, if you please. Then run out the larboard guns.' He saw a flash of doubt and added, 'Yes, the larboard ones. They must be made to think we are sticking to our -' he smiled grimly, ' - our guns!' He walked quickly to the opposite side. 'And stop them cheering. They'll need all their wind directly.' 'I'm here, sir.'

He raised his arms and allowed Allday to buckle on his sword. Allday was no better. He was doing this deliberately. Letting the seamen and marines see how calm they were.

He looked at him and said softly, 'We are a fine pair.'

Allday gave a secret smile. 'At least we are a pair again, sir.' He stared towards the enemy, his eyes calm. 'It'll not be easy.' He watched the ship with professional interest. 'Still, I don't suppose they're looking forward to it either!'

'Run out!'

The pipe was repeated to the deck below, and hesitandy at first, as if testing the quality of the air, the Lysander's larboard guns trundled into the sunlight like black teeth.

'Frenchies are running out, too, sir.'

'Good.'

Bolitho pulled out his watch and flicked open the guard. It was warm from resting against his thigh. He snapped it shut. Within a short time it could be as cold as its owner.

A dull bang echoed across the choppy strip of water, and seconds later a thin spout of spray burst up alongside. It brought a baying growl of anger from Lysander's gun crews, but Bolitho heard Veitch yell, 'Be ready! Starboard guns prepare to run out.' He squinted at the quarterdeck and saw Herrick nod. 'Both sides will engage independently!'

A youth at one of the nine-pounders whispered something, and Mariot, the old gun captain, replied, ' 'E means separate, see?' He saw Bolitho's brief smile and added, 'We'm ready for th' buggers, sir.' He moved inboard from his gun, paying out the trigger line as he went. 'Just like we done in th' old Scylla!’

Pascoe called, 'The enemy are shortening sail!'

Bolitho nodded, watching the leading Frenchman's topgallant sails vanishing as if by magic. Preparing to meet Lysander's challenge. If they continued on this converging course either of the French captains would be well placed for the first broadsides.

He looked at Herrick. Beyond him, Gilchrist was poised by the rail, his speaking trumpet already raised.

Bolitho said, 'Very well. This is the time, Captain Herrick.'

Veitch was shouting above the thunder of billowing canvas, 'Starboard battery! Run out!'

Bolitho looked aloft at his pendant, willing it to hold direction, while all around him seamen and marines were rushing to obey the demands from their officers and bosun's mates.

He lowered his head and watched the leading French ship. Was it imagination ? He held his breath, and then as the deck under his shoes began to heave over the opposite way he saw the French ship gathering speed, swinging past Lysander's bowsprit and flapping jib as if caught in a tide-race.

' 'Old 'er steady!' Grubb sounded fierce. ' 'Nother man on th' wheel, 'ere!'

The yards ceased their creaking and steadied on the larboard tack, the topsails hard-bellied again, thrusting the ship over until spray sluiced above the lower line of port lids where the gun captains were already shouting their readiness to fire.

Herrick tugged at his hat as the wind blew more spindrift over the hammock nettings and across the smooth planks between the guns. It dried almost as soon as it had fallen, like summer rain, Bolitho thought.

'Course nor'-east, sir!'

'Steady as you go.'

Bolitho raised his glass, feeling the wind whipping at his coat as he trained it on the enemy. His sudden alteration of course had caught the two French captains by surprise. He saw the leading ship's ornate stern slipping past Lysander's starboard bow, the gap widening more and more until he could see the second seventy-four's jib boom pushing through the left side of his lens.

A ripple of orange tongues darted from the leading Frenchman's hull, and he heard some of the balls hissing overhead, the sharp crack of a stay parting somewhere in their path.

He strode across the deck and seized Herrick's arm. 'The fool fired too soon.' He gestured towards the waiting seamen. 'Starboard battery, Thomas. Give him a broadside! With luck there'll be time to reload before we cut across his stern.'

Herrick waved his arm. 'As you bear!'

The earsplitting roar of the broadside, the great spouting bank of choking smoke as it was blown towards the enemy, made several of the marines loose off their muskets. They had no hope of finding a target, and Sergeant Gritton bellowed, 'Punishment for the next bugger to fire without orders!'

Bolitho stood on a bollard to peer above the hammock nettings, his eyes smarting in smoke as he watched for some sign of damage. The enemy's sails were pockmarked with shot holes, and he saw a gap in the boat tier, an upended launch split in halves. But the tricolour was still there, and the ship was holding direction as before.

He heard his men cheering and whooping and snapped, 'Reload! I want three rounds every two minutes.' He saw Gilchrist staring at him. 'Gunnery is all we have now.'

There was a ragged crash of cannon fire from larboard, and he realised that the second Frenchman was trying to hit Lysander with his forward guns, the only ones which would bear.

Veitch was yelling, 'Larboard battery!' His hanger glittered above his head. 'As you bear, lads!'

Bolitho saw one of the midshipmen scuttling to the hatch to pass the order.

The hanger cut downwards. 'Fire!'

Once more the ship shook and bucked violently as both gun decks erupted in a slow and regular broadside. Men were already hurling themselves on the tackles and handspikes, reaching blindly for charges and fresh shot, many of them retching as smoke funnelled downwind to hide the deck from view.

Veitch shouted wildly, 'Faster! Come on, number three! Sponge out!'

Bolitho wiped his streaming face, his mouth like dust as he watched the Frenchman's foresail flapping in all directions like a torn sheet, the long black scars along the enemy's forecastle where some of the broadside had gone home.

The leading French ship was still on the same course, her captain probably unwilling to expose his stern until the last moment. Or hoping his consort might produce some kind of miracle.

Herrick said, 'All loaded and run out again.' His face was streaked with grime. 'Less than two minutes, by my reckoning' 'Fire!'

The starboard guns hurled themselves inboard on the tackles, the orange-tinged smoke rolling downwind towards the Frenchman which now appeared to lie diagonally across the starboard bow.

Bolitho gritted his teeth, seeing Lysander's drifting smoke light up again to the enemy's immediate reply. The deck jerked under him, and he saw men duck as the balls shrieked low over the quarterdeck, some dropping in the sea almost a mile away.

Bolitho shouted, 'New, Thomas! Pass the word to the carronade crews forrard'

Herrick nodded, his face a stiff mask as more shots crashed into the side or sliced between the sails.

Bolitho strode down the deck to the lee side, seeing the leading French ship's stern rising like a golden horseshoe above the eddying smoke. Lysander's forecastle was already passing through the gap between them. He winced, in spite of his warning, as a carronade blasted out its great grape-packed ball with an accompaniment of Veitch's foremost eighteen-pounders as they came to bear on the enemy's most vulnerable point.

Veitch was almost screaming. 'Stop your vents! Sponge out! Load!'

The thunder of cannon fire, the squeal and rumble of guns being run out, the endless mad chorus of yells and cheers seemed to be reaching out from another world, or from the depths of hell.

Severed rigging twisted like snakes on the protective nets across the upper deck, and as the gun crews stooped and heaved, their naked bodies running with sweat and powder, they looked like the servants and not the masters of their bellowing black charges.

Bolitho heard a man scream, saw a body bounce down from the main top before pitching over the side.

More shots slammed through the smoke, but he heard Grubb exclaim hoarsely, 'The old smasher 'as done it, sir!’ He took off his crumpled hat and waved it over his head. 'Must 'ave got 'er rudder!'

Bolitho watched narrowly, realising that although Lysander had sailed through the gap, the leading Frenchman's stern was still pointing straight at him. The murderous charge of grape from the carronade, accompanied by the forward guns, which by their harsher bark suggested they had been double-shotted for the purpose, must have ripped through the stern and disabled the steering. She was falling downwind, swinging her stern round, and he saw that her once ornate gallery was in ruins, her poop pitted and splintered from the onslaught.

As he watched he saw her mizzen stagger, held upright by stays and shrouds a while longer, and then begin to fall. Tiny figures were sliding down from the mizzen top, others ran like mad things to escape the great plunging mass of rigging and spars as with a crash, audible even above the thunder of guns, it swayed down into the smoke, the bright, flapping tricolour with it.

'‘T’other one is tryin' to follow us round, sir.' Grubb's eyes were streaming.' 'E'll take our wind.'

Bolitho pointed towards the second ship. 'Mr. Gilchrist! Prepare the larboard carronade!'

He saw the other ship's jib boom thrusting through the smoke like a black lance, the tiny pin-pricks of musket fire from her beakhead and foretop. With her yards hard-braced and the wheel over, she was struggling round to starboard, presenting more and more of her scarred side as the range shortened rapidly.

The larboard carronade slammed back on its slide, the ball exploding in a whirling mass of splinters and broken rigging directly abaft the enemy's beakhead.

Herrick yelled, 'By God, his fore is coming down!'

As the enemy's foremast started to totter drunkenly towards the sea his broadside rippled along his exposed side, a few of the gun ports remaining silent as a mark of Veitch's earlier success. But Bolitho knew it was the most carefully prepared attack so far. The deck bounded repeatedly, and from below he heard a metallic clang and a great chorus of shrill screams. The French marksmen were still firing, too, and as he paced restlessly about the deck Bolitho saw thin splinters flying from the planking as a sharpshooter tried to hit Lysander's officers.

A sharper bang came down from the pockmarked sails which now seemed to be towering above the nettings like a cliff, and a second later the after end of the quarterdeck was filled with kicking, screaming men. The French had a swivel gun in the top, and the canister fired at close range was evidence enough of the enemy captain's anxiety.

Herrick shouted, 'The Frog's out of control! She's swinging towards us!' He peered through the smoke. 'Mr. Grubb, put up your helm!'

But the master was coughing and cursing through the smoke, dragging corpses and wounded alike from the wheel, or what was left of it. The whole charge of canister had struck the wheel like a target and had scythed away in all directions, marking deck and guns, men and fragments in a great pattern of blood. More men ran dazedly to Grubb's aid, hauling at the remaining spokes, their eyes squinting as if fearful of the mutilated bodies around them.

Bolitho said harshly, 'It's too late.'

The enemy's bowsprit, the great dragging mass of severed mast and yards was directly across Lysander's bows. The enemy was still firing, as were his own men. At the most forward positions the range was down to about thirty feet.

Balls whimpered overhead or thudded into the hull with great hammer-blows. One burst through a port and ploughed into a gun crew which was sponging out for the next shot. The eighteen-pounder, freed from its tackles, careered across the tilting deck, its trucks making little bloody lines as it thrust through the remains of its crew.

Harry Yeo, the boatswain, was bawling for his men to get the gun under control, brandishing a boarding axe like some primitive warrior.

Bolitho looked at Herrick. 'We will ram her!' He sought out Gilchrist. 'Get the tops'ls off her!' He felt a musket ball zip past him. 'We must fight free before the other Frenchman recovers!'

Herrick nodded jerkily. 'Mr. Gilchrist! Pass the word! Repel boarders!'

Bolitho heard more cries, and then Leroux's voice, 'Kill those marksmen in the main top!'

He said urgently, 'No, Thomas. We must board her! They'll cut our people to fragments.'

He seized the rail as with a great groaning crunch Lysander's jib boom smashed through the enemy's beakhead. The impetus carried both ships in a slow embrace, the guns falling silent and giving way to the sharper cracks of musketry.

Bolitho drew his sword. 'Work the ship clear, Thomas.' He wanted to reassure him in some way, and saw the uncertainty on Herrick's grimy face giving way to something worse as he replied, 'Let someone else go, sir!'

A great chorus of shouts and yells came from forward, and through the dangling remains of rigging and drifting smoke Bolitho saw men already trying to swarm down along the bowsprit.

He snapped, 'There's no time!' Then he ran along the starboard gangway, pointing down at every other gun on the disengaged side, shouting at their crews to follow.

When he reached the forecastle there were already a dozen or more corpses lying amidst the fighting seamen from both sides. Cutlasses rang against each other, and from the shrouds and the forechains of both ships the marksmen kept up a haphazard fire to add to the chaos.

Bolitho shouted, 'Carronade!'

He thrust a wounded man aside and hacked a French petty officer across the neck, feeling the blow lance up his arm and bring a stab of fire to his wounded shoulder.

A wild-eyed marine seemed to understand what he wanted and threw himself on the carronade's tackles, while Midshipman Luce and some more seamen came running to his aid.

'Fire!'

The carronade's explosion made most of the boarders fall back in momentary confusion. When they peered at their own ship and saw the bloody remains of the men who had been about to swarm on to Lysander's deck they decided to retreat.

Bolitho yelled, 'Boarders away, lads!'

He waved his sword, feeling his hat plucked from his head by a pistol ball from somewhere, and then he was leaping and half falling down on to the enemy's shattered beakhead. When he stared back to see how many of his men were following he found himself looking into the eyes of Lysander's massive, unsmiling figurehead, and he felt the insane grin coming to his lips, the uncontrollable wildness which forced him on through upended ladders and broken spars, gaping corpses and great coils of fallen rigging.

Steel to steel, the men swaying back and forth locked together, feet stamping, teeth bared in curses and fear as they hacked and slashed their way aft along the forecastle deck.

From one corner of his eye Bolitho saw his flagship, nudging firmly through the enemy's torn shrouds, the smoky scarlet of Leroux's marines as they maintained a murderous fire on the Frenchman's upper deck.

From the direction of the drifting smoke he knew that both ships were standing downwind, the darkened water between the arrowhead of their embrace littered with splintered wood and a few bobbing corpses.

Sunlight lanced through the smoke, and he saw the gap widening. Herrick had succeeded in easing Lysander's bulky hull round to a point where she could use sails and rudder to work clear.

He saw a man darting towards him, an upraised pistol aimed at his chest. In those split seconds he shared the moment with the unknown French sailor. He had a thin dark face, teeth bared in frantic concentration as he took aim. Bolitho was too far away to reach him with his sword, and his arm ached so much from fighting his way through the yelling press of men that he felt he could not raise it even to defend himself.

The blade of a heavy cutlass cut downwards across his vision, so fast that it made an arc of silver in the hazy sunlight.

The French sailor gave a shrill scream and lurched away, staring with agonised horror at the pistol still gripped with his own hand on the far side of the deck.

Allday ran to Bolitho's side, the cutlass edge red against his coat.

'A moment, sir!'

He ducked under two fallen spars and hacked the wounded man across the neck, felling him with no more than a sob.

He said between gasps, 'Better'n letting him live with one hand!'

Bolitho shouted, 'Fall back, lads!'

A few more minutes and they could take the French ship. He knew it. Just as he knew that the other seventy-four was probably working round again to pour a broadside into Lysander before she was able to return the fire.

'Fall back!'

The cry ran along the bloodied decks and mingled with the cheers of Leroux's marines, some of whom were squatting in Lysander's beakhead picking off their enemy like wildfowlers in a marsh.

Many hands reached out to haul the boarders back into Lysander's protection, as with a splintering, jerking symphony she tore free from her opponent's fallen spars and shrouds and swung heavily downwind.

The lower gun deck erupted in one more savage broadside, the thirty-two pounders smashing into the enemy's side and making the holed and battered timbers shine with tiny tendrils of blood which ran freely from her scuppers.

Pascoe yelled, 'Huzza! Huzza for the commodore!'

Bolitho strode aft, taking his hat from a grinning, pigtailed seaman who had somehow managed to retrieve it from the vicious fighting.

Herrick greeted him hoarsely, his eyes moving over him as if anticipating some terrible wound.

Bolitho asked, 'Where is the other one ?'

Herrick pointed vaguely over the larboard quarter. 'Standing off, sir.'

'I thought she would.'

Bolitho looked from foremast to quarterdeck. The fore topgallant mast had gone, and several guns lay upended. There were plenty of shot holes along the upper deck, and the busy thuds of hammers, the dismal clank of pumps, told him that there was damage enough below the waterline also.

He said, 'Get the ship under way.'

He saw Pascoe kneeling beside a dying marine. Holding his hand and watching his face losing its understanding and recognition.

Grubb peering at his compass, and his new helmsmen staring fixedly at the flapping sails and waiting for them to respond, their bare feet slipping on blood.

The marines falling back from the hammock nettings, checking their muskets, their faces dull now that the fight had gone out of them.

Midshipman Luce using one of his flags to staunch the terrible wound in a man's thigh. The wounded seaman peering up at him, repeating like a prayer, 'Promise you'll not send me to the orlop, Mr. Luce!'

But, like ghouls, their aprons scarlet, the surgeon's assistants came for him, carrying him bodily down to the horrors of the orlop deck.

Bolitho saw it all and more. Like so many, that seaman who had faced the terrible demands of battle was unable to accept the horrors of a surgeon's knife.

Grubb muttered, 'She's answerin', sir.'

'Steer nor'-east.' Bolitho looked up as the wind explored the holed sails. 'And signal Harebell to stay in close company.' He wondered briefly how Inch had felt as an impotent spectator.

Herrick came aft and touched his hat. 'We beat 'em, sir.'

Bolitho looked at him. 'It was no victory, Thomas.' He listened to a man sobbing from the deck below the rail. Like a young boy. A child, with all defences gone. He added quietly, 'But it has shown all of us what we can do.' He nodded to Leroux as he walked past with his sergeant. 'And next time we will do that bit better.'

He walked to the poop ladder and paused halfway up it to look for the enemy ships. With missing masts and spars, and their attendant snares of trailing rigging, they made a sorry sight.

Lysander's company had done well in their first battle together. But to attempt more, even though he had been tempted, would have invited disaster.

Allday climbed up beside him.

'It feels strange, sir.'

Bolitho looked at him. Allday was quite right. Before, they had been kept too busy after a sea fight to brood or to find pain in misgivings. He saw Herrick. The captain. The man who really counted just now.

Allday sighed. 'They did proudly, all the same. There's a different air in the ship.'

Bolitho walked slowly aft to the taffrail, letting the wind explore his stained clothes and aching limbs like a tonic.

Harebell was tacking across the larboard quarter, very clean and bright in the glare.

He pulled out his watch. The whole battle had taken less than two hours. Some corpses drifted astern, pale-faced in the clear water, and he guessed they were some of the French boarders who had fallen in the attack. And what of their own bill ? How many lay dying or awaiting burial ?

Two seamen ran along the poop, marlin spikes in their hands as they peered round for ropes which needed repair. For them it was over. For now. They chatted to each other, thankful to be whole, grateful to be alive.

Bolitho watched them in silence. Perhaps Herrick was right. About people in England who did not spare a thought for men like this.

He nodded to the two seamen as he strode to the ladder. If it were the case, he decided, then it was their loss. For men such as these were worth a thought, and much more beside.

8 Aftermath

Joshua Moffitt, the commodore's personal clerk, tapped his teeth with a pen and waited as Bolitho leaned back at his desk and took another swallow of coffee.

Bolitho let the strong black coffee explore his stomach, and tried to concentrate his mind on the report he was dictating for the admiral. If it would ever be sent. If it would ever be read.

He knew Moffitt was watching him but was almost used to his strange opaque stare by now. In the sleeping cabin he could hear Ozzard, his servant, making up the cot, his feet barely audible on the deck, and wondered at the fates which had made these two men fill their present roles. It would be better for them both if they were reversed, he thought. Ozzard, who attended his daily wants, from shaving water to a clean shirt, had been, it was said, a lawyer's clerk. He certainly had education, more than some of the officers. Moffitt, on the other hand, whose duties involved the careful writing of every order and despatch, of noting down each of Bolitho's personal signals and instructions for the other captains in the squadron, was a product of the slums. He had wispy grey hair and glazed staring eyes which peered out from his parchment face like those of a man near to death. Or, as Allday had remarked unsympathetically, 'I've seen better looking rogues dangling on a gallows!'

From the little he had been able to discover, Bolitho had learned that Moffitt had been in a debtors' jail, awaiting transportation to the new penal colony at Botany Bay. A hopeful lieutenant with a courts warrant for encouraging recruitment to His Majesty's Navy as a direct substitute for transportation to the other side of the world, had arrived at the jail, and with several others Moffitt had begun a new life. His first ship had been an eighty-gun two-decker, and in a brief skirmish off Ushant her captain's clerk had been killed by a stray musket ball. Moffitt had used the opportunity well, and had made yet one more change in his affairs by assuming the dead man's duties. Transferred to Lysander at Spithead, he had been ready and willing to offer himself as commodore's clerk, unless or until a better fitted person could be found. The rush to get the ship ready for sea and complete all repairs in time to receive Bolitho's broad pendant had allowed Moffitt to slip into his new role with barely a ripple.

Bolitho looked into his cup. It was only too easy to send Ozzard to make fresh coffee. It was one of his weaknesses. But he would stick to his rule and try to eke out his supply as long as possible.

He heard the insistent thud of hammers and the rasp of saws. The work of repairing the damage was still going on without a break. This was the morning of the fourth day after the battle. Lysander, with the sloop and the prize in company, had continued in a slow north-easterly crawl, the hands turned-to until there was no proper light in which to work, to get her ready to fight again when required.

In his mind's eye he could see the chart when he had examined it before his meagre breakfast. They had been forced to maintain a very slow progress. Tattered sails had had to be sent down from aloft for repair or replacement from their stocks. The jib boom had been almost entirely refashioned after its thrusting collision with the French seventy-four, and he could join with Herrick's report in complimenting Tuke, the carpenter, for his energies and devotion to perfection.

Herrick quite rightly had written well of Lieutenant Veitch. The third lieutenant had controlled the gunnery throughout the battle, but more than that, he had decided, without calling for permission or advice, to double-shot some of his guns to help the carronade's attack on one of the enemy ships. Double-shotting was a risky thing under perfect conditions and with experienced seamen. Yet Veitch had managed to keep his head enough to select such men from disengaged guns and use the bombardment to maximum effect. Midshipman Luce, Yeo, the boatswain, and Major Leroux, all had been placed on the captain's record for Bolitho's approval.

On the other side of the coin, Lysander had lost thirteen dead, either in the battle or later of their wounds. The surgeon had reported another five who might die at any moment, and ten who would almost certainly be fit for duty with any kind of luck.

The enemy had probably lost far more, as well as the hurt of being driven off by a single ship. But where men were concerned it was of little comfort. They had weeks, perhaps months yet to endure without additional support. Muscle and bone were more important than hemp and oak frames, and men themselves more vital than all besides. He tried not to think of his own report, as yet unfinished at Moffitt's bony elbow.

The clerk asked, 'Will we continue, sir ?' His voice, like the man, was thin and scratchy. His entry in the muster book described him as being aged thirty-eight. He looked nearer sixty.

Bolitho eyed him gravely. 'Where did we get to ?'

The pen moved across the papers. 'During the action the ship was under control the whole time, and only when entangled with the second French vessel's rigging was she forced to lose way.' The opaque eyes were level again. 'Sir ?'

Bolitho stood up and walked to the quarter gallery, his hands behind his back. He could not keep Herrick's face out of his thoughts. In the battle, at the moment when a collision had shown itself unavoidable. That was the moment. It stood out even above the thunder of gunfire, the awful cries, the twisting scarlet patterns around the wheel. In those vital minutes Herrick had hesitated. Worse than that, at a time when the French had taken the initiative, and might have used it to attack the ship from either side, he had made a wrong decision. It was like hearing his voice, here in the cabin. The anguish as he had ordered Gilchrist to repel boarders. And it had been the wrong order. Defensive action at that stage could have broken Lysander's morale, quenched her people's willingness to do battle, as easily as if their flag had been torn down before their eyes.

He forced himself to think of Herrick as the captain of his ship. Not as Thomas Herrick, his friend. In the past he would have despised any senior officer who had used friendship to cover up failure or incompetence. But now he knew that choice was not that easy, nor so free of prejudice. Herrick had almost pleaded with him not to leave the quarterdeck to join the fighting in the bows. Fondness for him, or a desire to keep his advice and determination close by, or both, the effect could have meant complete disaster. Bolitho had noticed, if only in hindsight, that the French captain had remained aft during the time when Lysander's boarders had been carving a bloody path through his men. How would the fight have gone, he wondered, if the French captain had rallied his men in the forefront of the struggle, even at the expense of his own life, while his British counterparts had stayed clear and in comparative safety ?

He leaned his hands on the sill below the salt-stained glass. Herrick was no coward, and could no more display disloyalty than he could betray his sister. But up there, on the quarterdeck, when he had been most needed, he had failed.

Bolitho said shortly, ‘I’ll finish it later, Moffitt.' He turned and thought he saw a quick gleam of curiosity in his eyes. 'You may copy out what we have already done.' It would keep Moffitt busy and the report at arm's length for a bit longer.

There was a tap at the screen door and Herrick stepped into the cabin.

‘I thought you would like to know at once, sir. Harebell has signalled that she has sighted two sail to the east'rd.' His blue eyes moved briefly to Moffitt at the table. 'It will most likely be the rest of the squadron.' He added bitterly, 'This time.'

Bolitho saw his glance fall on the pages of the report and felt something like guilt. As if Herrick had read his mind. His nagging doubt.

'Yes. What is our estimated position?'

Herrick frowned. 'At eight bells we fixed it as approximately forty miles north of the island of Majorca. With the poor progress and damage to canvas and helm, even the master will not make a stronger estimate.'

Bolitho looked at Moffitt. 'You can go.' He heard Ozzard letting himself out of the sleeping cabin.

Flerrick asked, 'What are your orders, sir ?'

'When we can rejoin our other ships I intend to call a captains' conference.' He walked to the windows again, seeing Herrick's reflection in the thick glass. 'After I have heard Captain Farquhar's explanation for waiting until this second rendezvous, I will say what I think we should do. As flag captain, you must ensure that each ship, from Lysander to Harebell, understands my standing orders exactly. To me, initiative is a worthwhile substitute for blind obedience. But I'll have no selfish manoeuvres, nor will I tolerate rank disobedience.'

Herrick said, 'I understand, sir.'

Bolitho turned to face him. 'What do you think, Thomas ?' He waited, willing him to speak out. 'Really think ?'

Herrick shrugged. 'I believe that Farquhar is petty-minded, and eager enough for advancement, that he will act as he thinks fit whenever possible.'

'I see.'

Bolitho crossed to his wine cabinet and touched it with his fingertips. He could see her smiling at him, hear her infectious laugh as she had watched his pleasure with the gift. So warm, so generous with her love. Reckless, too, with her hostility for anyone who had dared to show criticism of their brief affair.

'Is that all, sir?' Herrick was studying him, his face tired and grim.

'No, Thomas.' He turned, hating the strain on Herrick's features. He had probably not slept more than an hour or two at a time since the battle. 'It is not all.'

He gestured to a chair, but Herrick remained standing, as he had known he would. He cursed inwardly. That was the trouble. They knew each other too well for any sort of conflict.

He said, 'I must complete my report for the admiral. Sooner or later I will have to send a despatch to him, my personal understanding of the situation here. Upon it might well depend a whole new strategy. If I am wrong, there is far more than my head at stake. If St. Vincent sends a great fleet to the Mediterranean, and we discover too late that the French have sailed west instead of east, maybe to join their squadrons from the Biscay ports, England, and not merely a battle, will be lost.'

'I realise that, sir. A heavy responsibility.'

Bolitho stared at him. 'Are you deliberately being evasive ? You know damned well what I mean! This is an important mission, with no risk too great to complete it. When I send my first despatch to the admiral, I must also tell him the state of my squadron.'

Herrick faced him stubbornly. 'While the rest of the squadron took itself elsewhere, sir, our people fought and acted better than I'd have believed possible. I've said as much in my own report.'

Bolitho shook his head sadly. 'And what of you, Thomas ? What must I write of your part in it ?'

He watched the strain growing on Herrick's face. ‘I am not speaking of your seamanship, your bearing under fire, nor would I dare to.'

Herrick looked past him. 'I did my best.'

Bolitho hesitated, but knew that this, and only this, was the moment. He said flatly, 'It was not good enough. And you know it.'

Overhead, a faint cry came from a lookout. 'Deck there! Sail on the lee bow!' So Farquhar's ships, if they were such, were in sight from Lysander.

Herrick replied, 'If that is what you believe, sir, I suggest you say as much in your report.'

Bolitho stared at him. 'Don't be such a damned fool!’ He could feel the blood churning in his head, the wildness from the battle returning. 'You were slow, Thomas! You waited too long before each decision. You know as well as I that in a broadside battle you've no time for reflections!'

Herrick watched his rising anger with apparent calm. 'Do you think I don't realise that ?' He shrugged, the movement helpless or despairing. 'When I lost Impulsive last year I began to feel doubts. About my strength, my nerve, if you like.' He looked away. ‘I sailed Lysander into that bay because I had to, something drew me there, like times in the past when I just knew it must be done. You sent no signal, but deep inside me I felt you were there, waiting, expecting me to come. Perhaps I felt as you did about Adam Pascoe. It went deeper than logic'

Bolitho asked quietly, 'And four days ago ?'

Herrick faced him again. ‘I watched those two ships. Hour by hour I watched them drawing nearer. Imagined their people at quarters, peering along their gun muzzles at me. And when you decided to attack them single-handed, and we had the second one right across our bows, I could barely speak or move. I heard my voice passing orders. But beyond it I was like stone. Something dead.' He wiped his forehead with one hand. The skin was damp with sweat. ‘I can't do it. That battle last year decided it for me.'

Bolitho stood up and walked slowly to the windows. He recalled Herrick's excitement at the Admiralty when he had been appointed flag captain. A pleasure rising to match his own. They had not questioned the dangers or pitfalls of their mission. And neither of them had once considered his own ability to manage it.

He said, 'You are too tired to think properly.'

'Please, sir.' Herrick's voice was hoarse. 'Don't show pity, or humiliate me with understanding! You know what this is costing me, in God's name spare me further shame!'

Feet clattered in the passageway and Bolitho said, 'Leave me, I'd like to think.' He tried to find the words, despising himself for causing him such pain. 'Your value is too great for me to abuse it.'

The door opened slightly and Midshipman Saxby poked his head into the cabin.

'Captain, sir?' He smiled nervously as he saw Bolitho and showed the gap in his front teeth. 'Mr. Gilchrist's respects, and could you come on deck ?'

When Herrick remained silent, Bolitho asked, 'Is something wrong ?'

Saxby swallowed. 'N-no, sir. The first lieutenant wishes to turn up the hands to witness punishment.'

Herrick came out of his thoughts and said harshly, 'I am coming, Mr. Saxby.' He glanced at Bolitho. 'I am sorry, sir.'

Bolitho looked for a long while at the closed door. It had been like watching Herrick's eyes peering from a strange mask. A prisoner. What had he said ? Something dead.

He turned as Ozzard padded silently into the cabin from the other door. Overhead and beyond the bulkhead he heard the stamp of booted feet as Leroux's men tramped aft, the more subdued movements of the company assembling to witness punishment.

Ozzard asked mildly, 'Can I do anything, sir?'

Bolitho looked up at the skylight, hearing a dull thud as the grating was rigged for the man to be seized up and flogged.

'Yes. Close that skylight!' He frowned. 'I did not mean to shout at you.'

He strode to the opposite side. Damn Gilchrist and his punishments. What was he trying or prove, and to whom ? Ozzard said warily, 'Your clerk's outside, sir.'

'Fetch him.'

Moffitt re-entered the cabin and blinked in the reflected sunlight.

He said, 'I've finished the first part, sir, and I thought - ' 'Wait.' Bolitho had raised his voice, as if to drown the sound

of the lash across a man's naked back. ‘I wish you to write a

letter.'

Overhead, the drum rolled and stopped, and the flat crack of the cat on bare skin intruded once again. 'Ready, sir?'

Moffitt, like Ozzard who was humming quietly in the sleeping cabin, was unmoved by the slow, drawn-out ritual of punishment. While he . . .

Bolitho snapped, 'Address it to Captain Charles Farquhar, of His Brittanic Majesty's Ship Osiris'

He rested his forehead against the sun-warmed glass and looked down at the frothing water below the counter. How inviting it was. Cool. Cleansing.

Behind him he heard Moffitt's nib scratching across the paper. It never faltered to the roll of the drum, the crack of the lash.

Farquhar would have a good reason for being off station. Of that he was certain. 'Sir?'

He bunched his fists tight against his thighs until the pain steadied him.

'Upon receipt of this order you will make all arrangements to proceed on board Lysander, flagship, the transfer to be effected immediately,' He hesitated again, fighting his will. 'And there take on the duties and appointments of flag captain.'

This time the nib did falter.

He continued, 'Your present post will be assumed by Captain Thomas Herrick.'

He walked to the table and looked over Moffitt's narrow shoulder. 'I will want two copies directly.' He reached out and took the pen. He felt Moffitt staring at it, as if defying it to move. Almost savagely he wrote, 'Given under my hand, aboard His Majesty's Ship Lysander. Signed, Richard Bolitho, Commodore'

It was done,

*

With the hands dismissed from witnessing punishment, and the approaching ships confirmed as Osiris and Nicator, Thomas Herrick returned to the cabin to make his report.

Bolitho sat below the great span of windows, watching Osiris's yards swinging smartly, her sails retaking the wind as she assumed station astern of Lysander.

He said quietly, 'I want both captains aboard directly.'

'Yes, sir.' Herrick looked tired. 'I have already made the signal. I will heave-to when all ships are on proper station. Osiris wishes to communicate immediately.'

Bolitho nodded. Farquhar would have news for him. News important enough to explain his absence from the original rendezvous. Bolitho did not look at the sealed envelope on his desk. The news he in turn would give Farquhar would make even him take notice.

He said, 'I have made no note in the official log, or my own report about what you told me earlier.' He saw Herrick's shoulders sag. 'But I accept your word, naturally.' He heard the clatter of blocks and the groan of cordage as the ship rolled heavily under reduced canvas, knowing that at any minute he would have to face the others. To begin again. He continued, 'I could shift my pendant to another ship, Thomas. But I recall only too clearly what happened when that was done when 1 held a similar command. The whole company took it as a personal slight, a lack of faith by the admiral in their ability and trust. I thought it unfair then, as I do now.'

Herrick's voice was husky. 'I understand. I don't relish the prospect of failure, and what it will mean. Equally, I'll not protest against something which I have begun.' He shrugged helplessly. 'Because of my feelings for the Navy, and for you, I'd kill myself rather than risk lives and a cause, to cover my faults.'

Bolitho watched him sadly. 'I am not removing you from duty.'

Herrick exclaimed, 'Then why have you agreed that - ' Bolitho stood up quickly. 'What would you have me do, eh? Give Gilchrist command and send you home? Replace you with Javal perhaps, when we have but one frigate for this whole mission ?' He looked away. ‘I am giving you Osiris. She is a well-found ship, and trained to a high standard.' He heard Herrick's intake of breath but went on remorselessly. 'You will not have to worry about the affairs of the squadron for the present, but concentrate instead on command. What you make of it is up to you. But I trust you, above all else, to do your duty well.' He turned slowly and was shocked to see that Herrick was as before, unnaturally calm. 'Farquhar will assume your present duties until. . .'

Herrick nodded. 'If that is your order, sir.'

'Order? Bolitho made to move towards him. 'Do you think I want you faced day by day with the officers and men you have trained and commanded since you took Lysander? To know that every hour brings a doubt, a fear that you will let them down in some way?' He shook his head. 'That I will not do. Nor will I, can I, jeopardise the squadron's strength because of something which is precious to me.'

Herrick looked round the cabin. 'Very well. I will prepare to leave.'

'No slur will fall on you, Thomas. I will see to that. But I'd rather see you captain of some worn-out brig than breaking your heart on the beach, deprived of the one life you love, and for which you have given so much.'

Herrick seemed momentarily confused. He said, 'Farquhar. I never liked him. Even as a midshipman, I never really liked him.' He turned to the door. 'I little thought it would end like this.'

Bolitho crossed the cabin towards him and held out his hands. 'Not end, Thomas!'

But Herrick kept his hands at his sides. 'We will see, sir.' He left without looking back.

Allday entered the cabin, and after a slight hesitation took the sword from its rack and examined it.

Bolitho sat down on the bench seat again and watched him miserably.

'Cap'n Herrick's off then, sir?' Allday kept his eyes on the sword.

'Don'tyou start at me, Allday.' But there was no bite to his tone. 'I have taken enough for one day. For a thousand days.'

Allday looked at him," his eyes very clear in the reflected light. 'You did right, sir.' He smiled sadly. 'I'm just a common seaman, who but for you would be working aloft or being punished for some petty fault or other. But I'm a man, and I've notions for those I serve, an' - ' he seemed at a loss,' - and feel strong for.' He drew the old sword carefully and held the blade in line with the sun, apparently studying its edge. 'Cap'n Herrick is a good man. In another ship he will find his feet again.' The sword went into its scabbard with a sharp click. 'But if not, then the deck of the flagship is no place for him, sir.'

Bolitho stared at him. It had happened often in the past, but never before had he needed Allday's support more. In his ship, indeed the whole of his little squadron, there was no man with whom he could really share his fears, his doubts. When he had crossed from wardroom to cabin, and then been given his own broad pendant, he had left such luxuries behind him for good.

Allday added calmly, 'When I was first pressed into your ship, I'd planned to give leg bail at the first opening. I knew the penalty for desertion well enough, but I was that determined. Then at the Saintes, when all God's protection was thrown aside under the cannon's bellow, I looked aft and saw you. And it was then that I knew there were some captains who did care for the likes of us, the poor buggers who were expected to cheer for King and country when we sailed into the enemy line.'

Bolitho replied quietly, 'I think you've said enough.'

Allday watched his lowered head with something like despair. 'And you never sees it yourself, do you, sir ? You fret about Cap'n Herrick, or what chance we have against this foe or that, but you never take a watch to think of yourself.' He tensed as Ozzard padded through the other door, Bolitho's coat and hat in his hands. 'But it's said and done now.' He watched Bolitho stand up, his eyes blind as he held out his arms for the coat. 'And I reckon it will be all right.'

Bolitho felt the sword-belt around his waist. Allday had understood better than most would do. Had guessed his intention perhaps from the moment of Herrick's admission.

He said, 'I will go on deck now and greet the others.' And afterwards say goodbye to Herrick. 'And thank you for -' He looked at Allday's homely face. 'Reminding me.'

Allday watched him stride from the cabin and then put his arm round Ozzard's shoulders.

'By God, I'd not have his position for a dozen wenches and a whole ocean of rum!'

Ozzard grimaced. 'Not likely to get the offer, I'd say.'

On deck it was still clear and bright, the afternoon sea choppy with lively cat's-paws and long shallow swells. The three ships of the line, sails in flapping confusion as they hove-to to drop and receive boats, would have gladdened Bolitho's heart at any other time. Now, as he stood on the poop deck and watched the two barges speeding towards Lysander's side, the marines already lined up at the entry port to receive the two other captains, he felt a deep sense of loss.

He saw Herrick at the lee rail, his hat well down over his eyes, and close by his first lieutenant, Gilchrist, arms folded, spindly legs apart to take the staggering motion. Of the action there was little to show. Brighter patches of planking where the carpenter and his mates had done their work well, fresh paint to hide other scars and replacements. Above the busy decks the sails, too, were neatly patched, and it was difficult to picture the smoke, to remember the din of war.

What Herrick was thinking at this moment he could hardly dare imagine. He must be very proud of the way his company had faced up to battle and its backbreaking aftermath. Just months ago most of these hurrying seamen had been working ashore on farms, in towns, with skills or without, life in a King's ship not even a possibility.

They would be sorry to see their captain leave. For the new men especially Herrick would be familiar, in some way a beginner like themselves. If they had displeasure to show it would be turned towards their commodore. If necessary, he would see to it himself, he thought grimly. Herrick's name was too valuable to be damaged because of his actions, right or wrong.

The first boat hooked on to the chains. It was Farquhar. Naturally. He came through the entry port, as elegant and as smart as if he had just left his London tailor. He doffed his hat to the quarterdeck and ran his eyes calmly along the swaying lines of marines and glittering bayonets. His hair was very fair, gathered at the nape of his neck, and it shone above his collar like pale gold.

Bolitho watched him shake hands with Herrick. How ill-matched they were. Had always been. Farquhar's uncle, Sir Henry Langford, had been Bolitho's first captain. At the age of twelve he had joined the eighty-gun Manxman, terrified and filled with awe. Fourteen years later, Langford, then an admiral, had given him command of a frigate. His nephew had been appointed into her as midshipman. Now, Farquhar, in his early thirties and a post-captain, was with him again. If he survived the war he would rise to high rank and position, both at home and in the fleet. Bolitho had never doubted it from the beginning, just as Herrick had never accepted it.

More shrills from the silver calls, and he saw George Probyn of the Nicator heaving his untidy shape through the port.

On the other side of the quarterdeck Pascoe was standing with Luce by the signal party, and Bolitho imagined that he himself must have looked like that when as a lieutenant he had witnessed comings and goings of aloof and unreachable beings.

He sighed and walked to the ladder.

Herrick said, 'If you will come to my quarters, Captain Probyn. The Commodore wishes to speak with Captain Farquhar.'

Farquhar's eyebrows rose slightly. ' 'Pon my word. Bit formal, aren't we, Captain Herrick ?' Herrick regarded him coldly. 'Yes.'

Bolitho watched Farquhar as he strode into his cabin. Watchful, wondering probably what his commodore's reactions were going to be, sensing something deeper around him, too. But confident above all.

‘I have my report, sir.'

Bolitho gestured to a chair. 'In a moment. Our attack, as you will have realised, was successful. We have one good prize, and despatched another Spanish vessel in the bay. Four days ago we met with two French ships of the line and engaged them. We broke off the action after crippling both vessels. Our losses were small. Considering.'

Farquhar smiled quietly. He did not look quite so confident now. He said, ‘I followed your instructions, sir. Buzzard reported sighting a convoy of some five sail, and we gave chase. Under the circumstances . . .'

'You acted correctly.' Bolitho watched him gravely. 'Did you catch them ?'

'Captain Javal managed to damage a couple, sir, but he only succeeded in making one heave-to. Unfortunately, I was unable to reach the scene on time as I had lost my main topgallant mast in a squall. Nicator took the lead, and due to some, er, misunderstanding of signals, fired a half-broadside into the French vessel, so that she began to founder.' 'And then?'

Farquhar tugged an envelope from inside his elegant coat. 'My boarding officer managed to save this letter from the master's safe before the vessel capsized and sank. It is addressed to a Yves Gorse, who apparently resides in Malta. It contains instructions for Gorse to prepare watering arrangements.' He thrust the letter across the table. 'For merchant vessels on their lawful occasions, or words to that effect. I believe the letter to be in some sort of code, but the vessel's master is such a dolt that I could get nothing from him. But the small convoy was out of Marseilles. A French corvette was escorting them through these waters, not because of any threat from us, but because of Barbary pirates and the like.' He was keeping the most important until the last. 'My first lieutenant did manage to discover one thing, sir. I have several Frenchmen pressed into my company, and one of them told my senior that he'd heard one of the survivors claim that the letter had been sent aboard their ship by order of Admiral Brueys himself!'

Bolitho looked at him. Brueys was perhaps the finest and most capable admiral in the French navy. In any navy for that matter.

'You did well.' Bolitho rubbed his hands on his thighs. 'This man Gorse may be a spy or agent of some kind. Perhaps the French intend to attack Malta.'

'Or Sicily?' Farquhar frowned. 'Bonaparte is said to have intentions towards the kingdom. They are at peace, but he probably believes, as I do, that in war there is no such luxury as neutrality.'

'Maybe.' Bolitho tried not to think of Herrick. 'We will make haste to Toulon and Marseilles. Following your discovery, we can now determine the strength of these preparations.'

Farquhar asked, 'Your prize, sir. What does she hold?'

'Powder and shot. And fodder.'

'Fodder?'

'Yes. It troubles me, too. All the French and Spanish preparations are for a full-scale attack. They blend together into a sort of strategy. But fodder. It does not sound like a local attack. It sounds like cavalry and heavy artillery. And all the men and horses to sustain them.'

Farquhar's eyes gleamed. 'This vessel, too, was carrying fodder.' He looked around the cabin. 'I am sorry, sir. But should we not wait for the others ? It will save time.'

Bolitho looked at the sealed envelope. 'This is for you, Captain Farquhar.' He walked to the stern and watched the other ships, hearing the rasp of a knife as Farquhar slit open the envelope.

Farquhar said quietly, 'You have me all aback, sir.' Bolitho turned and studied him thoughtfully. 'It was a hard decision.'

'And Captain Herrick, sir?' Farquhar's face was masklike. 'Is he ill?'

'Not ill.' He added shortly, 'Execute the arrangements directly. I want the squadron under way before dusk.'

Farquhar was still watching him, the letter in one hand. ‘I cannot begin to thank you, sir.'

Bolitho nodded. 'You obviously think I made the right choice.'

Farquhar had blue eyes. But they were not like Herrick's, and in the light from the sea they were like ice.

'Well, as you have asked, sir, yes I do.'

'Then see that the squadron's affairs show some sign of this.' He looked at him evenly. 'Captain Herrick is a fine officer.'

The eyebrows moved again. 'But ?'

'No but, Captain Farquhar. I want him to feel his strength in a well-trained ship, where he has no personal contact as yet. He will be kept fully occupied. I think it will be good for him and the squadron.'

Farquhar smiled. 'My first lieutenant will be surprised. It will do him good also.' He did not explain what he meant.

'The first lieutenant in this ship is Mr. Gilchrist. I suggest you make his acquaintance without delay.'

He waited for a sign but Farquhar merely remarked, 'Gilchrist? I don't think I know him.' He shrugged. 'But then, why should one bother to know these people ?'

Bolitho said, 'I would appreciate it if you would keep your personal dislikes out of the meeting.'

Farquhar stood up. 'Of course, sir. You should know that I have never disliked Captain Herrick. Although I am well aware of his hostility towards me.' He gave his tight-lipped smile. ‘I cannot imagine the reason for it.'

Bolitho saw Ozzard hovering at the door. 'Show the other captains aft, Ozzard. Then you can bring some wine.' He tried to speak lightheartedly, as if he was untroubled, unreached.

Ozzard bobbed, his eyes on Farquhar. 'Aye, aye, sir.'

Bolitho crossed to a quarter gallery and stared at the small white-horses cruising down from the horizon. Each piece of news and every thin rumour took them deeper and deeper into the Mediterranean. Each time it would be his decision. One captured letter had taken him into a bay where men and ships had been destroyed. Now Farquhar's chance find would send them still further north-east, to the harbours of the French navy. Pieces of a puzzle, all set against a chart and the remorseless run of sand in an hour-glass.

The door opened and he turned to see Herrick and Probyn entering the cabin. He waited until they were seated and then beckoned Ozzard to the wine cabinet.

At that moment there was a knock on the door and Gilchrist peered in at them. He saw Herrick and said, 'I am sorry to intrude, sir, but I wish to speak with the flag captain.'

Farquhar's voice made him turn.

'I am the flag captain, Mr. Gilchrist. I will trouble you not to forget it!' There was an uncomfortable silence and he added, 'I will also trouble you never to enter the commodore's quarters without my permission!'

The door closed and Farquhar leaned sideways in his chair to look at the cabinet.

His voice was perfectly normal again. 'A fine piece of joinery, sir. I know his work well.'

Bolitho glanced at Herrick, but he was already beyond his reach.

9 Wine and Cheese

Captain Charles Farquhar strode aft to greet Bolitho as he came on deck. In spite of being without coat or hat, Farquhar managed to retain an air of elegance, and his ruffled shirt looked as if it was freshly laundered.

He said formally, 'Course east-nor'-east, sir.'

Bolitho nodded and glanced up at his broad pendant and the set of the yards. The wind had veered slightly during the night, and there was evidence that it was weakening also.

He took a telescope from the rack and trained it over the larboard nettings. It was as if the scene stayed permanent and the sails were merely pretending to make the ship move. And yet it was three wearying weeks since he had watched Herrick pulled across to the Osiris, and two of those weeks had been spent along this stretch of coast. He watched the familiar shark-blue blur of land. It was maddening to realise that just out there was the busy port of Toulon, and behind its protective walls and batteries lay the answer to his speculation and doubts.

Farquhar remarked, 'Not even a sign of a sail, damn them.'

Bolitho replaced the glass and looked along Lysander's upper deck. The forenoon watch had begun. One like all the others before it. Everywhere, above and along the decks, men were at work, splicing, painting, blacking-down the standing rigging, examining a hundred and one things for flaws and possible wear.

It was eerie to find the Gulf of Lions so empty. It was like being laughed at. The French must know that an enemy squadron was active in their waters. Any tiny fishing craft might have sighted it and passed the news to garrisons ashore. Perhaps they were too busy to care, or were content to let the British ships tack wearily back and forth, consuming their stores and resources, and with nothing to show for it.

He said, *We must get some news soon, or we'll have to push closer inshore.'

Farquhar eyed him calmly. 'If we had some more frigates, sir.'

Bolitho bit back an angry retort. It was not Farquhar's fault. But in every campaign they seemed to be short of frigates, without which it was like trying to find a blind man in a dark room.

He peered astern, watching Osiris's big forecourse filling and emptying in the uncertain wind, as if the ship was breathing heavily. She was a mile away, and beyond her he could just see the leeward side of the prize Segura. He wondered how Probyn had been getting on with his separate patrol to the east of Toulon, to seaward of the small islands which protected the approaches. He had Javal's Buzzard in company, while the rest of the squadron had to be content with the sloop. He could just make out Harebell's cream-coloured topsails, etched against the French coastline like sea-shells. Inch would be in no doubt of his importance. It was to be hoped he did not allow his eagerness to tempt him closer inshore. There he could lose the wind, or fall foul of some well-sited artillery.

He turned to look at Osiris again. Three weeks, and on every single day he had wondered about Herrick.

Farquhar followed his glance and said, 'She is handling well.'

Only a casual interest. Bolitho had already noticed that about the elegant captain. Once out of a ship, and no matter how long he had served in her, or what great events she had shared, Farquhar was able to dismiss her from his thoughts. He was entirely without sentiment, and seemed to live for today, and where it would lead in the future.

Nevertheless, he had to admit that Farquhar's efficiency had showed itself throughout the ship. Gun drill and contests between batteries and decks had cut the time for loading and firing by minutes.

Although he always appeared to have time for his own leisure, Farquhar was never far away when needed. And his officers, from Gilchrist to Mr. Midshipman Saxby, had been made to realise it.

Farquhar had always borne a reputation for harshness. But as yet he had not shown himself as a tyrant. He had examined all the ship's books within hours of getting the squadron

It was a new side to the man's character, and Bolitho being the man he was never considered that his own past example to Farquhar was bearing fruit at last.

He saw Lieutenant Fitz-Clarence strutting busily back and forth on the lee side of the quarterdeck. That was another thing. Farquhar had quite rightly removed the second lieutenant from the monotony of prize-duty aboard the Segura and had sent instead a master's mate. Whenever the weather had made it possible he had recalled the prize-master and had replaced him with another. Midshipmen, warrant officers, even a resentful Gilchrist, had had their share. It made sense, and kept them on their toes.

But Farquhar had not asked permission. As flag captain he had taken it as a right.

He had even cut the number of punishments, if not their severity. He had examined every case himself, and if the unfortunate seaman had made a genuine mistake, or one had been caused by a superior's carelessness, he had dismissed it, and to ram home his point had given the accuser an awesome pile of extra duties. If on the other hand the case had been proved, he had ordered stiffer punishment than Herrick had ever permitted. It was, it seemed, his one real failing.

Farquhar said suddenly, 'We shall have to lose Harebell or Buzzard shortly, sir.' It sounded like a question.

'Yes.'

Bolitho paced slowly along the weather side. The deck seams clung to his shoes, and he could feel the heat thrown back from the bulwark. And it was barely nine o'clock in the forenoon. Each day brought hotter weather, more tension to those who endured it. Farquhar had put his finger right on the point. He could not delay much longer. He would have to send word to the admiral. His own estimation of the French preparations and intentions. Once he had despatched one of his badly needed scouts, he would be committed. Set against the consequences if he was proved wrong, that in itself was unimportant.

If only Inch had been able to capture the Spanish brig before the two French ships had chased him away. He could have sent her to the admiral.

He paused and shaded his eyes to look for the prize. She was too slow and vulnerable. And she still might prove useful as a deception. He thought of her packed cargo. Or as a bribe.

Steel rang on steel, and he walked to the quarterdeck rail to watch as the off-watch midshipmen faced each other for practice with sword and cutlass.

Farquhar glanced at him. 'I thought Mr. Pascoe would be well employed, sir.' There was nothing in his voice to betray his thoughts. 'He has already proved his skill on one of my previous lieutenants.' He smiled briefly. 'He has a good eye.'

Bolitho watched Pascoe walking behind two of the midshipmen, speaking to each in turn. Their faces were crimson with exertion and were obviously aware their commodore and captain were looking on.

Clang, clang, clang, the blades moved in a jerky rhythm. How different in a real battle, Bolitho thought grimly. The madness, the eagerness to strike at a man before he beat you to the deck.

Gilchrist appeared below the larboard gangway.

'You'll have to do better than that, Mr. Pascoe!'

Bolitho felt Farquhar tense as he snapped, 'What ails that damned fellow?'

Fitz-Clarence was making elaborate steps along the lee side, trying to warn Gilchrist that he was not alone.

Farquhar called, 'Mr. Fitz-Clarence! I'll trouble you to stand still!'

He turned and looked at Gilchrist's uplifted face.

'You were saying, Mr. Gilchrist ?'

The first lieutenant replied, 'The drill is untidy, sir.'

Bolitho watched the little drama in silence. The midshipmen's arms still wavering in the air, the swords in disarray. Seamen who had been working in the weather shrouds pausing to watch, their tanned bodies gold in the sunlight. Pascoe in the middle of it, his dark eyes on Gilchrist, only his quick breathing betraying his anger.

And Farquhar. He glanced at him and saw the look in his ice-blue stare. Farquhar had kept Gilchrist busy and obedient. Now it was out in the open again. He recalled his sudden anger. What ails that damned fellow ?

Farquhar snapped his fingers. 'Bosun's mate! Fetch my sword!'

He walked to the lee gangway and leaned on the handrail, his eyes on Gilchrist below him and at the opposite side.

'Mr. Pascoe, dismiss those ragamuffins!' He reached without turning his head as a worried looking bosun's mate hurried towards him. ‘I believe you lost your sword in some reckless scheme with the Dons, Mr. Pascoe.' He drew his own from its scabbard and held it against the sky, eyeing it critically. 'This is a fair blade. It was presented to me by my late uncle.' He looked up at Bolitho's grave features and added, 'Although I gather that Sir Henry preferred something heavier, sir ?' He added sharply, 'With your permission, sir.' Then he flung the sword straight at Pascoe. 'Catch!'

Bolitho tried not to flinch as the youth reached out and caught it in flight.

Farquhar sounded very relaxed and composed. 'And now, Mr. Gilchrist. If you will be so good as to cross swords with our junior lieutenant, maybe the midshipmen will learn something, eh?'

Gilchrist stared from him to Pascoe, his eyes wild.

'Fight a duel, sir ?' He could barely get the words out.

'Not a duel, Mr. Gilchrist.' Farquhar returned to the quarterdeck. 'An instruction, if you like.'

As he reached Bolitho's side he said quietly, 'Have no fears for Mr. Pascoe, sir.'

Gilchrist had been handed his sword by the wardroom servant and was holding it before him as if he had never set eyes on it in his life.

He said, 'At the first contact . . .'

He stared desperately at the midshipmen. Luce was grim-faced, and at the end of the line Saxby stood with his mouth wide open, his eyes like saucers.

Gilchrist seemed to realise the absurdity of his position and snapped, 'On your guard, Mr. Pascoe!'

The blades touched, wavered and flashed over the pale planking like steel tongues.

Bolitho watched, feeling the dryness in his throat as he saw Pascoe's slim figure moving around an eighteen-pounder's breech, his shoes feeling the way, his right leg forward to keep his balance. He wanted to tear his eyes away and look at Farquhar. Was he really trying to demolish Gilchrist's arrogance, or was he using it and Pascoe's skill to remind Bolitho of his dead brother ?

Perhaps Farquhar was remembering at this very moment. How they had been taken prisoner by Hugh Bolitho in his American privateer. He was not likely to forget it, or the fact that Hugh's downfall had begun when he had killed a brother officer when he had been in the King's service. In a duel.

He heard Gilchrist's sharp breathing, saw the concentrated stare of anger and hatred as he parried Pascoe's guard and forced him back a few paces before he could recover.

Farquhar said quietly, 'See how his skill with a sword gives way to anger.' He was speaking almost to himself. 'Watch him. Pushing on, using up his strength.' He nodded with silent appreciation. 'He has a longer reach, and is a harder man than Mr. Pascoe, but. . .'

Bolitho saw Pascoe's hilt dart up and under the other man's blade, twisting it aside and making it fly across the deck.

Gilchrist stepped back, his eyes fixed on the sword point which was motionless, in line with his chest.

'God Farquhar sauntered to the rail. 'Well done.' He looked at Gilchrist. 'Both of you.' He turned to the spellbound midshipmen. 'I think that was quite a lesson, eh ?' Bolitho took a slow breath. A lesson indeed. For all of them.

The master's mate of the watch, who had been following the spectacle with the others, suddenly looked up, his hands cupped around his ears. 'Gunfire, sir!'

Bolitho wrenched his thoughts from the sword-play. 'Where away ?'

He heard it then, like surf on a rocky shore. Muffled, but plain for what it was.

The master's mate said, 'To the east'rd, sir.' He pointed across the starboard bow. 'Sure of it.'

Farquhar hurried past him. 'That was well said, Mr. Bagley.' He reached the compass and peered at it for several seconds. 'I'd like permission to investigate, sir.' He watched Bolitho, his mouth half smiling. 'Before the wind leaves us with more time to 'er, fill.'

Bolitho nodded. 'Signal the squadron to make more sail. Harebell, too, if you can attract Commander Inch's attention.'