'Tell the lookouts to take extra care. Send telescopes aloft, too.'

'You think the brig was French, sir?' Farquhar sounded curious. 'She can do us little harm.'

'Maybe. In Falmouth my sister's husband owns a large farm and estate.' He looked impassively at Farquhar. 'He also has a dog. Whenever a poacher or vagrant comes near his land, the dog tracks him, but never attacks or barks.' He smiled. 'Until the stranger is within range of a fowling-piece'

Farquhar stared at the chart, as if he expected to see something there.

'Following us, sir ?'

'It is possible. The French have many friends here. They would be willing and eager to pass information which might ease their lot once the tricolour has extended its "estates".'

Farquhar said uneasily, 'But supposing that is so, the French cannot know our full strength.'

"They will see we have no frigates. If I were a French admiral, that would be very valuable news indeed.' He walked to the door, an idea emerging from the back of his mind. 'Fetch your sailmaker, will you ?'

On the quarterdeck, several hands paused to watch him before returning to their work with added vigour. They probably thought him unhinged by the fever. Bolitho allowed the light wind to cool him and smiled to himself. He was still wearing his Spanish shirt, and had declined any of Farquhar's spare clothing. His own was still aboard Lysander. He would get it when he found Herrick. And find him he would.

'Sir?' The sailmaker was at his side, watching him with a mixture of caution and interest.

'How much spare canvas do you have? That which is useless for making new sails and the like ?'

The man glanced nervously at Farquhar, who snapped, 'Tell him, Parker!'

The sailmaker launched into a long list of stores and fragments, item by item, and Bolitho was impressed that he retained so much in his memory.

'Thank you, er, Parker.' He moved to the starboard gangway and stared along it towards the forecastle. 'I want a strip of canvas sewn and lashed along the gangway nettings on either side of the ship. Hammock cloths, unwanted scraps which you may have been keeping for repairing awnings and winds'ls.' He faced him calmly. 'Can you do that?'

"Well, that is, sir, I expect I could manage if.. .' He looked at his captain for support.

Farquhar asked, 'For what purpose, sir? I think if this fellow knew what you required, and I, too, for that matter, it would help him.'

Bolitho smiled at them. 'If we join fo'c'sle to quarterdeck in this manner, then paint the canvas the same as the hull, with black squares at regular intervals,' he leaned over the rail to gesture at the eighteen-pounder gun ports, 'we can transform Osiris into a three-decker, eh?'

Farquhar shook his head. 'Damn me, sir, it would do the trick. At any sort of distance we'd look like a first-rate, and no mistake! The Frogs will begin to wonder just how many of us there are.'

Bolitho nodded. 'Inshore we may stand a chance. But we cannot afford a pitched battle in open waters until we have discovered the enemy's real strength. I doubt that the French will have many ships of the line here. De Brueys will save them for the fleet and for protecting his transports. But I must know.'

'Deck there! Sail on the larboard quarter!'

Bolitho said, 'Our will-o'-the-wisp again. As soon as it is dusk we will begin the disguise. We can change tack during the night and maybe give our inquisitive friend the slip.'

Another hail made them look up. 'Deck there! Sail on the lee bow!'

'Company?' Bolitho prodded the sailmaker with his fist. 'Get your mates to work, Parker. You may be the first man in history to build a King's ship out of canvas scraps!'

He saw Pascoe hurrying up the weather shrouds to join the lookout who had made the last report. He was hampered by a large telescope slung over his shoulder, but ran up the ratlines with the ease of a cat.

Moments later he shouted, 'She's the Buzzard, sir!'

Farquhar muttered, 'About time, too.'

Bolitho said, 'Make a signal to Buzzard. Take station ahead of the squadron.'

Farquhar replied, 'She'll not be in signalling distance for quite a time, sir. She'll have to claw every inch of the way against the wind.'

- 'She cannot see the signal, Captain. But the other vessel will. Her master will know there is another, maybe several ships close by. It may give him something to chew on.'

Bolitho thrust his hands behind him, seeing the boatswain and some seamen already broaching the paint, while others dragged the canvas across the upper deck.

He began to pace slowly along the weather side, willing Buzzard's topsails to show themselves to him above the horizon.

Three ships now instead of two. He thanked God for Javal's determination to find him. Weak they may be. But they were no longer blind as well.

While Osiris and her consort continued at a snail's pace to the north-east, and Javal worked the frigate through countless zig2:ags to join them, the small blur of canvas which betrayed their follower was rarely out of sight.

All afternoon, as the sailmaker and his mates sat cross-legged on every spare piece of deck, heads bent, needles and palms flashing in the sunlight, Bolitho prowled about the poop or visited the cabin in a state of near exhaustion.

In the last dog watch, when the lookout shouted, 'Land ho!’, he guessed that the pursuing brig would be satisfied that the squadron, large or small, was indeed making for Corfu.

Bolitho examined the purple shadow of land through the rigging and shrouds, and pictured the island in his mind. The brig's master had been too faithful to his orders. Now, with night closing in more rapidly, he would have to bide his time and hold the information to himself. Under similar circumstances, Bolitho thought that he would have taken the risk of his admiral's displeasure and called off the chase long ago. He would have been more use t© his admiral alongside the flagship than riding out a long night off this dangerous coast. Curiosity had been the brig's weakness. It was not much, but it might be vital.

He returned to the cabin and found Farquhar waiting for him with Veitch and Plowman.

Farquhar said, 'You wanted these two, I believe, sir.' He sounded disdainful.

Bolitho waited as a servant hung another lantern above the chart.

'Now, Mr. Plowman. I need a good volunteer to spy out the land for me.'

The master's mate looked at the chart and the marks which denoted cliffs and deep soundings along the western shore.

He gave a slow grin. 'Aye, sir. I take your meanin'!'

Farquhar asked sharply, 'Are you sending men ashore at night, sir?'

Bolitho did not reply directly. He looked at Plowman and asked simply, 'Can you do it ? If it was not important I would not ask.'

'I've tackled worse. Once in West Africa . . .' He sighed. 'But that's another story, sir.' 'Good.'

Bolitho studied him gravely. He was probably asking far too much. Sending Plowman and others to their deaths. He toyed with the idea of going himself but knew it would be pointless either way. Conceit, desperation, anxiety, none came into it. He would be needed here, and very soon.

To Farquhar he said, 'They will want a cutter and a good stout crew.' He turned to Veitch. 'I'm putting you in charge of the landing party. Choose your men carefully. Men used to the countryside, who'll not fall headlong down a cliff.'

He saw the gravity on the lieutenant's face giving way to something else. Satisfaction. Pride perhaps at being offered such a demanding task without restriction. If Bolitho had doubts they were in himself. Veitch had already proved his worth and his ability.

Plowman was still examining the chart. 'This looks a likely place.' He jabbed it with a thick finger. 'An' there'll be a good moon tonight. We can run under sail till we're close in, then pull the rest of the way.'

Bolitho said, 'You can take all night. But tomorrow, try to discover what is happening. The island is about five miles across at the point you have selected, Mr. Plowman. The hills rise to a thousand feet or more. From there you should see enough for our purposes.'

Veitch said slowly, 'It mav be difficult to hide the cutter, sir.'

'Do what you can.' He looked at each of them. 'Otherwise, you will have to sink it where you land. I will send another to take you off later.'

Farquhar coughed. "There is a fact to be faced, sir. The whole party may be taken prisoner within minutes of getting ashore.'

Bolitho nodded grimly. So even Farquhar was now accepting the reality of their situation. The enemy was fact, not shadows.

'We will attack from the south'rd at dawn, the day after tomorrow. If Mr. Veitch can discover the whereabouts of shore batteries, and their strength, it will make our task less demanding.' He smiled at their tense expressions. 'Although I fear our arrival will not be welcome.'

Veitch breathed out noisily. "We'll do our best, sir. Let us hope that the French have none of their new guns along the coast.'

"That I doubt.' Bolitho pictured the great cannon smashing his little force into submission before they had even got to grips. 'They are being saved for something more important to Bonaparte.'

Veitch and Plowman left the cabin to gather their men and weapons, and he said, 'I would like to see my signals officer. Tomorrow we will head northwards under our new guise, but hold Buzzard well to windward. Javal may get a chance to catch that brig or any other spy, if he's in the right place. One more vessel under our flag would be welcome.'

He suddenly saw himself at Spithead, awaiting the boat which would carry him out to the frigate. To Gibraltar, to Lysander, and all those countless hours and miles sailed since. To here. A small cross on the chart. He shivered, despite the heavy air. It was almost symbolic. And this was when he needed Herrick most. His loyalty and devotion. He wondered what Farquhar thought about it. Really thought. Did he see this as his chance to add fame to his new status? Or did he see it only as an end to all his hopes ?

They made light of risk. They always did beforehand. But he was asking much of every single man. Far too much. When battle was joined, causes and grand ideals counted for very little. It was the speed you could fire and reload. The strength you held to withstand the awful sights and sounds.

He shook himself from the lingering depression.

'Well, Captain Farquhar.' He saw him come out of his own thoughts. 'We will do this together, or if one of us falls, the other will carry on with it. Either way, it must be done.'

'Yes.' Farquhar looked around the quiet cabin. 'I can see that now.'

*

Within hours of full daylight the brig's topsails appeared again, tipping the horizon, but taking care to stand off well to windward. Either her master had managed to send word ashore by boat during the night, or he was eager to learn more about Bolitho's ships.

Bolitho made certain that their attendant spy had plenty to hold his attention. Pascoe's signal party hoisted several meaningless flags, which were acknowledged with equal vigour by Nicator and Buzzard. Then, when Bolitho made a genuine signal, to call the other captains aboard for a discussion of their position, he played his other card. With sails aback, Osiris came round into the wind, displaying her broadside to the distant vessel, and her impressive new height above water.

When Javal arrived in his gig he exclaimed admiringly, ‘I thought I was seeing things, sir. Or that St. Vincent had arrived in his flagship. From my gig she looks every inch a first-rate!'

Probyn was less enthusiastic. 'A novel idea, I agree. But we can't shoot with painted canvas!'

Once more in the great cabin Bolitho looked at his captains. Javal seemed strained after his long fight against the sea and wind, but otherwise unworried. Farquhar, tight-lipped and pale, but neither a hair nor a gilt button out of place. Probyn was as untidy and as brooding as ever. He looked heavy-eyed, and his cheeks were redder than one would expect from wind alone. Drinking more than usual. It was strange, but Bolitho found he had forgotten how Probyn had used to drink when they had been lieutenants together. More than once he had stood a watch or a duty for him, when the first lieutenant had drawled, 'See to it, Dick. Poor old George is in his cups again.'

He waited until each of them had a glass of Farquhar's claret in his hand, then said calmly, 'Tomorrow, gentlemen, we will make our play. I hope to pick up Mr. Veitch and his party tonight. What he tells me may alter our tactics, but cannot postpone an attack.'

Probyn kept his eyes on his lap. 'What if he doesn't come back?

'It will keep us in the dark.'

He thought of Veitch out there on Corfu. The villagers, if he was unlucky enough to stumble on them, might take them as Frenchmen. He was not sure if that was good or bad. Veitch had shown himself to be a quick-thinking and intelligent man. Bolitho would make certain his name went forward for early promotion if he survived another night on the island. He had toyed with the idea of telling him beforehand, but had decided against it. Such a promise could make an ambitious man too careful, an eager one too reckless.

'We have shown ourselves as preparing to attack. The enemy will still not know our full strength, but as they may now believe we have a three-decker supporting us, they must decide on their own plan of defence. Or attack.'

Probyn slammed his empty glass on the table and looked meaningly at the cabin servant.

Then he asked, 'Why not wait, sir? Watch and wait, until we get more support.' He looked from the corners of his eyes at Farquhar. 'If Lysander had been here, then I might have said otherwise.'

Bolitho watched Probyn emptying another glass of claret.

'We do not know enough to wait. At any day, the enemy might try to sail out of Corfu, and if their numbers are what I believe, we could not hope to contain them.' He saw Probyn was unconvinced, and added, 'Besides which, the French fleet may even now be steering in this direction to escort their precious supply ships elsewhere.' He tapped the chart with his glass. 'Caught on a lee shore, or worse, bottled up on the eastern side of the island, what chance would we have then?'

He kept his gaze on Probyn, willing him to accept, if not condone, the reasoning. For Captain George Probyn's part could be the most important of all. Tomorrow, hours not days now, and his Nicator might be the sole survivor.

He said quietly, 'Osiris will force the southern channel at dawn. The supply ships will be anchored anywhere from fifteen to twenty miles up the coast, and once amongst them it will be a busy time for us all.' He saw Javal's hard face break into a smile. 'The French, I believe, see themselves in a strong position. They will know we are coming, and move what guns they have ashore to command our approach.'

Javal nodded. 'Aye, it makes sense. A three-decker would be seen as the real threat.'

Bolitho thought of Grubb and wished he was here. Osiris's sailing master seemed capable enough, but lacked Grubb's knowledge and philosophy on the weather's habits. He had been a mate in an Indiaman before joining a King's ship, and his early service had been spent weighing the value of a fast passage against goods lost by poor navigation.

If so much depended on what his ships could do tomorrow, the wind was almost equal in importance.

He shut it behind him and said to Probyn, 'You will leave us at dusk. Steer to the north'rd. When the time is ready you will enter the top channel, I am hoping, unopposed. The defenders should think the real menace is from us in the south. If "lady luck",' he hesitated, seeing Herrick's blue eyes crinkling to his favourite talisman, 'blesses us, and the wind holds, we will hit the enemy hard, and where it will do our cause most good.'

They all stood up, knowing it was over.

Bolitho added, 'God be with you.'

They filed out in silence, then Bolitho heard Farquhar shouting for someone to recall the captains' boats.

Allday entered the cabin by the other door and asked, 'Can't I get you a uniform coat from somewhere, sir?' He sounded more worried by Bolifho's appearance than the prospect of battle.

Bolitho walked to the quarter windows and saw Probyn's barge pulling strongly away. He thought of this ship, Osiris, the men who would work her up that channel. Would fight and, if need be, die. It was not a happy ship. He frowned. Nicator. Judge of the Dead. He felt suddenly chilled.

He answered, 'No matter, Allday. Tomorrow they may look aft, as you insist they do in action.' He saw him nod. ‘I want them to see me. More like one of themselves than as one more oppressive uniform. This ship has no warmth about her. She carries all the marks of discipline and efficiency, but. . .' He shrugged.

Allday said, 'They'll fight well enough, sir. You'll see.'

But Bolitho could not shake off his feeling of foreboding.

'If anything should happen.' He did not turn from the windows but heard Allday tense. 'I have made provision for you in Falmouth. You will always have a home there, and want for nothing.'

Allday could not restrain himself. He strode aft to the gallery and exclaimed, 'I'll hear none of it, sir! Nothing will happen, nothing can.'

Bolitho turned and looked at him. 'You will prevent it?'

Allday stared at him wretchedly. 'If I can.'

‘I know.' He sighed. 'Perhaps, like Thomas Herrick, I am here too soon after that other dme.'

Allday insisted, 'The surgeon was right, sir. Your wound is not properly healed yet, your health more set back by the fever than you'll allow for.' He added meaningly, 'Cap'n Farquhar's surgeon is no butcher. He's a proper doctor. Cap'n Farquhar took good care of that!'

Bolitho smiled gravely, he would. 'Ask Mr. Pascoe to lay aft. I have some signals to prepare.'

Alone again, he sat down at the table and stared unseeingly at his chart. He thought of Catherine Pareja, and wondered what she was doing now in London.

Twice a widow, yet with more life in her than most young girls just free of their mother's arms. Never once had she mentioned marriage. Not even a hint. Something seemed to hold it back. An unspoken agreement.

He opened the front of his Spanish shirt and examined the tiny locket which hung around his neck. Kate had never even shown resentment for that. He opened it carefully and examined the small lock of chestnut-coloured hair. It caught the sunlight from the stern windows and shone as brightly as the day he had met her. An admiral's bride-to-be. Cheney Seton. The girl he had won and had married. He closed the locket and rebuttoned his shirt. It never changed. No wonder he had cried her name.

Pascoe entered the cabin, his hat beneath his arm, a signal book in one hand.

Bolitho faced him, concealing his sudden despair as best he could.

'Now, Adam, let us see what other ideas we can invent, shall we?'

*

'Course nor'-east by north, sir! Full an' bye!'

Bolitho heard the master whispering with his helmsmen but hurried to the nettings, now packed with neatly stowed hammocks and starkly pale in the moonlight.

Farquhar joined him and reported, 'Wind's steady, sir. We are about twenty miles south-west of the island. Buzzard's to windward, you can just make out her tops'ls in the moon's path.'

'No sign of a boat?'

'None. I sent the other cutter away under sail three hours back. If Veitch saw it he made no signal with either lantern or pistol-shot.'

'Very well. How long does the master think we can remain on this tack?'

'An hour more at the most, sir. Then I'll have to recall my cutter, and by that time I'll be ready to come about. Otherwise, we'll be too close to lie-to, and if we continue round in another great circle we'll be further away from the southern channel than I care for when dawn comes.'

'I agree.' Bolitho added reluctantly, 'Another hour then.'

Farquhar asked, 'Are you certain you did right by sending Nicator to the northern channel, sir? It will be a disaster if Probyn fails to engage in time.'

'The channel is narrow, I know, but with favourable winds Nicator will be able to manage.'

'I was not referring to the channel or the danger, sir.' Farquhar's face was in the moon's shadow, his epaulettes very bright against his coat. 'I have to admit, I feel no faith in Nicator's captain.'

'When he sees our dependence on his support, Captain Farquhar, he will do his duty.'

He recalled Probyn's reddened features, his indirect manner. His caution. But what could he do ? If things happened as he had predicted, Osiris would take the worst of it, and would need the most tenacity. He could not ask Javal to thrust his frail ship into the teeth of a bombardment, although his part in the attack was bad enough anyway. Without Lysander's support, the surprise would have to be left to Nicator. There was no other way. He wondered if Farquhar was cursing himself now for letting Herrick go unaided, for failing to act as a squadron against the enemy when he believed himself in overall command.

'Deck there! Light on th' weather bowl'

Bolitho ran to the larboard gangway and peered above the painted canvas.

He heard Farquhar snap, 'The signal, by God! Mr. Outhwaite! Heave-to, if you please, and prepare to hoist boats inboard!'

The ship came alive, the hurrying seamen like phantoms in the eerie moonlight as they ran without hesitation to halliards and braces.

Someone raised a cheer as first one and then the second cutter bumped alongside, and men scrambled down to them to bear a hand.

Sailing and pulling at the oars, it must have been an unnerving job for the crews, Bolitho thought.

He waited by the quarterdeck rail, gripping his hands behind him to prevent his impatience from sending him down to the entry port with the others.

He saw a sturdy figure limping aft and recognised him instantly.

'Mr. Plowman! Come over here!'

The master's mate leaned against the hammock nettings and tried to regain his breath. 'Glad to be 'ere, sir.'

He waved his arm towards the invisible land, and Bolitho saw that his hand was wrapped in a stained bandage, the blood soaking through it like black oil.

' 'Ad to lie low, even when we saw t'other boat standin' inshore. Place was alive with pickets. We run into one of 'em. Bit of a fight.' He examined his bandaged fist. 'But we done for 'em.'

'And Mr. Veitch ?' He waited for the inevitable.

But Plowman said, ' 'E's fine, sir. I left 'im ashore. 'E ordered me to find you an' report.'

Even the cabin lanterns seemed too bright after the strange moonscape on deck, and Bolitho saw that Plowman was filthy from head to toe, his face and arms scarred from rock and gorse.

'Have a drink.' Bolitho saw Farquhar and his first lieutenant, and behind them Pascoe, coming into the cabin. 'Anything you like.'

Plowman sighed gratefully. 'Then I'd like a measure o' brandy, if I may dare ask, sir.'

Bolitho smiled. 'You deserve a cask.' He waited in silence, watching Plowman's expression as he drank a complete goblet of Farquhar's brandy. 'Now tell me the news.'

Plowman wiped his mouth with his wrist. 'It ain't good, sir.' He shook his head. 'We did like you said, and Mr. Veitch was fair amazed by what we saw. Just like you told us it would be, only more so.'

Farquhar snapped, 'Ships ?'

'Aye, sir. Thirty or more. Well-laden, too. An' there's a ship o' the line at anchor offshore, a seventy-four. An' two or three smaller ships. A frigate, an' a pair o' corvettes, like the Frenchie we done for with Segura.'

Plowman ignored him. 'But that ain't all, sir. They've hauled a pair o' them new guns to the 'eadland.' He leaned heavily across the chart and jabbed it with his thumb. 'There. We thought for a bit they was unloadin' all the ships, but they just ferried these two beauties ashore. We met up with a shepherd at dawn. One of the lads won 'is confidence like, speaks a bit of the language. The locals don't care for the Frogs. They've bled the island white. An' the women, too, by th' sound of it. Anyway, he said that the ships are preparin' to leave. Goin' to Crete or somewhere, to wait for more ships.'

'De Brueys.' Bolitho looked at him gravely. 'Why did Lieutenant Veitch stay behind?' He had already guessed the answer.

'Mr. Veitch told me that 'e thinks you'll attack, sir. Said you'd not let the Nicator go in on 'er own.' He scowled. 'But for this mangy fist I’d 'ave stayed there with 'im.'

Bolitho said, 'Your return is of greater value to me. And I thank you.'

Veitch had seen it, right from the beginning. That without more ships they could not keep in contact with Nicator, nor could they reach her before dawn and the moment of attack.

Plowman added wearily as Bolitho refilled the glass, 'Mr. Veitch said 'e would try to 'elp, sir. He got three volunteers with 'im.' He gave a sad grin. 'All as mad as 'im, if you'll pardon the liberty, sir, so I can't tell you no more.'

His head lolled with fatigue, and Bolifho said quietly, 'Tell Allday to help him to the sickbay and have his hand dressed. And see that both boat crews are rewarded in some way.'

He looked at their faces. Farquhar's set in a grim frown. Outhwaite's liquid eyes watching him with quiet fascination. And Pascoe, his black hair falling across one eye, as if he, too, had a scar to hide.

Bolitho asked, 'Well, Captain Farquhar, what is your opinion on this ?'

He shrugged. 'But for Nicator's safety, I'd advise you to withdraw, sir. There is no sense in putting your honour before the loss of a squadron. We gambled on the French keeping all their precious artillery stowed in their holds, and relying on more "conventional" weapons.' He glanced briefly at Plowman's sagging shoulder. He had fallen into an exhausted sleep. 'But if fellows like Plowman here, and Lieutenant Veitch, are prepared to throw their lives down the hawse, I suppose I will do the same!'

He looked calmly at his first lieutenant. 'Commodore's instructions, Mr. Outhwaite. One hot meal and a double ration of rum for all hands. After that, you may douse the galley fires, and then clear for action. Our people will sleep beside their guns tonight.' He looked at Bolitho. 'If sleep they can.'

Farquhar nodded curtly. 'Now, if you will excuse me, sir. I have some letters to write.'

Bolitho looked at Pascoe. 'I wish you were in almost any other ship, Adani. In any place but here.'

Pascoe regarded him searchingly. 'I am content, sir.'

Bolitho walked to the windows and stared at the silver glow across the water. Like rippling silk, the patterns changing endlessly. He thought of Farquhar writing his letters. To his mother? To the Admiralty?

He said, 'In my steward's keeping at Falmouth, Adam, there is a letter. For you.'

He felt Pascoe step beside him, and saw his reflection in the thick glass. Like brothers in the strange glow.

'Don't say anything.' He reached out and put his arm round his shoulder. 'The letter will tell you everything you must do. The rest you will decide for yourself.'

'But, Uncle.' Pascoe's voice sounded unsteady. 'You must not speak like that!'

'It must be said.' He turned and smiled at him. 'As it was once said to me. And now,' he forced the pain out of his thoughts, 'we must help Mr. Plowman below.'

But when they turned from the windows, Plowman had already gone.

15 Disaster

'Steer nor'-nor'-east.' Farquhar remained near the wheel, looking towards Bolitho. 'We will weather the headland as close as we dare.' He glared at the master. 'Do you understand, Mr. Bevan?'

'Aye, sir.' The master shifted under his stare. 'It's a bad entrance. Shoals below the headland. Some others offshore, but the charts can't fix them exactly.'

Farquhar walked down to the quarterdeck rail. 'No sign of life yet, sir.'

Bolitho raised a telescope and moved it slowly along the uneven summit of the headland. About a mile across the larboard bow. But it was still resting in deep shadow, with only the paling sky to give some indication of height and depth. But he could see the writhing movement at the bottom of the nearest point, to mark the sea breaking and sluicing over a steep, stony beach, and jagged reefs, too. He heard Farquhar's sudden impatience with the sailing master, and guessed it had been as much to relieve the tension as anything. But he had been wrong to vent his feelings on him. Bevan, the master, ex-mate of an Indiaman, needed all his wits about him now, and the complete confidence of his three helmsmen, without his captain throwing his temperament to all and sundry.

'I expect none.'

Bolitho stiffened as something passed above the nearest hump of land. For a moment he thought it was smoke, but it was a solitary feather of cloud, moving diagonally towards the water beyond the headland which was still in semi-darkness. He saw that the forepart of the cloud was pale gold, holding the sun which was still hidden to the men in both ships.

He strode to the nettings and climbed on the top of a nine-pounder to peer across the quarter. Buzzard was right on station. Two cables astern, with her mainsail and topgallants clewed up and her big forecourse braced round to contain the light south-westerly wind. She looked very slender and frail in the dim light, and he pictured Javal with his officers watching the same jutting land, and willing time to pass. To get on with it.

But it would be some while yet, he thought. The French would bide their time and not risk their enemy's escape by opening fire too early.

He stepped down from the gun and-almost fell. Despite the liberal scattering of sand along every gun deck, the planks were damp with night dew and treacherous underfoot. A seaman caught his elbow and grinned at him.

'Easy sir I We'll not 'ave 'em sayin' it was our gun which downed the commodore!'

Bolitho smiled. As in every part of the ship, the guns were fully manned and loaded. All it needed to complete her preparedness was to open the ports and run out. But if there was some watcher on the land, there was no point in showing that Osiris's upper line of gun ports was only black squares painted on canvas.

He said, 'Nor that I was too drunk to stand upright, eh ?'

They laughed, as he knew they would. The air around the guns, even in the cool wind, was heavy with rum, and he guessed that far more than a double tot had found its way to each man. Or that some had used their issue to pay old debts, or to purchase something better. Most likely, some had held back their rum to cover bets: What had they bet on? Who would live or die? How much prize money they would receive? Which officer would hold his nerve the longest? He had no doubt that the bets would be many and varied.

He walked forward again to the rail and stared along the shadowed gun deck. Figures moved restlessly around each black barrel. Like slaves as they tested each piece of tackle and equipment for their trade. The gun captains had done their part. Had made certain that the first balls to be fired were perfect in shape and weight, that each charge was just right. After the opening shots, it was usually too desperate, too deafening to pause for such niceties.

He looked up and saw the marine marksmen in the tops, while right forward on the forecastle there were more of them, standing loosely beside their long muskets, or chatting with the carronade crews.

Bolitho heard Allday say, 'I've brought the sword, sir.'

He slipped off the boat cloak he had been wearing since three hours before dawn and allowed Allday to buckle on his sword.

Allday said softly, but with obvious disapproval, 'You look more like a buccaneer than a commodore, sir 1 I don't know what they'd say in Falmouth!'

Bolitho smiled. 'One of my ancestors was a pirate, Allday.' He tightened the belt buckle. He had lost some weight during his fever. 'When it was a respectable calling, of course.'

He turned as Farquhar hurried past. 'Have you extra hands on pumps and buckets?'

'Yes, sir.' Farquhar ran a finger around his neckcloth. 'If they use heated shot on us, I'm as ready as I can be.' He looked at the nets spread above the gun deck, at the looser ones draped along the shrouds to prevent a sudden rush of boarders. To the sentries at each hatch and companion, and the boatswain's party who waited to hack away fallen spars, or clear corpses from an upended gun.

Bolitho watched him, seeing his mind examining each part of his command for a flaw or a weak point. Under their feet, and beneath the crowded gun deck, the lower batteries of thirty-two-pounders would be ready and waiting. And below them, standing like ghouls in a circle of lanterns, the surgeon and his assistants, watching the empty table, the glittering knives and saws. Bolitho recalled Luce's pale face, his pleading. His one frantic scream. He looked across at Pascoe who stood on the lee side by the main shrouds, talking with a petty officer and a midshipman. Was he thinking about Luce, he wondered ?

Aft, on the poop, the bulk of the marines waited by the nettings, in three lines, for if Osiris was to engage from her larboard side, they would have to fire rank by rank, like soldiers in a square.

Bolitho tried to pick out faces he knew, but there were hardly any. Anonymous, yet familiar. Typical, but unknown. Marines and seamen, lieutenants and midshipmen. He had seen them in a dozen ships, in as many fleets.

A marine lieutenant's silver shoulder-plate gleamed suddenly as if heated from within. As Bolitho turned his head to starboard he saw the sun's rim on the horizon, the rays filtering down across the ruffled water towards him like molten metal.

Allday remarked, 'Going to be a fine day.'

Lieutenant Outhwaite was standing by the main companion way, his eyes glowing like little stones as he stared towards the sunrise. Like his captain, he was impeccably dressed, his hat set exactly square on his head, his long queue straight down his spine.

Farquhar wore no hat, but a midshipman stood near him, carrying it, and his sword, as if for an actor waiting to begin his most difficult role. In fact, Bolitho saw that Farquhar's mouth was moving. Speaking to himself, or rehearsing a speech for his men, he did not know.

His hair was very fair, and he had it pulled back to the nape of his neck and tied with a neat black bow. Whatever happened in the next hours, Farquhar was dressed for it.

He seemed to sense Bolitho's scrutiny and turned towards rum. He gave a slow smile. 'A new uniform, sir. But I recalled your own custom before a fight of consequence.' He gave a brief shake of the head. 'And as your tailor is elsewhere, I thought I would set the example.'

Bolitho replied, 'A kind thought.'

He peered along the deck again, seeing the land-mass growing and looming towards the bowsprit, as if they were touching.

'The enemy will not fire until he has a sure target. His gunners will have the sun in their eyes directly, but once we are standing well up the eastern shore it will not help us much. There is a dip behind the bay I have in mind. A good site for long-range guns.'

He strained his eyes beyond the bows as a voice yelled, 'Surf! Fine on the larboard bow!'

The master said tightly, 'That'll be the damned reef, sir.'

'Let her pay off a point, Mr. Bevan. Steer nor'-east by north.' Farquhar looked at his first lieutenant. 'D'you have a good leadsman in the chains?'

'Aye, sir.' The frogface watched him questioningly. 'I have stressed the importance of his task this morning.'

Bolitho found he could smile, in spite of the gnawing uncertainty of waiting. Farquhar and Outhwaite were well matched. So maybe Farquhar was right in" his methods of selection. After all, they said of West Country ships that they were foreign to all but the Cornish and Devonians who manned them. The ways of St. James's and Mayfair were as hard to learn.

The light was spreading and filtering on to small beaches now and winkling out shadows from hillsides and coves. The sea's face, too, was clearer, the tiny white cat's-paws moving away to starboard to merge in the colourful horizon and the sun.

Maybe the real Lysander has seen such a sea, Bolitho thought. When the fleets of triremes and galliasses had smashed into each other and the sky had been dark with arrows and darts of fire.

From astern he heard the sudden squeak and rumble of guns being run out, and knew that Javal was getting ready.

Farquhar snapped, 'Alter course three points. Steer north.'

He craned over the nettings to watch a hump of sand or rock edging past the quarter. Some gulls rose squawking from their little islet, very white against the land's backdrop. They circled above the mastheads, hoping for food, noisy in their greed.

Bolitho looked up at his pendant as one gull dipped near it, screaming angrily. It was flapping less persistently, for the land was creeping past, dampening down the wind. He thought of Probyn. It was to be hoped he had worked his ship into position early, to allow for adverse winds, the treacherously narrow channel.

He pulled his watch from his breeches and examined it. He could see it well now, even the beautiful lettering on the face, Mudge and Dutton of London. He closed the guard with a snap and saw Midshipman Breen jump with alarm.

He said, 'Very well. We are past the headland.'

Outhwaite swung round, his speaking trumpet to his mouth. "Mr. Guthrie! Pass the word! Run out!'

As the port lids squeaked open there was a brief pause, and down on the lower gun deck the seamen, stripped and ready, would be seeing the land for the first time. A whistle shrilled, and with a mounting tremble Osiris ran out her artillery.

'Brail up the forecourse!'

Farquhar watched the great sail being subdued and brailed to its yard, and snapped his fingers. The midshipman gave him his sword and then his hat. He adjusted his hat with care, and after a moment walked forward to the weather gangway.

The forecourse had completed the illusion. The stage was set. The actors were prepared.

Bolitho drew his sword and laid it flat on the rail, feeling the steel, cool under his palms.

'Run up the Colours.'

He heard the squeak of a block and saw the flag's great shadow rippling across the gangway and above the gentle bow wave.

'Now stand-to, lads, and make each ball count.'

He glanced quickly at the nearest gun crews. They could have been placed in any part of history. One seaman, standing by a sixteen-pounder immediately below the quarterdeck, was leaning on a rammer, his neckcloth tied around his ears to withstand the first deafening roar. Men like him had sailed with Drake aboard his Revenge, and had cheered as the Armada had been "drummed up the Channel". But this time there were no cheers, not even an isolated one. The men looked grim, watching the open gun ports, or standing close to one another as if for support. He saw Farquhar's fingers opening and closing repeatedly around his sword scabbard, his head very erect as he stared towards the wavering coastline, from where the enemy would open fire.

A light blinked from the nearest hilltop but did not reappear. A broken bottle reflecting the first ray of sunrise. The window of some concealed dwelling. Bolitho shivered. Or a ray of light catching the lens of a telescope ? He imagined the signal being carried over the hill to the waiting artillery. The English are coming. As expected and predicted. He frowned. No matter what happened, they had to hold the enemy's attention until Probyn swept down on the anchored ships from the northern channel. A few heavy broadsides amongst a crowded anchorage and the odds could change considerably.

He remembered suddenly what his father had once told him. There is no such thing as a surprise attack. Surprise is only present when one captain or another has miscalculated what he has seen from the beginning.

He glanced at Pascoe and smiled briefly. He now knew exactly what his father had meant.

Bolitho re-crossed the quarterdeck and trained a glass on an out-thrust shoulder of land. A few tiny dwellings were visible at the foot of a steep slope, nestling between some scrub and the nearest beach. Fishermen's homes. But their boats lay abandoned on the coarse shingle, and only a dog stood its ground by the water's edge, barking furiously at the slow-moving ships.

He heard Farquhar say sharply, 'The next bay will be the one.'

Outhwaite turned and called, 'Be ready! Hold your fire till the order, then shoot on the uproll!'

Allday muttered scornfully, 'Uproll! Until we get clear of this headland and find some sort of wind again, there'll be no uproll!'

'Deck there!' The masthead lookout's voice seemed unusually loud. 'Ships at anchor around the point!'

Bolitho breathed out slowly. 'Signal the information to Buzzard.'

An acknowledgement broke from the frigate's yards within seconds. Javal was like the rest of them. On the last edge of tension.

He glanced at his watch. Nicator should be well through the other channel by now and setting more sail to begin her vital part. Even if French pickets had sighted her, it would be too late to move artillery to the other end of their defences.

The bang, when it came, was like an abbreviated thunderclap. Bolitho saw neither smoke nor flash, but watched the ball's progress across the swirling current. It must have been fired from a low level, for he could see its path in a line of tiny wavelets, like an unnatural wind, or a shark charging to the attack.

The crash of the ball into the forepart of the hull brought a great chorus of shouts and yells, and Bolitho saw the second lieutenant hurrying from gun to gun, as if to reassure the crews.

'Look there, sir!' Allday pointed with his cutlass. 'Soldiers!'

Bolitho watched the tiny, blue-coated figures bursting from the trees and scurrying towards the point. Perhaps they believed that the second wave of attacking ships would attempt a landing, and were getting ready to repulse them. Bolitho licked his lips. If only there was a second wave.

He said, 'Bring her up a point, Captain. Give our upper battery a target.'

Farquhar protested, 'Eighteen-pounders against infantry, sir?'

Bolitho said quietly, 'It will give them something to keep their minds occupied. It may also shake the enemy's confidence up ahead. They are anticipating a squadron, remember 1'

He winced as another bang echoed across the water, and he heard the ball hiss viciously overhead.

'Stand by to larboard!' Outhwaite pointed at the running soldiers. 'On the uproll!' He raised his speaking trumpet. 'Fire!'

The long line of guns hurled themselves inboard on their tackles, the smoke rising and swirling above the packed hammock nettings. Bolitho held his glass on the land, seeing the balls whipping through trees and scrub, throwing up stones and clods of earth in haphazard confusion. The soldiers had obviously held the same ideas as Farquhar, for many were caught out in the open, and Bolitho saw bodies and muskets whirling through the air with the other fragments.

It was little enough, but it had given the gun crews some heart. He heard a few cheers, and yells of derision from the lower battery who had not been allowed to fire.

Outhwaite had caught some of the excitement. 'Move roundly, lads! Reload! Mr. Guthrie, a guinea for the first to run out!'

From a corner of his eye, Bolitho saw the headland dropping back, the first group of anchored ships glinting in frail sunlight, their sails furled, and their unmoving rigidity suggesting that each vessel was attached to the next, and so on, making them into an unbroken barrier. He had expected the French to anchor in this manner. It had been a favourite defence since long before a revolution had even been dreamed of.

Then he saw a flash. It came from a deep green saddle between two hills, and he knew the gunners had fired earlier to obtain a ranging shot.

It hit Osiris amidships, deep down and close to the waterline. The planks under Bolitho's feet rebounded, as if the ball had struck a few paces away instead of three decks down. He saw Farquhar's anxiety as he watched his boatswain dashing for a hatch with his seamen, and the wisps of dark smoke which eddied above the nettings as evidence of the gun's accuracy.

From astern he heard the controlled crash of cannon fire and knew that Javal was following his example and raking the nearest hillside in the hope of finding a target.

'Deck there! French ship o' the line at anchor beyond the transports!'

Bolitho swung the glass across the rail, seeing faces on Osiris's forecastle looming like visions in the lens before he found and trained on the French seventy-four. Like the packed mass of transports, she was anchored. But her sails were only loosely brailed up, and her cable shortened home in readiness for weighing. And beyond her, gliding very slowly downwind, was a frigate, setting her foresail and shining momentarily as sunlight passed along her hull. The two smaller escorts, corvettes, Plowman had said, were hidden elsewhere. It was not surprising. For the assembled fleet of supply ships overlapped in what appeared to be a hopeless tangle of masts and yards. He watched them grimly through the glass. Deep-laden. Guns, powder and shot, tents, weapons and supplies for an army.

He felt the deck stagger as another ball smashed close alongside.

The only way to avoid being destroyed slowly by the hidden guns was to set more sail, to attack and close with the anchored vessels and make accuracy impossible.

He heard Farquhar say fervently, 'Where is Nicator? In God's name, she should be in sight by now!'

'French seventy-four's weighed, sir.'

Bolitho looked at Farquhar, but he had not heard the report. He said, 'Thank you. Tell your starboard gun crews to prepare, Mr. Outhwaite.'

Bolitho watched the boatswain emerging from beneath the quarterdeck and waited for him to come aft.

' 'Oled in two places, sir. But no damage below the water-line yet. She's sound enough, if it gets no worse.'

Farquhar nodded abruptly. 'Yes.'

Bolitho said, 'Set the fores'l, Captain. Make to Buzzard, I am about to pass through the enemy's line'

Farquhar stared at him. 'We could get fouled in their moorings, sir. I'd advise - '

They ducked as another ball passed low above their heads, and Bolitho felt the breath of it across his shoulders like the wind of a cutlass blade.

Bolitho said, 'Nicator should be in sight. At least from the masthead. Probyn must have met some opposition. If neither of us can get to grips, we are being destroyed for nothing'

He strode to the lee side and watched a thin waterspout rise far abeam. The French were very good, as were their new guns. At this range they could hardly miss. And yet they were biding their dme. Saving their aim for the rest of the squadron, or to decide on the English tactics.

No. It was wrong. No gunnery officer could be that confident.

He heard the wheel going over, the sudden flap and boom of canvas as the foresail was reset and its yard trimmed by the men at the braces. It made some difference. He could see the way one of the quarterdeck nine-pounders was tugging at its tackles as the deck tilted to leeward. The sudden increase of sail might make the French gunners show their hand.

He walked as slowly as he could to the other side, peering across the crowded gun deck towards the French two-decker. Under minimum canvas, she was standing off about two miles distant. Even that was wrong. Her captain commanded the most powerful ship present. His first duty was to defend the merchantmen and supply vessels, no matter what.

Half a mile to go, and through his glass he could see the tiny figures of seamen running about the decks of the nearest transport. They probably still believed Osiris was a three-decker, and that they would take the first overwhelming broadside.

'Bring her up a point, Captain.'

'Aye, sir. Nor' by west.'

Bolitho looked at Pascoe. 'Any sight of Nicator ?'

'None, sir.' Pascoe gestured towards the massed shipping. 'She's missing a promising target!'

But Bolitho knew him well enough to see through his calm remark. He saw Midshipman Breen, who was helping Pascoe, stare at him, as if to seek confirmation that all was well.

The nearest transports, anchored at the head of two separate lines, opened fire with their bow guns, the balls whimpering overhead, one forcing a neat hole in the main topsail.

The master called suddenly, 'Lee bow, sir! Looks like shallows!'

Farquhar replied tersely, 'They're well clear, man! What do you want me to do ? Fly?'

Bolitho heard nothing for the next few seconds. Like something from his feverish dreams, he saw the larboard bulwark burst apart, the deck planking torn diagonally in a gash of flying splinters, while wreckage and the complete barrel of a nine-pounder landed with a crash on the opposite side. The primed gun exploded, and its ball upended another gun on to some of its crew, the screams and sobs lost in the explosion.

When Bolitho stared aft he saw that the great ball, probably double-shotted, had smashed the wheel to fragments. Two helmsmen lay dead or stunned, and a third had been pulped to bloody gruel. Men and fragments of men lay scattered around the quarterdeck, and others tried to drag themselves away. Bolitho saw that Bevan, the master, had been all but cut in half by the exploding nine-pounder, and his blood was pouring across the splintered deck, while one of his hands still clawed at his exposed entrails, as if it alone still clung to life.

Plowman dashed out of the drifting smoke. 'I'll take over, sir!' He dragged a terrified seaman from behind some scattered hammocks. 'Up! Come aft and we'll rig a tackle to the tiller head!'

Another crash, this time into the side of the poop. Several marines toppled down a ladder, and Bolitho heard the heavy balls smashing through the cabin and careering amongst the crowded gun deck.

He yelled, 'Shorten sail, Captain!' He raised his sword like a pointer. 'The French artillery judged it well.'

He felt neither fear nor bitterness. Just a sense of anger. Osiris, her steering gone, was falling heavily downwind. Bevan, the dead sailing master, had seen the danger without understanding what it meant. Now it was too late. The pressure of wind into her sails and against her hull was enough to guide Osiris into that one shoulder of hard sand.

The enemy had used their opening shots like goads on wayward cattle. A prod here, a tap there, to send the helpless beast into a carefully ranged and sited trap.

Both of the hidden guns renewed firing with sudden vigour, the shots crashing into the hull, or falling dangerously near the Buzzard, which alone still headed towards the anchored ships.

Pascoe yelled, 'The enemy frigate is making more sail, sir! And I see one of the corvettes breaking clear of the anchorage!'

Bolitho trained his glass through the drifting smoke. The frigate first. Long and lean. Thirty-eight guns against Javal's thirty-two. Provided he had managed to avoid the heavy artillery, he would stand a good chance. If he could hold off the corvette. If, if, if. It was like hearing a taunt in his brain.

Something made a dark flaw in the side of the lens, and he swung it further to hold the French seventy-four in view. She was still under minimum canvas, and was moving very slowly towards Osiris on a converging tack, her guns run out, but in shadow. He considered this fact. In shadow. So her captain had no intention of trying to hold the wind-gage. Even now she was steering across Osiris's starboard bow, her reefed topsails braced hard round, her forecastle and even the beakhead alive with waving seamen and glittering weapons. He could see her name quite clearly, Immortalité.

Farquhar shouted hoarsely, 'How is the helm, Mr. Outhwaite ? Have they rigged emergency steering ?'

Bolitho watched the water rippling above the concealed sand-bar. Fifty yards. Less. Even if they anchored they would be unable to fight clear now, let alone do any damage to the transports.

He watched the two-decker, her tricolour very bright in the sunlight. He stiffened as he saw another flag at her mainmast. A dovetailed broad pendant.

Pascoe looked at him. 'A commodore, sir.' He tried to grin. 'It should have been a full admiral to do us honour!'

A ball thundered through a lower port, and Bolitho heard the attendant chorus of screams and cries for the surgeon's helpers.

He turned again to the French ship. Pascoe was wrong. It should have been Probyn, pouring his broadsides into the anchored transports, now completely undefended as the two-decker and her smaller consorts came down the coast to give battle. Nicator would have had nothing to oppose her. He felt the anger welling up like a burning flood.

The deck shuddered slightly, and with the sound of a pistol shot the fore topgallant mast plunged down and over the side, dragging broken rigging in its wake like black serpents.

Farquhar stared at him wildly. 'Aground!' He moved a few paces to the side, his shoes slipping on blood. 'God's teeth!' He shielded his face with one arm as a ball slammed through the bulwark again, upending another gun and cutting down two men who were dragging a wounded comrade away from their port.

Farquhar asked flatly, 'What orders, sir ?'

Bolitho kept his eyes towards the transports, they seemed to be moving now, edging across the bows in one vast mass. But it was only because Osiris was swinging very slowly to the pressure of wind, her stem and forepart of the hull firmly embedded on hard sand.

He said slowly, 'It is my belief that we will soon be able to use the starboard guns.'

He saw Farquhar nod, his face ashen as more explosions threw spray high above the nettings. The painted strip of canvas which had been their only deception had long since gone, torn away in the hot wind of those guns. He gripped his arm tightly, dragging his mind from the threat and damage all around.

'See the Frenchman, Captain? Now he is making more sail.'

Farquhar's eyes widened. 'In God's name!'

Slowly, inexorably, her bow pivoting on the bar, Osiris was swinging away from the land. No wonder the French commodore had stayed his hand. Within half an hour, when he passed to leeward of the sand-bar and the trapped ship, he would see only Osiris's exposed stern. No commander could hope for a better, or a steadier target, and one broadside would sweep through the ship from stern to bow.

Farquhar said, 'Then we're done for.'

Bolitho walked past him. 'Pass the word. Engage with every gun that bears. We'll sink a round half-dozen of them with any luck.'

He heard the order being passed, the squeak of trucks as the gun captains brought their weapons round as far as they would move towards the supply ships.

They would see only the enemy, and even if they had guessed at their predicament, it was unlikely they understood its full meaning. Farquhar knew well enough.

'Fire!'

The long battery of thirty-two-pounders crashed out in a ragged broadside, and at full elevation Bolitho knew that many of the balls would find targets.

'Fire!'

The eighteen-pounders hurled themselves inboard, their crews working like madmen to sponge out and ram home new charges.

Bolitho darted a quick look at the captain. It showed on his face with each savage crash of a broadside. The recoil of so many guns was enough to edge Osiris still firmer aground. It told him that the ship was already finished, and that Bolitho was carrying on with the attack despite it.

Allday said hoarsely, "The hillside seems to be afire, sir!'

Bolitho wiped his eyes with his sleeve and stared across the larboard bow. Osiris had pivoted right round now, and he could see the dense wall of smoke, darting tongues of flame, too, rolling towards the sea and adding to the scene of chaos and despair.

Allday said it for him. 'Must be Mr. Veitch. Set the hillside ablaze. It's probably like tinder.' He sighed. 'A brave man. One of those guns will be blinded by smoke. They'll not thank Mr. Veitch for that.'

A violent explosion thundered across the water, and through the thickening smoke Bolitho saw a vivid red heart.

Pascoe coughed in the smoke. 'We have hit one of the transports, sir! Must have been loaded with powder!'

Fragments splashed down lazily and bobbed around the embattled ship. Beyond the smoke Bolitho could hear sharper notes of gunfire, and knew Javal was there, fighting probably two enemies at once.

The masthead yelled above the din, 'Some of the French are making sail!'

Bolitho said, 'Cutting their cables.'

He did not blame them. With one or more of their number ablaze or badly crippled by Osiris's broadsides, they had nothing to gain by remaining where they lay. He felt the deck under his feet. Lifeless, but for the guns' savage vibration. And nobody could stop them.

Something fanned past him, crashed against a nine-pounder in a shrieking wave of splinters. Men fell kicking and gasping, and Bolitho felt blood splashed across his breeches like paint.

He turned and saw Farquhar leaning back against the quarterdeck rail, his gaze fixed on the lower yards while he clutched his chest with both hands.

Bolitho ran to his side. 'Here. Let me help!'

Farquhar's eyes swivelled down towards him. He bared his teeth, spacing out each word to hold back the pain.

'No. Leave me. Must stay. Must.'

He had bunched the front of his new uniform coat into a tight ball. A ball which was already bright red. Allday said, 'I'll take him below.'

The ship quivered again as the lower battery vented its anger on the anchorage. Several masts had fallen, and the two leading ships were listing towards each other, one almost awash, the other a blackened wreck in the path of that terrible explosion.

Farquhar tried to shake his head. 'Keep your damned hands off me!' He reeled against Bolitho. 'Mr. Outhwaite!'

But the first lieutenant was sitting against one of the abandoned guns, his head lolling, and the deck around him spreading in blood.

Bolitho looked at Allday. 'Get Mr. Guthrie. Tell him I want all the wounded brought to the lower gun deck, larboard side, and be quick about it!'

He saw the smoke from the hillside mingling with that from the guns. At least Veitch's courage had given the wounded a chance. Without the smoke's screen, any attempt to get boats alongside would have been prevented by the two siege guns. As it was, the French were still firing blindly across the water, the great balls adding their strange notes to the screams of the dying and wounded men.

A small man darted through the smoke, and Bolitho saw it was the surgeon.

Despite Farquhar's protests, he ripped open the gold-laced coat, his hair blowing in the wind from another shot directly above the deck, and placed a heavy dressing above the bright stain.

Farquhar gasped, 'Get below, Andrews. See to our people!' The surgeon looked despairingly at Bolitho. 'I'm getting the wounded up, sir.' He peered dazedly at the shattered bulwarks and sprawled corpses. Even after the gruesome work he had to perform deep on the orlop deck, this must seem a worse horror. 'Will you strike, sir ?'

Farquhar heard him and gasped, 'Strike? Get below, you bloody fool! I'll see you in hell before I strike my colours!'

Bolitho beckoned to Pascoe. 'Attend the captain. You stay here, too, Allday.'

He ignored their anxiety and ran to the rail, straining his eyes through the smoke until he had found the boatswain. He could not remember his name, but shouted wildly until the man looked up at him, his face as black as any Negro's from powder-smoke and charred wreckage.

'Get the quarter boats alongside to larboard! A raft, too, if you can manage it!'

He turned as Pascoe called him and saw a pale square of canvas rising through the smoke, the ship beneath still hidden.

His sword blade touched the deck as his arms dropped to his sides. Time had run out. The Frenchman was here. Crossing their stern with the precision of a hunter stalking a wounded beast.

He saw, too, the enemy's broad pendant lifting and curling in the offshore wind, and wondered vaguely if its owner had seen his above the ruin and carnage.

The smoke seemed to fan upwards to a freak gust, but the ripple of red and orange tongues which spurted through it told Bolitho that this wind was man-made.

Deck by deck, pair by pair, the seventy-four's armament poured its broadside into Osiris's stern.

It seemed to go on and on forever. The cringing, reeling men around him lost shape and meaning, their faces merely masks of pain and terror, their gaping mouths like soundless holes as they ran blindly before the onslaught.

Bolitho found that he was on his knees, and as his hearing started to return he groped for his sword, using it like a lever to prise himself from the deck.

Hardly daring to breathe, he staggered to the rail, or what was left of it, and saw that Pascoe and Allday stood as before, with the captain propped between them. Allday had a bad cut on one arm, and Pascoe had a dark weal on his forehead where he had been hit by a flying piece of timber. Bolitho could not get his breath to speak, but clung to them, nodding to each in turn.

Beyond the quarterdeck there was not a mast left standing, and the whole of the upper gun deck, forecastle and gangways were buried under a mountain of broken spars and rigging. Smoke billowed from everywhere, while beneath the heaped wreckage he heard voices calling for help, for each other, or cursing like men driven mad.

Allday gasped, 'Mizzen'll come down any minute, sir!' He sounded faint. 'Only the shrouds holding it, I'd say!'

Faintly through the din of shouts and splintering woodwork Bolitho heard cheering. Frenchmen cheering their victory.

Farquhar thrust Pascoe away and reeled towards the broken hammock nettings. His uniform was torn, and several wood splinters were embedded in his shoulders like darts. Blood ran unheeded down his chest and marked his passage towards the side, and when Bolitho caught him he had his eyes tightly shut.

He gasped, 'Did we strike, sir?'

Bolitho held him firmly as Pascoe ran to help. The mast with his pendant, the halliards which had held the ensign, all had been blasted away in the enemy's broadside.

'No, we did not.'

Farquhar opened his eyes very wide and looked at him. 'That is good, sir. I-I'm sorry about -' He closed his eyes against another searing pain, but exclaimed fiercely, 'I hope Probyn rots in hell! He's finished us this day.'

Bolitho supported him, knowing that Pascoe was watching his face as if for an answer to something.

Farquhar said quietly, 'Let me stand, sir. I will be all right now. Get that fool Outhwaite to - ' Some last understanding flashed across his eyes, and then froze there.

The second lieutenant staggered through the funnelling smoke, but stopped motionless as Bolitho said, 'Take your captain, Mr. Guthrie.' He watched a few men emerging from beneath the poop. 'Sir Charles Farquhar is dead.'

16 The Captain's Report

'Only the wounded into the boats!'

Bolitho was hoarse from shouting above the din of gunfire. Several transports were shooting through the smoke, and he knew that some of the shots would be hitting their consorts, as the packed anchorage changed from a prepared defence-line to a scene of indescribable panic. Three ships were blazing fiercely, and with their cables either cut or burned through, were already drifting amongst the others.

Bolitho could not tell how many guns were firing at Osiris, for with only a few of her lower battery still manned, it was impossible to distinguish between a thirty-two-pounder's recoil and an enemy ball crashing into the hull.

He peered over the gangway and saw the boats immediately below him, filled with wounded, while others clung to the gunwales or floated away, unable to swim, or without the strength to do so. Others were clambering down the rounded tumblehome, marines and seamen, coopers and sailmakers, while here and there the blue and white of an officer tried to restore order.

Pascoe ran to his side. 'What will happen now, sir ?'

Bolitho did not reply immediately. 'Down there, Adam. That is what defeat is like. The way it looks. How it smells.' He turned away. 'Pass the word. Cease firing. This ship may take fire at any moment when one of those wrecks drifts against us.'

More violent crashes, and freed at last from its remaining shrouds, the mizzen mast plunged down alongside, bedding itself in the shallows like a great marker.

He walked a few paces across the deck, his shoes catching in splinters and the great diagonal rent where the French gunners had smashed down the helm and all around it.

A few men ran past him, not even giving him a glance. To where, and for what purpose, they probably did not know.

Smoke poured across the hull and eddied through holes in the deck. It was like walking in hell. Dead men were on every hand, weapons and small possessions where they had been dropped or had fallen in battle. A marine lay staring at the sky, his head and shoulders supported on the lap of a comrade. A best friend perhaps. But he, too, was dead. Killed by a metal splinter as he had watched his friend die.

There was no sign of Farquhar, and he imagined that they had carried him right aft, to the wrecked cabin with its once beautiful furniture and fittings.

A small figure emerged below the poop, and he realised it was Midshipman Breen.

'Go with Mr. Pascoe!' He watched the boy peering at him without a spark of recognition. 'And take care.'

Breen nodded, and then burst into tears. 'I ran away, sir! I ran away I'

Bolitho touched his shoulder. 'A lot of men did that today, Mr. Breen. There's nothing more they can do here.'

Pascoe came aft with the second lieutenant. The latter looked exhausted, white-faced with shock.

'The boats are full, sir.' He cringed as a ball ripped past him and struck something solid in the smoke. The smoke was so thick that the other ship was completely hidden.

'Very well.' Bolitho looked slowly along the deserted decks. There would still be some who were trapped under that great tangle of wreckage. Listening, or calling for help.

He said, 'Pass the word. Abandon ship. We will ferry the wounded ashore.' He looked at Pascoe. ‘I am sorry for you, Adam. Twice a prisoner of war in so short a span.'

Pascoe shrugged. 'At least we're together this time, Uncle.'

Allday, who had been nursing his injured arm, levered himself from the rail and said, 'Listen!'

They looked at him, and Bolitho put his arm round him, fearing that because of his own despair he had failed to help Allday.

Breen wiped his eyes with his fists and stared at Allday. ‘I hear it!' He reached out for Allday's hand. 'I hear it'

Bolitho walked over the broken planks, listening to the swelling roar of cheers. It faltered only to a ragged crash of

Allday said huskily, 'That's no French cheer!'

'Huzza! Huzza!'

And again the smoke surged towards the stranded Osiris, stirred and blown by another massive broadside. Pascoe said, 'Buzzard.'

Allday leaned against him and looked at Bolitho. 'Bless him, sir, did you hear that-?'

'Yes.' Bolitho sheathed his sword without knowing why he had done so. 'No frigate carries that number of men.'

The second lieutenant dropped his head and said brokenly, "That damned Nicator. Here at last, too late to save our ship and all our men.'

Sunlight probed through the smoke, and Bolitho saw leaping flames and heard the crackle of burning timber. A mastless hulk, abandoned and well ablaze, was less than fifty yards away. - But as the smoke swirled high in the air, he stared at a ship which even now was firing another broadside downwind, at some other invisible target.

There was no mistaking her. Lysander was steering past the scattered transports, firing into individual vessels, or pouring a half-broadside into one isolated or apparently untouched. Her other side was obviously firing at the French seventy-four, which explained the first cheers and violent broadsides.

Bolitho saw and understood all of these things, but found they carried no meaning.

Only one thing counted. Lysander. Thomas Herrick had come for them, by some fantastic piece of luck and little less than a miracle, he had sailed down from the north channel and turned the anchorage into a shipbreaker's yard.

Pascoe said, ‘I think that's Buzzard now, sir!' He was wild-eyed, his chest and throat moving with emotion. 'Yes, it is her! Her sails are so holed she is barely making way!'

Bolitho rubbed his eyes, seeing a corvette following close under Lysander's stern. She was listing, but had less damage to her sails than Javal's victorious frigate. Also, above her flapping tricolour she was wearing a large Union Jack.

Bolitho wrenched his eyes away. "They've got boats in the water. Tell our people that help is coming.'

He watched the drifting hulk and prayed she was not one of the ammunition ships.

Another gust of wind moved across the water, and he saw that many of the transports had sunk completely. If they were loaded with those great guns, it was not surprising.

Boats pulled below the Osiris's shadow, and he heard voices shouting encouragement, while the oarsmen stared grim-faced at the battered, holed wreck which had once been Farquhar's command.

Plowman limped past carrying the ship's chronometer. He saw Bolitho and gave a tense grin. 'Pity to leave it in the wreck, sir. 'Er'll come in useful.' He hurried to the side adding, 'Glad you're safe, sir.'

Bolitho realised there were many boats nearby now, some with armed marines, and swivels mounted on their stems, while the others got on with the work of rescue.

That, too, became clear as he leaned on the rail to watch. Some boats were painted dark red, from Nicator then. So somewhere beyond the scattered transports and burning wrecks Probyn's ship was here to see the price of the battle.

A lieutenant crossed the deck and touched his hat to Pascoe. 'Nobody else survived but you ?' He looked very clean against the horror and death.

Bolitho said, 'I survived.'

The lieutenant gaped at him and snapped, 'Beg pardon, sir! 1 did not recognise you in — '

Bolitho said wearily, 'No matter. It has become a custom.'

The officer blinked. 'I am from Nicator, sir. We did not think anyone had survived,' he waved his hand despairingly around the deck, 'all this!'

Guthrie, the Osiris's second lieutenant, suddenly ran from the poop and seized the young officer by the coat.

'You bloody coward! You damned, crawling toad! Look what you did-'

As Pascoe pulled him away from the astonished lieutenant, Guthrie broke down completely, his body shaking violently to his sobs.

The lieutenant gasped, 'Nicator ran aground, sir. But when Lysander appeared out of nowhere, we were able to kedge off fairly well. Without Captain Herrick's arrival I fear we would have been even later.'

Bolitho watched him gravely, seeing his despair, his shame at Guthrie's attack.

'Of that I am quite sure.'

He walked to the sagging gangway. 'Now we can clear the ship.'

He paused above the nearest launch, his eyes on the hull's bare outline. Without masts or sails, and with only the dead and a few trapped and crazed men to crew her, Osiris was already a wreck. He felt the hull shudder, as if in protest against his thoughts, and knew that the blazing hulk had drifted along the other side. He heard the crackle of flames, the jubilant roar as they spread along Osiris's tarred rigging which lay in huge coils to receive them.

The French, or others, might salvage some of her seventy-four guns, and perhaps her bell as a souvenir. But the keel and ribs would lie in the sand long after the flames had been quenched, and until time and the sea completed the victory.

'Cast off.' He sat on the gunwale, surrounded by silent men, some wounded, some merely stunned by all they had witnessed and suffered. 'Give way all!'

Bolitho looked at the other boats. Every one crowded with survivors. But of Osiris's original company of six hundred souls there were about half that number. He tightened his hps and felt his gaze smarting from strain. A very heavy price. It was to be hoped someone would appreciate their sacrifice.

He heard a voice calling, and then Allday croaked, 'God, look at that gig!'

It was Lieutenant Veitch, blackened from head to foot and almost naked, but waving towards him and grinning from ear to ear.

Plowman murmured, 'Said 'e'd make it. That what 'e said. The mad bugger!'

Bolitho lost sense of time and distance, and as the boats were followed and surrounded by drifting smoke it was almost a surprise when he saw Lysander's black and buff hull rising like a cliff to greet him, her gun ports crammed with cheering faces, her gangway thronged with seamen and marines.

He gripped the nearest stair below the entry port and pulled himself from the boat. He felt as if his arms would not hold him, or tear from their sockets.

There were hands gripping his, figures pushing around him, helping, staring.

Herrick took his arm and guided him aft.

He said softly, 'Thank God.' He turned and studied Bolitho's face for some seconds. 'Thank God.'

Bolitho swung round as a searing column of flame shot above the smoke. Osiris's pyre.

He said, 'See to her people, Thomas. They fought well. Better than I dared hope.' He shrugged heavily. 'But for your arrival, their efforts would have failed. Their losses too great when weighed against the gains.'

He nodded as Pascoe joined them. 'Adam, too, is unhurt.'

Herrick peered through the smoke. 'And the captain ?'

Bolitho watched the leaping flames. 'He died in battle.' He turned to Herrick. 'Bravely.'

More cheering echoed through the din of gunfire, and someone called wildly, 'The Frenchie's struck, sir!'

Bolitho looked at Herrick questioningly. 'The seventy-four ?'

'Aye. We shot her steering away, and raked her twice before she could fight clear. I think her captain was so taken with Osiris's defiance he did not see us at all.' He reached out awkwardly. 'So you'll have another ship to replace the one lost.'

Lieutenant Kipling strode aft and touched his hat. 'Boarding party in command now, sir. Mr. Gilchrist has hailed us to say that the French commodore and most of his senior officers are wounded.'

Herrick nodded. 'Very well. Tell Mr. Gilchrist to arrange an exchange with the enemy. Their officers and seamen in return for any of Osiris's people who managed to swim ashore. And we keep their ship.'

Bolitho watched him. What a change. Herrick had not even hesitated or asked his aid.

Herrick faced him again. 'I'd like to anchor, sir. I understand that the French will not pursue their bombardment for the present. Javal ran their frigate into the shallows and she is hard and fast. He took a sprightly corvette as a prize, and I think the surviving one fled south as fast as he could go.'

Bolitho replied, 'Yes, I agree. But it is your decision as flap captain.'

Herrick looked at him and then smiled sadly. 'About Captain Farquhar, sir.'

'It is over for him, Thomas. He died because he put facts before ideas. Because he put too much value in his own future perhaps. But when he did die, it was with courage.'

Herrick sighed. 'That I never doubted.'

A figure hurried beneath the poop and said, 'You're back safe and sound!'

It was Ozzard, his sad features set in a rare smile.

'Please come aft, sir!'

Bolitho shook his head. 'Later. I want to watch.'

He looked at the ships which were already anchoring, their boats surging alongside with cargoes of rescued men. Buzzard, pockmarked from the French guns, with her neat prize close by. The other French ship, her broad pendant gone and British flags at every masthead. Immortalité The name had served her well, he thought. She had survived, and with luck would make a valuable addition to his little squadron.

He heard a loud explosion and watched scattered fragments falling all around. Osiris's powder store or a magazine had ignited at last. He saw her open gun ports glowing like lines of red eyes as the fire consumed her from within. Deck by deck, yard by yard.

His mind ached and he wanted to go to find seclusion, deep in the hull, beyond a man's voice or a sight of the, sea.

But he stood by the nettings, watching Lysander's preparations, the hurrying figures of so many familiar faces. Old Grubb, nodding and saying something to him about honour. Major Leroux striding to speak with him, but turning away at the last moment after seeing his expression.

Fitz-Clarence, and Kipling, little Midshipman Saxby with his gap-toothed grin, and Mariot, the old gun captain, who had served with his father.

He heard Herrick shout, 'Tell them to make haste, Mr. Steere! The wind is better placed, and I'd like to weigh before noon.'

Before noon? Had it taken so little time since dawn? Bolitho stared listlessly at the littered water, the corpses and charred timbers. Just hours since dawn. That was all it had been. Many had died, more would die later.

He gripped the nettings and took several deep breaths. And he most of all had expected to be killed. That was the strangest part. He had often been near to death in his life at sea. Sometimes so close he had almost felt its presence like another being. This last time had been the worst yet.

Herrick came back to him again. 'I hate to leave you, sir. With most of the men at quarters, and the rest all wild with their victory, it is hard to seize a moment when you need it the most.'

'Thank you, Thomas.' He looked at the blazing Osiris. 'For them, and for me.'

Herrick said ruefully, 'Had I only known, sir.' He looked away. 'But I thought it useless to remain at anchor when you had done so much, had wanted so much for the squadron.'

Bolitho watched him gravely. 'So you just sailed away, Thomas. With a scrap of paper from your acting-commodore which if it had protected him from higher authority would most certainly have damned you. Your future would have been in ruins.'

He saw the lines on Herrick's homely face and guessed that he had thought him dead or captured. By sailing alone from Syracuse he had made his own gesture, just as Inch had described.

Some boats pulled abeam, being careful to keep well away from the burning two-decker in case there should be an even worse explosion.

Herrick said, 'There go the French, sir. They fought well, but were vanquished without the loss of a man to us. We took them in surprise. To us as much as them, I suppose.'

Bolitho craned over the side and watched the nearest boat. He saw a thin officer, one arm in a sling, and his uniform streaked with blood, staring up at him, his face dull with pain.

'Their commodore.' He raised one hand above his head and saw the French officer's companions return the salute. 'I know how it feels to lose. What he is thinking at this very moment.'

Herrick regarded him anxiously. 'He has his freedom, sir.'

'From his thoughts, Thomas ? I think not.'

He turned abruptly inboard. 'Once we are clear of this place I want a full report from Captain Probyn.'

Herrick watched him, sensing his bitterness and anger. ‘Aye, sir;'

Bolitho faced him again. 'But I'll not let anything more spoil the pleasure of seeing you again, my friend I' He smiled, his exhaustion making him appear somehow defenceless. ‘I had a message for you anyway, Thomas. From a delightful lady, who even now is planning a welcome for you in Kent!'

Herrick stammered, 'Hell, sir, I mean —' He grinned. 'Did you meet her then ?'

'It is what I am saying, Thomas.' He took his arm. 'I hope I am there at your wedding, as you were at . . .' He stopped and looked away.

'I'd be honoured, sir, if it ever comes to it.'

Veitch hurried across the quarterdeck, grinning to the laughs and taunts which attended his wild entrance.

Herrick smiled. 'Another Lysander has got home, sir.' He looked at Bolitho and added, 'But if you've no objection, I'd like to make him my first lieutenant immediately. Mr. Fitz-Clarence can command the corvette and Mr. Gilchrist the French seventy-four. That is, until other appointments can be arranged.'

'As I said, Thomas, you are the flag captain. Your opinions are mine. I suppose always have been without either of us knowing. But have you asked Captain Javal about his officers ?'

Herrick smiled. 'I hailed him in the battle. He escaped unscathed, but . . .' He looked Bolitho in the eyes. 'We have only one frigate. She needs to be better than all she meets. Anyway, Javal will be content with his prize money.'

He became serious again as Fitz-Clarence hurried aft, his face full of questions. 'I'll deal with him, if I may.'

Pascoe came to the side and said quietly, 'It feels strange to be back.'

Bolitho nodded. 'For you especially, Adam.'

'For me ?' The dark eyes were surprised.

'With Gilchrist and Fitz-Clarence in temporary command of the prizes,' he saw Pascoe's face clear with understanding, 'you will step up two places to Lysander's fourth lieutenant. And at eighteen that is fair gain!'

He thought suddenly of Guthrie, Osiris's second lieutenant. At least Pascoe had not got his advancement by another's death, or a gap left by someone like Guthrie, his mind unhinged by the cruelty of battle. And he thought, too, of Probyn, seeing him again as a lieutenant. His excuses, his constant drunkenness.

If all these men had died today because of him, there was no influence or authority in the world to save him.

He saw Pascoe's expression and knew he must have shown his own anger as he thought of Probyn.

He said, 'You've earned it, and far more beside.' He turned to watch the white flag of parley being pulled past on one of Lysander's boats. 'Your father would have been proud of you.'

Bolitho walked away to join Herrick by the gangway. He did not see Pascoe's face, but knew in his heart he had just given him a far greater reward than promotion.

*

Bolitho was writing in the cabin when Herrick came aft to see him. It was a full week since they had sailed from Corfu with its bitter sights and memories, and after steering south and east around the countless Greek islands they had discovered a safe anchorage where further repairs could be carried out.

For the time of year, the weather was surprisingly bad. If he hoped to return to Syracuse with his squadron intact, Bolitho knew he would have to make sure they could withstand the passage there.

Buzzard had been badly mauled, and had received several holes below her waterline. Once, in a heavy gust of wind as they had fought to shorten sail, he had thought that the frigate was about to founder. But Javal had kept Buzzard alive, working her and his men until the immediate danger had passed.

The captured two-decker, Immortalité, had also endured several hazards in the gales. With her company of spare hands taken from all the squadron, and the bulk comprising Osiris's survivors, she had not found the time to settle into a single unit. Her jury steering had carried away twice before she had been brought under command, and Bolitho could do nothing but admire the determination of her temporary captain, Lieutenant Gilchrist. Herrick had certainly been right in his choice. In fact, with their resources stretched and reduced by battle, it was hard to know how they would have managed without him.

He looked up and smiled as Herrick entered the cabin. 'Sit down, Thomas. Have some wine.'

Herrick sat, and waited until Ozzard had brought him a goblet.

Bolitho said, 'I've been making my report. As soon as the weather eases I want Fitz-Clarence to sail for Syracuse and then on to Gibraltar.' He added, 'D'you think he can do that?'

Herrick grinned over his glass. 'I think he will find his way, sir.' He grimaced as a gust of wind brought spindrift splashing across the stern windows. 'But it may be a while yet. I'm grateful we found this little island. Major Leroux had his pickets ashore, but says it seems uninhabited. It will give us shelter at least, until Javal and Gilchrist have done some more repairs.'

Bolitho looked at his thick report. 'Mr. Gilchrist has shown up well, Thomas.' He glanced across the cabin, seeing faces in his imagination. 'I've recommended that he be made commander at the first opportunity and given a ship of his own. A brig, most likely. It should teach him the more human side of command. A small ship with a vast amount of work!'

'Thank you, sir. I'm glad. I know he got off badly with you, and I blame myself for it. But he's had a hard climb to get where he is, and I admire his tenacity.'

'Yes.'

Bolitho thought of the letters he had written for the despatch bag. To Farquhar's widowed mother, to others who would know before long that a husband or father would never come home.

Herrick hesitated and then said, 'Mr. Grubb fears that the adverse winds will not blow out for days, sir. Maybe weeks. We're snug enough here, and I was wondering if you'd wish the other business to be dealt with now.'

They looked at each other.

Bolitho replied, 'You were right to remind me.' Perhaps he had only been putting it off, avoiding a confrontation. 'I'll have Captain Probyn aboard tomorrow, unless there's a full gale again.'

Herrick seemed relieved. ‘I read his account, sir. Straightforward grounding in a badly charted channel. When I reached Nicator, I saw she was on a bar. Not badly, but enough for us to need a kedge-anchor.'

Bolitho stood up and walked to the wine cabinet. Over and over again he had thought about Herrick's sudden and vital arrival at the scene of battle. With the aid of Lysander's log, the master's lengthy explanation and what he had managed to drag from Herrick himself, he had built up a picture of the ship's movements after leaving Syracuse.

Driven by that strange loyalty, Herrick had sailed not direct to Corfu, but much further south and to the coast of Africa. East and still further east, the lookouts scanning every mile for a ship, or better still, a fleet. When he recalled Herrick's early despair, his apparent inability to contain the work of flag captain, it was all the more incredible.

All those long, empty miles, until finally they had sighted the walls of Alexandria and the Bay of Aboukir which guided them to the mouth of the great Nile itself.

When he had praised Herrick for his stubborn determination, his inbuilt belief in Bolitho's conclusions, Herrick had said, 'You convinced me, sir. And when I told the people that, they seemed content to go where I wanted.' He had shown some embarrassment when Leroux had said, 'Captain Herrick made a speech to all hands which I think must have reached you, sir, wherever you were at the timel'

With no sign of a French fleet, Herrick had decided to make for Corfu. Confident that the supply ships would be there, and imagining the squadron still at anchor in Syracuse, he had sailed into the attack. From north to south, he had explained, was better for surprise, and left the wider channel as an escape route.

But he had run down on Nicator. Two ships meeting as if by plan, timed to the hour of attack.

The same storm which had scattered Bolitho's depleted squadron had sent the faster Lysander as far as the Nile and back across the sea to Corfu.

Bolitho refilled their goblets and returned to the table.

'Unless there has been a great change, Thomas, we can only believe that the French will soon move to attack. The corvette which escaped from Corfu may have returned there, but far more likely she will have headed for France.' He glanced at the streaked windows and listened to the moan of wind through the shrouds and furled sails. 'She may have a hard fight, but we must accept that she will get to a port before anyone else.'

Herrick nodded slowly. 'True. So the French admiral may decide to come out at last. If he knows that his heavy artillery is on the sea bed, he'll anticipate a running battle. It makes good sense.'

Bolitho said, 'We are badly placed here. With these prevailing winds we need to be much further west again. Where we can be of use to our fleet when it comes.'

'If it comes.' Herrick sighed. 'But we've done what we can so far.'

'Yes.' He thought of the sea-burials which attended each day after the battle. 'And they'll not find us wanting.'

There was a tap at the door and Midshipman Saxby said anxiously, 'Mr. Glasson sends his respects, sir, and could you come on deck.'

Bolitho looked at Herrick and gave a quick wink. With two lieutenants short, the vacancies had gone to the senior midshipmen. Glasson, more sharp-faced and seemingly sourer than ever, was making the most of it. He rarely held a watch without calling Herrick or Veitch to attend one of his tantrums over duty or apparent incompetence of some seaman or other.

Herrick stood up. 'I'll come up.' In a quieter tone he said, 'I'll put this little prig over my knee in view of the whole ship's company if he tries my patience much morel'

Bolitho smiled gravely. 'Our wardroom gets younger every day, Thomas.'

'Or we get older.' Herrick shook his head. 'These youngsters! If I'd called down to my captain when I was commissioned lieutenant, I'd have been torn into small pieces unless the ship had been actually falling apart!'

Faintly above the wind and ship noises Bolitho heard the hail, 'Boat ahoy?' and the reply from somewhere near Lysander's quarter, 'Nicator!'

Herrick looked at him questioningly. 'Mr. Glasson is not troubling me for a trivial cause this, time!' He reached for his hat. 'Captain Probyn is coming aboard without waiting for your summons.'

'So it seems.' He listened to the marines clattering towards the entry port. 'Bring him aft, Thomas. And we shall see.'

Captain George Probyn loomed into the cabin, his coat and breeches blotchy with spray from the hard pull to the ship. His face was even redder than before, and as he stared belligerently around the cabin he said, ‘I trust you will see me, sir?'

‘I do see you.' Bolitho gestured to a chair. 'Well?'

Probyn sank into the chair and glared at him. 'I'll not mince words, sir. I've been hearing things. About my ship, and what happened off Corfu. I'll not stand by and have my good name slandered, bandied about by rogues not fit to wear the King's coat!' He pointed at the papers on the table. ‘I made a full and proper report. It will stand any scrutiny, a damned court of enquiry if need be!'

Bolitho said quietly, 'Some claret for the captain, Ozzard.' He added, 'Or brandy, perhaps ?'

Probyn nodded. 'Brandy. Better for a man in these damned waters.' He almost snatched the goblet from Ozzard and downed the drink in one huge swallow. 'If I may, sir ?' He thrust the glass to Ozzard for refilling.

Despite the persistent wind which swept across the little bay and sent countless white-horses amongst the anchored ships, the air in the sealed cabin was warm and humid. Bolitho had put on his coat to receive Probyn, but was wishing that he was still in his shirt. He watched the brandy moving into Probyn's eyes and voice, blurring and distorting as he repeated, almost word for word, how his sailing master and the officer of the watch, a young booby if ever I saw one, the leadsman in the chains, I had him seized up and flogged double quick, I can tell you, and several others had made the grounding inevitable.

Bolitho waited until there was a pause while Ozzard filled the goblet again. The servant's eyes were lowered, but he could not hide his interest. His experience as a lawyer's clerk was probably too much for his normal reserve.

Then Bolitho said calmly, 'So you were not actually there when it happened ?'

'There?' The red-rimmed eyes fixed on him with obvious effort. 'Of course I was there!'

'I'll trouble you to keep a civil tongue in your head, Captain.' Bolitho kept his tone level, even gentle, but saw a warning show itself on Probyn's reddened features.

'Yes. Yes, I apologise. It's been troubling me, thinking you might blame me in some way for what -'

'Well, Captain, where were you in Nicator when she struck ?'

'Let me see now.' He pouted heavily. 'Must be exact, eh? Like we used to be in the old Trojan when we were lieutenants together.'

Bolitho remained very still, watching the emotions and blurred memories on Probyn's heavy features.

He said, 'That was a long time ago.'

Probyn leaned forward, his sleeve knocking over the empty goblet. 'Not so long, surely? It's like a dog watch ago to me. She was a fine old ship.'

'Trojan}' Bolitho nodded to Ozzard who brought a full goblet for the captain. 'She was hard and demanding, as I remember. A good school for those who wanted to learn, but hell on earth for the laggard. Captain Pears was never a one to tolerate fools.'

Probyn looked at him, his eyes glazed. 'Of course, I was that bit senior to you. Knew a bit more, so to speak. Saw through their little game.'

'Game?'

Probyn tapped the side of his nose. 'Y'see ? You didn't even suspect. The first lieutenant was always on at me. The captain's lickspittle. And that other lieutenant, the one who got killed, he was a crawler.'

Bolitho stood up and walked to the wine cabinet, seeing Kate's face and hearing her infectious laugh when she had given it to him. She would laugh at him now, if she were here. How she despised the ways of true authority.

He said sharply, 'Apart from the very junior lieutenants then, that only left you and me.' He poured himself a glass of claret, waving Ozzard away as he continued, 'I remember that ship in many ways, but one of the things which I recall most clearly, and which has come back to me during this last week, was the way you drank.' He swung round, seeing the sudden alarm on Probyn's face. 'Several times that I knew of, men were flogged because of things which you had done wrong. Do you remember the night watches which others had to perform because you were too much in your cups to get on deck? That lickspittle you just mentioned saw to it that the captain knew nothing about it. But by God, Probyn, if I'd been your captain, I'd have made certain you never did it twice!'

Probyn lurched to his feet, his great shadow reaching towards Bolitho like a curtain.

'Indeed you would I Like the time we took two prizes. I was put in charge of the first. A rotten, worm-infested hulk, that's all she was! I never stood a chance when the enemy ship came after me!' He was squinting with fierce concentration, his face and throat wet with sweat. 'It was deliberate, to get rid of me!'

'You were senior to me. The prize was yours by right. What about a previous one? A little schooner? You were supposed to take her into New York, but a master's mate went in your place.'

He watched his words slamming home, the fuddled way which Probyn's eyes were swivelling around the cabin as if to discover answers.

Bolitho said harshly, 'You were drunk then. Admit it, man.'

Probyn sat down very slowly, his hands shaking as he supported himself on the arms of the chair.

'I'll admit nothing.' He looked up, his reddened eyes filled with hate. 'Sir.'

'So you've nothing more to tell me about Nicator's grounding ?'

The question seemed to take him momentarily off guard. Then Probyn said, 'I have made a full and proper report.' He thrust his hands under the table. 'And I have taken sworn statements from those of the watch who were involved.' He leaned forward, his drink-sodden face crafty as he added, 'If there is a court of enquiry, I will produce those statements. One of which may incriminate the officer of the watch, an admiral's nephew, by the way. And it may be thought that you were not unbiased, sir. That you were levelling old scores by having my reputation tarnished.'

He fell back, startled, as Bolitho stood up, his eyes blazing with contempt.

'Don't you bargain with me! A week back we struck a blow against the enemy, but the harm which was done to our people was more deeply felt! But for Lysander's arrival, and Buzzard's support, yours would be the only ship afloat today! Think on these things the next time you dare to talk of bias or honour!'

He called for Ozzard and added, 'You may return to your ship now. But remember, what cannot be proved is nevertheless between us. The squadron is undermanned, and officered for the most part by inexperienced youngsters. For that reason alone, I am not holding an official court of enquiry.'

Herrick appeared in the door with Ozzard, but stayed very still as Bolitho said, 'But hear me, Captain Probyn. If I ever discover that your failure to give support was deliberate, or that at any time in the future you act against the interests of this squadron, I will see you hanged for it!'

Probyn snatched his hat from Ozzard and lurched blindly from the cabin.

When Herrick returned he found Bolitho as before, staring at Probyn's empty chair with an expression of disgust.

He said, 'That was an ugly side of me, Thomas. But by God, I meant every word of it!'

17 Storm Clouds

It was nearer to two weeks before Bolitho could hoist his signal to up anchor and leave their sheltering islet. Even then, the ships were plagued by fierce gusts of gale force, and it soon became apparent that Buzzard's damage was worse than Javal had realised. His men worked through every watch on the pumps without a break, and with the limited resources he had aboard, he used all spare timber and canvas for the most severe hull damage.

After the savagery of battle, the elation at seeing Lysander thrusting her bows through smoke and falling spray, this renewed effort by the weather to delay their every move was all the more disheartening.

As the ships became scattered, and worked back and forth on varying tacks to gain headway into equally determined south-westerly winds, Bolitho was thankful they had not sighted an enemy squadron across their path. His crews were worn out by constant work, and with each ship left underhanded because of dead and wounded, he knew that any sort of a victory would fall to the opposing side.

Perle, the captured French corvette, had made off with his despatches, and he knew that Herrick was still worrying about Lieutenant Fitz-Clarence's ability to make the right landfall and pass his information to the admiral at Gibraltar.

Perhaps he should have directed Perle to sail directly to Gibraltar. But if his news was to reach all available sources of communication, he knew that Fitz-Clarence must first call at Syracuse.

He was pacing his cabin, his chin on his chest, his body angled to the ship's tilt, when he heard the cry, 'Deck there! Sail to the nor'-west!'

For once he was unable to restrain himself, and without waiting for a message from the quarterdeck, he hurried from the cabin to join Herrick and the other officers at the rail.

Herrick touched his hat. 'You heard then, sir?'

'Aye, Thomas.'

Bolitho ran his eyes quickly along the upper gun deck. Due to the weather and the necessary delays while repairs were carried out, it was a month since they had watched the French supply vessels sinking and burning under their bombardment. Since Farquhar had died with so many of his men. And Nicator had gone aground.

The men who were by the bulwarks and gangways, or standing in the shrouds in the hopes of sighting the newcomer, looked tougher, he thought. Herrick had done well. It was not easy for common seamen to understand what was happening beyond their own ship. Some captains did not bother to tell them, but Herrick, as always, had tried to explain whenever he could the reasons and the rewards.

Had Farquhar remained in Lysander, he would have benefited from Herrick's example. These men, Bolitho knew, would have given that bit extra as the ship had drifted towards the sandbars, her master dead, and the helm shot away.

He looked up sharply as a lookout yelled,' 'Tis the Harebell, sir!'

Herrick grinned, his face shedding some of the strain as he said, 'Good old Inch! I was beginning to wonder what had happened to him'

They watched the sloop's sails growing out of the horizon, the steep angle of her masts as she crammed on more canvas to run down on the squadron.

Bolitho saw the changing shadows on the sloop's topsails, and found himself pleading that the wind would not choose this moment to desert them. The thought of being becalmed, with Inch and his news too far away to contact, was almost unbearable. And the wind had acted in that fashion several times since they had sailed from the Greek islands. Strong to gale force, and then breathing away to nothing, the sodden decks and sails steaming in fierce sunlight, the ships motionless, like men beaten senseless in a brawl.

Herrick asked softly, 'What d'you think, sir ? Good or bad news ?'

Bolitho bit his lip. Inch had been away a long while. As his little squadron had sifted information and news of the enemy's whereabouts and strength, almost anything might have happened.

He replied, 'My guess is that a blockade will now be built up around the French ports. Once de Brueys knows his supply fleet and siege artillery are destroyed at Corfu, he may think differently about invasion. Our people have worked hard, Thomas. I hope their efforts will have given the fleet time.'

The air was heavy with greasy smoke from the galley before Harebell had tacked close enough to lower a boat. Bolitho noticed that most of the off-watch seamen remained on deck, instead of going for their midday meal. To see Inch come aboard, to try and learn something of what was happening.

In the great cabin, Bolitho made Inch take a glass of wine, to give him a moment to regain his breath.

It was strange, he thought, that after all the battles and the pain, it often fell to men like Inch to carry really important news. You would hardly notice him in a street. Gangling, with his long horseface and excited manner, he did not seem the stuff of heroes as their public liked to imagine. But Bolitho knew differently, and would not have traded him for a dozen others.

Inch explained, ‘I delivered the despatches, and,' he shot Herrick a quick glance, 'and my passenger, sir. Then I was caught up in tremendous activity.' He frowned to gather his thoughts. 'Rear-Admiral Sir Horatio Nelson in his flagship Vanguard passed through Gibraltar Strait at the beginning of May and headed for Toulon.'

Herrick breathed out deeply. 'Thank the Lord for that.'

Inch stared at him. 'No, sir, I beg to differ. There was a great storm, and Nelson's ships were scattered, his own completely dismasted and almost run ashore. He had to make for shelter to effect repairs. To St. Peter's at Sardinia.'

Herrick groaned. "That's bad!'

Inch shook his head. 'Well, in some ways, sir.'

Bolitho said, 'Come, man, spit it out?

Inch grinned apologetically. 'Nelson's repairs delayed his plans, but allowed his other reinforcements to join him. He now commands fourteen sail of the line, but -' He saw Herrick's face and added hurriedly, "The truth is, sir, the same gale which dismasted Vanguard allowed the French to slip past.' He looked from one to the other. "The French are out, sir.'

Herrick said bitterly, 'And they escaped much as our Frenchmen did. God damn the weather!'

'Is that all, Commander Inch ?' Bolitho kept his tone level, but could feel the disappointment rising inside him.

Inch shrugged. 'The French have taken Malta without a fight, sir. Nelson's ships have been searching for de Brueys's fleet without success. He has followed their passage through the Ligurian Sea, and even looked into some ports where other French ships might have been sheltering until they were ready to move out.'

'You have done well, Inch.' Bolitho gestured to Ozzard for some more wine. 'And you have brought despatches ?'

Inch nodded. 'I was ordered to Naples by the admiral, sir. There I met with the fleet at last.' He grinned awkwardly. 'And with Nelson.'

'The devil you have!' Herrick stared at him. "That I should like to have seen!'

Bolitho said quietly, 'So you did not meet with Perle.'

He looked away as Herrick started to explain about the battle and the new prizes. But Bolitho's mind was elsewhere. By the time Fitz-Clarence had reached Gibraltar it would be too late for him to return and find Nelson. He blamed himself for not thinking that a fleet would be sent so quickly to act upon his own sketchy information and the captured siege guns.

Inch was asking excitedly, 'So where are the French? Nelson has been off Elba and Civita Vecchia and into Naples without sighting a one. And you have come west'rd without meeting them. I do not understand it.'

Bolitho faced them again. 'Did Nelson receive you well ?'

'Indeed yes, sir.' Inch frowned. 'He was not quite as I expected, but I found him most compelling, in spite of his anxieties.'

Bolitho tried to imagine what might he behind those simple words. Was Nelson blaming him for losing the French, too? For leading a British fleet which was sorely needed elsewhere to an empty trap ?

Inch added, 'If and when I was able to find you, sir, I was to tell you to join the fleet with all speed off Alexandria.' He saw Bolitho's surprise and said, 'Oh yes, sir, Nelson has every faith in your conclusions. He still believes that the French are heading for, if not already in Egypt.' He seemed to expect a show of excitement.

Bolitho said, 'Captain Herrick took it upon himself to visit Alexandria. But for a few decrepit Turkish men o' war and the usual coastal craft, it was empty. As it will be when Nelson gets there.' He looked at Herrick. 'Are you agreed, Thomas ?'

Herrick nodded. ‘I fear so. From what we discovered and heard at Corfu, it seemed as if those supply ships were expecting to leave for another destination before they joined their main fleet.' He looked at the chart on Bolitho's table, his face grim. 'So when Nelson sails east he will miss de Brueys by a hundred miles or more. The French will rendezvous up here' He tapped the chart with one finger. 'Most likely off Crete.' He looked at Bolitho. 'While we sheltered amongst those islands, the greatest force since the Spanish Armada probably steered just a few miles to the south'rd of us, and we knew nothing of it!'

Inch asked dubiously, 'What will de Brueys do, sir ?'

Bolitho stared at the chart. 'In his shoes I'd gather up all the surviving transports, then wait for any others which may have been scattered amongst smaller islands and bays. Then I'd sail south-east. For Egypt'

'Alexandria, sir.' Herrick watched him searchingly.

'Yes. But I think his fleet will remain outside the harbour. Somewhere where they can present their resistance to best advantage.'

Herrick nodded, understanding. 'The Bay of Aboukir. There could be none better.' He grimaced. 'For them.'

Bolitho walked to the stern windows, his legs braced as the ship swayed dizzily across some deep troughs.

'And Nelson will return to the west.' He was speaking almost to himself. 'He will imagine that de Brueys has tricked him, and has attacked some other place after all.'

He had often heard of Nelson's sudden depressions, his self-criticism when his bold ideas failed to show immediate results.

Something flashed across the windows, and he saw it was a gull, darting down to seize an unsuspecting fish below the counter.

A few hundred miles, and yet it meant the difference between success and nothing at all. He knew where the French would gather their combined strength, which with or without siege guns could soon occupy the walls and batteries of Alexandria. He knew it, but could not tell the rear-admiral in time. If only he were like that gull and his news could be carried as swiftly as a bird's flight. The gull would be sleeping on some Greek or Italian shore tonight, and his ships would have made little progress in any direction.

He said slowly, 'I want all commanding officers aboard at once, Thomas. If we are to be of any use we must use our independence.'

Inch bobbed. 'Not join Nelson, sir?'

Bolitho smiled at his anxiety. 'Eventually.'

Herrick jerked his head to Inch. 'Come with me while I have the signal made.' He glanced at Bolitho's grave face. He knew from experience when he needed to be alone with his thoughts.

Two hours later they had all assembled in the cabin. Javal, hollow-eyed from sleepless nights, fighting the sea and wind with weakening resources. Probyn, his heavy face wary, and avoiding Bolitho's glance as he found a chair in a patch of shadow. Lieutenant Gilchrist, awkward amongst his superiors, but more sure of himself than Bolitho had ever seen before. Being in charge of a seventy-four could affect a man in several ways. It appeared to have been good for him.

Herrick and Inch completed the gathering, while Moffitt, the clerk, sat at a small table with his pad and pen, and Ozzard stood curiously beside the polished wine cabinet.

Bolitho faced them. 'Gentlemen, I have to tell you that we must go and search for the French again. De Brueys is out, and so far has avoided the fleet which was sent to contain him.' He saw Javal's tiredness slip away, the exchange of glances between them. 'We, in this small force of ours, must do all we can to delay the enemy's plans. You've done far more than any orders dictated,' he smiled, 'or left unsaid!''

Herrick grinned ruefully and Inch nodded in silent agreement.

He continued, 'I will be honest with you. If we are called to fight unaided, the odds will be great. Perhaps too great.' He looked straight at Javal. 'And from you, Captain, I must have complete honesty, too.'

Javal's narrow features were guarded. 'Sir?'

'Your ship. Without a proper refit, and within a short space of time, what chance does she have ?'

The others looked at the deck or the chart on the table. Anywhere but at Javal's face.

Javal half rose and then sat down heavily. 'I can fight another storm if it's no worse than those gone before, sir.' He looked into Bolitho's eyes. 'But that is not what you were really asking, is it ?' He shook his head. 'I can't fight her, sir. She took a great hammering. A few more balls into her and I fear she'd founder.' He stared at some point above Bolitho's epaulette. 'She's a fine ship, sir, and I'd not ask -' His voice trailed away.

Bolitho watched his distress, the agony his words had cost him.

He said quietly, 'I was a frigate captain myself. I know what you are feeling. But I am grateful for your honesty, more so because I know what Buzzard means to you.'

He continued in the same quiet tone, 'Buzzard's main armament must be jettisoned at once. If that does not suffice she will have to be abandoned.' He kept his eyes on Javal's lowered head. 'I am giving you the French prize, Immortalite. The bulk of your people can be spread amongst the squadron at your discretion. We will need every man jack before long. I understand that your first lieutenant was wounded in the fight, Captain ?'

He saw him nod, and then turned to Gilchrist.

'You will take charge of Buzzard and sail her to Gibraltar with a skeleton company. Avoid trouble, and you should make a safe passage. I will give you your orders, and also the recommendation that you be promoted to commander at the first opportunity.'

Gilchrist, who had been listening to his decisions with obvious dismay, jerked to his feet and exclaimed, 'Thank you, sir! I'm only sorry that - ' He sat down again without finishing what he had started.

Bolitho said, 'We have three ships of the line. They must be commanded by men of experience.' He glanced briefly at Probyn, but the man stared through him. 'And courage.'

Herrick asked, 'Shall I order the squadron's badly wounded to be transferred to Buzzard, sir?'

'If Captain Javal is satisfied she is seaworthy after the guns have been jettisoned, I think it should be done.' He raised his head to listen. "The wind has eased, I think. So let us be about it directly.' He gave Inch a pat on the arm. 'And you, Commander Inch, will be able to carry the news of our discovery to your new friend, Sir Horatio Nelson!'

As they prepared to leave the cabin, Herrick said, 'Farquhar would have wished to be with us.'

'Aye, Thomas.' He saw Gilchrist waiting to say something. 'See the others into the boats and then tell Pascoe to signal the squadron on the matter of wounded.'

He turned to Gilchrist. 'What is wrong? I thought you were happy with your appointment, temporary though it will be.'

'I am, sir.' Gilchrist looked wretchedly at the deck. ‘I am not a rich man, but I have had great hopes in the King's service. Now you have given me the first real chance -'. He sounded near breaking point. 'And I cannot accept it.'

Bolitho watched him impassively. 'Why? Because of Captain Probyn ? The influence he has used on you to unsettle the flagship's affairs?' He saw the astonishment on his face and continued, ‘I knew that something was wrong. No man who wished to better his position in the Navy, and wanted to marry his captain's sister, would have acted so foolishly, unless he was affeared of something.'

'Yes, sir. It was from a long while back. My father was sent to prison for debt. He was a sick man, and I knew he could not endure it. He was weak in many ways and had no one to sustain him.' He spoke fiercely, reliving his despair. ‘I borrowed money from the wardroom funds which we had built up to pay for extra wine and fresh food whenever possible. I intended to return it when I could. The first lieutenant found out about it. Made me write a confession which he threatened to use if I ever failed in my duty again.'

'He did wrong, Mr. Gilchrist. As did you.'

Gilchrist did not seem to hear. 'When I came to Lysander, and eventually became senior lieutenant, I thought I was going to be safe. I admired Captain Herrick, and I found his sister, crippled though she is, a most gracious person. Then we joined the squadron under your flag, sir. And with it came the Nicator and Captain Probyn.'

'Your old first lieutenant from the past.' 'Aye, sir.'

So that was it. All the years since his capture by the enemy, Probyn had nursed his hatred for Bolitho, the one face in his memory which he could reach and hurt. And when he had found Gilchrist again, he had been prepared to use threats to make him force a breach between himself and Herrick.

The effect on Herrick had been for the good. But it had cost others dearly, and had indirectly put Farquhar to an early death.

Gilchrist said desperately, 'After your kindness, sir, I'd not allow myself to profit further at your expense.' He gave a short, bitter laugh. 'And my father died anyway. For nothing.'

Bolitho watched the other ships through the salt-caked windows. Buzzard would be safe now, he thought. Lighter without her guns, strong in the knowledge that she could avoid any sort of fight or manoeuvre beyond survival. She would survive.

He said quietly, 'I am giving you Osiris's surgeon. They say he is a sound doctor. Take good care of our wounded. They have suffered enough. Do not allow them to be left stranded at Gibraltar.' He turned, seeing the surprise and gratitude on Gilchrist's face. 'I am counting on your vigilance, on their behalf.'

Gilchrist nodded dazedly. 'You have my word, sir.'

'Then get about your business.' Bolitho could not bear to watch his emotion. Like a man released from a great weight of worry. From the shadow of the gallows itself. 'You've a lot to do.'

Gilchrist walked towards the screen door, his long legs ungainly, his steps without their usual bounce. He turned aft, his face in shadow.

'I'll tell them when I get home, sir. About what we did . . .'

'Just tell them we tried, Mr. Gilchrist.'

He heard him walking very slowly towards the quarterdeck.

Allday came out of the sleeping cabin, bis face grave.

'Let me pour you a glass of wine.' He glanced meaningly at the closed door. 'You were too easy on that one, sir, if you'll pardon the liberty.'

'He learned a hard lesson, Allday. I think others will profit from it one day.'

Allday watched him sipping the wine. 'What about Cap'n Probyn, sir?'

Bolitho smiled sadly. 'A good question. But he'll fight when he has to.' He looked at Allday. "Three captains. It is all we have. Personal differences must wait their turn.'

Allday grinned. 'We do have a commodore, sir. And with all respect, he's not a bad one at that.'

Bolitho smiled at him. 'Go to hell, Allday.'

'Aye, sir. I don't doubt I will.' He made for the door. 'If there's any deck space with so many flag officers in residence!'

Bolitho walked to the windows and leaned against the warm timbers. All the weeks and delays, the hopes raised and dashed, and now he saw a point in it all.

He thought of Gilchrist. Tell them we tried. It sounded like an epitaph.

He stirred himself and put down the glass.

It would be dusk in five or six hours. He needed to be under way by then. The wind aiding instead of hampering, and this time the objective would be far too big to miss.

*

In the following days while the three ships sailed east and south, each watch passed much like the one before. Bolitho deployed his small force in line abreast, with Lysander to the north and the Immortalite to the south.

The wind became sluggish and uncertain but maintained its south-westerly direction, so that after losing station during each night, Bolitho worked through the longer hours of daylight to regain his extended line. In the centre, Probyn's Nicator was a constant reminder of what Gilchrist had admitted. The weak link, but still the only man with experience enough to handle his two-decker in battle. Nearly three miles separated each ship, and with carefully chosen lookouts, he hoped the area covered would betray some sign, or an outflung patrol of the enemy's strength.

He had sent Inch away ahead of the squadron, to use his agility and speed to reach Alexandria well ahead of his heavier consorts. Only after he had received Inch's report could he release him to carry his final information to the fleet.

Day by day, with the sun getting hotter, and the first sweeping wave of excitement giving way to a more realistic attitude of resignation. Gun drill was carried out whenever possible, as much to keep the hands occupied as to incorporate the newly-joined men into their team. Herrick had told him that the purser was opening some of the lower tiers of salt beef and pork. And there was no fruit, and barely enough water to drink, let alone use for personal comfort.

In Lysander, Herrick did his best to keep his men busy on watch, and involved in their own entertainment once the sun had departed at the end of each long day. Hornpipes, and wrestling, a prize of a double rum ration for the most original piece of ropework. In many ways it was harder to think of new ideas than to keep the hands at work and drills.

Bolitho hoped that Javal and Probyn were acting with equal vigour to sustain their own companies. For if they failed to find the enemy this time, there would still be no relief. Just a long, relentless haul back to Syracuse, or to some other mark on the chart which their commodore thought profitable.

Several times Bolitho received signals from Javal that he had sighted the northernmost coast of Africa, but otherwise it seemed as if they had the sea to themselves.

Arguments began to break out, and a knife fight ended in a man being badly gashed, and the other flogged senseless as a grim reminder of discipline.

Then, when Bolitho was starting to worry for Harebell's safety, the masthead sighted the sloop beating up from the south-east. It took another full day for Inch to draw near, and when he eventually arrived on board, his news was like a slap in the face.

He had sighted the Pharos and had sailed as near as he could to Alexandria. As before, it was empty but for the elderly Turkish men-of-war. Perplexed as to what to do, Inch had gone about, and almost by accident had fallen on a small Genoese trading vessel. Her master had confirmed what Bolitho had believed from the start. After leaving Naples, Nelson had sailed direct to Alexandria, but finding it empty, had led his fleet back to the west again. How far, and to what purpose, Bolitho could only guess, but he could imagine the little admiral searching out information from Syracuse or Naples, and trying to determine what action to take.

The Genoese trader also told Inch's boarding party that he had heard of heavy French ships of war off the Cretan coast. That had been many days ago. Despite all the questions, comparing of charts, even threats, the trader could not be more definite.

It was almost dark by the time Inch had completed his report, and Herrick and Grubb had noted his sparse facts on the chart for future reference.

Tomorrow, Bolitho would send Harebell to search for the fleet again. In his shoes, Bolitho would have been glad to go. To get away from the ponderous manoeuvrings of the two-deckers. But Inch protested, 'One more day cannot hurt, sir. The French are to the north of us somewhere. It would be better to remain with you and gather something definite for Nelson. Rather than finding the fleet once more with little but rumour to offer.'

Bolitho agreed with him in part. But for the weather, and long delays left in the wake of battle, they might have had better luck.

When he had confided his anxiety with Herrick, the latter had protested as strongly as Inch.

'There is nothing more you could do, sir. Even Rear Admiral Nelson was dismasted in a storm and allowed the Frogs to escape from Toulon. It's like seeking a hare in a burrow. With only one ferret, the odds of success are hard against you.'

Bolitho looked at them and smiled. 'If I ordered you to sail up the cliffs of Dover, I believe you would obey.'

Inch grinned. 'I'd need it in writing, sir.'

They went on deck together, and while Inch waited for his boat to pull alongside, Bolitho watched the molten ball of sunset spreading like stained glass in a church.

'Tomorrow then.'

He walked aft and peered at the compass, and nodded to Plowman, the master's mate of the watch. 'How is the wind ?'

'Steady 'nough, sir.' He squinted at the broad pendant, curling lazily in the sunset. 'Tomorrow'll be another day like this one.'

Bolitho waited as Herrick came from the entry port and said, 'Signal the ships to remain in close contact tonight, Thomas.' He shivered, and clasped his arms around his stomach.

Herrick peered at him, startled. 'Are you ill, sir? Is that damned fever returning ?'

Bolitho looked at him and smiled. 'Rest easy. It's just a feeling.' He turned towards the poop. 'I have a letter to write. It can go with Inch and his despatches.'

Later, in the great, creaking cabin, with the shadows swaying and looming around his table, Bolitho rested his head on his hand and stared at the letter he was writing to his sister in Falmouth.

He could picture Nancy without difficulty. Dark-eyed, and unusually cheerful, she remained closer than his other sister, Felicity, whom he had not seen for six or seven years. She was in India, with her soldier husband, while Nancy remained in Falmouth, the wife of Lewis Roxby, landowner, magistrate, and as far as Bolitho was concerned, a pompous bore.

Once they had all lived together below Pendennis Castle walls. With Hugh, and then, years later, Nancy's two children, Helen and James. Now, Hugh was dead, and Felicity across the world, knowing nothing of the French army moving in a blue flood towards Egypt, and towards her.

Nancy's children were grown up, and nearly as old as Adam. It was another world. In Falmouth the air would be heavy with blossom and the sounds of cattle, horses and sheep. The taverns would be full of laughter, of relief that the farms and fishing grounds had once more been good to them.

He wrote -' and young Adam is keeping well and does his duty with a dash which would have pleased Father.

It is not yet certain, dear Nancy, but I think Thomas may have met his lady at long last. Indeed I hope so, for there could be no better husband.'

He looked up as voices and feet crossed above the skylight. But they moved away, and he tried to think of something more to tell his sister. He could not write of the other side of things. The faces of Lysander's company whenever you caught them in an unguarded moment. Thinking of their own families, as with each hour they fell further and further astern. Nor could he explain what they were doing, or the great odds against any sort of success.

Anyway, she would guess some of it. She was a captain's daughter, an admiral's grand-daughter. She would know.

He continued - 'You will remember Francis Inch ? He has trebled in size and confidence since meeting with Sir Horatio Nelson. He was much impressed, although I suspect he thought "Our Nel" would be a giant, instead of a slight man with one arm and a temper to match that of any collier's master.

'I send my love to you and the children, as does Adam, who still thinks of you as a kind of angel. He does not know you as well as I.'

He smiled, seeing her pleasure as she read that part and remembered. When he had been at sea, and Adam had walked unknown and unhelped out of nowhere, it had been to Nancy that he had gone. Until that moment in time, nobody in the family, not even Hugh, had realised Adam had existed. Born illegitimate, he had lived to his fourteenth year with his mother at Penzance, and when she had died he had set out on foot for the family to which he really belonged.

Yes, she would recall those days as she read his letter.

He finished - 'Think of us sometimes. Your loving brother, Dick.'

Allday entered the cabin and looked at him curiously. 'Moffitt's finished copying your orders for Harebell, sir.' He watched as Bolitho sealed the letter and addressed it. 'Falmouth, sir?'

'Yes.' He leaned back in the chair and looked at the spiralling lantern overhead. 'I've told my sister that you are as difficult as ever.'

Allday turned as Ozzard came through the door. 'Well?'

Ozzard flinched. 'Will the commodore be requiring anything more to eat or drink, please?'

Bolitho stood up and walked uncertainly to the bulkhead and touched the sword.

'Lay out my best uniform coat and hat tomorrow, Ozzard.'

Allday turned towards him very slowly. "Then you think .. .'

'Yes.' Bolitho looked past him. 'I feel it. It will be tomorrow or not at all.'

'I'll need a tot to make me sleep on that news, sir.' But he grinned. 'Several, most like.' Bolitho roamed about the cabin for a full hour after midnight, thinking of faces, and things he had shared with them.

Then he turned into his cot, leaving orders with the watch on deck that he was to be called at dawn.

Surprisingly, he felt calmer than he had since the return of his fever, and within minutes of closing his eyes he was fast asleep.

He was awakened by a hand on his shoulder, and saw Herrick studying him in the light of a dimmed lantern. Beyond him, the cabin skylight showed a pink glow.

'What is it, Thomas?'

Then he heard it. Very faint, drifting across the sea like echoes on a beach. Cheering.

'Harebell hoisted a signal at first light, sir.' Herrick watched him grimly. 'Enemy in sight.'

18 The Din of War

Bolitho strode across the quarterdeck with Herrick beside him. Figures, mostly in shadow, cleared a path for him, and he heard Grubb say, 'Steady at east-by-north, sir.'

Veitch, who had the watch, came to meet him, and touched his hat.

'Harebell has just signalled again, sir. Ships in sight to the nor'-west.' He glared at the signal party. 'Mr. Glasson was somewhat slack with his men, and I fear we missed some of Harebell's flags.'

Bolitho nodded. 'I've little doubt that the ships which Inch saw were patrols ahead of a larger force. Otherwise they'd have come closer.'

He peered up at his pendant. It was shining cleanly in the new daylight, but the lower yards and shrouds were still in deeper shadow.

He said, 'Very well. Make to the squadron. Prepare for battle.' He smiled at Veitch. 'Have our people had breakfast ?'

'Aye, sir.' Veitch looked at Herrick and stammered, 'Someone told me of the commodore's feelings about today, sir. So I had all hands called an hour earlier.'

Bolitho rubbed his chin. 'I will shave now, and have some coffee, if there's any left.' He heard the squeak of halliards as the signal dashed up the yards and broke to the wind. ‘I hope Nicator is awake and repeats the signal to Javal.'

He turned to look for Harebell's lithe shape, but she was stem-on, her braced topsails very pale against the sky.

He said, 'We must deploy our ships to best advantage, Thomas. Alter course directly and steer due north on the larboard tack.'

Across the heaving water he heard the staccato beat of drums, and pictured Nicator's seamen and marines hurrying to quarters.

Herrick nodded. 'Aye, sir. It'll be more prudent. I'll have the signal bent on, once Nicator has acknowledged.'

'She has, sir 1' Glasson's normally sharp voice was hushed.

Veitch snapped, 'Then say it, Mr. Glasson! Or your rank will never rise above "acting"!'

Bolitho did not even hear the exchange. He was thinking. Imagining the breadth of an enemy fleet. The control from one or several flagships.

He said, 'Send away the quarter boat, Captain Herrick. Have the despatch bag sent over to Harebell.' He hesitated. 'And any letters there may be for England.'

Shouts echoed along the deck and the boat's crew dashed aft, Yeo, the boatswain, urging them with his powerful voice.

Bolitho looked once more at his pendant. Brighter yet again, but there was not much of a wind. His new course and tack would aid their speed a little, but it would still feel like an age before they got to grips with the enemy.

Pascoe hurried towards him, the heavy bag under his arm.

'Boat's ready, sir!'

'Off you go, Adam. Don't delay, and tell Commander Inch to make all speed to rejoin the fleet.'

Herrick asked, 'Will we take the wind-gage, d'you think ?'

'I am not certain.' He felt his stomach contract. Hunger? Fear? It was hard to tell. 'But if it is the force I imagine, it will be large enough to see.'

Veitch came aft again. 'Boat's away, sir. Pulling like the devil.'

'Thank you.' He pulled out his watch. 'You may clear for action in fifteen minutes, Mr. Veitch. In the meantime, make to the squadron, Steer north. When that is completed, make one other. To Form line of battle.'

He walked away as the calls started to shrill and men ran to their stations for altering course. He could leave all that and more to Herrick. Now.

He ducked his head automatically beneath the poop as Grubb yelled, 'Stand by at th' braces there!' The wheel was going over, the sails napping and banging and spattering the men beneath with great droplets of moisture.

In the cabin it seemed very cool, and he sat almost unmoving while Allday gave him a speedy shave and Ozzard plied him with black coffee.

Ozzard said dolefully, 'That was the last of it, sir.'

He heard Allday mutter, 'Never mind. We'll take some off a Frenchie, eh ?'

More stamping feet overhead, and the shriek of blocks and rigging.

Veitch's voice, hollow in his trumpet. 'Make fast there! Belay that brace, Bosun!'

With the lantern giving only a feeble light, the cabin became extra dark, and he imagined the ship heading due north, the others following in a line astern. Soon now.

There was sudden stillness, broken within seconds by the rattle of drums, sharp and nerve-racking, so that he knew Leroux's little drummer boys were just above the skylight.

The hull trembled, each deck giving its own sound and reaction as screens were torn down, chests and unwanted gear stowed below, and every gun captain bustled around his crew like a mother hen.

Allday stood back and wiped the razor. 'Eight minutes, sir. Mr. Veitch is learning your ways.'

Bolitho stood up and waited for Ozzard to bring his best coat.

He said, 'Captain Farquhar did the honours last time.' Their eyes met. 'I think that is all.' He smiled. 'But for the sword.'

Ozzard watched the pair of them and then darted forward to adjust the bow around Bolitho's black queue.

Bolitho recalled his feelings about Farquhar. Like an actor.

He heard more yells from the upper deck, a clatter of oars as the boat returned alongside.

He looked at Allday, wondering if he was thinking the same. All together. Herrick and Pascoe, Allday and himself.

BoHtho said, 'It's time.'

They walked through the screen door, where instead of a dining table and polished chairs there was only open deck, the dark shapes of the waiting guns and their crews stretching away beneath the poop and towards the strengthening daylight.

He strode past the mizzen mast's great trunk and tried not to recall the broadside which had ripped through Osiris's stern like a bloody avalanche.

Some of the gun crews turned to watch him, their eyes glittering white in the gloom behind the sealed ports.

One man called, 'Yew'm a fair zight today, zur!' He was finding courage in the darkness and ignored the harsh threats of a petty officer. 'Bet there's no better lookin' sailor in the 'ole fleet!'

Bolitho smiled. He knew the accent well. A Cornishman like himself. Perhaps even a face he had seen as a youth, now brought close for this encounter.

He walked past the double wheel and the imperturbable helmsmen. The master and his mates, the midshipman of the watch, little Saxby. And further, to the centre of the quarter deck.

He saw Pascoe, his head and shoulders soaked in spray, speaking in a fierce whisper to Glasson, who had taken charge of the ship's signals.

Pascoe touched his hat to Bolitho and said, ‘I will go below, sir.'

Bolitho nodded, knowing that some of the seamen nearby were watching them curiously. Pascoe's new station was down on the lower gun deck with the great thirty-two-pounders. He had Lieutenant Steere as his superior, and a midshipman to fetch and carry messages. Youth indeed for Lysander's main batteries.

'God be with you, Adam.'

'And you,' he hesitated, 'Uncle.' He shot a smile towards Herrick and then hurried down the companion.

'Deck there! Sails in sight on the larboard bow!'

Bolitho snapped, 'Aloft with you, Mr. Veitch. I'd like a firm opinion this morning.'

He stared at the sky, now pale blue and devoid of cloud. The red blobs of the marine marksmen and swivel gunners in the tops, the great yards and black tarred rigging. A living, vital weapon of war. The most complex and harshly demanding creation of man. Yet in the weak sunlight Lysander had a true beauty, which even her bulk and tonnage could not spoil.

He crossed to the larboard side and clung to the neatly stacked hammock nettings. Harebell was already fighting round in a steep tack, her topsails flapping, her topgallants and maincourse being set even as he watched.

Astern he could see the black lines of Nicator's weather shrouds and tumblehome, but her outline, and Immortalité's, too, were hidden beyond the sloping poop. ¹ Major Leroux ran lightly down a ladder and raised his drawn sword to his hat with a flourish.

'I have arranged my men as you ordered, sir. The best marksmen where they will be unhampered by those less accurate.' He smiled, his eyes far-away. 'Maybe the French will expect to meet with Nelson ?'

Herrick heard him and laughed. 'Our gallant admiral must take his turn!'

Veitch returned to the deck by way of a backstay with as much ease as a twelve-year-old midshipman.

He wiped his hands on his coat and said, 'It is the enemy fleet, sir. They seem to be steering south-east, and the bulk of it lies well to windward.' He hesitated and then said, 'There is a second squadron directly across our bows on a converging tack, sir. I had a good look at it, and I am certain that one or more of the ships were at Corfu. One of 'em was painted in red and black. I saw her just now, as plain as day.'

Bolitho looked at Herrick and drove one fist into his palm.

'De Brueys is holding his main squadron to the west of us, Thomas! He must still expect a chance to meet with our fleet!'

Herrick nodded and said bitterly, 'If he only knew that they had already gone from here!'

Bolitho seized his arm. 'Mr. Veitch is not mistaken' He looked at both of them, willing them to understand. 'De Brueys has kept his other supply ships to the east'rd, protected by his lines of battle'

'Then I'll warrant our appearance is causing some cackling!' Herrick climbed into the weather shrouds with a telescope. 'I can just make out some sails on the horizon. But you may well be right, Mr. Veitch. Our Frenchmen are protecting their charges from the wrong direction' He said in a duller voice, 'But the French have plenty of time to re-arrange their defences.'

Bolitho toyed with the idea of going up to the topgallant yard to see for himself.

'There are but three of us, Thomas. The French will have sighted Harebell and may assume she is about to relay our signals to the main fleet.'

Leroux said quietly, 'Then I'd not be in Commander Inch's boots.'

Some of the gun crews had left their weapons and stood on the gangways to watch the enemy's slow approach. Like plumed cavalry topping a hard blue rise, the masts and sails began to show themselves even to the men on the gun deck. More and still more, until the horizon seemed engulfed by their sails. 'A fleet indeed, Thomas.'

Bolitho tilted his hat to keep the light from his eyes. He could feel the sun on his right cheek, the clinging weight of his coat. It would be hotter than this soon. In more ways than one.

Hour ran into hour, and as the sunlight grew stronger and harsher, the enemy ships took on style and personality. The measured lines of French seventy-fours, and the whole dominated by one great first-rate, the largest ship Bolitho had ever seen. That would be de Brueys's flagship. He wondered what the French admiral was thinking, how the small line of British ships would look to him and his officers. He wondered, too, if Bonaparte was there with him, watching and despising their brave gesture. Bonaparte was their one real hope. De Brueys was a very experienced and courageous officer, and of all those present he probably understood his enemy's navy best. His intelligence and cunning were well known and respected. But would Bonaparte be willing to listen to advice now, with Egypt almost in sight and nothing but three ships in his way ?

He said, 'Tell your marines to strike up a tune of some kind, Major. This waiting burrs the edge off a man's strength. I know it does off mine!'

Moments later the drums and fifes led off with The Old East Indiaman, the youthful marines marching up and down the quarterdeck, stumbling only occasionally over a gun tackle or a seaman's out-thrust leg.

After some hesitation, and the knowing grins from his mates, Grubb delved into his pocket and joined the fifes with his tin whistle, the one which had become something of a legend.

'Deck there! Enemy frigate steerin' due south, sir!'

'She's after Harebell, sir!'

Bolitho gripped his hands behind him, as with a growing pyramid of sails a powerful frigate tacked away from the unending line of ships and headed towards the sloop.

Inch had the edge on her. With this slow south-westerly it would be hard for the French captain to overreach him now, and unless he crippled Harebell with a long shot from a bow chaser, he should be safely clear.

A gun echoed dully across the glittering water, and a thin white fin spurted in the sunlight. It was well short, and brought a ripple of cheers from the watchers in the tops.

The deck tilted heavily, and one of the marching drummer boys almost pitched headlong.

Grubb thrust his whistle into his coat and growled, 'Wind's gettin' up, sir!' To his helmsmen he added, 'Watch it, my beauties!'

Bolitho looked at Herrick. 'You may load and run out when you are ready.'

He felt the ship lifting and then dipping into a low swell, the spray darting through the beakhead like broken glass.

Herrick cupped his hands. 'Mr. Veitch I Pass the word! Load and run outl'

Leroux said to his lieutenant, 'Bless my soul, Peter, I do believe that the French are keeping their formations!'

Nepean peered at him vacantly. 'But that will surely take us right amongst the second group, sir ? Those supply ships seem to be heavily protected also.' He swallowed hard and blinked the sweat from his eyes. "Pon my word, sir, I think you're right!'

The major looked up at the poop. 'Sar'nt Gritton! Spread your sharpshooters to either side! At this rate I think we will be into the enemy's centre before he knows it!'

Bolitho heard all of it. The busy clatter of rammers and handspikes, the shrill of whistles as the guns were run out, one side gleaming like teeth, the other still in a purple shadow.

Bolitho thought of Pascoe and his great charges, three decks beneath his feet. He wanted him here with him, and yet knew that the lower deck was probably safer.

'Run out, sir!'

Bolitho took a glass from Midshipman Saxby and it almost dropped to the deck. The boy was shaking badly and trying not to show it. Bolitho ran up a poop ladder and trained the glass astern.

He said sharply, 'Signal to Nicator, Mr. Glasson. Make more sail.'

He returned to the quarterdeck and said, 'We want no great gap between us.'

The remark reminded him of Saxby and he said quietly, 'Take this glass, my lad, and go aft with the marines. Keep levelled on Nicator for me, until I say otherwise.'

Herrick dabbed his face with a handkerchief. 'Worried about young Saxby, sir?'

'No, Thomas.' He lowered his voice. 'About Probyn.'

'Nicator's acknowledged, sir.' Glasson sounded very alert now.

Bolitho nodded and climbed on to a nine-pounder, one hand resting on a seaman's bare shoulder. Heading on a diagonal tack towards Lysander's larboard bow he saw the French men-of-war reforming to protect their scattered convoy of supply ships.

He counted them carefully. Four ships of the line. Odds against his own strength, but not too much so. Beyond the overlapping straggle of supply vessels he saw the squared sails of a frigate, snapping at the heels of those vital ships like a Cornish sheepdog when a fox was after the lambs.

He looked past Veitch without seeing him. An hour more at the most. The French admiral would know by then that there were no more British ships close by. What then? Revenge and destruction of the little squadron? Or on to Alexandria in case there was one more trick to play ?

Bolitho saw the gleam of red amongst the enemy's formation and knew it was the supply ship from Corfu. Veitch would remember. He'd had plenty of opportunity to watch her and her scattering consorts while he had set fire to the hillside to protect Osiris from the guns. And she would be carrying more of those great guns. Without the last of them, de Brueys would never dare to anchor inside Alexandria's narrow entrance. He would need their protection for his ships and the landing of so many soldiers and stores. Denied them, he would do it as Herrick had described, in Aboukir Bay.

And with any kind of luck, Nelson would find them there. After that, it would be up to him.

He looked along Lysander's decks, his heart heavy. And what of us ? We did our best.

He heard several bangs, and saw smoke drifting downwind from the leading French two-decker. Some of the balls whipped across the low waves like flying fish, but were well clear of Lysander.

It was a show of anger. A sign that the French were ready and eager for battle after so long preparing behind their booms and harbour batteries.

Herrick said, 'Bow chaser, Mr. Veitch! Try a ranging ball or two!'

The crash of the larboard bow chaser brought some cheers from those who were unable to see the enemy's show of strength.

Below the quarterdeck, other men were already wrapping their neckerchiefs around their ears, and placing their cutlasses and boarding axes in close reach.

Bolitho heard Glasson say, 'Half a cable short!' But nobody answered him.

The leading French ship was firm placed towards Lysander's larboard bow, sailing as close to the wind as she could, every sail fully visible on her tightly braced yards.

Bolitho watched narrowly, gauging time and distance. Whether they would collide or break the enemy's line. They had to get amongst the supply ships.

A ripple of bright orange tongues from the leading ship, and this time the controlled broadside was better directed. He felt the hull jerk, and heard the searing whine of iron passing over the poop.

Up and down between the eighteen-pounders and their motionless crews, Kipling, the second lieutenant, walked unhurriedly, his drawn sword over his shoulder like a stick.

'Easy, my lads!' He was speaking almost softly. As if calming a horse. 'Stand-to and face your front!'

Bolitho saw the Frenchman's forecourse stretched and hard-bellied on its yard, and it looked for all the world as if it was spread on Lysander's bowsprit and jib boom.

Bolitho snapped, 'Let her fall off two points!'

He nodded to Herrick as Grubb's men put up their helm.

'As you bear! Fire!

*

From forward to aft, Lysander's larboard guns fired, reloaded and fired again, smoke and fire belching from her ports, the trucks squealing as the crews trundled them back again for another broadside.

Bolitho gritted his teeth, feeling the deck shaking violently to the guns' recoil. His eyes smarted as he trained his glass beyond the bow, seeing the Frenchman's sails jerking and tearing under the barrage. Some of Lysander's guns would not bear on the French leader, but he hoped that the heavier balls from the thirty-two-pounders might be finding targets over and beyond her stern.

Herrick shouted, 'The French captain's altered course, sir!' He cursed as the enemy ship fired, the broadside haphazard and ill-timed, but nevertheless deadly. Great thuds shook the hull, and two large holes appeared in the main topsail.

Bolitho watched the enemy's yards moving, narrowing the exposed sails as she turned slightly away. To give her gun crews a better chance to fire and to take advantage of the wind, which by being so close-hauled had been denied her.

Bolitho said sharply, 'Alter course to larboard again! Steer north by west!'

He had not wasted his first broadsides. It had unnerved the enemy captain enough to make him edge round to return fire. It would take him far too long to work his ship back so close to the wind.

Men hauled wildly at the braces, the yards creaking and allowing the sun to spill more light into smoke-hazed decks. 'Fire/'

The larboard guns came crashing inboard, one by one, the crews sponging out and yelling like madmen as they reloaded.

Bolitho saw the second French ship rising above the rolling smoke, and knew he had caught the leader unprepared. The second one was already probing towards the larboard bow, and ahead of her, hidden in Lysander's own gunsmoke, was the gap between the ships, the hole in the line.

'Set the forecourse!' Bolitho heard balls whimpering overhead and saw tall waterspouts bracketing the ship on either side. The deck bucked sharply, and several lengths of broken cordage fell unheeded on the spread nets. 'Hold her, Mr. Grubb!'

Major Leroux yelled, 'Ready, Marines!' He had his sword above his head. 'By sections, fire !'

The sharper cracks of the muskets, the hollow bang of the maintop swivel, must have made the men at the lower battery on the starboard side realise for the first time just how near the Frenchman was. And as Lysander, holding the wind in her increased canvas, surged across the leader's stern, the crews cheered, blinking in the sunlight, then reeling aside as Lieutenant Steere blew his whistle, and the whole line of thirty-two-pounders roared out at the enemy.

Painted scrollwork, glass and strips of timber flew above the smoke, and Bolitho pictured the terror amongst the supply ships as Lysander's fierce-eyed figurehead thrust through the line towards them.

'Fire!'

The second Frenchman, another seventy-four, was changing course rapidly, swinging to larboard and firing as she followed Lysander round. Balls ripped into the hull and hissed above the sweating gun crews, while from the French leader came a less powerful challenge from a stern chaser and a few charges of canister. Several marines had dropped, but Sergeant Gritton was holding them together. The ramrods rising and falling, the balls rammed home, and then the scarlet line back up to the nettings to shoot once more.

Bolitho ran to the lee side and peered through the smoke. The French leader had lost her main topmast and was drifting heavily, with either her steering gone, or so badly hampered by dragging spars and canvas she was temporarily out of control.

'Again, Mr. Veitch! Full broadside!'

Gun captains yelled to restrain the din-crazed crews, even used their fists, as one by one the starboard guns were trundled to the ports and each captain held a blackened hand towards his officer.

Veitch yelled, 'Fire!'

Starting with the lower battery, up along the eighteen-pounders, and finally to the quarterdeck nine-pounders, every black muzzle added its havoc to the bombardment.

Bolitho watched the smoke rolling away, trying to see the enemy, his eyes streaming, his mouth like sand.

The sky had gone, even the sun, and the world was confined to a thundering nightmare of flame and ear-splitting noise.

He felt the hull shiver, heard muffled screams from far below as enemy iron came through a port and sliced amongst the crowded gun deck. He tried not to think of Pascoe lying hurt or crippled, the horror that a great ball could do in such a confined place.

He saw a flag making a small patch of colour in the smoke, and realised there was no other mast near it. Some of the gun crews started to cheer, their voices strangely muffled after the din of a full broadside. He watched grimly as the other ship showed herself through the fog, her stern and quarter smashed and almost unrecognisable. Only her foremast remained, and some brave soul was risking death to climb aloft and fix a new tricolour to the foretop.

Herrick shouted incredulously, 'Nicator's not following!' He fell back as a man was hurled from a gun, his scream dying in his throat. Herrick lowered him to the deck, his hands spattered with blood. As he scrambled up again he said savagely, 'Probyn's not going to help!'

Bolitho glanced at him and ran to the larboard side, seeking the rest of the enemy line, and saw that the remaining two were holding on the same course, while the one which had swung round after Lysander was still trying to overhaul, her forward guns firing towards the quarter.

Bolitho shouted, 'Direct your fire on that one!'

He winced as men fell kicking from a pair of guns. Splinters and charred hammocks burst across the boat tier, and he saw a ship's boy smashed to the deck and almost decapitated by a jagged length of planking.

'Fire!' Lieutenant Kipling was still walking up and down, but his hat had gone, and his left arm hung useless at his side. 'Stop your vents! Sponge out! Load!' He stooped to drag a wounded man from the path of a gun. 'Run out!'

Thuds along the gangway and decks made some duck away, and Bolitho saw bright darting flames from the enemy's tops as the sharpshooters tested their aim.

'Fire!'

There was a ragged cheer as the enemy's fore topgallant mast toppled, steadied and then plunged into her own gun-smoke. Some of her marksmen would have gone with it.

But she was still firing, and Bolitho could feel the balls slamming into the side and poop, the crash and whine of metal, the dreadful screams.

A midshipman ran across the deck, his eyes fixed on Bolitho. ,

'Sir! Immor- Immor-' He gave up. 'Captain Javal's ship is breaking through, sir! Mr. Yeo's respects, and he saw her thrusting across the third Frenchie's bowsprit!'

Bolitho gripped his shoulder, feeling him jump with alarm as a ball crashed through the quarterdeck rail and killed two men at a nine-pounder. They fell in a bloody heap at the midshipman's feet, and it was then that Bolitho realised it was Breen, his ginger hair almost black with smoke.

'Thank you, Mr. Breen.' He held his shoulder tightly until he could feel some of the terror ebbing away. 'My compliments to the boatswain.' As the midshipman started to run for the ladder he said, 'Take your time, Mr. Breen!' He saw his words holding him, steadying him. 'Our people are looking to their "young gentlemen" today' He saw the boy grin.

Herrick called, 'I can see Nicator, sir! She's still disengaged!'

Bolitho looked at him. Probyn was well clear. He could apply his strength to the rearmost French seventy-fours which were now exchanging shots with Immortalité. Or he could set more sail and come after Lysander.

He said, 'General signal. Close action.'

He turned as Herrick hurried away and stared across the nettings. He saw Nicator's topsails, her hoisted acknowledgement very bright against the smoke.

Bolitho coughed and retched as more smoke funnelled through the ports.

'Mr. Glasson I Tell your men to keep that signal flying, no matter what!'

Herrick shouted, 'Glasson's dead, sir.'

He stepped aside as some marines lifted the acting-lieutenant clear of the guns. His face was screwed into a petulant frown, his mouth open as if about to reprimand the marines who carried him.

'I’ll attend to it, sir!'

Bolitho turned and saw Saxby staring up at him. He had forgotten all about him.

'Thank you.' He tried to smile, but his face felt stiff and unmoving.' I want the signal, and our Colours to be seen. If you have to tie them to the bowsprit!'

He heard a chorus of groans, and then Major Leroux shouted from the poop, 'Captain Javal's having a hard fight, sir! His mizzen is gone, and he seems to be trying to grapple!'

Bolitho nodded. The French would have recognised Javal's ship as one of their own. They would try to recapture her first. It was a natural instinct.

He said, 'More sail, Thomas! Set the t'gallants! I want to get amongst the supply ships!'

A seaman fell from an upper yard and lay with an arm thrust through the net. The dead reaching for the living.

But others were responding to the orders, and under more sails Lysander forged ahead of the French two-decker.

Herrick wiped his grimy face with his sleeve and grinned. 'Always was a fast sailer, sir I' He waved his hat, the desperation of battle in his eyes. 'Huzza, lads! Hit 'em, lads!'

Another line of long flashes burst from Lysander's hull, and with full traverse on the lower battery Lieutenant Steere's gun captains got several more hits on the enemy. The other ship had lost all her topgallant masts, and her forecastle was a shambles of broken spars and cordage. Several of her ports were black and empty, like blind eyes, where guns had been overturned, their crews killed or wounded.

But she was still following, her jib boom overlapping Lysander's larboard quarter like a tusk, and less than eighty yards clear.

Leroux's marksmen were firing without pause, their faces grim with concentration as their tall sergeant picked out what he considered the most important targets.

But the French were also busy, and the air above the poop was alive with musket balls. Splinters flew from planking and gangways, or thudded viciously into the packed hammock nettings. Here and there a man fell from a gun or the shrouds, and the roar of gunfire was becoming unbearable. For across Lysander's path lay several supply ships, two locked together after colliding in their haste to get away. Kipling was up in the midst of his forward guns, yelling to the carronade crews and encouraging everyone around him. The most forward guns on both decks were already adding their weight to the din, and the entangled supply ships were raked and ablaze with the swiftness of a torch in dry grass.

Veitch yelled wildly through his trumpet, 'Mr. Kipling! Point your guns to starboard!'

He gestured with the trumpet as a seaman touched Kipling's arm to catch his attention. Through the dense smoke, displaying her distinctive red wales, was the heavy supply ship from Corfu, yards hard-braced and her foresail filling strongly as she tacked to avoid her burning consorts.

'As you bear Fire!'

Bolitho walked as if in a trance. Calling out and encouraging, not knowing if they recognised him, let alone heard his words. All around men were working their guns, firing, and dying. Others lay moaning and holding their wounds. Some merely sat staring at nothing, their minds shattered perhaps forever.

All daylight seemed to have gone, although in his reeling mind Bolitho knew it was no later than eight or nine in the forenoon. It was painful to breathe, and what air there was seemed to be spewed from the guns, as if heated by each blistered muzzle before it reached his lungs.

A blast of canister scythed over the nettings, and he saw Veitch spin round, seizing his arm at the elbow and grimacing in agony as blood poured down his wrist and on to his leg.

A seaman tried to help him to the ladder, but Veitch snarled, 'Bind it, man 1 I'll not quit the deck for it!'

Lysander's guns were firing from both sides at once, seeking out the blurred shapes which loomed and faded in the dense smoke, and with the din of their broadsides Bolitho could hear the crash of the shots hitting the targets and cutting down masts, sails and men in a devastating onslaught.

Herrick shouted, 'There she goes!' He pointed abeam.

The red-striped supply ship was listing steeply, her hull punctured by several heavy balls. The weight of her cargo did the rest. The great siege guns began to tear adrift in her holds, and although there was no sound to rise above the thunder of cannon fire, Bolitho imagined he could hear the sea surging into her, while her crew fought to reach the upper deck before she dived to the bottom.

Hopelessly outgunned, the French frigate which had been trying to herd the supply ships away from the fighting, came out of the smoke, her guns blazing, her deck tilting to the thrust of her canvas. She swept across Lysander's bows, her iron slamming through the beakhead and foresail, knocking a carronade off its slide and killing Lieutenant Kipling where he stood.

As she forged across the starboard bow, Lysander's forward gun crews crouched at their ports, eyes reddened and smarting, bodies shining and streaked in sweat and powder smoke, watching the frigate's progress and awaiting Kipling's whistle.

The boatswain, Harry Yeo, cupped his hands and bellowed, 'Fire!'

Then he, too, fell bleeding and dying, and like Kipling did not see the proud frigate changed into a dismasted shambles by the great guns.

A violent explosion stirred the sails like a hot wind, the smoke rising momentarily above the embattled ships and allowing sunlight to probe down like a misty lantern.

The first French ship was still drifting downwind, and the water around her was littered with flotsam and dead men. The second one was dropping astern of Lysander with only one bow chaser which would bear. But Bolitho saw Immortalité and knew it must have been a magazine which had exploded. Javal had managed to grapple one of the Frenchmen, and while the other had tried to cross his stern and rake him from end to end, a fire had started. A lamp blown from its hook, a man running in panic and igniting some powder by accident, nobody would ever know. Of the captured prize there was little to be seen. Her masts had gone, and she was a mass of flame which grew and spread with every second. It had blown to the ship alongside, and with her sails blasted away, her rigging and gangway well alight, she, too, was doomed.

Bolitho wiped his eyes, feeling the pain for Javal and his men.

Then as the smoke swirled down again he heard Grubb yell, 'Rudder, sir!'

He crossed the deck, ignoring the occasional thud of a ball by his feet as he stared at the helmsmen who were swinging the big wheel from side to side.

Grubb added thickly, "That bugger's chaser 'as shot the rudder lines away!' He pointed at the fore topsail beyond the quarterdeck rail. 'She's payin' off!'

Bolitho shouted, 'Get some men aft! Rig new lines!' He saw Plowman call for seamen from the nearest guns. 'Fast as you can!'

Herrick stared despairingly at the flapping sails. 'We must shorten at once!' 'Aye, Thomas.'

He tried not to think of their following Frenchman. One lucky shot had hit Lysander's steering gear, and now, as the wind turned her gently downwind, she was swinging her stern towards her enemy. It would be Osiris all over again. He tried not to curse aloud. Except that this time there was no Lysander coming to the rescue.

On every side he saw or heard the chaos caused amongst the supply ships. De Brueys might have soldiers and horse artillery in plenty with his main fleet, but he would never have a single siege gun like the one which had sent Osiris to her death.

Then, as now, Nicator had kept away. Held off by a man so embittered, so twisted by his hatred that he would see his own people die, and do nothing to help.

More crashes came from below, and there was a chorus of yells as Lysander's main topgallant mast came splintering down through the smoke, taking men and sail with it into the water alongside with a mighty splash.

As more seamen ran with axes to hack it away, Bolitho saw Saxby hurrying to the shrouds, another broad pendant wrapped around his waist like a sash.

As he hauled at the halliards he shouted, 'Thought I might need an extra one, y'see, sir!' He was laughing and weeping, his fear gone in the horror which surrounded him. Later, if he survived, it would be harder to bear.

Bolitho looked past him towards the Frenchman's topsails and beakhead as they towered above the larboard quarter. Guns hammered back and forth between them, and he felt the deck lurching, heard some of his men still able to cheer as they saw their own shots slamming home.

But it was no use. Lysander was still swinging helplessly, her tattered sails streaming through the smoke, her guns barely able to keep firing for want of men to supply their need.

The smoke writhed and blossomed scarlet, and Bolitho reached out for support as the first of the enemy's iron smashed through the poop. Marines and seamen fell dead and dying in its path. Lieutenant Nepean dropped his sword and fell choking on blood, and when Leroux yelled for his sergeant, he, too, was unable to reply, but sat holding his stomach, his eyes glazing as he tried to respond to his major as he had always done.

Allday drew his cutlass and thrust his body behind Bolitho like a shield.

Through his teeth he said, 'One more broadside, an' I reckon they'll try to board us!' He pushed a dying marine away and pointed his cutlass through the smoke. 'Just one man I'd rather kill than any Frog today!'

Herrick walked past, hands behind him, his face very composed.

He said, 'Mr. Plowman says it will take all of ten minutes more, sir.'

It might as well be an hour, Bolitho thought. Herrick looked at Allday. 'And who is that ?' 'Cap'n bloody Probyn, that's who!'

The French ship was barely feet away from the quarter, although with so much smoke it could have been any distance. What guns would bear were pouring shots into Lysander's poop and lower hull, and from the bowsprit and spritsail yard marksmen were shooting at Lysander's quarterdeck as fast as they could aim.

Bolitho shouted to Herrick, 'How are the supply ships ?'

Herrick bared his teeth. 'Six done for, and maybe the same number crippled!'

Bolitho turned to see a body dragged clear of the poop.

Moffitt, his clerk, his thin grey hair marked with a bright touch of scarlet where a splinter had cut him down. Like Gilchrist's father, he had known the misery of a debtor's prison, and now lay dead.

He had to force the words out. 'I am ordering you to haul down our Colours, Thomas.'

Herrick stared at him, his mouth tight with strain. 'Strike, sir ?'

Bolitho walked past him, feeling Allday close at his back. Protecting him as always.

'Aye. Strike.' He looked at the upended guns, the blood, some of which had splashed as high as the tattered forecourse. 'We did what we intended. I'll not see another man die to save my honour.'

'But, sir!'

Herrick hesitated as Veitch lurched over to join him, his arm wet with blood, his face like wax.

Veitch gasped, 'We'll fight 'em, sir! We've still got some good lads!'

Bolitho looked at them wearily. 'I know you'd fight.' He turned towards the enemy. 'But then our men would die for nothing.'

He looked for Saxby and saw him crouching by the bulwark.

'Haul down the Colours!' He shouted, 'That is an order!'

The guns fell silent, and above the crackle of a blazing supply ship and the mingled cries of the wounded they heard the beginning of a French cheer.

They're getting ready to board. Bolitho sheathed his sword and looked at those around him. At least their lives would be spared.

The smoke lifted again to a tremendous roar of cannon fire, and Bolitho imagined for an instant that the French were making certain of a victory with one last murderous broadside at point-blank range. He saw some of Lysander's shrouds tearing away like weeds as balls shrieked above the deck, and then turned as Herrick shouted wildly, 'It's Nicator! She's firing into the Frenchman from t'other beam!'

Because of the smoke and the drifting supply ships, some of which were adding their own pyres to the surrounding fog, nobody had seen Nicator's slow and careful approach. Every gun was firing on the Frenchman, which pivoting between the savage broadsides and Lysander's starboard quarter, could do nothing to escape.

Bolitho said, 'Tell our people to stay off the gangways I'

He heard some of Nicator's shots lashing through the rigging above him.

Herrick pointed at Saxby, who was capering around the halliards which held Bolitho's broad pendant. Neither it nor the ensign had been hauled down.

It was soon over, and as the cheering seamen and marines surged on to the French ship's deck, the tricolour vanished into the smoke.

One of Nicator's lieutenants arrived aboard some fifteen minutes later, as grappled the three vessels drifted downwind, the victors and vanquished working together to help the wounded.

The lieutenant looked around Lysander's decks and removed his hat.

'I -I am deeply sorry, sir. We were late again.' He watched the wounded marines being carried down from the poop. I have never seen a fight like yours, sir.'

Herrick said harshly, 'And Captain Probyn?'

'Dead, sir.' The lieutenant lifted his chin. 'Brought down by a marksman. He died instantly.'

A man cried out in terror as he was carried to the orlop, and Bolitho remembered Luce, and Farquhar, and Javal. And so many others.

He asked, "Was that before or after you came to our aid

The lieutenant looked wretched. 'Before, sir. But I'm certain that...'

Bolitho looked at Herrick. Nicator had been too far off to be reached by any musket. At an enquiry it would be hard to explain, impossible to prove. But someone, driven by shame and anguish, had shot Probyn down as he had stood watching Lysander and Immortalité fighting unsupported.

He smiled gravely at the pale-faced lieutenant. 'Well, you came.'

The young officer turned as Pascoe appeared on the quarterdeck. ‘We had to, sir.'

As Bolitho crossed the deck and clasped his nephew tightly, the unknown lieutenant looked up at a clearing patch of blue sky and at Bolitho's signal which was still flying.

He said quietly, 'We saw the signal. Close action. That was enough.'

Bolitho looked at him. To Herrick he said, 'Cast off the French ship as soon as Mr. Grubb's hands have repaired our steering. She fought well, and I've no use for another prize with De Brueys and his fleet so near.'

Herrick walked to the rail and repeated his order to Lieutenant Steere who had emerged from the lower gun deck.

Grubb shambled beneath the poop, his ruined face smudged in smoke and grime.

'She'll answer the 'elm now, sir! Ready to get under way!'

Herrick said quietly, 'He won't hear you, Mr. Grubb.' He looked sadly towards Bolitho. 'He's looking at the signal and thinking of those who can't see it, and never will now. I know him so well.'

As the sailing master moved away to his helmsmen, Herrick said to Pascoe, 'Go to him, Adam. I can manage without you for a while.' He watched Pascoe's face and was moved to add, 'Try and tell him. They didn't do it for any signal. It was for him.'

Epilogue

Captain Thomas Herrick entered the cabin and waited for Bolitho to look up from his table.

'The masthead has just sighted the Rock to the nor'-west, sir. With luck we should be anchored under Gibraltar's battery before sunset.'

'Thank you, Thomas. I did hear the hail.' He sounded distant. 'You had better prepare a gun salute for the admiral.'

Herrick watched him sadly. 'And then you'll be leaving Lysander, sir.'

Bolitho stood up and walked slowly to the windows. There was Nicator about half a mile astern, her topsails and jib very pale in the sunlight. Beyond her he could see the untidy formation of captured supply ships, and a French frigate which they had taken in tow until some of her damage could be put right.

Leaving Lysander. That was the very crux of it. All the weeks and months. The disappointments and moments of elation or pride. The heartbreaking work, the horrors of battle. Now it was behind him. Until the next time.

He heard the bang of hammers and the crisp sound of an adze, and pictured the work continuing about the ship. As it had from the moment that Grubb had reported the helm answering once more and they had cast off the French two-decker. It still seemed like some sort of miracle that the main French fleet had continued south-east towards Egypt. Perhaps de Brueys had still believed that Bolitho's little force had attacked his well-defended supply convoy as a further delaying tactic, and that some other fleet was already gathering across his path to Alexandria.

Battered and holed, her hull filling with water with each painful mile, Lysander had sailed with the wind, doing makeshift repairs, burying her dead, and tending the wounded, of whom there were many.

Then, with Nicator in company, they had sailed westward again, dreading another series of squalls almost as much as an enemy attack. But the French had other things on their minds, and days later when Lysander's lookouts had sighted a small pyramid of sails, Bolitho and the companies of both ships had watched with a mixture of awe and emotion as Harebell had run down towards them. In her wake, black and buff in the bright sunshine, had followed not a squadron but a fleet.

It had been a coincidence, and yet it was hard to accept that miracles had played no part.

Lieutenant Gilchrist in the badly damaged frigate Buzzard had not sailed directly to Gibraltar as ordered. Instead, and for no reason which had yet come to light, he had broken his passage at Syracuse. And there, resting and disillusioned after its fruitless sweep to Alexandria, was the fleet, with Nelson's flagship Vanguard in its centre.

Nelson had apparently needed no more than a hazy report to set him going once again. To Alexandria, where he had discovered the remaining French transports sheltering in the harbour. But to the north-east, anchored with rigid and formidable precision, much as Herrick had predicted, lay the French fleet.

With half of her company dead or wounded, Lysander had remained on the fringe of the fight. The Battle of the Nile, as everyone was calling it. It began in the evening and raged all night, and when dawn came up there were so many wrecks, so many corpses, that Bolitho could only marvel at man's ferocity.

Undeterred by the French line, and the fact that many of the ships were held together with cables to prevent a breakthrough, Nelson sailed around the end of the French defences and attacked them from the shoreside. For there was no heavy siege guns on the land to prevent him, and he was able to concentrate his skill and his energy against an equally determined enemy.

Although the French fleet was the larger, by dawn all but two of de Brueys's ships had struck or been destroyed. The remaining two had slipped away in the night after witnessing the most horrific sight of the whole battle. L’Orient, de Brueys's great flagship of one hundred and twenty guns, had exploded, damaging several vessels nearby, and having such an effect on both sides that momentarily the firing ceased.

De Brueys went with her, but the memory of his courage and endurance were as proudly remembered in the British ships as anywhere. With both legs shot off, the stumps bound with tourniquets, de Brueys had ordered that he be propped upright in a chair, facing his old enemy, and commanding his defences until the end.

Bonaparte's dream was ended. He had lost his entire fleet and over five thousand men, six times as many as the British. And his army stood at the mouth of the Nile, undefended and marooned.

It had been a great victory, and as he had watched the closing stages of the battle, the angry red flashes across the sea and sky, Bolitho had felt justly proud of Lysander's part in it.

Later, when he had sent his own report to the flagship, Bolitho had waited to discover the rear-admiral's reactions.

With his usual vigour, Nelson was preparing to put his fleet to sea again, but sent an officer by boat to Lysander with a short but warm reply.

You are a man after my own heart, Bolitho. The risk justifies the deed.

He had instructed Bolitho to escort the handful of prizes to Gibraltar and there take passage to England and report once more to the Admiralty. At no time did Nelson mention Captain Probyn's death. Which was just as well, as Herrick had pointed out.

He turned and looked at Herrick. 'It is a strange thing, Thomas, but Francis Inch is still the only one among us to have met "Our Nel".'

Herrick nodded. 'But his influence is here, nonetheless, sir. That letter from him and the fact that a broad pendant still flies above this ship, is far better than any handshake.'

Bolitho said, 'After all we've been through, I shall miss Lysander, Thomas.'

'Aye.' His round face saddened. 'Once at anchor, I will get the more serious work done. Although I fear she may never again stand in the line of battle.'

'When you arrive in England, Thomas.' He smiled. 'But then, I don't have to remind you, do I ? I will always need a loyal friend.'

'Never fear.' Herrick turned to watch a yawl surging past the quarter windows, its crew waving and cheering the battered seventy-four, their voices lost beyond the thick glass. 'If I can come, I'll come.'

Bolitho saw Ozzard locking his two large sea chests in readiness to be taken to a boat.

He said, 'I've made a lot of bad mistakes, Thomas. Too many.'

'But you found the answers, sir. That's all that matters.'

'Is it ?' He smiled. 'I wonder. I've certainly learned that it's no easier to decide who lives or dies just because you fly your flag above the end result.'

He glanced at the polished wine cabinet as two seamen started to wrap it around with sailcloth. Would he see her in London? Would there be anything more between them?

Some hours later, after the drawn-out crash of the salutes, the anchoring, and the necessary business of signing documents, Bolitho went on deck for the last time.

In the sunset, Gibraltar looked like a vast slab of coral, and the ship's yards and furled sails had a similar tint.

He walked slowly along the line of assembled faces, trying to stay impassive as he shook a hand here, spoke a name there.

Major Leroux, his arm in a sling. Old Ben Grubb, as fierce as ever as he mumbled, 'Good luck to 'e, sir.' Mewse, the purser, Lieutenant Steere, the midshipmen, no longer so nervous, but tanned and somehow aged in the months at sea.

He paused by the entry port and glanced down. Allday was already in the barge, very upright in his blue coat and nankeen breeches, as he watched over the oarsmen. They, too, looked different. In neat checked shirts and tarred hats, they were making a special effort for him.

Also in the boat was Ozzard, a small bundle of belongings in his thin arms, his eyes upturned to the ship. When Bolitho had asked him if he would like to be his permanent servant, he had been unable to answer. He had merely nodded, unable to accept that his life of hiding in one ship after another was over.

He turned and looked at Pascoe. 'Goodbye, Adam. I hope to see you again soon.' He gave the youth a quick handshake and to Herrick added, 'Take care of each other, eh ?'

Then he raised his hat to the side party and climbed down into the barge. As it pulled strongly beneath Lysander's great shadow he turned to look at her again.

Allday watched him, saw his expression as he listened to the cheering which burst from Lysander's deck and shrouds.

Bolitho said, 'There were a lot of faces missing back there.'

Allday replied, 'Never you fret on it, sir. We showed 'em, and that's no error!'

As the barge wended its way around another anchored man of war, Herrick, who had watched it until it was hidden from view, walked slowly aft to the poop deck, his shoes catching on the many splinter holes yet to be repaired. He turned as Pascoe came after him, the stained and torn broad pendant draped over his shoulder.

Pascoe smiled, but the sadness remained in his dark eyes.

'I thought you would want it, sir ?'

Herrick looked around his ship. Remembering.

'I've got all this, Adam.' He took the pendant. 'I'll send it to Captain Farquhar's mother. She has nothing left now.'

Pascoe left him by the broken nettings and crossed to the other side. But there was no sign of the barge and the Rock was already in deep shadow.