Both ships were evenly matched. Achates mounted more guns, but the enemy's heavier broadside was taking a terrible toll. One lucky shot was all it would take. He stared at Keen's shoulders, as if to will him to act. Close the range, Val. Get to grips before he dismasts you.

More cries and screams echoed through the crash and recoil of cannon, and a marine staggered away from the poop nettings, his hands to his face, his chest punctured by flying wood splinters.

'Jesus, what a mess!' Tyrrell limped between the trailing tackles and pieces of torn rigging which had found their way through the nets overhead.

Bolitho said, 'Get below. You're a civilian.'

Tyrrell winced as a ball shattered on the breech of a quarterdeck nine-pounder and splinters cracked around them and flung two more seamen into a puddle of their own blood.

Keen turned round and glared at Tyrrell. 'What the hell are you doing here?'

Tyrrell showed his teeth. 'Get that bugger alongside, Captain, your people can't keep up this pace!'

Keen looked at Bolitho. 'They'll know it's your flagship, sir!'

So that was it. Bolitho pulled out his old sword. 'Put the helm over. We'll give them a fight,' he raised his voice, 'eh, lads}'

He turned away as they cheered him. Half-naked, blackened by powder smoke, their sweat cutting channels through the grime, they were hardly the romantic heroes portrayed in the fine paintings he had seen in London.

He felt the madness welling up inside him. 'Lively there!'

The yards swung slightly as the helm went over, and within minutes the range had fallen to a cable, then half as much; then as the other ship's sails rose high above the nettings and muskets joined in the deafening onslaught, it was down to fifty yards and still closing.

The other captain had no choice. He could not turn and run. The land which had hidden him was now a deadly enemy, with breakers in plenty to show the lie of the reefs. If he tried to come about he would be all aback for those vital moments when Keen's gun crews would rake him from end to end.

There was a loud, splintering crack and voices yelled, 'Heads below there!' Part of the mizzen cross-jack yard ploughed through the nets, rebounded and crashed down in a welter of rigging, blocks and trailing canvas.

Bolitho felt a blow on the shoulder like an iron fist, then he was face down on the deck. His first thought was near to terror. Another wound. Fatal. Then he cursed into the smoke which had almost blinded him when his presence would be most missed.

He felt Adam holding his arm, his grimy face set in a grim stare, then Allday dragging something away from his back and easing him over on to his knees, then to his feet. A huge block, cut down by a shot through the mizzen rigging but swinging on its cordage like a bludgeon, had laid him low. He was not even cut, and he managed to force a grin as someone gave him his hat and another yelled, 'You'll show them buggers, sir!'

Bolitho faced the enemy, his eyes smarting, his shoulder throbbing from the blow. If it had struck his skull he would be dead at this very instant.

Musket shots punched into and through the packed hammocks, and wooden splinters flew from the quarterdeck or stood motionless like quill pens.

Axes flashed in the smoky sunlight, and more wreckage was hacked free and levered over the side with handspikes.

All the relentless gun and sail drill was showing its worth. When a man fell wounded, or was dragged away to await the surgeon's mates, another was instantly in his place from one of the opposite guns.

Now the marines could join in with their muskets, Sergeant Saxton counting out the time and tapping the deck with his boot as the ramrods rose and fell like one, and then as the muskets rose once more to the nettings he would shout, 'Take aim! Every shot a Don!' The crackle of musketry from the fighting tops showed that more marines were up there trying to mark down the enemy's officers.

Bolitho paced this way and that, his shoe catching a jagged splinter as the other ship's marksmen tried to hit him.

Closer, closer still, and the guns were thundering at almost point-blank range, their crews blinded and deafened as their feet and hands fought to keep control over their massive weapons.

'Cease firing!'

Quantock had to repeat the order before the last gun on the lower deck fell silent. As the enemy did likewise the other sounds broke through the stunned stillness. Men crying out in pain, voices calling for help, orders shouting for men to clear away the wreckage, to release the trapped wounded.

'Hard over!'

As the wheel went down Achates' jib-boom swept through the other ship's foremast shrouds like a battering ram. There was a terrible splintering sound and both hulls rocked together in a deadly embrace.

Men were running forward, leaving the guns to snatch up cutlasses and boarding pikes, axes and anything they favoured for hand-to-hand fighting.

Lieutenant Hallowes, his hat knocked awry, his hanger waving above his head, yelled, 'At 'em, lads!'

With a wild cheer the seamen raced to the point of collision to hack and slash their way across a glistening sliver of water.

Some were impaled by pikes as they clung to the boarding nets, others were shot down by marksmen even before they had left their own ship. But others were through, and as more followed Bolitho saw the fourth lieutenant dashing on to the enemy's larboard gangway, hacking down a shrieking figure with his hanger and slashing aside another before he was overtaken by his whooping, battle-crazed men, their cutlasses already reddened from the first challenge on the forecastle.

The marines were bustling to the side, their faces grim beneath their hats as they fired into the men along the enemy's quarterdeck, reloaded with less precision than usual and fired again.

Captain Dewar drew his sword. 'Forward, Marines!'

The scarlet coats and white cross-belts vanished into the smoke, the boots slipping on blood, the bayonets thrusting away any resistance as they joined the others on the enemy's deck.

Keen had gone forward to encourage his men, and Bolitho heard the seamen cheering, 'Huzza, huzza!' and even though some were falling to the enemy's fire others were already fighting their way on to the quarterdeck.

There was a great cry from Achates' boatswain. 'Fire! She's afire!'

Bolitho said, 'I can see the smoke!'

Tyrrell gripped the rail as he stared at the enemy who were suddenly throwing away their weapons and screaming for quarter as the wild-eyed sailors tore among them.

Bolitho called, 'Mr Hawtayne! Have your bugler sound the retreat! Stand by to cast off!"

A sullen explosion shook both ships and more black smoke gushed from the forecastle. If the ship burst into flames Achates would suffer the same fate.

Keen came back mopping his face, his eyes seeking out his lieutenants and master's mates as the truth made itself felt in another deep explosion.

Dragging their wounded, and fighting off any of the enemy who tried to follow, Achates' boarding party returned to their own ship.

With her wheel either shot away or abandoned, the enemy two-decker began to drift down-wind as soon as the last line was hacked free. Corpses bobbed in the sea between them, and others hung from the rigging where friend and foe alike had been shot down.

'Get the fore-course on her! Reset the flying jib! Hands aloft and loose t'gan's'ls!' Quantock's harsh voice echoed through the confusion like a steadying force.

A great tongue of flame licked through the enemy's gun-deck and started an explosion among some broken charges. Men were running through the corpses and destruction and nobody appeared to be trying to save them or their ship.

As the wheel went over Achates turned slowly aside from her stricken enemy, laying bare the damage, the bloody streaks on the planking, the discarded weapons, and the guns which still smoked as if under their own command.

Another explosion boomed across the water and fragments of burning wood and rigging splashed dangerously close to Achates as she continued to gather way, her punctured and smoke-grimed sails filling to the wind.

More explosions, and this time a gout of fire and sparks spouted from the midships section and began to spread to masts and canvas, until everything was burning fiercely. Rigging and canvas became ashes in seconds, men, some on fire, were leaping into the sea, others splashed about looking for something to keep them afloat as the ship continued to blaze above them.

Bolitho watched the other ship die, but in spite of Sparrowhawk could find little satisfaction. His men were cheering, embracing each other. They had lived through it. One more time, and for some it had been the first battle.

The Spanish frigate, which had remained a silent spectator to the fight, was moving cautiously towards the burning ship. She was going to stand between Achates and her victim, an act which made her just as guilty. Dead men tell no tales.

There was a vivid flash and a boom which stopped all the cheers like an iron door.

The other ship was turning on to her side, her gun-ports alight like a line of angry red eyes.

She was breaking up, her heavy artillery tearing loose to add to the horror and agony of those still trapped below.

Bolitho saw Midshipman Evans watching the other ship's last moment. But there was no joy on his face, just tears, and Bolitho knew why.

He was not seeing the rightful destruction of a callous enemy. It was his Sparrowhawk he was watching.

Bolitho said quietly, 'Attend to Mr Evans, Adam. His storm is about to break.'

Keen joined him and touched his hat.

Bolitho said, 'What is the butcher's bill for all this?'

They both turned as the air shook to a final explosion, and like a gutted whale the enemy rolled on to her side and dipped beneath the surface.

Keen replied quietly, 'That might so easily have been us, sir.'

Bolitho handed his sword to Allday. 'I get your point, Val. Then our bill is not yet fully paid?'

12

The Letter

Napier, Electro's youthful commander, stood exactly in the centre of Bolitho's day cabin while he completed his report.

Contrary to his orders, Napier had brought his brig to escort the battered two-decker for the last two miles of her passage into San Felipe.

Even as he had been piped aboard from his gig, Napier had seemed unable to prevent his eyes from probing around him. The sewn-up corpses awaiting burial, the tired, dirty sailors who barely glanced up from their countless tasks of splicing, stitching and hauling fresh rigging to the topmen on the yards.

Bolitho thought of those last moments. He still did not know the enemy ship's name. But soon he would, just as he would learn who had commanded her. The Spanish frigate had been careful to stand between the victor and defeated, to prevent, it seemed, any attempt to pick up survivors.

Napier said, 'Two Spanish men-of-war did stand inshore for a while. They were going to land a party at the island mission.'

He sounded surprised that Bolitho had not already questioned him about it. In fact, Bolitho was so fatigued he had barely skimmed over the commander's neatly written report.

Bolitho made himself stand and walk towards the open stern windows as Achates continued towards the island. He could still smell the heat and sweat of battle. The scent of death.

'What did you do?'

Napier relived his proudest moment as acting-governor.

'I warned them off, sir. Fired a shot from the battery to liven things along.'

Liven things along. Bolitho wanted to laugh, but knew if he did he might not be able to stop.

When and where would it end? Tyrrell had betrayed him, or had been about to. Now, not only the French were intent on San Felipe but the Spaniards also.

Keen entered the cabin and said, 'We are about to enter harbour, sir. The wind is steady from the sou'-east.'

He looked strained and extremely tired. He was feeling the ship's pain as if it were his own.

The pumps had barely stopped since the battle. Achates had taken two bad hits in her bilge. And a 'long nine', as a thirty-two-pounder was nicknamed, could do terrible damage. Achates was, after all, twenty-two years old. That represented a lot of miles under her keel.

'I'll come up.' Bolitho added bitterly, 'There may be some watching from the shore who will be disappointed to see us still afloat.'

He thought of the two Spanish men-of-war and their apparent intention to land men on what they still claimed as Spanish territory. But for Tyrrell's change of heart, the two ships would have been joined by the ship which now lay below a Caribbean reef.

Napier suddenly went pale. 'I — I do beg your pardon, sir. I had almost forgotten. There was a packet-ship from England.'

Bolitho stared at him and said sharply, 'Continue.' Napier fumbled inside his coat and then produced a letter. 'For you, sir.'

He seemed to shrink under Bolitho's gaze.

Keen snapped, 'Come on deck, Commander Napier, I wish to discuss certain matters about docking my ship . . . ' But he paused at the door and glanced back at Bolitho. He was holding the letter with both hands, afraid to open it, afraid to move.

He turned and almost bumped into the flag-lieutenant. 'Not yet, Adam. There's a letter.'

In the gloom between decks Allday leaned on a blistered eighteen-pounder and peered through the gun-port to watch a green finger of land slide abeam. There were people there to watch the stained and battered ship sail past, but nobody waved or cheered.

To Allday it was just another landfall. He had been in so many harbours they had become merged and mixed in memory. He sighed. That letter was all that mattered for now. He could remember as if it was yesterday when together they had clambered into the overturned coach and found a beautiful woman more dead than alive. The resemblance to Bolitho's previous wife had been too much to believe.

He cocked his head as a gun boomed out from the old fortress. Better than any mock tears, he thought. A proper welcome, though there were too many jacks who would not hear the guns now or ever again.

He straightened his back as the door opened in the cabin screen and the scarlet-coated sentry snapped to attention.

Bolitho ducked beneath the deckhead beams and then saw Allday waiting for him.

He looked at Allday's anxious features and felt his own strength begin to ebb away. The careful composure he had tried to build up as he had read carefully through her letter, the moments of despair when his gaze had become misty, each was taking a toll now on his reserves.

He paused and listened to the guns, the jarring response from Achates' upper deck as she returned the salute.

Then he reached out and grasped Allday's hard hand.

Allday asked thickly, 'Is all well, sir?'

Bolitho squeezed his hand. It was somehow right that he should be here. The first to know.

'We have a fine daughter, Allday.'

How long they stood like this it was hard to tell. Achates changed tack around the point, and on the poop the marine fifers and drummers struck up a lively march, Come cheer up my lads 'tis to glory we steer ... To Bolitho it could have been anything.

Allday nodded slowly, savouring the moment as he would retell it when he eventually put his feet ashore for the last time.

'And Ma'am, sir?'

'Very well.' Bolitho walked towards the sunlight. 'She asked to be remembered to you.' He quickened his pace on to the quarterdeck. Now he could face anything. Do anything. He looked at Allday's great beaming grin. 'She hopes we are not too bored by being employed in peacetime!'

Allday glanced up at the splintered cross-jack yard, the stains and marks of battle which were everywhere.

Then, despite the solemnity of the moment, a King's ship entering harbour, the salutes and the flag which dipped to Old Katie above the battery walls, he threw back his head and laughed.

Keen looked at him and then at Bolitho. The reward for the victor was plain to see.

Captain Valentine Keen watched his superior with unconcealed surprise and admiration. Since Achates' return to San Felipe the work of repairs, the replacement of timbers and spars, had continued without a break. The facilities in Georgetown were poor, and they had been confronted by non-cooperation and hostility at every turn.

English Harbour at Antigua was the only suitable place for a proper refit, but Keen was resigned to seeing his ship put to rights in what amounted to primitive conditions. If Achates quit the island he had little doubt that an invasion of some kind would soon follow.

He knew that Bolitho had not spared himself. He had been ashore many times, had visited the ex-governor, Rivers, had even allowed him to return to his own home under open arrest, although Keen had voiced his disagreement on that score.

It was late August and the heat unbearable. But any day, at any hour, the fortress lookouts might report the approach of Spanish ships, French too for that matter, and Achates had to be ready for sea and prepared if need be to fight.

Electra had sailed that forenoon for Antigua. Despatches for the admiral, if he had returned, and others to be sent with all haste to the Admiralty in London. All this and a lot more had kept Bolitho working in his cabin until the middle watches, and yet he never seemed to tire or show his irritation at the delays and lack of help from the islanders.

The letter from his wife in Falmouth had done more for Bolitho than a hundred victories, or so it seemed.

Bolitho looked up from the litter of papers on his table. It had been something of a relief to send Napier to Antigua with his ideas and intentions which Sheaffe would eventually read at the Admiralty. He had committed himself. Right or wrong, he had made a decision. It was what he had veered away from previously. Now he was glad, even eager, to act with a freedom he had once found hard to express.

'Rivers has agreed not to interfere. Others can decide later what will become of him.' He saw the deep lines around Keen's mouth and was moved to add, 'It has been a difficult time for you, Val. I understand that.'

Keen shrugged. 'Mr Quantock, the master, Mr Grace, the carpenter, all are in rare agreement, sir. If this ship is called on to fight without proper attention in a dockyard she may suffer severe consequences.'

Bolitho nodded. 'I know that. You are also short-handed because of our losses and with no chance of replacements.'

Keen said, 'If we do not get support from other ships, sir, we will be hard put to defend ourselves, let alone this island.'

'I have sent a full report, Val.'

Bolitho leaned over the stern sill and took some deep breaths. The air was scalding hot and without movement. Better to be at sea, becalmed even. Anything rather than stay here and wait. He thought of Belinda's letter which he had read at the end of each demanding day. A daughter. He could not visualize what she would be like. Belinda had written of her love, of her hopes, but he could read between the lines too. The birth had not been easy for her. It was just as well that she still believed his mission to be one of diplomacy and not one of danger.

Keen asked abruptly, 'What about Mr Tyrrell, sir?'

Bolitho bit his lip. He had sent Tyrrell over to his brigantine as soon as Achates had moored. They had spoken very little. Guilt or defiance, it was hard to tell. Yet.

He said, 'I shall see him directly, Val. I need his Vivid. She is all I can find at present.' He smiled at Keen's surprise. 'I intend to purchase her anyway, so she might as well sail under our flag for the present.'

'If you think that's wise, sir.'

'Wise? I am not certain of anything. But what I do know is that it will take several months to complete repairs on my flagship. In the meantime we may be attacked by the Dons. I cannot in all sensibility agree to hand over the island to the French until we have settled this matter once and for all. If there was any last minute conflict the French would be quick to blame us, accuse us of provoking a war so that they could not take over what is rightfully theirs.'

He watched Keen's face. He was unconvinced.

'I have this feeling, Val. That I was sent here to perform an impossible task. But if I am to be a scapegoat then I want to rest on my own decisions, not on those made by people who have never heard a shot or seen a man die.'

Keen nodded. 'Well, sir, I shall back you to the limit and beyond, but that you already know.'

Bolitho sat on the stern scat and plucked at his shirt to gain an illusion of coolness.

'When you attain flag-rank, Val, I hope you will remember all this. It is far better to sail in the line of battle with every enemy muzzle trained on the flagship than to sort through the dung of diplomacy. In a moment I shall speak with Jethro Tyrrell. He is a man who lost everything, but who once gave so much for the flag he honoured. He was a true patriot, but was branded a traitor by his own people. He has lived with bitter memories, as a wolf will live off scraps. But he still cares, and at that moment when he was about to betray us he stood firm and led us to the enemy. In his eyes it was madness. What is honour to him? It has done precious little to repay his sacrifices. He thought instead of saving us from harm, so that when we returned here the island would be under Spanish colours and it would be too late for me to do anything but report failure.'

Keen shook his head. 'Will you trust him again?'

'I hope to.'

Bolitho looked at the glittering water, the small vessels pinned down on their reflections by the glare.

'Rivers is a rogue. He became rich by offering favours to the scum of the Caribbean. Slavers, soldiers of fortune, pirates, all have paid him his dues. He has property in the South Americas, but needed his power as governor to take full advantage of the profits. I found some evidence in the fortress, but that is but the tip of an iceberg. I loathe him for his greed, but I need him if only to give some credibility to our being here.'

Keen listened to the renewed thud of hammers and the squeak of tackles as more cordage was hoisted aloft. He had had his own doubts from the beginning about sending a small two-decker to perform the work of a squadron. What was the matter with England? Instead of showing pride for past victories she seemed to cringe for fear of upsetting old enemies.

Keen would have hanged Rivers and anyone else who had shared in the deaths of his sailors and marines. The consequences could wait.

Bolitho had risen to his feet and was shading his eyes to watch the distant fortress. When he spoke he sounded untroubled, although his words held the impact of iron shot.

'You see, Val, I believe the United States are more concerned with improving their relations with the South Americas, the Spaniards and Portuguese. So Rivers' appeal for their protection rather than French reoccupation must have received a warm reception. I also believe that Samuel Fane, and certainly Jonathan Chase, have no illusions about the French, should there be another war in Europe.'

Keen stared at him, his tiredness forgotten. 'You mean that the United States' government connived with the Dons!'

'Not directly. But when you put your hand in a fox's hole you must expect to be bitten. The Spanish government could not afford to become openly involved so they employed a powerful privateer for the purpose. With Sparrowhaivk destroyed and local shipping too frightened to move, there was only Achates to prevent the seizure of San Felipe. Chase must have known about Tyrrell's past connections with me, just as he was well aware of his desperate need of a ship. The rest we can guess, but nobody had allowed for Tyrrell's old loyalty.'

Keen looked astounded. 'If you say so, sir. It is precious flimsy evidence to support your reputation at any future enquiry.'

'I agree. So we shall have to manufacture some.' Bolitho looked at him calmly. 'I'll see Tyrrell now. Please ask my flag-lieutenant to join me.'

Later, as Tyrrell limped into the cabin and lanterns were being lit for an early dusk, Bolitho faced his old lieutenant with a sense of sadness as well as determination.

Tyrrell took a proffered chair and laced his powerful fingers together.

'Well, Jethro.'

Tyrrell smiled. 'Well, Dick.'

Bolitho sat on the edge of the table and regarded him gravely.

'As these are British waters for the present I am using my authority to commandeer your vessel and place her under our colours.'

He saw a momentary start but nothing more. Tyrrell was too tough to be budged by one shock.

'Also, I am placing her under the temporary command of my nephew, who in his capacity of flag-lieutenant will carry a despatch with him to Boston.'

Tyrrell stirred and showed a first hint of uneasiness.

He exclaimed harshly, 'An' me? You intend to string me on the main-yard, eh?'

Bolitho pushed a letter across the table. 'Here is my authority to purchase the Vivid once you have returned to San Felipe. You see I kept my word. She'll be yours.'

He was barely able to watch Tyrrell's anguish, but continued, 'I have spoken with Sir Humphrey Rivers. To spare his own shame, and possibly his life, he will give me all the information I need about that Spaniard. If he changes his mind he has a choice of charges. Treason or murder. He will hang for either.'

Tyrrell stared at him then rubbed his chin. 'Chase will never agree to part with the Vivid.'

'I think he will.'

Bolitho looked away. It was all Tyrrell could think of. A ship of his own. A last chance.

Tyrrell stood up and looked around like a man already lost. 'I'll be on my way then.'

'Yes.' Bolitho sat and leafed through some papers. 'I doubt we shall meet again.'

Tyrrell turned almost blindly and started for the door. But Bolitho got to his feet, unable to play it out to the end.

Jethro, He walked round the table and held out his hand. 'You saved my life once.'

Tyrrell looked at him searchingly. 'An' you mine, more'n that."

'I just want to wish you good luck, and I hope you find whatever it is you're looking for.'

Tyrrell returned the grasp and said gruffly, 'There's none like you, Dick, nor never will be.' There was emotion in his voice now. 'I lived all those years again when I met your nephew. I knew then I couldn't go through with it, though God knows this island is not worth the dyin' for. But I know you, Dick, and I know your values. You'll not change.'

He gave a wide grin and for a brief moment he was the same man. The one in the little sloop-of-war in these very waters.

Then he limped away, and Bolitho heard the midshipman of the watch calling for a boat alongside.

Bolitho leaned against the bulkhead and looked at his hands. They felt as if they were trembling.

Allday emerged from the adjoining cabin as if he had been lurking there to protect him from attack.

'That was hard, Allday.' He tried to hear the dragging thump of Tyrrell's stump leg. 'I fear it may be harder on young Adam.'

Allday did not understand what he was talking about. The man called Tyrrell had been an old friend of Bolitho's, so everyone said. But to Allday he had seemed like a threat, and for that reason he was glad to be rid of him.

Bolitho said, 'I feel different, knowing that I have a daughter.'

Allday relaxed. The mood was past.

'One thing's for certain, sir. She'll be a welcome change. Two Bolithos on the high seas are enough for anyone, an' that's no error.'

For a brief moment he thought he had gone too far, but Bolitho looked at him and smiled.

'Well, then, let's broach a bottle and drink the young lady's health, eh?'

On the poop Adam heard Allday's laugh through a skylight and gripped the netting with sudden excitement. Across the darkening water he could see the Vivid's riding light, the faint glitter of a lantern from her tiny cabin.

Soon, far sooner than he had dared to hope, he would see and hold Robina in his arms. He could feel her kiss as if it had just been placed on his mouth, smell her perfume as if it was here on deck.

He was glad that Bolitho had seen fit to trust his old friend. It would be interesting to listen to his stories again once they had set sail from San Felipe.

The first lieutenant was doing his evening rounds of the upper deck and saw Adam's silhouette against the sky.

Quantock clenched his fists. It was unfair. He should have been given charge of the Vivid, no matter how brief it was to be. Damn them all to hell. If Achates returned to England in her present state she would likely be paid off like most of the fleet. Quantock knew he would be thrown on the beach to join the ranks of unwanted lieutenants without any chance of employment.

He swore at the evening sky. Damn peace! In war there was risk, but at the same time there was always a chance of promotion and honour.

The Bolithos and those like them had always had it. He peered around the deserted deck. My turn will come.

Achates swung quietly to her cable and, like the men who lay on the orlop within the surgeon's call, nursed her own wounds of battle.

In her crowded mess between the great guns below deck the seamen and marines sat by their glimmering lights and yarned with each other, or consumed their carefully hoarded rum. Some with tarred hands surprisingly gentle carved small and intricate models or scrimshaw work. One seaman who had the gift of being able to write sat beneath a lantern while one of his messmates stumbled through a letter for his wife in England. In the Royal Marines' quarters, or the barracks as they were known, the men worked on their kit, or thought of that last battle, and the next which, although nobody mentioned it, they knew was inevitable.

Down on the orlop where the air was thick as fog, James Tuson, the surgeon, wiped his hands and watched as one of the badly wounded had his face covered and was carried away by the loblolly boys. He had died just a minute or so ago. With both feet amputated it was better so, Tuson thought.

He looked along his small, pain-wracked command. Why? What was it all for?

These sailors did not fight for flag or King as so many landsmen fondly believed. The surgeon had been at sea for twenty years and knew this better than most. They fought for each other, the ship, and sometimes for their leader. He thought of Bolitho standing on deck, his stricken expression as these same men had cheered him for taking them into hell. Oh yes, they would fight for him.

As he ducked beneath the massive deck beams he felt a hand touch his leg.

Tuson stooped down. 'What is it, Cummings?'

A surgeon's mate raised a lantern so that he could see the wounded man better. He had been hit in the chest by an iron splinter. It was a marvel he had survived.

The man called Cummings whispered, 'Thankee for takin' care of me, sir.' Then he fainted.

Tuson had seen too many men crippled and killed to feel much emotion, but this sailor's simple gesture broke through his guard like a fist.

When he was working he was too busy to care for the crash and rumble of guns on the decks above. The procession of wounded men always seemed as if it would never end. He rarely even looked up at his sweating assistants with their wild eyes and bloodied aprons. No wonder they call us butchers. A leg off here, an arm there, the naked bodies held on the table while he worked with blade and saw, his ears deaf to their screams.

But afterwards, at moments like these, he felt differently. Ashamed for the little he could do for them. Ashamed too for their gratitude.

The surgeon's mate lowered the lantern and waited patiently.

Tuson continued along the deck and tried to shut from his mind the tempting picture of a brandy bottle. If he gave in now, he would be finished. It was what had driven him to sea in the first place.

Somewhere in the gloom a man cried out sharply.

Tuson snapped, 'Who was that?'

'Larsen, sir, the big Swede.'

Tuson nodded. He had taken off the man's arm. It sounded as if it had grown worse, maybe even gangrene. In which

case . . .

He said briskly. 'Have him brought to the table.'

Tuson was calm again. In charge. He watched the figure being carried to the sick-bay. A Swede. But in a King's ship nationality did not count.

'Now then, Larsen ..."

Bolitho was with Keen on deck when the brigantine Vivid slipped her mooring and tacked slowly towards the harbour entrance.

He raised a telescope and scanned the little vessel from bow to stern and saw Adam standing beside Tyrrell's powerful figure near the tiller, his uniform making a smart contrast with the men around him.

Whatever he found in Boston might hurt him, but would not break his heart. Bolitho knew he must not interfere, must face the risk of turning Adam against him when he would have offered anything to prevent it.

Keen was reading his thoughts. 'He may not even see the lass, sir.'

Bolitho lowered the glass and allowed the brigantine to become a small model again.

'He will. I know exactly how he feels. Exactly.'

The headland slid out to shield Vivid from view. Only her topsail and driver showed above the land, and then as she changed tack again they too were gone.

Keen respected Bolitho in everything, but he could not understand why he had bothered to pay good money to give Tyrrell the Vivid. He should have felt lucky to be spared the hangman's halter. Then he looked at Bolitho's profile and saw the sadness there. Whatever there had once been between him and Tyrrell would not be shared with anyone, he thought.

Bolitho turned his back to the sea.

'Now we must prepare the defences of this island, Val.' He pounded his fist into his other hand. 'If only I had some more ships I'd stand out to sea and meet them gun to gun.'

Keen said nothing. Bolitho was certain of an attack. The Peace of Amiens meant nothing out here, especially to the Spaniards. He looked at the glistening horizon and wondered. But for Tyrrell's change of heart they might be out there now, and San Felipe under another flag. Rivers had played a dangerous game by setting one against the other, but it seemed to Keen that only Achates would pay for the consequences.

Bolitho clapped him on the arm. 'Why so grim, Val? Never turn your face away from what is inevitable.'

He seemed in such high spirits Keen was shaken from his apprehension immediately.

He said, 'Where would you like to begin, sir?'

It was infectious. Keen had watched it happen before so many times. When he himself had been nearly killed in battle, that too had been described as a time of peace.

'We will obtain some horses and ride around the island. Check each vantage point against Mr Knocker's chart and any local map we can discover.' Bolitho pointed at the haze around the old volcano. 'The island is like a great juicy bone, Val. And now the hounds of war are taking up their positions around us.'

He had seen the anxiety on Keen's face, and if he was dismayed at the prospect of fighting an undeclared war over San Felipe, so too would be most of his ship's company.

Bolitho did not really need to ride round the island, he could picture its strength and its weakness as he had gauged it on the charts. But he needed Keen and the others to know he was determined to stand firm. To hold the island until he was certain in his mind of the right course to take.

The wound in his thigh throbbed and itched in the humid air and he wanted to rub it.

Why was he troubled by the prospect of a siege or an open attack? Was it because of Belinda, or was it the chance of action which drove him on?

He thought suddenly of Sir Hayward Sheaffe's quiet room at the Admiralty. It seemed like another world now, with the fortress and the spent volcano shimmering across the placid water. But Sheaffe's words were quite clear, as if he had just uttered them. 'Their lordships require a man of tact as well as action for this task.'

Bolitho thought of Midshipman Evans' expression when the nameless two-decker had burst into flames. Of the shocked surprise on the dead marine drummer's face. He thought too of Duncan and others he had not even known.

The man of tact would have to step down for a while.

13

A Holy Day

Adam Bolitho stood by a window in Jonathan Chase's study and stared at the unending ranks of white horses across Massachusetts Bay. Just an hour ago he had been brought ashore in Vivid’s boat and had been met by Chase's astonished agent. In fact, Vivid"s return to Boston under British colours had caused quite a stir along the waterfront.

It was like part of a dream. Chase had made him welcome at his house, but had seemed restrained, cautious even, as Adam had given him the big sealed envelope from his uncle.

He shivered, conscious of the New England weather, the restless change in the September Atlantic. He thought of San Felipe and felt strangely guilty. The worst part was that it did not seem real, any of it. He was here, and Chase had mentioned before he had left in some haste to read Bolitho's letter that Robina and her mother were also in Boston and might be expected shortly.

Adam turned and looked at the fine room with its paintings and nautical relics. The right place for a man like Chase, he thought, an ex-sailor, ex-enemy too, who now had his roots here.

He thought of the ten days' passage from San Felipe to Boston. How different from that other occasion when he had yarned away the hours with Jethro Tyrrell. This time, despite the cramped conditions of the brigantine, he had barely spoken to Tyrrell, and then only on vague matters of navigation and weather.

And why had his uncle made the offer to purchase Vivid for him, and why should Chase be prepared to sell? None of it made much sense, but then none of it seemed to matter now that he was back here with the prospect of meeting Robina again.

'I am sorry for keeping you waiting.'

Chase was a powerfully built man and yet he had re-entered the study as noiselessly as a cat.

He seated himself carefully in a chair and said, 'I have read your uncle's letter and have ordered that the other one which he enclosed be carried immediately to Sam Fane at the capital.' He regarded the lieutenant thoughtfully. 'Strange he should send you.'

Adam shrugged. He had not really considered it before.

'I was available, sir. Captain Keen needs all his own officers aboard the flagship.'

'Hmmm. Your uncle once told me he hates politics, but he seems to understand them well enough.' He did not explain but continued, 'As you will have observed when you entered Boston Harbour, the French men-of-war have gone. News travels on the wind. The French admiral will have no wish to insist on receiving San Felipe from the British until the position is made clear.'

'But the French and Spanish governments have been allies more often than not, sir.'

Chase smiled for the first time. 'The French would need Spain as an ally if there was another war. If there is to be any conflict over San Felipe the French intend it shall not be of their making. It would suit them very well if your ships withdraw under a cloud after they have repulsed any Spanish claims to the island. Then, and only then, the French admiral will see fit to assume control and install a governor.'

Adam said, 'I think it wrong to gamble with people's lives in this fashion.'

Chase nodded. 'Possibly, but San Felipe is a fact. In war or peace it commands an important sea route. The government of my country would prefer to see it in friendly hands, better still, under our own protection. That was what Sir

Humphrey Rivers suggested. As Vice-Admiral Bolitho's aide, you will of course know all about it. I can see that you are as sharp as your uncle in such matters, and you will have realized that Rivers, despite all his claims of loyalty to King George, is hell-bent on being his own man. He played a dangerous hand by discussing the island's future with Spain or, to be precise, with the Spanish captain-general at La Guaira. A secret shared is no longer a secret.' He gave a heavy sigh. 'Anyway, it is impossible to share anything with a tiger.'

He watched Adam's reactions and saw that he had his full attention.

'I can speak freely to you because neither of us has any control over the affair. I was aware of the Spanish interest because I trade with both the captain-general at La Guaira and his neighbour in Caracas. They have always thought their own government to be out of touch with their expanding empire in the South Americas. Every week the slave ships bring more labour for the mines and the plantations, and they probably pass the great galleons of Spain on passage home loaded to their deck beams with gold. San Felipe's position has threatened their freedom of movement in the past. They intend it shall not happen again.'

Adam had a sudden picture of Achates at San Felipe with some of her yards sent down for repair work being carried out by the ship's company which really needed the proper skills of a dockyard.

He exclaimed, 'That two-decker . . .

Chase smiled gravely. 'The one you sunk? Oh yes, Lieutenant, I heard all about that from my own sources. Like the wind, remember? She was the Intrepido, and was refitted at Cadiz and armed to be a match for anyone foolhardy enough to interfere with her intentions. A privateer, a hired adventurer, call him what you will, but her captain was ordered to sweep aside all opposition and take command of the island. Later a proper governor would be installed and the Spanish flag would be raised, to, I suspect, small interference from either the British or the French. Your government would be too embarrassed to waste more time and lives on a lost cause, and the French would raise no objection as it would put Spain under obligation for any future strategy on their part.' He leaned back in his chair and added, 'Does that explain?'

Adam nodded, confused and sickened by the apparent simplicity of such cruel logic.

Chase said, 'But things are never what they seem. The Dons thought like the Dons. Quick, clever, ruthless, but they had failed to take your uncle's stubbornness into their scheme of things. Nevertheless, he is the one I pity. He is the one man who stands between the Spaniards and their claim to San Felipe. I believe all this was known when he was sent here in the first place. I mean no disrespect, but the British can be devious in their negotiations. What does honour matter to some when it concerns events on the other side of the world, eh?'

'I cannot believe it, sir. My uncle will stand firm.'

Chase looked concerned. 'Of course, I'm sure of that if nothing else. But without the islanders to back him, what can he do? Stand and fight?'

Adam clenched his hands so tightly that the pain made his eyes smart.

'He will!'

Chase looked away, as if unable to watch his despair. 'Then God help him.'

The door swung open and Adam heard the girl ask excitedly, 'Where have you hidden him, Uncle? And what is all this stuff about you selling the Vivid, she's a favourite of yours!'

She turned and saw him by the window and gasped with surprise.

'You really are here!' She ran to him and kissed him lightly on the cheek. 'Now everything is wonderful!'

Adam did not dare to touch or hold her, and could see the anguish on Chase's grim features across her shoulder.

Chase said heavily, 'Vivid has always been on the small side for my fleet. Tyrrell has earned her twice over."

He kept his eyes on Adam's and said nothing about Bolitho's money.

He moved towards the door, his face still on the young couple by the window.

There was no easy way, and his tone was almost brutal as he said, 'Vivid must weigh before nightfall. Lieutenant Bolitho here will have important news for his uncle, isn't that so?'

Adam nodded slowly, hating him, yet admiring him at the same time.

For how long they stood together he did not know. He held her to him, murmuring lost words into her hair, while she clasped his shoulders as if still unable to realize what was happening.

Then she leaned back in his arms and stared at him as she asked, 'Why? What does anything matter now? We shall have each other! Everything we've ever wanted! So why?'

Adam brushed a strand of fair hair from her eyes, all his hopes and happiness spilling away like sand in a glass.

'I have to go back, Robina. Your uncle knows why. He can explain better than I.'

Her eyes flashed with sudden anger. 'How can it concern you? You are only a lieutenant, why should he discuss such things?'

Adam held her firmly as she tried to force herself away.

'There has been a lot of fighting. Our ship sank an enemy but we were badly damaged too.' He felt her arms go limp as his words struck home. 'My uncle discovered what dangers threatened the island, and who was behind them. He sent me here to give his despatches to your uncle, so that this information could be sent to your president.'

She watched his eyes and his mouth as he spoke. 'But why should it involve my uncle or any of my family?'

Adam shrugged wretchedly. 'Because they were involved. They knew the Spanish intentions long ago, your uncle as good as told me just now. Apparently it would not suit your government to have either the French flag or ours flying above San Felipe. But now that my uncle has brought it into the open, nobody else will dare to interfere.' He could not hide the bitterness even from her. 'So my uncle stands alone to act as he must.'

She stepped away, her eyes towards the floor as she said in a small voice, 'Then you do not intend to make your life here among us?'

'It is not like that! I love you with all my heart.' 'And yet you deny me this?'

Adam moved towards her but she took two paces away. 'It's my duty —

She looked at him again, her eyes hot with tears. 'Duty! What do I care about that! We are both young, like this country, so why should you throw your heart away for a meaningless word like duty’

Adam heard Chase in the passage-way, and other, lighter footsteps, Robina's mother.

They both appeared in the doorway, Chase's face stern and determined, the woman's pale with anxiety.

Chase asked bluntly, 'You told her then?'

Adam met his gaze evenly. 'Some of it, sir.'

'I see.' He sounded relieved. 'Your Mr Tyrrell seems eager to leave. The wind's backing ..." His voice trailed away.

'Thank you.' Adam turned and looked at the girl, the others unimportant and misty as he said, 'I meant every word. One day I'll come back and then . . .

She dropped her eyes. 'It will be too late.'

Chase took his arm and accompanied him through the beautifully panelled entrance hail. A black footman opened the outer door and Adam saw the cold blue squares of sea and sky beyond it, mocking him.

Chase said quietly, 'I'm sorry, I really am. But it's all for the best, you'll see that one day.'

Adam walked down the steps and saw Tyrrell waiting by the gates. He watched the lieutenant's face every foot of the way and then with his swinging, limping gait fell in step beside him.

'You decided then?'

'It was decided for me.' Adam could barely see where he was walking in his despair and pain.

'I ain't so sure about that, Lieutenant.' Tyrrell shot him a glance. 'I can guess how you feel.'

Adam looked at him, his voice angry. 'Why the difference? On passage here you barely said a word?'

Tyrrell grinned. 'Just wanted to be sure about you. You could'a stayed put right here.'

He quickened his pace as his eyes found the moored brigantine.

'But, like me, Lieutenant, you couldn't bargain away your loyalty.'

They stood together on the jetty and waited as a boat cast off to collect them.

Once Tyrrell looked at Adam's face and then across to his new possession. Tyrrell knew all about having a broken heart. He had learned it in a dozen ways. But a ship of your own was something else.

He clapped the lieutenant roughly on the shoulder.

'Come along, young fella, we'll catch wind and tide for once.'

Adam hesitated and looked back but the house was completely hidden from view.

He repeated what he had told her just moments earlier. 'I love you with all my heart.'

He had not realized he had spoken aloud, and Tyrrell was moved to say, 'You'll soon forget. Only dreams last forever.'

Bolitho climbed the last of the stone stairs to the fortress's battery parapet and discovered that he was not even breathless. It must be the change from shipboard life.

It was early morning, the air cool and damp from a heavy overnight downpour. It was so typical of all the islands hereabouts, he thought. Drenching rain at night and yet within an hour or two of sunrise the place would be bone-dry again.

Lieutenant George Lemoine, who commanded the platoon of the Sixtieth Regiment of Foot, touched his hat and smiled.

'I heard you were up and about early, sir.'

Bolitho leaned on the parapet and stared down at the shining harbour. A lot of the anchorage was still in shadow, but soon the sun would appear around the old volcano and the ships, like the town beyond, would quiver in another morning haze. He could see the black and buff lines of Achates' gun-decks, and wondered if Keen was still fretting about mounting lists of needs for his command.

They were running short of fresh stores. Even drinking-water had to be man-handled in casks by the seamen. There was still no sign of cooperation from the islanders, who showed their resentment by pleading poverty even when it came to fresh fruit or juices for the sailors.

Bolitho had done all he could to get to know the islanders. As admiral in command, governor and in charge of the island's defences he had seen the hopelessness of the situation. The planters and traders resented the fact that they could not move their vessels in or out of harbour, while ships which called at San Felipe to collect cargoes had to be checked before they could be allowed to anchor. It needed a full garrison and several ships to perform what Lemoine's soldiers and the marines had to carry out unaided.

Bolitho breathed in deeply. He saw his barge tied to the fortress's jetty where he had first met Rivers over three months ago. Down there too was the point where Rivers' men had fixed their boom, where Achates had burst through in pitch-darkness. Battles fought, men dead and wounded, probably a trifle to the planners in government and Admiralty.

Now it was late September, and Adam should be back at any moment. He thought of his purchase of Vivid. Reward or bribe? He still could not be sure of his own motives.

He thought too of Falmouth. Autumn. Red and brown leaves, the smell of wood smoke in the evenings. Resolute, cheerful people, now at peace because of ships like Achates.

No, not him. Tyrrell was too old a hand to be caught at this early hour.

He moved his glass again and saw the opposite headland shaking itself from the shadows. He could see the leap of surf around the reefs, and the further necklace of rocks by the point named Cape Despair, probably with some justification.

Feet clattered on the stairs and a runner barked our his report to Lemoine who in turn said, 'Message from your flagship, sir. All boats lowered and patrols alerted.'

Bolitho could see them in his mind. Small pickets of marines, backed up by volunteers from the local militia. A puny enough force, but properly used it could prevent any attempt at landing men through the reefs. There was only one safe way, and that was the one which Keen had used. And old Crocker with his heated shot would do his best if the enemy tried to force the entrance.

Sunlight ran down the slopes and laid bare the water at the harbour mouth. Bolitho trained his glass again and saw the guard-boat moving slowly below the land, a midshipman in the stern-sheets, probably enjoying his own freedom of command.

Lemoine said, 'There she is, sir!'

The ship appeared around the headland, sails emptying and then refilling instantly as she changed tack. She was a large vessel, and Lemoine said, 'Indiaman, sir, I know her, she's the Royal James and was in Antigua several months back.'

Men were leaning through the gun embrasures, and others ran along the jetty below to see what was happening.

Bolitho made up his mind. 'I'm returning to the flagship, Mr Lemoine. You know what to do here.' He was halfway down the stairs before the lieutenant had time to reply.

The bargemen came to life, and Allday jumped to his feet as Bolitho appeared half-running through the gate.

'To the ship, Allday.'

He ignored their startled glances and tried to discover what was troubling him. The Indiaman should be able to reach safety unless her pursuers gained a lucky hit and brought down a vital spar or two. But with this powerful south-east wind the other ships would soon have to stand away from a lee shore or face the havoc of the guns. In broad daylight Crocker could not miss.

The oars rose and fell, and with each powerful stroke the barge seemed to fly across the water as if eager to lift over it.

Bolitho seized Allday's arm. 'Alter course! Steer for the headland!' When Allday hesitated he shook it and shouted, 'I must be blind! Lemoine told me without knowing it. This is a very holy day!'

Allday swung the tiller so that the barge heeled over, but not a man aboard missed his stroke.

'Aye, if you says so, sir.'

He thinks I'm mad. Bolitho said urgently, 'And yet on this St Damiano's Day there was not a single movement from the mission!'

Allday stared at him blankly.

Bolitho looked around for the guard-boat but it was too close inshore, near the entrance, and every eye would be watching and waiting for the Royal James to burst into view round the point.

Bolitho banged his hands together. I should have seen it.

'Are the men armed?'

Allday nodded, his eyes slitted against the early sunlight.

'Aye, sir, cutlasses and three pistols.'

He darted a glance at Bolitho's face, knowing something was about to happen, yet held back from asking in front of the bargemen.

'It will have to suffice.' Bolitho pointed at a tiny patch of sand. 'Beach her there.'

As the bargemen tossed their oars and the boat glided into the protection of a high slope of land it seemed suddenly peaceful.

'Clear the boat.' Bolitho climbed over the side and felt the sea tugging at his legs as he waded ashore. Cutlasses and three pistols against what? He said, 'Send a man to fetch the patrol from the point. Tell him to stay out of sight.'

Allday watched him anxiously. 'Is it an attack, sir?'

Bolitho took one of the pistols and then picked up a heavy cutlass from the pile of weapons on the beach. Now, of all times, he had come ashore unarmed.

'The mission. I feel there is something wrong.'

The men gathered up their weapons and followed him obediently up the steep slope and across the long piece of headland.

The wind was quite strong, and Bolitho felt the sand whipping from the tough gorse and scrub which always looked so inviting from seaward.

He saw the huddled buildings of the mission on the little islet, the deserted beach, the air of utter desolation. Not even any smoke to betray a fire or sign of life.

He heard far-off cheering, the voices thinned by the wind, like children at play. He paused and looked across the harbour entrance and the old fortress with the flag curling above it. The shouts were most likely from the guard-boat as the big Indiaman suddenly loomed above the headland and headed towards safety.

There was a large boat towing astern, but other than that few hands on deck to shorten sail once the ship had reached the anchorage. At that moment he saw the guard-boat sweep into view, the midshipman raising a speaking-trumpet to his lips as he shouted at the incoming ship.

Bolitho tore his eyes away and looked at his handful of seamen. Keen and the others could take care of the Royal James now. He had seen the raked sails of a frigate rounding -to as she stood away from the land as her quarry slipped beneath the fortress battery.

Allday said, 'The boats have gone, sir.'

Bolitho stared at the little islet. It was true. The fishing boats had vanished. Perhaps that was the simple explanation for it. The monks or missionaries had gone fishing. Food must often come before prayer.

'Look, sir!'

Allday's cry made him turn towards the nearest line of rocks. They were no longer deserted but alive with scrambling, running figures, the sunlight glittering on swords and bayonets.

'Soldiers!' Allday raised a pistol, his chest heaving with alarm. 'A hundred o' the buggers at least!'

There were a few shots, distant and without menace until the balls whined overhead or smacked into the hard sand.

'Take cover!'

Bolitho saw the bargeman with two marines from a patrol running along the edge of the land. One fell instantly, and the others vanished from sight.

Then there was a muffled explosion. It was more of a feeling than a sound. As if all the air had been sucked from your lungs.

As Bolitho rolled on to his side and looked back to where they had left the barge he saw the Royal James give a great convulsion. Then every gun-port along her side burst open, but instead of muzzles he saw searing tongues of flame shooting out, then leaping above to lick and consume sails and spars with terrifying speed. The boat which had been towing astern had cast off and was being rowed back towards the entrance.

Allday whispered, 'A fire-ship!'

Bolitho saw his eyes gleam in the growing wall of fire, could even feel the heat across the water like an open furnace as the wind fanned the towering flames and drove the abandoned ship unerringly up the harbour. Straight for the moored Achates.

More shots ripped above the headland, and Bolitho heard the yells of the oncoming soldiers.

Without Achates there was no hope, no protection, and the fortress battery had guarded her killer from destruction.

Allday peered at him, his eyes wild. 'Fight, sir?'

Bolitho hung back. Was that all there was to it? To die here on this desolate place for nothing? Then he recalled the drummer-boy as he had covered his face.

He stood up and balanced the heavy blade in his hand.

'Aye, fight!'

On either side of him the bargemen stood up and shook their cutlasses.

Bolitho tried to shut out the terrible roar of flames and fired his pistol at the line of soldiers. There was no time to reload. There was no time for anything.

He bounded across some loose stones and hacked aside a man's sword with such force that he fell headlong down the slope.

The clash of steel on steel and a few haphazard shots, it was less then enough. Bolitho felt figures pressing around him, staring eyes, teeth bared in hate or desperation, as the overwhelming number of soldiers drove them back towards the water. He slashed out with all his strength and saw a man's face open from ear to chin, felt his cutlass jar on ribs as he knocked down another's guard and drove the blade into him.

He heard a gasp and with horror saw Allday fall among the struggling, stabbing figures.

'Allday!'

He knocked a soldier aside and tried to reach him. It was no use. Not for a gesture. His own pride.

Bolitho dropped his blade. 'Enough/'

Then ignoring the levelled weapons he fell on his knees and tried to turn Allday on to his back. At any second he expected to feel the hot agony of steel enter his body, but he no longer cared.

The soldiers stood motionless, either too stunned by the ferocity of the brief action or too impressed by Bolitho's rank, it was impossible to tell.

Bolitho bent over him to shield his eyes from the glare. There was blood on his chest, a lot of it.

Bolitho said desperately, 'You're safe now, old friend. Rest easy until . . .

Allday opened his eyes and looked up at him for several seconds.

Then he whispered, 'Hurts, sir. Real bad. Th' buggers have done for poor John this time ..."

A seaman dropped beside him. 'Sir! Th' Dons are runnin' away!'

Bolitho glanced up and saw the soldiers running and limping towards the rocks where they had left their boats.

It was not difficult to find the reason. A line of horsemen, with Captain Masters of the San Felipe Militia, were cantering over the sky-line, sabres drawn, their approach all the more menacing because of the silence.

Masters wheeled his horse and dismounted, his face shocked beyond belief.

'We saw what you tried to do.' The words fell out of him. 'Some of us decided to head them off."

Bolitho looked at him, his eyes seeing nothing but the man's shadow and the great pall of smoke from the chaos in the harbour.

'Well, you're too late!'

He prised the cutlass from Allday's hand and flung it after the disappearing soldiers.

He felt Allday grip his wrist, and saw him looking at him again, his eyes tight with pain.

Allday muttered, 'Don't take on, sir. We beat th' buggers, an' that's no error.'

Boots pounded over the sand and more red coats appeared on every side.

Bolitho said, 'Take him carefully, lads.'

He watched four soldiers carry Allday down towards the barge. There were explosions in the distance and voices were calling from every direction. They needed him. There was no time for grief. He had heard that often enough.

But he hurried after the soldiers and gripped Allday's arm.

'Don't leave me, Allday. I need you.'

Allday did not open his eyes but seemed to be trying to smile as they lowered him into the boat.

When Bolitho reappeared above the beach the sunlight glanced off his bright epaulettes and a few militiamen gave a cheer.

One of the bargemen, his wounded arm tucked inside his shirt, paused to glare at them.

'Cheer, yew buggers, will yew? 'Cause yew'm safe fer a bit?' He spat contemptuously at their feet. He jerked his head towards Bolitho's shoulders. "E's worth more'n yew an' the whole bloody island!"

Bolitho strode through the scrub, some of which had been set alight by drifting sparks from the fire-ship.

Another attack might come at any moment. Keen would be needing help. But nothing seemed to have any substance.

Allday could not die. Not like this. His was the strength of an oak. He must not die.

14

No Better Sentiment

There were cries of horror and dismay as the harbour entrance was suddenly filled with flames and billowing black smoke. To any sailor fire was one of the greatest enemies. In storm or shipwreck there was always a chance. But when fire rampaged between decks, where everything was tarred, painted or tinder-dry, there was no hope at all.

Lieutenant Quantock dragged his eyes from the blazing Indiaman and shouted, 'What shall we do, sir?' Hatless, and with his hair blowing in the wind, he looked wild and totally unlike Achates' normally grim-faced second in command.

Keen gripped the rail and made himself face the oncoming inferno. Sparrowhawk, the Spanish privateer and now his own Achates. There was no time to kedge the ship along the harbour. Anyway, most of the boats were away on picket duty.

He could feel Quantock staring at him, sailors nearby frozen in various attitudes of alarm and disbelief. One moment they had been jubilant as the Indiaman had passed beneath the battery's defences. The next, and the enemy was right here among them and intent on burning them alive.

Keen knew the signs well enough. Hesitation, then panic. Nobody could be asked or commanded to stand and await death like a beast at slaughter.

Thank God he had had the ship cleared for action after Midshipman Evans had brought the message from Bolitho.

'Mr Quantock! Load and run out the larboard battery, both decks!' He punched the lieutenant's arm. 'Move yourself!'

Calls trilled and men jerked from their various stances to obey the order. With trucks squeaking on both decks of Achates' larboard side, the one which lay helpless to the fire-ship, the guns were run out.

Keen felt the smoke stinging his eyes as he tried to gauge the progress of the other vessel. Her sails were charred remnants and her foremast was burned to a stump. But the wind was all she needed to carry her to her victim. Even as he watched he saw the Indiaman brush almost gently against a moored topsail schooner. Just a mere touch and in seconds the vessel was fiercely ablaze, her anchor-watch splashing in the water alongside.

'Ready, sir!' Quantock sounded desperate.

Keen found himself thinking of Bolitho. Where was he? Had he gone with some of the patrols to repel an attack from one of the beaches? He tightened his stomach muscles. Maybe Bolitho was dead.

'As you bear!'

He walked to the quarterdeck rail and looked at his gun crews, as he would if they were engaging a living enemy.

'Fire!'

In the confined harbour the roar of the broadside was like a giant thunder-clap. Keen watched the mass of iron show its passage across the water like an opposing wind, felt the deck sway over as if the ship was trying to free herself and escape.

He saw the fire-ship stagger, spars and burning fragments fall around her in tall columns of steam.

'Reload! Steady, men!' That was Mountsteven with his guns.

Keen shouted, 'Mr Rooke! Send some hands aloft to douse the sails. Put some others along the gangway.'

The boatswain nodded and hurried away bawling orders. He knew that buckets of water hauled to the upper yards, or flung down over the exposed tumblehome would be next to useless. Like trying to put out a forest fire with a mouthful of spit. But it kept them busy and occupied. No time to feel terror, no time to abandon ship until the last, disciplined moment.

'Fire!'

Keen saw the broadside smash into the Indiaman's forecastle and felt sick with despair as great gouts of flame burst through the holes made by the iron shot.

The master said in a whisper, 'We'll not stand her off, sir.'

Keen did not look at him. Knocker was a careful man and had probably unshipped his chronometer so that it would not go down with the ship.

Keen looked at the grim-faced gun crews with their rammers and sponges, the menacing way that the smoke was curling between the ratlines and shrouds as if the rigging was already ablaze.

He could do nothing to save her. This fine ship which had seen and done so much. Old Katie, they called her. And now . . .

Quantock raised his speaking-trumpet. 'Fire!'

Tuson, the surgeon, hovered by the ladder, and Keen said, 'You wish to get your wounded on deck?'

That, if anything, might snap the last strand of order. There were not any of Dewar's marines aboard to prevent the stampede once it began. He saw the grateful look in Tuson's eyes and was glad of what he had done.

Goddard, the quartermaster, yelled, 'Look yonder, lads!'

The Indiaman had bumped against another moored craft and that too was well alight, sparks shooting from her hold and adding to the horror.

But it was not that which Goddard had seen.

Keen stared until his eyes throbbed with pain as the little brigantine Vivid nosed through the smoke and falling fragments, her yards braced as she overreached the other vessel.

Quantock said hoarsely, 'Christ Almighty, she must have followed her through the entrance! It'll be her turn to burn in a moment!'

Keen tore the telescope from a midshipman's fingers and trained it on the advancing wall of flames. In the lens it looked even worse, terrifying, and Keen could feel his mouth and throat going dry as he watched.

He saw Tyrrell's big frame by the tiller as he steered his Vivid closer and closer to the other vessel's starboard bow. Through the haze of smoke and whirling smuts he looked as if he would never budge. Even now the sails were swinging and snapping in the wind, although how Tyrrell's men could find the strength to work at halliards and braces against that heat was a miracle.

Keen heard shouts from the gun-deck as the first of the wounded were brought from the orlop but did not turn away from the awesome sight in the harbour. He imagined he could feel the heat and knew he could not delay the order to abandon much longer.

'Secure the guns, Mr Quantock.'

He expected a chorus of insults at the absurdity of his order, but instead he heard the squeak of trucks and handspikes as the eighteen-pounders were secured at their ports.

There was a mingled groan as the Vivid's masthead pendant vanished in a puff of smoke. Any second now and all the care in the world would not prevent her taking fire.

Keen saw the two vessels lurch together, the impetus of Vivid's full set of sails swinging the fire-ship slightly to larboard.

Lieutenant Trevenen murmured thickly, 'Vivid's afire, sir."

Keen watched the flames jumping like terrible demons from rigging to rigging, multiplying and spreading until the fore-course was reduced to ashes.

But Vivid was holding her way against the other, heavier hull, pushing her round. There were men too at the point where both vessels were locked together, and moments later Keen saw a splash as one of the Indiaman's anchors was released from the cat-head. Given time the anchor cable would burn through too, but as the flukes dragged along the harbour bed the fire-ship's shape began to lengthen as she took the strain of the cable.

Her smouldering mizzen and yards cracked and fell in charred fragments alongside and Knocker gasped, 'She's aground, by God!'

Keen nodded, unable to speak. Tyrrell probably knew the harbours hereabouts better than most, and had gauged his action to the second, so that the blazing Indiaman was already pushing herself firmly into the shallows.

Keen heard himself say, 'Send every boat you can, Mr Quantock.'

Vivid was blazing fiercely. It was almost impossible to see which vessel was which. There was still danger, the ship might refloat herself, or a fragment might drift down on Achates.

Keen turned and looked at his command. But whatever happened they had stood firm. Like Bolitho had told them. Together.

They were staring up from the gun-deck and watching him. Because of the smoke, and the carefully rationed water aboard ship, they looked more like a mob of filthy buccaneers than jack-tars.

They were cheering now, waving their fists and capering as if they had won a great battle. He saw Quantock looking at him, his eyes bitter. The sailors had at last discarded their dead captain and had adopted Keen.

Keen grinned at them and felt like weeping. Then he made up his mind.

'Call away the gig. I'll fetch Tyrrell myself.'

They found Tyrrell and most of his small crew clinging to a spar and half an upturned boat.

And there too was Adam Bolitho, half-naked and with a livid burn on one shoulder.

Tyrrell allowed himself to be hauled into the stern-sheets where he slumped and looked across at the remains of his brigantine.

She was already burned to the water-line. Unrecognizable.

Keen said, 'I'm sorry for what happened and the way I treated you. It was a close thing. You lost your ship but you saved mine.'

Tyrrell barely heard him. He put his arm around Adam's shoulders and said roughly, 'Seems to me, you an' me both lost somethin', eh?'

As the gig approached Achates' side the seamen ran along the gangway and swarmed into the shrouds to cheer as Tyrrell looked up at them.

Keen said, 'They're grateful to you.'

'Quite right too.'

Tyrrell looked at his wooden leg; even that had been charred by the blaze. What was the point of going over it again? If Achates had not been here when the attack had started, none of this would have happened. He looked at his beloved Vivid as she broke in halves and slipped into the shallows in a rising cloud of steam. And Vivid would still be his.

He felt the young lieutenant's hand on his arm as he said quietly, 'We'll both get another chance one day, Jethro.'

Tyrrell bared his teeth. 'Sure as hell hope so. Can't spend the rest of my days lookin' after you!'

Keen stood by Bolitho's table and watched him with concern. He had noticed that Bolitho had been studying the day's log of events but that his eyes rarely moved.

Keen said, 'Mr Mansel, the purser, reports that fresh fruit and vegetables have been coming on board from the town, sir. It is still arriving. They don't seem to be able to do enough for us now.'

Bolitho smoothed out the papers on his table. Now. That word said so much. He heard Ozzard tiptoeing behind him to close the stern windows as dusk filled the harbour with shadows once more. But there were still a few sparks and glowing embers to mark where the fire-ship lay in the shallows. It was only this morning when he had passed the time with Lieutenant Lemoine at the fortress.

Keen knew Bolitho needed to be alone but was unwilling to leave him. He recalled his own shock when the barge had hooked on to the chains and he had seen Allday carried aboard as if already dead.

All his other feelings had been scattered like the ashes of the fire-ship.

Pride in his men, of what they had done in spite of the terrible danger. A deep, inner satisfaction that he had not broken under the strain. Neither seemed to count any more. Allday had become part of his life too. In fact, when he thought about it, most of the people he knew and cared for had been helped and influenced by Bolitho's coxswain.

At times like this Allday would have been the one to enter the cabin and gently hustle away unwanted visitors, like his dog had once done when he had been a shepherd in Cornwall.

Now he lay in Bolitho's own sleeping quarters, a sword-thrust in his chest which had even shocked the taciturn surgeon.

Keen tried again. 'We took several prisoners, sir. The crew of the fire-ship, some soldiers from the mission too. You were right. They are all Spaniards from La Guaira. After this the Dons will never dare to attack San Felipe. The whole world will know what they did. I would give little hope for their heads when their King is told of their bungling.'

Bolitho leaned back in his chair and rubbed his eyes. He could still smell smoke. Could see Allday's attempt to smile just for his benefit.

He said, 'Tomorrow I will draft a report for Sir Hayward Sheaffe.' London would be grey and wet in September, he thought vaguely. 'After that it will be up to Parliament."

His words seemed to mock him. What did any of it matter?

'But for the moment it can wait.'

He looked up sharply but it was only one of the duty watch pacing the poop overhead.

Tuson was a good surgeon in spite of his early record. He had already proved that several times over. But if only . . . He cut his thoughts short.

He said, 'I was sorry to hear about Jethro Tyrrell's loss.'

'He took it well, sir.' Keen hesitated. 'He was asking if he might visit you.'

The adjoining door opened and Adam stepped noiselessly into the cabin.

Bolitho asked, 'How is he?'

Adam wanted to comfort him but said, 'He remains unconscious, and Mr Tuson says his breathing is poor.' He looked away. 'I spoke to him but ..."

Bolitho got to his feet, his limbs heavy. There were lights in Georgetown, and he wondered if the people were still standing quietly on the waterfront as they had since the action. Sharing the pain or the guilt he did not know, or care.

Adam was saying, 'Allday and I were once taken prisoner together, sir.' He was speaking to Keen but his gaze was on Bolitho. 'Afterwards he said to me it was the only time he had ever been flogged. He seemed to think it was a bit of a joke.'

Keen nodded. 'He would.'

Bolitho clenched his fists. They wanted to help but they were ripping him apart.

He said abruptly, 'I'll go to him. You both get some rest. Take care of that burn, Adam. In this climate ..." He did not go on.

Keen led the way from the cabin and said softly, 'Hear the silence? And they say that ships are only wood and copper!'

Adam nodded, glad of the darkness below the poop. Bolitho had told him to take care of his burned shoulder. He was incredible.

Bolitho opened the small door and stepped into the sleeping-cabin. The ship was so still at her moorings that the cot barely moved.

Tuson was holding a small bottle up to a shuttered lantern but turned as Bolitho entered.

'No change, sir.' It sounded like a rebuke.

Bolitho looked into the cot where he had fretted over the months since hoisting his flag above Achates.

Allday was heavily bandaged and had his head on one side as if to breathe better. Bolitho touched his forehead and tried not to show his anguish. The skin felt like ice. As if he was already gone.

Tuson said quietly, 'Narrowly missed the lung, sir. Thank God it was a clean blade.'

He watched Bolitho's shadow rear across the massive timbers and added, 'Would you like me to stay, sir?'

'No.' He knew Tuson had plenty of people awaiting his care. 'But thank you.'

Tuson sighed. 'I'll come when you need me.'

Bolitho followed him into the cabin. 'Tell me.'

Tuson slipped into his plain blue coat. 'I don't know him as well as you, sir. He seems strong enough, but it is a bad wound. Most would have died there and then. I am deeply sorry.'

When Bolitho looked again Tuson had gone. Down to the bowels of the ship, to his sick-bay and solitude.

Ozzard hovered nearby. 'Anythin', sir?'

Bolitho looked at him. So small and frail. He too was feeling it badly.

'What was Allday's favourite drink?'

Ozzard's watery eyes lit up. 'Well, rum, sir. Always liked a wet.' He fumbled with his hands. 'I — I mean, likes a wet, sir.'

Bolitho nodded. Even that was typical. In moments of crisis and danger, disappointment or celebration, he had often offered Allday a glass or two of cabin brandy. And all this time he had preferred rum.

He said gently, 'Then fetch some, please. Tell the purser I want the very best.'

He was sitting beside the cot, the cabin door half open to catch some air, when Ozzard returned with a copper jug. In the cabin's heat the rum made his head swim.

Bolitho tried to concentrate on what he must do tomorrow, on the ship's affairs, on Tyrrell's future. But he kept seeing Belinda's lovely face when they had made their last farewell. How she had told Allday to look after him and Adam.

He heard the muffled trill of a call, the distant patter of bare feet as the duty watch was turned to for some task or other.

The voyages they had done together. And just last year when they had both been prisoners of war in France when Allday had carried the dying John Neale in his arms, it had been his strength and confidence which had held them and had given them courage.

He remembered his own early days as a midshipman and lieutenant when he had fondly believed that the admiral in his quarters was beyond pain and protected from personal doubts.

Bolitho heard the squeak of a fiddle from the forecastle and pictured the off-watch hands enjoying the cool evening air.

He saw himself in the mirror above the little desk and looked away. What price your vice-admiral now?

He took a clean handkerchief and dabbed it in a glass of rum, then with great care he wiped a little of it on Allday's mouth.

'Here, old friend . . . ' He bit his lip as the rum trickled unheeded down Allday's chin. There was a bright scarlet stain in the centre of the bandages. Bolitho restrained the urge to yell for the sentry to summon the surgeon again. Allday was fighting his own battle. It would be cruel to make him suffer further.

Bolitho stared at Allday's homely face. It looked older, and the realization made him get to his feet, too stunned to accept what was happening, yet unwilling to share it with others.

He clenched his fists and peered around the small cabin like a trapped animal. There was nothing he could do. Barely seeing what he was doing he held the glass to his lips and swallowed the rum, the fire on his tongue and throat making him gasp and retch.

Then he waited until his breathing had returned almost to normal. He saw Ozzard's small shadow through the open door and said in a voice he barely recognized, 'My compliments to the surgeon . . . '

Ozzard seemed to shrink even smaller as Bolitho's words reached him.

Quick as I can, sir!"

Bolitho swung round as one of Allday's hands groped over the side of the cot. 'Yes, I'm here’

He held it between his own hands and stared fixedly at Allday's face. It was set in a frown, as if he was attempting to remember something. His hand had no more strength than a child's.

Bolitho whispered, 'Easy now. Don't let go.' He tightened his grip but there was no response.

Then Allday opened his eyes and stared at him for what seemed like minutes without any sign of recognition. When he spoke his voice was so small Bolitho had to bend over him until they touched.

Allday murmured, 'But you don't like rum, sir, you never have!'

Bolitho nodded. 'I know.' He wanted to talk, to help him, but the words would not come out.

Doors banged open and feet pounded on companion-ladders, then Tuson, with Keen and Adam behind him, burst into the cabin.

The surgeon pressed his hand on to Allday's chest, oblivious to the blood on his cuff. Then he said, 'Breathing's a whole lot better.' He sniffed. 'Rum, was it?'

Allday was unable to focus properly but he needed to speak, to reassure Bolitho in some way.

'Could do with a wet, sir.'

Tuson stood aside and watched gravely as the vice-admiral put one hand under the coxswain's head and held a glass to his lips. He knew that if he lived until he was a thousand he would never forget this moment.

He said, 'Leave him now.'

He watched as Bolitho dashed some water from a bowl on to his face, the way he was trying to prepare himself to confront the others in the cabin.

Tuson said quietly, 'Never mind about them, sir." Afterwards he was surprised he had dared to address his admiral in such a fashion. "It'll do no harm for them to see you have feelings too. Just a man like the rest of us.'

Bolitho took another glance at Allday. He looked at rest.

He said, 'Thank you. You will never know . . . ' He left the sleeping-cabin to face the others.

Tuson looked at the rum on the desk and grimaced. Allday should be dead. All his experience pointed to just that. He began to snip at the bloodied bandages.

Then even Tuson's severe features broke into a smile. Could do with a wet indeed.

In the great cabin they sat or stood in total silence as Ozzard brought some wine.

Then Keen raised his glass. 'This happy few, sir.'

Bolitho looked away. There was no better sentiment.

15

Last Farewell

The weeks and then months which followed the attack on the harbour seemed to Bolitho like a slow record of Allday's fight against death. Any progress was often marked by an immediate set-back, and Bolitho guessed that he was fretting about his inability to move, his 'uselessness', as he put it.

A few vessels visited the island, and slowly but surely things returned to normal. There were no more attacks, and traders reported that they had not sighted any Spanish men-of-war or suffered further interference.

In October that year two hurricanes struck San Felipe with a ferocity which made a military attack puny by comparison. Great tidal waves had threatened Achates and destroyed smaller vessels, and torn the roofs off many of the houses. Plantations were laid to waste, and several people had been killed or badly injured, their livelihoods destroyed.

But it was the turning point between the islanders and the Achates' company. Without the disciplined efforts of the seamen and marines it seemed unlikely that anything of value would have been saved. The ship, once a symbol of law and oppression, had taken on a new guise, that of protector, so that for the officers and men alike the daily routine was less demanding.

Three months to the day after being cut down by a Spanish sword Allday walked across the Achates' quarterdeck for the first time. Ozzard went with him, but Allday, true to his fashion, would not lean on him for support.

Bolitho made a point of being on the poop and watched while Allday moved into the sunlight, his feet unsure and dragging, as if he had never walked a ship's deck before. Bolitho noticed too that several of Allday's friends were much in evidence, as they had been throughout his struggle to survive. But they understood and were careful to keep their distance, outwardly engrossed in their various trades.

Bolitho heard Adam's light step beside him and said, 'I never thought I would see this day, Adam.' He shook his head. 'Never.'

Adam smiled. 'He's doing well.'

Bolitho saw Allday reach the quarterdeck rail and grasp it with both hands as he took several breaths and looked down at the gun-deck.

Scott, the third lieutenant, who was in charge of the watch, took elaborate care not to see him, even walked to the compass and peered at it as though the ship was at sea and not alongside.

Bolitho turned and looked at his nephew. All these weeks and they had barely discussed Boston and what had happened there, although Tyrrell had told him the bones of the matter.

He said quietly, 'What we have done here is important, Adam. I put my views to the Admiralty, my beliefs as to what should happen hereafter we have gone.' He shrugged. 'I have to believe they will act upon them. Too many have suffered and died to throw it all away. I used to hear my father say we in England are so often like that. We do not take proper care of what we have won with blood and sweat.' He gestured towards the anchorage. 'Just a pair of frigates here and the Dons would never have attempted to seize the place. Likewise the French would have looked elsewhere to make a bargain.'

'Suppose their lordships still insist on handing over the island, Uncle?'

'The Spanish attack should have shown them the importance of San Felipe. If not, then I have failed here.' He touched his arm impetuously. 'But it was wrong to use you the way I did. I knew that Chase would trust you, would tell you what I needed to know. But as a result you lost a chance to win his niece. I cannot forgive myself for that.'

Adam moved his shoulder and felt the burn beneath his shirt. He gave a rueful smile. 'We were nearly too late anyway, Uncle.'

They both looked at the charred fragments in the shallows. Sea-birds were perched in rows on the blackened ribs of the fire-ship, and weeds grew where Tyrrell had driven his brigantine to her destruction to save them all.

Adam hesitated. 'At least I saw my father's house.'

Bolitho glanced at him and was glad that the jealousy had gone.

Adam sounded far away. 'I told her I would return some day.'

'Perhaps we shall go together. When that happens you can take me to see Hugh's old house.'

They looked at each other, sensing the bond between them. It was as if Hugh was very much here with them. Like this island, Bolitho thought, without threat or hostility.

He tensed as Allday swayed after releasing his grip on the rail.

Then Allday looked up to the poop and grinned. He had known they were there all the while, Bolitho thought.

He said,'Without Allday . . . ' He did not need to go on.

The midshipman of the watch clattered up the poop ladder and touched his hat.

Bolitho looked at him. 'Well, Mr Ferrier, are you going to tell me about the sail?'

The midshipman flushed, his carefully worded speech scattered.

'I, er, the captain sends his respects, sir, and a courier-brig has been sighted to the east'rd.'

Bolitho nodded. 'Thank you. It is a while since I "enjoyed" the midshipman's berth, Mr Ferrier, but I have not yet forgotten how to read a signal.'

Adam exclaimed. 'You knew? And yet you carried on talking to me as if the brig and her news are of no importance!'

Bolicho watched the midshipman pausing to speak with two of his friends. The story would be enlarged somewhat by tonight, he thought.

Ferrier was the senior midshipman, and the brig's arrival would affect him too. Homeward bound and a lieutenant's examination, the young could always find room for optimism.

He said simply, 'It was important that we should talk. As to the rest, I shall have to fall back on Thomas Herrick's Lady Luck.'

Bolitho moved to the rail and looked along the upper decks. Men were on the gangways or working high overhead on the yards. But their eyes were towards the harbour entrance, and Bolitho could guess what many of them were thinking. They had been glad to leave England and the humiliation of being thrown on the beach like so much unwanted top-hamper. Now, after what they had seen and done together, they would be eager to return to their homes.

Bolitho thought of Falmouth, what they would say when they met again, whenever that might be? Of his very own daughter. What name had she chosen for her?

He said, 'I'm going below. My compliments to the officer of the watch and please tell him to keep the people working. I don't want any long faces if the news is bad.'

Adam stood back and touched his hat. It was difficult to know which tack his uncle would take next.

Bolitho hurried into his cabin and saw to his astonishment that Allday was hard at work putting a shine on the old sword.

'You should be resting, man! Will you never do as you are told, dammit?'

But for once his mock anger failed to have the right effect.

Allday ran the cloth once more along the blade and then looked at him squarely.

'The surgeon says I'll not be the same again, sir."

Bolitho walked to the open stern windows. So that was it. He should have guessed. He had seen that Allday was unable to straighten his back properly. As if the deepness and pain of his chest wound prevented it.

Allday added quietly, 'Not much of an admiral's coxswain I'll be an' I wanted ..."

Bolitho looked at him and said, 'You've earned your time ashore in comfort more than anyone I know. There's a place for you at Falmouth, but you know it.'

'I know, an' I'm grateful. It's not just that.' He looked at the sword. 'You won't need me any more. Not like this.'

Bolitho took the sword from him and laid it on the table.

'Like what? A bit knocked about, is that all? You'll be your old mutinous self in no time, you see.' He rested his hand on his shoulder. 'I'll never sail without you. Not unless you wish it. You have my word.'

Allday stood up and tried not to grimace as the pain probed through him.

'That's settled then, sir.'

He moved from the cabin, his feet dragging on the painted canvas.

His determination, his pride were as unbeatable as ever, Bolitho thought sadly. And he was alive.

Later that day, as the sun dipped towards a placid sea, Bolitho stepped into Achates' wardroom. After his own and Keen's cabins it seemed small and overcrowded, he thought.

Quantock said stiffly, 'All officers and senior warrant officers present as ordered, sir.'

Bolitho nodded. Quantock was a cold fish, even the action had not changed him. Nor would it now, he decided.

He heard his nephew close the door behind him and said, 'Please be seated, gentlemen, and thank you for inviting me here.'

It had always amused him. Any senior officer, even Keen, was a guest in his ship's wardroom. But had anyone ever denied one an entrance, he wondered?

He glanced around at their expectant faces. Sunburned, and competent. Even the midshipmen who were crammed right aft by the tiller-head looked more like men than boys now. The lieutenants and the two Royal Marines, Knocker, the priest-like sailing-master, and Tuson, the surgeon, he had grown to know and understand them in the time they had carried his flag at the fore.

Bolitho said, 'You will know that the courier-brig brought despatches from England. Their lordships have given full consideration to the reports on San Felipe, and to the large part your efforts played in an otherwise difficult mission.'

He saw Mountsteven nudge his friend the sixth lieutenant.

'Furthermore, I have been advised that French interference in the Mediterranean, and their pressures on His Majesty's Government to evacuate Malta in accordance with the same treaty which obliged us to hand this island to them, makes further negotiations impossible. As a direct result, gentlemen, all French and Dutch colonies which we had agreed to restore will now be retained. That, of course, will apply to San Felipe.'

It seemed impossible. In the neatly phrased despatches it was still hard to compare the complex negotiations which had swayed back and forth across Europe while Achates had been fighting for her very survival.

Bonaparte, now named Consul for life, had annexed Piedmont and Elba and showed every intention of retaking Malta once the British flag came down in the name of independence.

Bolitho saw the excitement transmit itself around the wardroom. So much for the Peace of Amiens. The signatures were barely dry on it.

He said, 'I am ordered to remain here until sufficient forces are despatched from Antigua and Jamaica to reinforce the garrison.'

He saw Keen drop his eyes. He knew what was coming next.

'The recent governor will be replaced as soon as possible. Sir Humphrey Rivers will be returning to England to stand trial for treason.'

He could find no satisfaction in that. After the luxury and wealth of his little kingdom he would be taken home in a King's ship, the first of any size which could be made available. And after that, with this totally unexpected shift of events, he would very likely hang.

He looked from face to face and added, 'You have performed very well, and I should wish you to carry my thanks to the people also.'

Keen watched as Bolitho smiled for the first time since he had begun to speak. Whatever anyone else might think, Keen could see plainly enough where the strain and responsibility had made their mark.

Bolitho said quietly, 'And after that, we are going home.'

Then they were all on their feet shouting and laughing like boys.

Keen opened the door and Bolitho slipped away. He had two letters from Belinda, and now there was time he would re-read them from the beginning.

Keen and Adam followed him up the companion and then Keen asked, 'Will it be war, sir?'

Bolitho thought of the young and jubilant faces he had just left behind, of Quantock's sour disapproval.

'There is little doubt in my mind, Val.'

Keen stared around in the gloom, as if already preparing his ship for another battle.

'God, we've hardly recovered from the last one, sir!'

Bolitho heard Allday's unfamiliar dragging footsteps and turned towards his cabin with its motionless scarlet sentry.

'Some never will, my friend. It's too late.'

Keen sighed and said, 'Join me, Mr Bolitho, and share a glass. Doubtless you'll be getting a command of your own if war does come about.' He gave a smile. 'Then you'll discover what hardship really means!'

Aft in his cabin Bolitho made himself comfortable in a chair and opened the first letter.

Going home. They would have been surprised had they known just how much it meant to their vice-admiral.

Then he listened to her voice again as it lifted from the page.

My darling Richard . . .

'See that these letters are put aboard the packet with the others, Yovell.'

Bolitho listened to the squeak of tackles through the cabin skylight, the stamp of feet on deck as another net of fresh food supplies was hoisted above the gangway.

After all the waiting it was difficult to accept that the moment had arrived. Not that time had been allowed to drag on their hands, he considered.

A smart frigate and two bomb-vessels were now anchored below the battery, and a big armed transport had brought more soldiers as promised to reinforce the garrison. He smiled at Lemoine's reaction when a full colonel had taken charge.

'I was just getting a taste for power, sir,' the lieutenant had said.

He heard Allday coming through the dining space and looked up to greet him. Allday had made great strides where his health was concerned and the colour had returned to his face. But he still could not straighten his shoulders, and his smart blue coat with the gilt buttons seemed loose on his big frame.

It must be close on six months since he had been struck down, three since the brig had arrived here with the Admiralty's final instructions on the island's future.

Bolitho said, 'It will be spring in England when we reach there. A year since we left.'

He watched Allday's expression but he merely shrugged and replied, 'Probably all have blown over by that time, sir.'

'Maybe.'

He was still brooding. More afraid of the land than the hazards at sea. Allday had once told him that an old sailor was like a ship. Once tied up and unwanted, and with nothing useful to do, both were doomed.

And Allday had been a lot younger when he had said it.

Galls shrilled along the upper deck and voices barked commands as some marines marched to the entry port.

Bolitho stood up and waited for Ozzard to bring his dress-coat. The new governor had arrived in San Felipe aboard the frigate. A small, birdlike man, he seemed dull by comparison with Rivers.

His warrant made it clear that Rivers was to take passage in Achates. A cruel twist of fate for both of us, Bolitho thought.

As Keen had remarked, 'Why this ship, damn his eyes? A plague on the man!'

Ozzard patted the gold-laced coat into place and eyed the epaulettes with professional interest. He reached for the fine presentation sword on its rack but dropped his hands as Bolitho gave a quick shake of the head.

He waited for Allday to take the sword and clip it to his belt. As he had always done.

Bolitho had written to Belinda about Allday's courage and the price he had paid for it. She, better than anyone, would know what to do. In a fast packet his letters would reach home long before Achates.

'Thank you. I shall go and meet our, er, guest.'

He glanced quickly round the cabin but Ozzard had already gone.

'Ready, Allday?'

Allday made to straighten his back but Bolitho said, 'Not yet. It takes time." He watched his despair. 'As it did when I nearly died, remember? When you cared for me every hour of the day?'

He saw something of the old sparkle in Allday's eyes. 'I'll not forget that, sir.'

Bolitho nodded, moved by Allday's pleasure at the memory.

'Flag at the fore, remember that too? I'll see you an admiral's coxswain yet, you scoundrel!'

They went on deck together and Bolitho saw Rivers waiting by the entry port flanked by an escort of soldiers. He wore manacles on his wrists, and Lieutenant Lemoine, who was in charge, said hastily, 'My colonel's orders, sir.'

Bolitho nodded impassively. 'Sir Humphrey is under my protection, Mr Lemoine. There will be no irons here.'

He saw Rivers' look of extraordinary gratitude and shock. Then he watched as his eyes moved up the foremast truck where the flag lifted in a fresh breeze. As a vice-admiral himself he was probably hanging on to this moment as his other world fell in ruins.

'Thank you for that, Bolitho.'

Bolitho saw Keen frowning in the background and said, 'It is all and also the least I can do.'

Rivers looked across at the waterfront. People had flocked there to watch him leave. No cheers, no rebukes either. San Felipe was that sort of place, Bolitho thought. With a stormy past and a future just as uncertain.

Why should I care? Even feel sorry for the man, he wondered? A traitor, a respectable pirate who had caused too many deaths because of his own selfish greed. Rivers had two sons in London, so it was likely he would be well defended at his trial. He might even talk his way out of it. After all, if war came, the island's security owed much to him, whatever the true reasons had been.

In his heart Bolitho knew that the real blame lay with powerful men in London. Who had allowed Rivers to extend his role here for his own advantage.

Keen watched Rivers being escorted below and said, 'I'd have put him in the cells.'

Bolitho smiled. 'When you've been a prisoner, Val, and I hope that never happens to you, you'll understand.'

Keen grinned, unabashed. 'But until then, sir, I don't have to like him!'

Ferrier, the senior midshipman, touched his hat to Keen.

'Mr Tyrrell's come aboard, sir.'

Bolitho turned. He had imagined that Tyrrell had stayed ashore for most of the time since Vivid"s loss because he did not want to talk about it. Or, independent to the end, he had been seeking a berth in some other vessel.

He had heard Achates was sailing very soon. The whole island seemed to know. There would likely be a few more babies on the plantations, black and white, after Achates had crossed the ocean. It was good to hear the seamen calling out to the people in the boats in the harbour and along the waterfront. The yards of the ships were festooned with coloured streamers, and every inch of space had been filled with fresh fruit and gifts from the islanders who had once hated and feared them.

He saw Tyrrell's shaggy head appear above the ladder to the quarterdeck and walked to meet him.

'Thought I'd make a quick farewell, Dick. To you an' the youngster. Next time he an' I meet he'll be a post-cap'n.'

Like Allday, he was finding it hard, and at any second he would blunder away on the wooden pin which he hated so much.

Bolitho tried to gauge the moment, knowing that any careful speech would be taken as charity, even condescension.

'Will you go back home now, Jethro?'

'Got no home. All gone, dammit, I told you!' He relented immediately. 'Sorry about that. Bein' with you again has unsettled me quite a bit.'

'Me too.'

'Really?' Tyrrell stared at him, wary of a lie.

'I was thinking ..." Bolitho saw Knocker from the corner of his eye hurry to the first lieutenant, who in turn looked at the captain. Bolitho knew why. He had felt the shift of wind on his cheek even as he had been speaking with Rivers. It was not much, but with the winds here so perverse it must not be wasted. But just as when Ferrier had come to tell him about the brig's arrival, so now he would not break the spell by looking up at the masthead pendant. He continued, 'There's England, you know.'

Tyrrell threw back his head and laughed. 'Hell, man what are you sayin? What would I do over there?'

Bolitho looked past him at the shore. 'Your father came from Bristol. I recall you telling me. It's not all that far from Cornwall, from us.'

Tyrrell watched the sudden activity as the relaxation on deck changed to purpose and movement. He knew all the signs. A ship leaving was nothing new. But homeward bound . . .

He said desperately 'I'm a cripple, Dick, what th' hell use am I?'

'There are plenty of ships in the West Country.' He dropped his voice. 'Like Vivid.'

He saw Keen moving nearer. It could not wait.

Bolitho said, 'Anyway, I want you to come.'

Tyrrell gazed around as if he could not trust his own judgement.

'I'd work my passage, I'd insist on that!'

Bolitho smiled gravely. 'It's settled then.'

They shook hands and Tyrrell said, 'By God, I'll do it!'

Bolitho turned to his flag-captain.

'You may get the ship under way when it suits.'

Keen yelled, 'Hoist all boats inboard! Both watches of the hands, Mr Quantock!'

He looked at Bolitho and the one-legged man by the quarterdeck rail and shook his head.

Men were dashing aloft and out along the yards, and with her capstan manned Achates shed her ties with the land and moved slowly out to her anchor.

Adam said excitedly, 'Hear them, Jethro? They're cheering us!'

Along the waterfront the handkerchiefs waved and voices echoed across the water as the great capstan continued to clink round.

Tyrrell nodded. 'Aye, lad, this time they are.'

Captain Dewar marched across the deck and touched his hat with a flourish.

Keen caught the mood too. 'Very well, Major, you may play us out if that was what you were about to suggest?'

Bolitho found that he was gripping the worn rail with unusual force. He had seen it all before countless times, but somehow this was quite different.

'Anchor's hove short, sir!'

'Loose the heads'ls!'

Bolitho turned and saw Allday beside him. His right arm.

'Man the braces there!' Quantock strode about, his head jutting forward, immersed for the moment in the complexities of his trade.

'Anchor's aweigh, sir!'

It was not a blustery departure, with the ship heeling over under a pyramid of canvas. With all the dignity of her years Achates swung slowly across the wind, the sunlight glancing off her figurehead, the armour-bearer, and along her sealed gun-ports and freshly painted tumblehome.

'Get the t'gan's'ls on her, Mr Scott! Your division are like old women today!'

The sails hardened and shivered at their yards, and with barely a ripple below her dolphin-striker Achates glided towards the harbour mouth.

Bolitho watched the narrow strip of water. It looked no wider than a farm gate. A glance at Keen's tense features told him that he was remembering that wild charge through it in total darkness.

'Steady as you go!' That was Knocker. Even he seemed different as he called, 'Mr Tyrrell, you may be able to offer some local knowledge. If so, I'd be obliged.'

Here was the fortress. The sloping track where the marine drummer had died, where Rivers had made his greatest mistake.

The flag above the old battery dipped in salute and Bolitho saw a line of redcoats on the jetty, bayonets fixed, colours lowered, as Achates' topgallant sails made little patches of shadow on the fortress wall.

Allday murmured, 'They'll not forget Old Katie in a hurry.'

He turned his head to listen as the small cluster of fifers and drummers broke into The Sailor and His Lass.

Once Bolitho saw him thrust one hand to his wound, and then he removed it from his fine blue jacket and laid it on the rail beside his.

As if, like the island, he was leaving the pain astern.

The Secret

Bolitho walked up the slippery planking and gripped the nettings at the weather-side of the quarterdeck.

The ship was plunging and shuddering as rank after rank of waves surged against her quarter in an unbroken attack.

Bolitho watched as the bows dropped yet again and the sea thundered over the forecastle and cascaded along the upper gun-deck like a flood, breaking over the guns before surging away through the scuppers until the next onslaught.

In spite of the savage movement and damp discomfort Bolitho felt a sense of exhilaration, the nearest thing he could remember since his last command as post-captain.

How different was the Atlantic's grey face to the waters around San Felipe. Lines of angry, rearing waves, their crests like broken yellow teeth.

Achates was making the best of this unexpected storm under jib and close-reefed topsails and was as steady as could be expected. Nevertheless, during the time he had been on deck Bolitho had seen the boatswain and his men floundering amongst the surging water to secure lashings on boats and guns, or to fight their way aloft to repair broken cordage.

Keen was here too, his tarpaulin coat flying in the wind as he bent over the compass and had a shouted conversation with the master.

How perverse the weather had been since the day they had set sail from San Felipe. The breeze had dropped almost as soon as the island had vanished below the horizon. They had been becalmed for days before they had been able to spread more sails again. It had taken more time then to recover what they had lost on the lazy currents and tides.

Now, deep into the Atlantic, they were seeing its other face. The ship was standing up well in spite of her repairs, many of which had been makeshift because of the lack of a dockyard. It was just as well, he thought grimly. The nearest land was Bermuda some two hundred miles to the northwest.

Here was another. He held his breath as the sea boiled over the weather-gangway and swept some seamen aside like twigs on a flooded stream. He looked up at the tightly braced yards, the reefed canvas like grey metal in the dim light.

Stooping shadows waited for the right moment before dashing from one handhold to the next. A few noticed him at the weather-side and probably thought him crazy for leaving his fine quarters.

Keen staggered towards him, his face shining with spray.

'Mr Knocker says it cannot last more than another day, sir.' He ducked as a solid sheet of water deluged over the quarterdeck and ran down the ladders on either side.

'How is Sir Humphrey taking to all this?'

Keen watched two of his men as they dragged some fresh cordage towards the mainmast in readiness to haul it aloft to the topsail yard. He relaxed slightly as they scampered into the ratlines before the next incoming sea could sweep them away or smash them senseless into one of the guns.

He shouted, 'Well enough, sir! He spends much of his time writing.'

Bolitho tucked his chin into his cloak as the spray and spindrift dashed down from the poop. Preparing his defence. Making a last will and testament. Probably just to keep his mind away from the miles as they dragged beneath Achates' scarred keel.

The officer of the watch moved hand over hand along the quarterdeck rail and yelled, 'Time to call the first dog-watch, sir!'

Keen grinned into the storm. 'God, it looks more like midnight!'

Bolitho left him and groped his way aft beneath the poop, where by contrast it seemed almost quiet, the sounds of sea and wind muffled and held at bay by the ship's massive oak timbers.

But in the cabin it was just as lively, with water spurting through the sealed gun-ports and the gallery on the weather-quarter. Every lantern swung in a wild dance, and the cabin furniture did all it could to tear itself from Ozzard's storm-lashings.

Ozzard appeared from his pantry and clung to the screen for support. His face was pale green, and Bolitho did not have the heart to ask him for something hot to drink.

'How is Allday?'

Ozzard gulped. 'Resting, sir. In his hammock. He had a large tot of - ' But even the memory of the neat rum was too much and he fled, retching, for the door.

Bolitho went into his sleeping-cabin and grasped the side of his swaying cot. Where Allday had almost died.

He waited for the deck to rise again and then hoisted himself, fully clothed, into the cot.

He hated being out of things, it was the part of his flag-rank which he found least acceptable. Strategy was one thing, but at times like these, as the ship fought her natural enemy without respite, he felt little better than a passenger.

Bolitho kicked off his shoes and grimaced at the shadows which loomed and died around him like macabre dancers.

But if the ship foundered, passenger or not, it would be better if the people saw their vice-admiral fully dressed.

During that night the storm blew itself out and the wind, although still strong, veered to the south and enabled Keen to set more sails and his men to carry on with their repairs. Between decks the trapped water and scattered possessions were cleared away, and when breakfast was piped the galley funnel was pumping out its usual plume of thick, greasy smoke.

Bolitho sat at his table, drinking scalding coffee and munching thin strips of pork fried pale in biscuit crumbs. It was one of his favourite meals at sea, and none could serve it better than Ozzard.

Despite the foul weather and unavoidable delays they should sight the Lizard, the southernmost tip of Cornwall, in fourteen days.

He was surprised that it should make him feel so nervous, unsure of himself. All he had longed and hoped for and yet he was as unsettled as a callow midshipman.

He got up and walked to the mirror above his desk. He was a year older. The lock of hair which hid the cruel scar above his right eye was still black, and yet he was sure there were some grey strands too. He tried to shrug it off. The youngest vice-admiral on the List, apart from Our Nel, that is. But he found no consolation. He was forty-six and Belinda ten years his junior. Suppose . . .

Bolitho turned almost gratefully as Keen entered the cabin, his hat beneath his arm.

'Have some coffee, Val, what — ' He saw the grim expression on Keen's face and asked, 'Trouble?'

Keen nodded. 'The masthead has reported drifting wreckage to the nor'-east. Victim of the storm, I expect, sir.'

'Yes.' He pulled on his faded sea-going coat. 'Not the packet which set sail before us?'

'No, sir. It would mean too much drift.' He watched Bolitho curiously. 'If we change tack to examine the remains we will lose valuable time, sir.'

Bolitho bit his lip. He had once seen a drifting boat with only one man alive in it. All the rest were corpses. He thought of little Evans, how he must have felt in his drifting boat, his ship gone, his companions wounded and dying around him. What must it be like? The last one alive, like the man he had seen all those years ago?

He said, 'There's always a chance, Val. Alter course and send a boat away when you consider it near enough.'

An hour later, as Achates shortened sail and tacked uncomfortably close to the wind, the quarter-boat pulled swiftly towards the great spread of bobbing flotsam and broken timbers.

It had seemed an eternity before they had got near enough to examine the storm's success. In such Atlantic weather it seemed likely that several ships had shared this one's fate.

Bolitho had stood on the poop with a telescope and had watched the remains spreading out across Achates' bows, tragic and pathetic.

She had not been very large, he thought. She had probably been struck by one gigantic wave across her unprotected poop, driven over before she could recover.

Keen lowered his glass. "There's a boat, sir!'

Bolitho moved his own glass and stared at the swamped, listing thing which had once been a long-boat.

Keen exclaimed, 'They're alive! Two of them anyway!'

Lieutenant Scott, who was in charge of the quarter-boat, was already urging his oarsmen to greater efforts as he sighted the survivors.

Bolitho heard Tyrrell's wooden stump on the wet planking and asked, 'What do you make of it, Jethro?'

Tyrrell did not even hesitate. 'She's a Frenchie. Or was.'

Keen steadied his glass and said excitedly, 'You're right! They're no merchant sailors either!'

Bolitho saw Tuson and his mates waiting by the entry port, a tackle being rigged to haul the survivors aboard.

Bolitho asked, 'Who speaks the best French in Achates?'

Keen did not falter. 'Mr Mansel, the purser. Used to be in the wine trade before the war.'

Bolitho smiled. He had heard slightly differently, and that Mansel had in fact been a smuggler.

'Well, tell him to be ready. We may be able to discover what happened.'

There were ten survivors in all. Knocked, dazed and half-blinded by the mountainous seas, they had lost hope of rescue so far from land. Their vessel had been the brig La Prudente, outward-bound from Lorient to Martinique. Their commander had been swept overboard, and their senior lieutenant had managed to clear away one boat before he too had died from a blow on the head from some falling wreckage. The dead lieutenant was still in the boat, his face very white beneath the water which filled it almost to the gunwales.

The coxswain of the quarter-boat yelled, 'Shall I cast 'er off, sir?'

But Lieutenant Scott snatched a boat-hook and dragged the dead lieutenant towards him.

The survivors must have been too shocked and weak to push their officer over the side, Bolitho thought. He watched them being carried and helped to a companion-way. They still did not seem to know what was happening.

Keen said, 'Mr Scott has found something, sir.'

He could not hide his eagerness to get under way again, to fight back to their original track.

The dead officer rose above the gangway, water running from his mouth and his uniform as he swung above the gun-deck like a felon on the gallows.

Scott hurried aft and touched his hat. 'He had this tied to his waist, sir. I saw it when the boat tilted over.'

Bolitho looked at Keen. It was like robbing the dead. The French lieutenant lay on the deck, his arms and legs stretched out, one eye part open as if the light was too strong for him.

Black Joe Langtry, the master-at-arms, covered the corpse with a piece of canvas, but not before he had removed a pistol from the man's belt. It had probably been his only means of maintaining some order on that terrible night when his ship had been overwhelmed.

Keen said, 'All the same, sir. Lorient to Martinique.'

Bolitho nodded. 'My thoughts entirely.'

It took a few moments to open the thick canvas envelope and break the imposing scarlet seals.

Bolitho watched the purser's lips move as he scanned the carefully worded despatch which was addressed to the admiral in command of the West Indies Fleet at Fort de France.

No wonder the dead lieutenant had tried to save the package.

The purser looked up from the table, uncomfortable under their combined gaze.

He said, 'As near as I can tell, sir, it says that upon receipt of these orders hostilities against England and her possessions will be resumed immediately.'

Keen stared at Bolitho. 'That's near enough for me!'

Bolitho walked to the stern windows and watched the quarter-boat being warped round in readiness for hoisting. It gave him time to think, to weigh chance and coincidence against a small act of humanity.

He said, 'For once a storm was a friend to us, Val.'

Keen watched as Bolitho tipped a handful of pistol balls from the envelope, to carry it to the sea-bed rather than let it fall into the wrong hands. But the lieutenant had been killed before he could act, and his men had been too ignorant or too frightened to care.

Keen said, 'So it's no longer just a threat. It's war.'

Bolitho smiled gravely. 'At least we know something which others do not. That is always an advantage.'

With her yards retrimmed and her helm hard over Achates turned her jib-boom away from the drifting pattern of flotsam and the waterlogged boat which would sink in the next storm.

That evening at dusk the dead lieutenant was buried with full honours.

Bolitho watched with Adam and Allday close by as Keen said a few prayers before the corpse was dropped alongside.

The next Frenchman they met would not be so peaceful, Bolitho thought.

'Well, Sir Humphrey, I believe you wish to speak with me.' Bolitho kept his tone level but was shocked to see the change in Rivers' appearance and demeanour. He looked ten years older, and his shoulders were bowed as if he was carrying a great burden.

Rivers seemed surprised when Bolitho indicated a chair for him and sank into it, his eyes wandering around the cabin without recognition.

He said, 'I have written down all I know of the plot to seize my — ' He faltered. 'To seize San Felipe. Rear-Admiral Burgas, who commanded the squadron at La Guaira, was to govern it until Spanish ownership was recognized.'

'Did you know about the Spanish mission, that it might be used to shelter an invading force?'

'No. I trusted the captain-general. He promised me more trade along the Spanish Main. I could see nothing but improvement.'

Bolitho took the papers from him and scanned them thoughtfully.

He said, 'These might help with your defence in London, although ..."

Rivers shrugged. 'Although. Yes, I understand.'

He looked at Bolitho and asked, 'If you are in England during my trial, would you be prepared to speak for my defence?'

Bolitho stared at him. 'That is an extraordinary thing to request. After your action against my ship and my men ..."

Rivers persisted, 'You are a fighting officer. I want no defence for what I did, but understanding of what I had been trying to do. To keep the island under the British flag. As it is now, thanks to you.'

When Bolitho remained silent he continued, 'After all, had the Dons made their move before you came, my actions might have succeeded, and I would have been seen in a very different light.'

Bolitho eyed him sadly. 'But they did not. You must know from past experience, Sir Humphrey, that if a captain fires upon or seizes an enemy ship, or what he believes to be a foe, only to discover when he reaches port that their two countries are at peace, what then? That captain could have had no way of knowing the facts, and yet . . .

Rivers nodded. 'He would be blamed nevertheless.' He stood up. 'I should like to return to my quarters now.'

Bolitho rose too. 'I have to tell you that we shall be in sight of land within the week. After that your affairs will be taken out of my hands.'

'I understand. Thank you.'

Rivers walked to the door and Bolitho saw two Royal Marines waiting for him.

Adam, who had been present throughout the brief interview, said, 'I feel no sorrow for him, Uncle.'

Bolitho touched his scar beneath the rebellious lock of hair.

'It's too easy to judge.'

Adam grinned. 'If you had been appointed governor, Uncle, would you have behaved as he did?' He saw Bolitho's confusion and nodded. 'There you are then.'

Bolitho sat down. 'Young devil. Allday was quite right about you.'

Adam watched him, his features suddenly serious.

'I was glad to join you as your flag-lieutenant, Uncle. Being with you for such a long period has taught me a lot. About you, about myself.' He looked wistfully around the cabin. 'I shall miss the freedom more than I can say.'

Bolitho was moved. 'The same applies to me. I was warned against bringing you. Too close, Oliver Browne said. Perhaps he was right in some ways, but when we reach Falmouth things will —

They both looked up at the skylight as a lookout's voice pealed down, 'Deck there! Sail to the sou'-east!'

Bolitho stared at the square of blue above the skylight. He felt his heart quicken, an unexpected dryness in his throat. Like the hunter caught off guard when he needed his vigilance the most.

He crossed to his chart on the table and examined it, following the neat calculations, the unerring line which led all the way to the Cornish coast. It was unlikely that a merchantman would be outward-bound from either England or France if war had just been declared. It would take time for the rules to be accepted or broken. 'I'm going on deck.'

He strode to the door and out into the sunlight. The sea was lively with white-caps, and the wind still steady from the south so that Achates had her yards tightly braced to hold her on a starboard tack.

Men stood about in small groups or stared up at the seaman in the mizzen cross-trees.

Keen cupped his hands. 'Mizzen topmast-head there!'

'Sir?' The man peered down at his captain far below.

'What does she look like?'

'Man-o'-war, sir!'

Keen beckoned impatiently. 'Get aloft with a glass, Mr Mountsteven, that fellow is a madman!'

He saw Bolitho and touched his hat. 'I beg your pardon, sir.'

Bolitho looked at the empty sea, suddenly apprehensive. Did going home mean so much? Was it that different now?

Keen said, 'From the sou'-east, it seems, sir. Too far out for the Bay.'

Mountsteven had reached his precarious perch beside the lookout.

He yelled, 'She looks, sir, like a whacking frigate!' A pause. 'A Frenchie, I'd suggest!'

Bolitho made himself walk calmly to the quarterdeck rail as the conjecture buzzed around him like a swarm of hornets.

A French frigate standing well out to sea, probably steering north for the Channel or the tip of the Bay, Brest perhaps?

He thought of the dead lieutenant, the envelope, the little brig on passage from Lorient to Martinique.

'Deck there! There's another sail astern of her, sir!' Knocker, who had silently appeared by the wheel, muttered, 'Pork and molasses! More bloody trouble, I'll be bound!'

Keen said, 'She's on a converging tack, sir. She'll have the wind-gage, by God.'

Bolitho did not turn but stared along the full length of the deck. So near and yet so far. Another two days, maybe less, and they would have met with ships of the Channel Fleet as they endured the weary task of blockade duty.

He said, 'The Frenchman is taking a chance, Val.' He turned and saw understanding on Keen's face. 'Maybe they do not know the news, as we would not but for loss of La Prudente.'

Midshipman Ferrier, who had swarmed into the weather-shrouds at the first sighting report, yelled, 'I can see the first one, sir! A big frigate! I can't make out the other but - '

Mountsteven's voice cut him dead. 'Second one is a ship of the line, sir! A seventy-four!'

One of the helmsmen sucked his teeth. 'The bastards!'

Bolitho took a telescope and climbed up beside the midshipman.

'Where away, Mr Ferrier?'

Then he saw the leading Frenchman, her topgallant sails like gold in the sunlight. Even as he watched her outline-changed slightly. He remarked half to himself, 'She's setting her royals.'

Bolitho climbed down to the deck and looked at his nephew.

'As you will know, a frigate's job is to sniff out danger and identify strangers.'

Adam nodded. 'Then they cannot know about the war.'

Bolitho tried to clear his mind. The pattern was all wrong. The French ships were closing rapidly with the southerly wind well in their favour.

He snapped, 'Ship's head, Mr Knocker?'

'East-nor'-east, sir! Full an' bye!'

Keen murmured, 'If I let her fall off two points or so they'll suspect something, that we're trying to keep clear of them.

On the other hand, sir, a change of tack would give us a few extra knots.'

A change of course away from the enemy, setting more sail, either of those would arouse the interest of any frigate captain, let alone one with a seventy-four in close company.

'Continue as we are, Val. They'll be watching us too, remember.'

Keen glanced up at the masthead pendant. 'But for the damned weather we'd have been at anchor by now.'

Six bells chimed out from the forecastle and Bolitho saw the purser emerge with his clerk in readiness to issue the rum to each mess. He thought of Allday, how the rum had touched him like a memory.

'I suggest you send the people to their messes, Val. The galley can serve a hot meal a little earlier today.'

Keen hurried away and spoke to Quantock by the rail, and seconds later the calls shrilled between decks and the sailors grinned at each other because of the unexpected break in routine.

Bolitho took the telescope again and sought out the other vessel. One of the newer French frigates, he decided. Forty-four guns. He could just discern her hull now as it lifted on a long roller before dropping again in a great welter of spray. She was flying.

Bolitho listened to the subdued chatter of the men on watch. The prospect of a sea-fight did not seem to be troubling them. They had already dispatched a Spanish two-decker and had captured an island. A French frigate would be simple compared with that.

Keen joined him again. 'They might stand away when they know our flag, sir.'

'Very well. Run up the colours.'

But when the scarlet ensign broke from the gaff nothing changed other than Mountsteven reporting that the frigate had hoisted her tricolour.

Tyrrell appeared on deck, his jaw working on a piece of salt beef.

He squinted up at the mizzen truck and asked, 'D'you reckon you could get me up yonder, Cap'n?'

Keen stared at him, his mind grappling with other problems.

'Bosun's chair, d'you mean?'

Tyrrell glanced at Bolitho and grinned. 'Just had a thought. You recall that seventy-four in Boston, the one which was supposed to be doin' the parley. Could be her. If so, she'll likely not know about the war yet.' He grinned more widely. 'Now, that'd be a terrible shame, eh?'

They had forgotten about Mountsteven but his voice made them all remember as he called, 'Third ship, sir! 'Nother frigate, I think!'

Keen said softly, 'Jesus!' Then to the boatswain he said, 'Assist Mr Tyrrell aloft, if you please.'

Many of the watch on deck turned to stare and to follow Tyrrell's jerking progress up the mizzen-mast, his wooden stump clicking against halliards and spars.

Keen dropped his voice. 'Three to one, sir. The odds are formidable.'

Bolitho handed his glass to a boatswain's-mate. 'Do you suggest we run?'

Keen said, 'I'll run from nothing, sir. But I cannot answer for the ship's state if we are called on to fight.'

Bolitho watched the frigate's outline alter again as she changed tack until she was pointing directly towards him.

He said quietly, 'It's another war, Val, not some petty quarrel. With half the fleet still laid up, England has never been less prepared. If our people are expected to endure a long, bitter conflict they will need victories, not leaders who turn and run away because the odds are formidable.'

He turned and studied Keen's concern. 'We've no choice, Val. The frigates will be round us like hounds after a stag. That would give the seventy-four time to close the range and finish the fight. If we are to be beaten, I'd prefer it to be facing the enemy, not being chased until the wind has gone out of us."

Bolitho faced Tyrrell as he was lowered carefully to the deck.

'Damn near cut myself in half.' Tyrrell glanced at them questioningly, then added, 'She's the same one right enough. Must have gone south when she quit Boston. Rear-admiral's flag at the mizzen.'

Bolitho said, 'Then she's the Argonaute, a new third-rate. I know her admiral from times past. Contre-Amiral Jobert. One of the few of the old Royalist navy to escape the Terror. A good officer.'

He knew that the others nearby were listening to him despite their efforts to conceal the fact. Trying to discover what was about to happen. What would become of them.

He said lightly, 'I shall go aft and have a bite to eat, then we can clear for action.'

Bolitho strode beneath the poop and knew his casual comment about food would spread through the messes like wildfire. He could almost hear it. Nothing to worry about, lads. The admiral's having his grub.

He barely saw the sentry who flung open the screen door for him and he did not stop until he reached the stern windows. When he leaned over the sill he could just discern the frigate's topsails. An hour or more yet to wait. Maybe nothing would happen. Why must they fight if only to die? Who would blame him for standing away from the odds which were bearing down on him?

He felt his chest and the urgent hammering of his heart. Was it fear? Is this what it is like? That one action too many. God alone knew it had happened often enough to far better men.

Bolitho wiped his face with his shirt cuff and turned blindly into the cabin again.

Fear of losing something so precious he could think of nothing else beyond it.

He had been hoping too hard and too much. A weakness when so many were depending on him.

What were hopes anyway? In the roar of a broadside they counted for very little.

Ozzard entered the cabin with a tray. He said, 'Fresh chicken, sir.'

Bolitho watched him as he laid the tray carefully on the table. So the ship's purser had had hopes too. He would not have sacrificed one of the ship's own stock of chickens otherwise.

Ozzard watched him patiently. 'A glass of something, sir?'

Bolitho smiled. Poor little Ozzard. Trusting and loyal. It never seemed to occur to him that before evening he might be dead.

He said, 'Yes, Ozzard. Some of your special hock.'

As he hurried away Bolitho buried his face in his hands.

The French admiral had obviously not heard about the outbreak of war. Otherwise he would certainly have changed his formation, ready to attack from three bearings at once. Achates could fire on and possibly cripple the leading frigate before her captain realized what was happening, and then thrust on to attack the seventy-four. Still bad odds, but some improvement.

He recalled his own fury and disbelief when the Spanish two-decker had attacked Achates and destroyed Sparrowhawk, how they had all cursed her for her cowardice and deception.

Could he now bring himself to act in the same fashion?

Honour. The word seemed to echo around the cabin like a taunt.

He looked at the old family sword on its rack and remembered how his father had handed it to him instead of to Hugh. Hugh was the elder son and should have had it. But his disgrace, the shame which had followed Bolitho like an evil spirit even as far as San Felipe, which had broken their father's heart, had put the sword into his trust.

Bolitho said, 'Then so be it!' The choice had never been his, and his mistake had been to believe otherwise.

When Ozzard returned with a bottle from his cool store in the bilges he found Bolitho as he would have expected, calm and outwardly untroubled.

Things could not be so bad after all.

17

Fair Warning

Bolitho stepped over some trailing lines and walked to the weather-side of the quarterdeck. The French frigate was much nearer but had shortened sail as if uncertain what to do next. He estimated that she was about half a mile from Achates' starboard quarter.

He heard men crawling about the deck behind him, as if the best part of the ship's company had suddenly become cripples.

It was essential that the ship should be cleared for action without all the obvious bustle and movement which the French lookouts would immediately recognize.

Keen was saying to the boatswain, 'You shall send your people aloft to rig chain-slings only when we begin to engage.'

Big Harry Rooke rumbled something in reply and Keen rapped, 'They've no choice, man. One stupid move now and we'll be feeding the fish before dusk!'

He turned and saw Bolitho watching him.

'Mr Quantock is sorely ashamed of his record, sir. Twenty minutes to clear for action!' His attempt to joke seemed to steady him and he added, 'What are your orders for this memorable day, sir?'

Bolitho pointed. 'In a moment we will alter course three points to lee'rd. It is my guess that the frigate will close the range to take station on our quarter again. But he'll be much nearer."

If only his heart would settle. The tension might so easily reveal itself in his voice.

Keen looked past him at the frigate's shortened pyramid of canvas. 'She's new, like the third-rate. Probably to impress the Americans.' He did not conceal the bitterness. 'Whereas our masters thought fit to send the oldest sixty-four still in service!'

Bolitho walked to the rail and glanced along the gun-deck and the black eighteen-pounders. Their crews were stripped for battle and were concealed beneath the gangways or huddled against their guns with their tools and weapons.

'It will have to be quickly done, Val. The French seventy-four is well astern of us now. But it will take time. They'll be ready for us after we show our intentions.'

Keen nodded, his mind working on the next manoeuvre and the one after it. 'The third French vessel is smaller. Mr Mountsteven thinks she is a twenty-six-gun frigate. As I recall, she will be the Diane, a real veteran by comparison.'

Knocker turned the half-hour glass by the binnacle and said, 'Ready, sir.'

'Pass the word to the lower gun-deck.'

Keen looked round as Allday appeared from the poop. He was carrying Bolitho's old sword and his features were stiff as if to conceal the pain of his wound.

Bolitho held up his arms so that he could clip the sword into place.

Allday muttered, 'You should not be wearin' them epaulettes today, sir.' He shrugged and gave a brief grin. 'But I've sailed with you often enough to know better'n to argue, I suppose.'

Bolitho looked at the Frenchman's sails. He saw sunlight lance from a levelled telescope in her foretop. At any second they might see something suspicious and beat to quarters.

But he said, 'Take care of yourself, Allday. No risks today.'

He touched his arm, and two of the quarterdeck powder-monkeys nudged each other, the enemy forgotten as they shared something private.

Allday eyed him bleakly. 'Don't insult me, sir. If them buggers come at us, they'll find me ready enough, an' that's no error!'

Bolitho smiled. 'I also know better than to argue, old friend.'

He swung away as Keen said, 'They've made a signal to the Argonaute, sir!'

Midshipman Ferrier lowered his big signals telescope and said, 'It's code, sir.'

Bolitho said, 'Alter course.'

Ready and waiting, the helmsmen put the wheel over, and while others ran to trim the yards. Knocker reported, 'Three points it is, sir! Nor'-east by north!'

Bolitho could feel the difference as the wind thrust more forcefully into Achates' canvas.

Keen said, 'Recall Mr Mountsteven from aloft. I had all but forgotten him again.'

'The Frenchie's changin' tack, sir.'

Bolitho held his breath as the powerful frigate turned a point or so towards Achates and at the same time spread her main-course and driver.

Keen slammed a fist into his palm and exclaimed, 'He's overhauling us, sir.'

A marine dropped something on the poop as he crawled closer to the hammocks and Sergeant Saxton snarled, 'I'll skin you alive if you make another move!'

Bolitho watched the frigate and saw the clear spray bursting over her beak-head and bowsprit. If she continued to overhaul them she would pass down the starboard side at less than half a cable's distance.

He raised the telescope and saw intent faces staring across the lively water, strangely alien after the familiar ones he met every day.

'Stand by on the gun-deck!'

Keen folded his arms and stared at the enemy. As soon as Achates changed tack again she would be laid hard over to leeward by the wind. But her sudden manoeuvre would carry her across the frigate's bows. It was now or never, for in a matter of minutes both vessels would collide once Achates began to turn. 'Man the braces!'

Bolitho gripped the old sword and pressed it against his leg.

‘Now!'

The big wheel squeaked violently as the helmsmen threw their weight on the spokes, and as the yards began to shift with the wind two more ensigns were run up to the main and mizzen trucks.

'Open the ports! Lively there! Run out!'

Bolitho watched the frigate and could not take his eyes from the towering mass of sails and rigging as she swept towards Achates' side.

He heard a trumpet and pictured the wild confusion aboard as the vessel they had been stalking suddenly turned like a lion at bay, her guns bared, each one double-shotted, every captain seeking his own target.

Keen yelled, 'As you bear!' His arm flashed down. 'Fire!'

For an instant Bolitho thought he had left it too long. That he should not have wasted valuable time by hoisting his battle ensigns. If their roles had been reversed . . .

His mind cringed as the eighteen-pounders of the upper battery hurled themselves inboard, while from the lower gun-deck the heavier roar of the twenty-four-pounders shook the ship from truck to keel.

Men stumbled about in the choking smoke as it was swept through the open ports and above the gangway while Achates exposed her broadside to the wind.

At such a close range the effect was immediate and terrible.

The frigate's foremast and main-topmast staggered under the onslaught of the double-shotted guns. Then spars, sails and rigging joined together in one great avalanche of destruction which thundered over the bows and sides, hurling spray into the air and dragging the hull round.

'Sponge out! Reload!'

Keen shouted, 'Stand by to come about, Mr Quantock.' He did not need telling the need for haste.

As the helm went down again and Achates surged round into the wind, Bolitho was grateful that they had not made more sail. In such a stiff wind the ship might have been in irons, or worse, dismasted.

Gun by gun along the starboard side the captains were holding up their hands as each barrel poked its muzzle through a port.

The frigate was still floundering down-wind under the dragging weight of fallen spars and sails, but Bolitho was not deceived and knew what could happen once that wreckage was hacked away.

'Main-tops'l braces there! Heave! Put your backs into it!'

Achates continued to turn, the frigate suddenly appeared above her starboard bow as if she and not the little two-decker was moving.

To any inexperienced eye it would look like chaos. The boatswain and his party swarming out on the topsail yards to rig the chain-slings, while below them their ship pirouetted around her masts to cross the enemy's stern.

'Starboard battery! Ready!'

Keen had his hand in the air and did not even blink as here and there along the enemy's side a gun fired in defiance. But for her it was already too late, and as Achates crossed the frigate's starboard quarter even those guns fell silent, unable to traverse enough to find a target.

Bolitho saw a ripple of musket fire from the poop and mizzen-top and instant response from Dewar's sharpshooters.

He felt something like sickness in his stomach as Achates' jib-boom passed the frigate's stern. He saw her glittering cabin windows, her name, La Capricieuse, in gold letters across her counter.

Then Achates' starboard carronade belched fire from the forecastle and the enemy's stern and poop appeared to open like an obscene cave. When the carronade's massive ball burst within the crowded hull its packed charge of grape would transform the gun-deck into a slaughter-house.

Men, weapons, the rudder, everything would be blasted aside and incapable of movement for many hours.

Keen cupped his hands. 'Get the royals on her, Mr Quantock!'

He had no time to wait and worry about the carronade's harvest. The frigate was out of the fight.

Once again Achates clawed her way round to hold the wind on her quarter. It was as if nothing had changed. Not a man lost, not a scratch on wood or canvas.

Bolitho climbed the poop ladder and levelled his glass to seek the French seventy-four. Even in distance she looked fierce and enraged, he thought. She was spreading more sails, and had hoisted a signal to her yards for the benefit of her remaining companion.

He heard Knocker shout, 'East-nor'-east, sir!'

The Frenchman was steering north-east. Again they were on a converging tack. But the Argonaute held the wind-gage and would probably try to cripple her enemy by dismasting or by tearing down her rigging with chain-shot while keeping at a safe distance.

Bolitho trained the glass on the dismasted frigate. It must have been a terrible shock. Bolitho remembered his time as a prisoner of war in France. Never again, he had vowed then.

Keen touched his hat. 'All guns loaded and ready, sir.' He glanced aloft. 'Mr Rooke has even managed to rig his nets and slings.'

Bolitho smiled. 'I know it was a risk, Val.'

Keen looked away. 'You gave them fair warning. They'll not need it this time.'

He stared hard at the French seventy-four. Just over a mile distant, while the little frigate was standing away from her heavy consort and tacking down-wind to be ready to dash down and harry Achates from another angle. After seeing the fate of La Capricieuse it was unlikely she would force home an attack yet.

Bolitho also watched the French flagship and felt the nearness of their contest like claws in his loins. She was new, big and better armed. But Achates was more agile, and had proved her worth a hundred times over.

Keen was thinking aloud. 'If he holds the wind we cannot reach him, sir. Whereas he can move in when he pleases or chance some long shots which might score a serious hit.'

'I agree.' Bolitho climbed up to the nettings and peered over them. 'The other frigate, the Diane, she's steering for the west'rd, next she'll come about after us.' He shot him a grim smile. 'To snap at our heels!'

Keen nodded. 'She could do some damage if we were already engaged with the Argonaute, sit.'

Bolitho stepped down. 'Tell me what you think. Shall we use the Diane as bait?'

Keen's eyes lit up. 'Go for the frigate, sir?'

Bolitho nodded. 'Contre-Amiral Jobert is, I believe, an honourable sailor. I cannot see him standing by while his remaining frigate is attacked by a ship of the line!'

Bolitho looked at the sun. Only an hour since the carronade, the Smasher as it was termed, had blasted away the other frigate's resistance.

He said, 'You have a gun captain named Crocker. I met him at the fortress. A fearsome fellow but, I understand, the finest of his trade.'

Keen said, 'Lower gun-deck, sir. I'll send for him.'

Crocker came aft, his good eye shielded from the sun. After the cool gloom of the lower gun-deck he was finding it irksome. He knuckled his forehead and gazed at Bolitho, his deformed figure at odds with the scarlet-coated marines nearby.

Bolitho said, 'I want you to take charge of the two stern-chasers. We shall have company there directly, and when I give the word I want you to damage her badly enough to cause concern to her admiral.'

Crocker twisted his head further as if to fix his good eye on him.

Sir?'

Keen said wearily, 'Just do it, Crocker. The French seventy-four will close the range when her admiral sees what is happening.'

'Oh, I see, sir!'

'Pick all the men you want, but I need that frigate winged.'

Crocker showed his uneven teeth. "Bless you, sir, I thought you was makin' do with the little 'un!'

He loped away with his strange swinging gait, and Keen said, 'If we let the Frogs get alongside, old Crocker will frighten them to death!'

Bolitho loosened his neckcloth and looked at the sky. Sea-birds floated high above the embattled ships, indifferent, and coldly watching for the gruesome scraps which would soon be theirs.

He thought of Belinda, the green slope below Pendennis Castle where she could watch and wait for the ships to pass.

He heard Adam say, 'It won't be long.'

Bolitho looked at him. Was he afraid? Resentful that he might die so young?

But the lieutenant saw his glance and said, 'I'm all right, sir. I shall be ready.'

Bolitho smiled. 'I never doubted that. Come, Adam, let us take a walk together. It will pass the time.'

The swivel-gun crews and marine marksmen in the tops peered down as the vice-admiral and his youthful aide walked up and down the quarterdeck, their shadows passing over the naked backs of the seamen at their tackles with their rammers and charges.

Midshipman Ferrier lowered his glass for the hundredth time, his eye sore from staring at the oncoming seventy-four. It seemed such a short while ago that he had been thinking of home, of the chance to take his lieutenant's examination. In that towering pyramid of sails and the double line of guns which glinted in the sunlight like black teeth, he saw his hopes already gone. Now the thing which worried him most was whether or not he could stand up to what lay ahead.

He saw Bolitho pass by, speaking with his nephew, the way the flag-lieutenant was smiling at something he said. When he raised his telescope again his fear had gone.

On the lower gun-deck Midshipman Owen Evans peered through the gloom until he found Lieutenant Hallowes who was in charge of the twenty-six cannons here and ran to pass a message from the captain.

Hallowes listened to what the midshipman reported and remarked laconically, "Pon my soul, Walter, we're goin' for the frigate first!'

His assistant, the fifth lieutenant, laughed as if it was the greatest joke he had ever heard.

Evans paused at the foot of a ladder, his eyes taking in the red-painted sides, the shining skins of the men by the open ports, the air of watchful tension. Every man had his ears covered by his neckerchief. In this confined space the roar of the twenty-four pounders could deafen anyone in minutes.

Evans stared at his hand on the scrubbed woodwork. It was shaking uncontrollably, as if it had a will all of its own.

The shock made him look round at the gun-deck again. It was unlike the other times when he had been on deck near the vice-admiral when the Spanish ship had burst into flames after that fierce battle. Or even when he had taken command of Sparrowhawk's boat. It was nothing like it at all.

Scenes flashed before his eyes. His pride and excitement at being accepted as midshipman in a fine frigate like Sparrow-hawk. His first uniform made with loving care by his own father. Evans came of a large family, but he was the only one who had chosen the sea rather than tailoring.

Foord, the fifth lieutenant, saw the boy hesitating by the ladder and snapped, 'Move your feet, lad. There'll be messages aplenty in a moment or two!' Foord had once been a midshipman in this very ship and was only nineteen himself. He added in a gentler tone, 'What is it, Mr Evans?'

Evans stared up at him. 'Nothing, sir.' But his mind was screaming instead, I’m going to be killed. I'm going to die.

Foord watched him run up the ladder and sighed. Probably still thinking about Captain Duncan's death, he thought.

On the orlop deck beneath Foord's feet, Tuson, the surgeon, walked slowly round his makeshift table, his eyes taking in the array of glittering saws and probes, the empty 'wings and limbs' tubs, the leather strap to wedge between a man's teeth. The great jar of rum to ease the agony. Away from the slowly spiralling lanterns his mates and loblolly boys stood like ghouls, their hands tucked in their clean aprons while they too waited.

Tuson entered his small sick-bay and stared unseeingly at the cots, at the cupboard which contained more rum and brandy. He found that he was clenching his fists, his mouth like parchment as he imagined what that first drink would be like.

He heard footsteps outside and saw Corporal Dobbs with his musket and fixed bayonet peering at him uncertainly. Dobbs had the additional duty of ship's corporal in which he assisted the master-at-arms. But now he was a proper Royal Marine again and was needed at his station on deck.

Tuson saw that Sir Humphrey Rivers was also standing by the door, his head bowed between the great deckhead beams.

Dobbs said uncomfortably, 'Couldn't very well put a gentleman like 'im in the cells, sir.'

Tuson nodded. In case the ship went down under them, he thought.

Dobbs continued, 'An' it didn't seem proper to leave 'im with the Froggies we picked up from the wreck.'

Tuson looked at Rivers. 'If you stay here, Sir Humphrey, it may not be pleasant either.'

Rivers looked at the swaying shadows, the sense of doom which seemed to lurk here.

'It will be better than being alone.' He nodded curtly. 'I appreciate it.'

His face filled with relief that he had rid himself of his burden, the corporal all but ran to the ladder.

Bottles and jars clinked on the shelves as a gun banged out from aft.

Tuson exclaimed, 'What are they doing?'

Rivers smiled coldly. 'Stern-chaser.'

Tuson massaged his fingers. 'You've not forgotten then?'

Rivers hung his richly embroidered coat on a hook. 'That's one thing you never forget.'

Deep in the ship's fat hull, in his own private store-room, Tom Ozzard, the vice-admiral's servant, folded his arms and rocked back and forth as if he was in pain.

By the light of a single lantern he could see all of Bolitho's possessions stacked around him. It seemed wrong to leave them in such careless disarray, Ozzard thought. The fine table and chairs, the splendid wine-cooler, the desk and the cot, like everything else above the orlop deck which had been removed and torn down when the ship had been cleared for action. Now on both gun-decks Achates lay open from bow to stern, the crews unimpeded, the way clear for the young powder-monkeys to run with fresh charges and shot.

Ozzard had heard the boats being swung out and lowered for towing astern. Once action was joined the boats would be cut free, to be recovered by the victor, whoever it was. But tiered boats on deck were an additional source of deadly, crippling splinters when an enemy's iron crashed inboard.

Ozzard looked at the bolted door and shivered. It was cold down here where he kept his wine, and in times like these took refuge.

Like Allday, he was privileged to come and go as he pleased, and was grateful for the profession Bolitho had given him. Now in his store, in the lowest portion of Achates' hull, he was afraid. But it did not trouble him. He had accepted it long ago.

When he had carried the fresh chicken to the cabin for Bolitho, he had found time to glance at the master's chart below the poop.

Ozzard held his arms across his narrow chest even more tightly. Below where he sat was the keel, and beyond it there was nothing but a bottomless ocean.

He winced as another gun made the deck quiver. But it seemed far away and without danger. Later he might venture up on deck. There was another muffled bang and he decided to wait.

Isolated from the enclosed world between decks, Bolitho climbed to the poop and looked at the French seventy-four. She had spread more canvas, but although she had closed the distance between them she had not yet fired a shot. He estimated that she had changed tack slightly and was now steering along an almost parallel course. By contrast, the little frigate had run with the wind before coming about to take station on Achates' lee quarter.

He said, 'Open fire.' He heard his order being passed to the quarterdeck, felt the response as the helm went over and the ship came reluctantly as close to the wind as she could manage.

He watched as the frigate appeared to move over until she lay directly astern. Then, as the word reached him far below, old Crocker jerked his trigger-line and the starboard stern-chaser recoiled with a sharp bang. Bolitho did not blink, and thought he saw the dark blur of the ball as it reached the apex of its flight before it splashed down almost alongside, the tall waterspout falling and scattering in the wind.

Bolitho heard the marines at the netting whispering and probably making bets on the next shot.

Old Crocker was good all right. He had almost winged the frigate with his first ball.

Now he had the range, and the 'feel' of it, as every gun captain should. Furthermore, the Diane's captain would know it.

The frigate fired one of her bow-chasers, and its thin spout of water well astern of Achates brought a roar of derision from the marines.

Their lieutenant snapped, 'Sar'nt Saxton, you will oblige me by keeping those ruffians quiet and in good order!' But he was grinning as he spoke and the reprimand was more for Bolitho's benefit than anything.

Adam climbed to the poop with a telescope and looked astern as another gun fired from below the counter.

This time there was no splash to betray the fall of shot. Instead a great streamer of torn topsail broke free and curled from its yard like a pale banner.

Bolitho heard the muffled cheers from below. They had hit her. If one of Crocker's eighteen-pound balls struck the Diane's slender hull it could be serious.

Adam exclaimed, 'Look, sir! Argonaute's setting her main-course!'

The seventy-four seemed to puff herself up as with sail upon sail she leaned over to the wind, her lower gun-ports almost awash as she changed tack towards Achates.

Bolitho heard Keen shout, 'Let her fall off three points again, Mr Knocker! Steer nor'-east by north!'

Even as the hands hauled at the braces and Knocker stood over the binnacle like a watchful hawk, Crocker fired yet again, and this time one of the frigate's jib sails was cut away to join its ragged companion.

Quantock was yelling, 'Mr Mountsteven! Another pull at the weather-forebrace there! Now belay, dammit, sir!'

Men bustled about at the braces and halliards, while only the crews of the starboard guns, which pointed towards the enemy, remained at their stations.

Bolitho gripped the nettings as the deck tilted to the thrust of the canvas overhead.

The French captain would have to close the range whether he wanted to or not. Unless he ordered his frigate to stand away, in which case Achates would be able to meet his challenge gun to gun. Bolitho smiled. Well . . . almost.

One of the marines who was leaning against the hammocks, his musket already cradled against his cheek, saw Bolitho's smile and dared to say, 'Us'Il teach them Frogs a lesson, sir!'

He seemed to realize he had spoken to a vice-admiral uninvited and lapsed into confused silence.

Bolitho glanced at him. He did not even know his name.

In a while they would be fighting for their very lives. The heaviest casualties were usually aft on the unprotected poop and quarterdeck. This marine might be one of them.

He said, 'I am relying on it.' He looked at their expectant faces, hating his own words. 'So give your best, lads.'

There was a jarring crash as Crocker laid and fired another gun. The frigate had changed tack very slightly, but it had not passed unnoticed by the grotesque gun captain. As her shape lengthened momentarily Crocker pulled his trigger-line and the ball smashed through the enemy's larboard gangway, hurling planks and splintered wood high into the air.

There were more cheers, and Bolitho held his breath as the frigate paid off down-wind, her torn canvas still whipping above the deck as she opened the range between them.

Then he ran down the poop ladder and strode to the rail above the gun-deck.

It would be very soon. He glanced quickly abeam and saw the seventy-four's bows edging into view, her canvas bulging to the wind as she changed tack still further towards the Achates.

'Stand by!'

The cheering ceased instantly and gun crews crouched beside their eighteen-pounders, staring through the ports. 'As you bear!'

The French ship had the wind-gauge, but so strong was the pressure in Achates' sails that her gun muzzles were elevated to maximum advantage by the slanting decks.

‘Fire!'

Deck by deck, gun by gun, the carefully aimed broadside flashed along Achates' side from stern to forecastle. Some of the forward guns were traversed to full extent, their crews leaning on their handspikes until they too could train on the enemy.

Bolitho watched intently as the Argonaute's topsails danced wildly, the wind ready and eager to explore the holes punched by the double-shotted guns.

Along and beyond her hull he saw the sea alive with flung spray as more balls slammed down with terrible impact.

It was impossible to determine if they had hit anything vital. But the range was still closing, the French captain just as aware as Keen of the danger of a lucky shot. One ship knocked out of the fight, another driven off by Crocker's two stern-chasers, the French captain would feel the humiliation too with his admiral breathing down his neck.

Bolitho saw the flashing line of bright tongues from the seventy-four's side, tensed for the sickening shriek of iron, the crash of shots slamming into timber. Instead he heard the insane whine of chain-shot and saw long streamers of broken rigging floating from the upper yards, the forward topgallant sail ripped apart like a handkerchief in the invisible onslaught.

'Ready!' Keen had his hand up high. 'Fire!'

Again the guns recoiled madly on their tackles, their crews leaping forward to sponge out and ram in fresh charges while the muzzles were still spewing smoke.

'Ready!' Keen wiped his streaming face with his forearm. 'Fire!'

The gunnery was superb. All the drills, the demanding discipline, were paying off now. Two broadsides to Argonaute's one.

They were hitting her too. Her mizzen-topmast was dangling like a fallen bridge, and her sails were pock-marked by shot and flying splinters.

Bolitho held his breath again as the guns flashed along the enemy's side.

He felt the jarring thud of balls hitting the hull, and saw the fore-course punctured in several places at once. The wind did the rest, and soon the fore-course was little more than rags.

‘Fire!'

The pace was slower, the response more irregular, as the gun captains jerked their lines and jumped clear as each great breech charged inboard again.

There was a great crack and then amidst a writhing tangle of stays and rigging Achates' main-topgallant mast thundered down. It ploughed into the larboard gangway like a battering ram, tearing aside the protective nets as if they were cobwebs before toppling overboard.

Rooke and his men were there in an instant, axes flashing as they cut the wreckage away. Two seamen were down too. Dead or knocked unconscious by falling rigging, Bolitho did not know.

The guns roared out once more, the din scraping at his mind, as fallen cordage and great strips of canvas fell over the sweating gun crews while they reloaded and then fired again.

Keen shouted, 'Argonaute's coming at us, sir!'

He looked wild-eyed, his hat knocked from his head in the turmoil which surged around him.

Bolitho wiped his eyes and looked at the enemy. The trick had worked. The Argonaute was charging down-wind with every available sail set, her forward guns firing haphazardly, some hitting, but others, because of the fine angle of approach, ripping through wave-crests far astern.

The little frigate had made no attempt to press home her attack, and was probably grateful to be a mere spectator. She was too far away now to be of any use. It was already too late for last-minute strategy.

Bolitho heard himself shout above the crash and recoil of the guns, 'It's men not ships, Val! They're what count in the end!'

Smoke belched over the gangway and a marine fell from the main-top, his scream lost in the bombardment. One of the forward eighteen-pounders was on its side, two men down and bleeding badly beside it, another writhing and screaming, pinned to the deck by its overheated muzzle.

Men from the disengaged side ran to replace the dead and injured, others obeyed Quantock's speaking-trumpet and hurried to splice hasty repairs and set the big main-course. It was too close to the fighting, too great a risk if fire should spread from sparks or a burning wad from a gun.

Bolitho gauged the distance. The French ship was a cable away, her guns firing intermittently, but at this range she was hitting Achates again and again.

Keen was right to set the bigger sails. If Achates lost steerage-way now through lack of canvas, she would fall down-wind and present her unprotected stern to the Frenchman's heavy guns and suffer the same fate as the frigate. If the enemy got the chance to fire through Achates full length, both decks would suffer crushing losses.

Bolitho raised his smarting eyes to the foremast and saw his flag flying above the smoke and destruction. As the French admiral would see it. The additional spur to drive him on, to bring both ships together regardless of consequences.

'Fire!' Keen paused only until the guns roared out towards the enemy. 'Mr Trevenen! Take charge there!'

Bolitho saw that Mountsteven was lying near one of his guns. He had lost an arm, and part of his face had been scorched like burned canvas.

The lower gun-deck was firing without respite, and Bolitho could picture it as if he were there. It had once been his station as a midshipman, a thousand years ago. The red-painted sides to hide the blood of battle, the leaping, grotesque shadows of the gun crews as they pranced and struggled around their weapons, and all the while the low confines of the deck filled with smoke, like a scene from Dante's inferno.

A ball came through an open gun-port, and Bolitho could follow its progress as men were hurled aside, some painted in blood as one of their companions was almost cut in halves before it eventually crashed into the opposite side. Men fell and rolled in torment, and Bolitho saw Tyrrell striding among the debris and patterns of blood, his wooden stump adding to his fierce and wild appearance.

Another ball slammed through the quarterdeck nettings and flung hammocks across the deck like torn dolls. Two helmsmen dropped, and one of the master's mates fell screaming, a foot-long wood splinter in his stomach like a barbed arrow.

Bolitho looked round frantically but saw Adam pulling himself to his feet. Through the smoke, his voice lost in noise and deafness of battle, he smiled before turning away to assist the after-guard.

'By God, sir, this is too damn hot for my taste!'

Bolitho looked at Allday. He was obviously in pain, but was gripping his cutlass with both hands like a broadsword.

Bolitho felt his hat plucked from his head and knew that they were close enough for the marksmen to test their skills.

'Walk about, Allday, or go below.' He tried to grin but his face felt stiff, like leather.

A midshipman darted forward and retrieved his hat. There was a neat hole just below the binding.

Bolitho made himself smile. 'Why, thank you, Mr — '

But the youth merely stared at him, the life dying in his eyes, like a candle being snuffed out. Then he fell, blood flooding from his mouth.

Bolitho replaced his hat and stared at the enemy. He had not even remembered the boy's name.

A great shadow swept across the deck, followed by a chorus of shouts and screams. The fore-topmast, complete with topgallant mast and spars, had been shot away as cleanly as a carrot. It thundered over the side, taking rigging, men and pieces of men in its wake.

He heard Allday gasp, 'Th' flag, sir! They've shot your flag away!'

Even in the midst of disaster and death Bolitho could feel his outrage and bewilderment.

Bolitho drew the old sword and carefully laid the scabbard on the deck without really knowing what he had done.

The enemy was almost alongside, the guns still firing, the air filled with flying, whining fragments.

So this was where it was to be. Destiny had always known. Men merely deluded themselves.

He saw some sailors below the quarterdeck cringing as more falling wreckage bounced on the nets or splashed into the sea alongside.

They had given everything. Far more than should be expected of them.

He flung his hat down on the nearest gun and yelled, 'Come on, my lads! One last broadside!'

A gold epaulette was cut from his shoulder by a musket ball and a marine scooped it up and hid it in his tunic.

Dazed, bloody and filthy with powder smoke, the seamen returned to their guns, their rammers moving like extensions of themselves, their eyes blind to everything but the bright tricolour above the smoke.

Bolitho shouted, 'One more broadside, then she'll be into us, Val!'

Then he realized that Keen was clutching his side and there was blood on his fingers and white breeches. He saw Bolitho's concern and shook his head.

Between his teeth he gasped, 'Not yet, the people must not see me fall!'

Quantock saw what had happened and waved his hat. 'Fire!'

The guns roared out at point-blank range, the balls passing through a return of fire from the enemy. Splinters burst from the deck, men reeled about gasping, others yelled orders to those who had already fallen.

Quantock was aware mainly of a feeling of triumph. At the very moment when they were to engage at close quarters, when hard discipline and not softness would win through, he and not Keen had been the one to take command.

But something was wrong. He was slipping and then falling. But it was all right. Someone would help him. By the time he realized that the blood was his own, his eyes, like the midshipman who had retrieved Bolitho's hat, were dead.

18

How Sleep the Brave?

Here and there along both ships guns continued to fire right until the moment of collision. It was as if the men on the lower deck were out of control, or were so dazed by the continuous thunder of their guns they no longer associated with anything outside their private hell.

On the upper deck the air was filled with death as musket and pistol-fire was directed towards officers and seamen alike.

Bolitho watched the gap narrowing between the hulls, the trapped water leaping over the tumblehome and changing to steam on the blistered gun muzzles.

Shots hammered the deck or smacked into the hammock-nettings, while from the fighting tops a murderous hail of canister ripped above the smoke and painted the decks of friend and foe alike with glittering rivulets of blood.

Keen clung to the quarterdeck rail with one hand while he pressed the other to his side, so that his coat helped to slow the loss of blood from his wound. But his face was deathly pale, and he made no effort to move as musket balls ploughed into the deck by his feet or cracked among the men around him.

Adam drew his curved hanger and yelled, 'Here they come!'

His eyes were very bright as the two hulls crashed together and more broken spars fell from aloft to hold them fast.

Allday thrust his shoulder against Bolitho, the cutlass weaving about as if to reach the enemy as he shouted, 'They'll make for you, sir!'

Indeed, some French boarders had already clambered across from the Argonaute's beak-head as it ground over the forecastle, the rigging and nets becoming further entwined as the sea lifted and rolled both ships together.

But a crackle of musket-fire brought some of them down before they could cut the nets, and several were run through with boarding pikes even as they tried to retreat.

Captain Dewar waved his sword. 'At 'em, Marines!'

They were his last words on earth as a ball took away his jaw and flung him down a poop ladder to the deck below. His lieutenant, Hawtayne, stared aghast at his superior, unable to accept that he was dead.

Then he yelled, 'Follow me!'

Bolitho watched the scarlet coats dashing into the smoke towards the bows, some falling, others firing their last shots before using their bayonets as more boarders dropped seemingly from the sky itself on to the decks.

It was too much and the enemy too many. Bolitho heard them cheering, the sound changing to screams and curses as another swivel cut through their ranks like a bloody scythe.

He saw Midshipman Evans cowering by the companion hatch.

'Get below! Tell them to keep firing! Tell them it's my order!'

It might set both ships ablaze but it was their only chance.

From the corner of his eye he saw more French seamen climbing their mizzen shrouds, the smoky sunlight glinting on steel as they waited for the sea and wind to push the two hulls into a closer embrace. Soon there would be more men to support them from the lower deck.

Bolitho winced as some of the Achates' twenty-four-pounders roared out against the Frenchman's side. Smoke, sparks and splinters flew above the gangway and several of the enemy boarders vanished to be trapped or ground between the ships.

There were Frenchmen running along the gangway, although he had not seen them fight their way aboard. One, a lieutenant, cut down a seaman as he tried to jump clear, and several shots cracked over the quarterdeck where Knocker and his men stood around the wheel like survivors on a raft.

The French officer saw Keen by the rail and lunged forward with his sword. Bolitho realized that Keen had his eyes tightly closed against the pain and stood no chance of saving himself.

Bolitho shouted, and when the lieutenant's eyes turned towards him he struck him across the neck with the old blade, and as he tumbled over, his scream choking on blood, Allday brought his cutlass down on his ribs like a woodsman with a rebellious tree.

Steel clashed on steel as Achates' seamen rallied on the quarterdeck, their eyes and minds empty of everything but the need to fight and not to fall under those stamping feet and cruel blades.

Bolitho saw Adam lock swords with another French lieutenant and wanted to reach him, to help in any way he could. But even in the noise and horror of the hand-to-hand fighting Bolitho was able to see his nephew's skill as a swordsman, the way he took the weight of a heavier opponent and used it against him. Then he began to advance, stamping down with his right foot as with each thrust and parry he forced his adversary back towards the forecastle.

Allday yelled, 'Watch out!'

Bolitho swung round and saw a petty officer aiming a pistol at him. A blade flashed past his eyes and the pistol dropped to the deck and exploded. The Frenchman's hand was still gripped around it.

With a cut across his forehead, a cutlass in one hand and a belaying-pin in the other, Tyrrell managed to gasp, 'Near thing!' Then like an unsteadying giant he forced his way amongst the struggling men, his weapons swinging and hacking while he bellowed encouragement to anyone who could still understand him.

On the lower gun-deck it was frightening because of the clatter and slap of feet overhead. It was as if a mob had gone completely mad and out of control.

Midshipman Evans groped through the smoke as he tried to find his way back to the upper deck. He slipped on some blood and almost fell across the body of a dead gun captain, then as he regained his feet he saw figures clambering through an open port where a gun had recoiled and had been abandoned for lack of powder. They were the enemy.

The shock held him motionless, unable to breathe, as he realized that the other ship was pressed tightly alongside.

He wanted to run, to hide from the fighting and terrible sights around him. But a wounded seaman staggered away from one of the guns, his fingers clutching a deep wound in his stomach, his eyes white and rolling with agony as he tried to escape.

Two French sailors saw him and charged beneath the deck beams. The seaman fell and tried to grasp Evans' foot with his fingers.

He gasped, 'Help me! Please, in the name o' God!'

Evans was only thirteen years old, but even in his pain and despair the seaman had recognized authority and perhaps safety in the blue coat and white breeches.

Evans dragged out his short midshipman's dirk and pointed it at the two Frenchmen.

They both slithered to a halt, their madness checked by the sight of their small opponent.

In the half-darkness old Crocker's white hair moved through the smoke like a patch of light.

He swung a rammer with both hands and knocked the men to their knees. Another seaman joined him, his cutlass just a blur as he finished it.

Crocker twisted his head to stare at the midshipman and then wheezed, 'Proper little fire-eater, ain't 'e?'

Evans stared up the ladder as someone clattered down towards him. His mind could not accept what had happened, other than that he was alive.

Adam Bolitho wiped his eyes as the smoke funnelled up around him. It was hard to breathe, let alone see what was happening.

'Where's the fourth lieutenant?'

He saw the long rammer in Crocker's hands, the reddened cutlass held by one of the seamen.

Lieutenant Hallowes lurched through the smoke, his hanger held at the ready.

'Who the hell wants me?' He saw Adam and grinned. 'Why, our dashing flag-lieutenant!'

Adam asked urgently, 'How are you managing?"

Hallowes waved his blade carelessly. 'I've got my people at the starboard ports, as you can see.' He gestured angrily. 'Simms! Cut that Frog down!'

It was like a macabre dance. A French seaman dashed from the smoke, his hands over his head as if to protect himself. He must have flung himself bodily through a gun-port expecting to find the gun-deck filled with his companions. He dropped to his knees, his eyes very white in the smoky gloom.

A marine sentry from the main companion lunged forward with his bayonet, the force so great that he pinned the luckless Frenchman to the deck.

Adam tore his eyes away. 'I've an idea. We'll go aft, through the wardroom.' He wondered if Hallowes understood or cared. He looked half-mad. 'The Argonaute has a big stern gallery ..."

Hallowes exclaimed, 'Board her?' He looked up as a violent crash shook the deck timbers. 'How is it up there?'

Adam thought of the exposed quarterdeck and terrible splinters, the combined chorus of yells and screams as men fought each other to win mastery of the ship.

'Bad. But many of the French boarders came from below decks.'

He ducked as a ball slammed through a port and ricocheted from a gun on the larboard side.

He looked at Crocker. 'Could you blow down her mainmast?'

Crocker stared at him and then said hoarsely, 'Course, sir. I'm with you.' He rattled off several names and men ran from the guns to join him.

Hallowes glared at him, the wildness momentarily held at bay.

'Why? What's the point? We'll never get out alive.'

Adam tossed down his scabbard as he had seen Bolitho do and shrugged. How could he explain? Even if he wanted to. In his mind he saw Bolitho up there on the torn and splintered deck. He was the obvious target. Without him there would be no resistance now that Keen was wounded and Quantock killed. In seconds it would too late.

He said simply, 'I owe him everything. Everything, d'you understand?' He did not wait for an answer but shouted as he ran aft, 'Come on, boy, if you care to!'

Hallowes wiped his mouth with his hand and gave a wild laugh.

'Don't you boy me, Mister Bolitho!'

Then he was running after him, others snatching up loaded pistols to follow even though they knew not where.

Evans stared aft to the wardroom, his mind reeling. Then he saw an officer lying propped against one of the guards and knew it was Foord, the fifth lieutenant, who moments earlier had been trying to reassure him.

He knelt beside him and saw the blood which soaked the lieutenant's waistcoat and breeches. He was dying even as he watched, and did not even flinch as another ball slammed into the upper hull and made the ship tremble as if she had hit a reef.

Foord saw the young midshipman and attempted to speak. Evans held his hand, not knowing what to say. 'Tell the captain ..." His eyes rolled up in agony. 'Tell him ..."

Evans felt his hand stiffen and then go limp. He wondered vaguely why he was no longer afraid. With great care he prised the hanger from Foord's fingers. He could feel the lieutenant's empty stare on him as he stood up and walked deliberately aft towards the wardroom.

'Ready, lads?' Adam looked at their strained faces.

Crocker slung his leather bag over one shoulder and eyed the Frenchman's ornate stern right alongside. The gallery was a few feet higher than the wardroom, but it would provide some cover when they attempted to board her. Crocker nodded. 'Give the word.'

Adam pulled himself through the shattered stern windows and after a small hesitation leapt out on to the other ship's quarter. For a moment he thought he would lose his grip and fall into the sea. There were several corpses already bobbing between the two sterns. Unconcerned and untroubled by the savage battle overhead.

At any moment he expected a face to loom over the gilded rail, to feel the thrust of steel or the blast of a pistol.

He slipped his arm around a life-sized carved figure of a mermaid which adorned the end of the gallery. Her twin on the opposite side had been beheaded by a ball earlier in the battle.

Adam eased himself warily around the mermaid, very conscious of her unmoving stare, the touch of her gold breast under his fingers. All at once he wanted to laugh like Hallowes had done. The complete insanity of it all was beyond his grasp.

He looked again at the mermaid's placid features and thought suddenly of Robina. Just a dream. He ought to have realized it.

Hallowes shouted, 'Move yourself, boy, make way for a King's officer!'

They both laughed like madmen and then Adam was up and over the rail, his feet sliding in broken glass as he kicked open a window and vaulted into the big cabin beyond. As in Achates, the ship had been completely cleared for action. But the place seemed empty except for corpses and moaning wounded, while some other figures were leaning out through the ports to lock blades with the men on Achates' lower gun-deck.

A French petty officer, wounded in one arm, saw the figures burst through the smoke and opened his mouth to yell a warning.

Hallowes hacked him across the face with his hanger and ran on towards the great trunk of the ship's mainmast. It was huge, like a smooth pillar, and when Adam leaned on it to regain his breath he felt it trembling under all its weight of topmast, rigging and spars as if it were alive.

Crocker bent down without hesitation and with a gunner's mate made a quick lashing around the mast with bags of powder arranged at intervals like a necklace.

Figures swayed through the haze and a pistol ball smacked into one of the British seamen like a metal fist. He dropped without making a sound.

Crocker swivelled his good eye. 'Slow-match, matey!'

He pressed it to the short fuse and made to back away.

Hallowes aimed his pistol and fired into the nearest group of shadows. 'We'll hold 'em off! The buggers'Il cut the fuse otherwise!"

Adam bounded forward to touch blades with a French officer. He felt the man's breath on his face as they reeled against one of the guns, the hatred giving way to fear as he pushed him clear with the hanger's stirrup-hilt and then cut him down with a blow across the shoulder.

Hallowes darted past him and hurled his empty pistol into a man's face, and when he staggered hacked him down with two quick slashes across arm and neck.

But more men were clambering down a ladder from the deck above, their legs pale against the trapped smoke and dark paintwork. One of Hallowes' seamen stabbed through the ladder with a pike and sent one of them screaming on top of his companions, but a pistol shot killed him before he could recover his balance.

Adam strained his eyes through the choking smoke. But he could see none of the others. Crocker had probably run aft before his charges exploded, and of Hallowes there was no sign.

Two French seamen loomed around an abandoned gun. One raised a pistol but Adam knocked it upwards so that the ball cracked into a deckhead beam. The second man hurled himself the last few feet and smashed Adam on to his back.

The lanyard around his wrist snapped and he heard his hanger fly clattering across the deck.

The seaman was big and extremely powerful. He held Adam's wrists, his tarred fingers like steel as he forced them out on to the planking, as if he were being crucified.

Adam could feel his knee smashing up between his legs to find his groin and cripple him before he could struggle free.

He tried again but it was hopeless, and knew that despite the battle which raged over both ships this man was enjoying the moment.

Adam heard himself cry out in agony as the man's knee jammed into his groin. He tried not to show his pain and despair, but lights flashed before his eyes as he hit him again.

A small shadow rose above the man's shoulders and then all the pain ceased as the French seaman rolled sideways on to the deck.

Midshipman Evans stared at the man with disbelief. Then, as Adam tried to get to his feet, he lowered the hanger with which he had hit his attacker and said urgently, This way, sir! I've found a place - '

The rest of his words were drowned by one terrible bang.

Adam got to his knees, the pain searing through his loins like a hot iron. He was blinded by smoke and flying dust and his ears had lost all sense of hearing.

He grasped the boy's shoulder and lurched through the choking fog, only partly aware of what was happening.

He felt Evans pull at his torn coat and wanted to protest as he lost his balance and fell headlong between two of the guns. Through his dazed and confused thoughts he knew he could see sunlight where there should be none.

Then as Evans crouched down beside him he saw a great jagged spar which had crashed through the deck above and then the planking within a yard of where he had been standing.

It was made worse by the complete silence. He saw Hallowes staggering through the dust and pausing to stare up at the seemingly endless length of mast and broken shrouds which poked through the hole like a battering-ram.

Hallowes saw him and yelled something, his face set in a crazy grin as he waved his blade at Crocker's handiwork.

Adam dragged himself to his feet and leaned on the midshipman's shoulder. His hearing was returning and he realized that the din, if possible, was worse than before.

Hallowes shouted, 'That'll give them something to ponder about!'

Now that he had completely given up the idea of staying alive he seemed beyond fear.

Evans thrust the fifth lieutenant's hanger into Adam's hand and they stared at each other like confused strangers.

Like his hearing, his memory came back with brutal urgency.

He heard himself say sharply, "Come on then, let's be about it!'

Even that reminded him of his uncle so that he knew instantly what he must do.

Tyrrell yelled, 'Can't hold 'em back any longer!'

He brought his belaying-pin down on the head of a man trying to wriggle over the torn hammock-nettings and struck out at another with his cutlass.

Bolitho did not waste his breath to reply. His lungs were on fire and his sword-arm felt like lead as he drove off another boarder and saw him fall on to the mizzen-chains.

It was hopeless. Had been from the beginning. The whole of the upper gun-deck seemed full of the enemy, while Achates' men rallied again on poop and quarterdeck, their eyes blazing, their chests heaving from their efforts.

He saw Allday raise his cutlass as a French seaman clambered up through the quarterdeck rail, the terror on the man's face giving way to triumph as he realized that for some reason the English coxswain was unable to move.

Bolitho jumped over a wounded marine and drove his blade blindly beneath the rail. He felt the point jar into the man's shoulder-blade and then slide easily into his body before he fell screaming out of sight.

Bolitho thrust his arm around Allday and dragged him away from the rail.

'Easy, man!' He waited for Midshipman Ferrier to run to his aid as he added, 'You've done enough!'

Allday twisted his head to stare at him, his eyes blurred and wretched.

'It's my right to ...

A ball ripped through Bolitho's coat and he vaguely saw Langtry, the master-at-arms, cut down the marksman with a boarding axe.

They were all dying. And for what?

A new explosion made both ships roll and groan together, and for an instant Bolitho imagined that a magazine had caught fire, that both ships would be joined in one terrible pyre.

Swords and cutlasses hovered in mid air, marines paused in their desperate efforts to reload their muskets, as like a towering forest giant the Frenchman's mainmast began to topple. It seemed to take an eternity, so that even some of the wounded tried to prop themselves up to watch, or called to their friends to discover what was happening.

Bolitho let his arm fall to his side, the pain tearing at his muscles as if they were exposed.

Knocker yelled hoarsely, 'There it goes, by Jesus!'

Slowly, and then with greater haste, the mast began to drop. Topmast and topgallant, spars and loosely brailed canvas tore apart as shrouds and stays snapped like threads, unable to hold the tremendous weight or restrain its fall. The fighting-top, complete with swivel-guns, barricades and men, split in halves, hurling its occupants to the deck below, or carrying them down with the topmast as it crashed through timber, rigging and guns into the hull beneath.

Even in Achates Bolitho could feel the weight and power of the fallen mast, the way the deck beneath his feet tilted steeply to the new pressure.

A trumpet blared through the rising smoke and some of the boarders retreated into a larger group near the forecastle.

It was the usual sailor's instinct to save his own ship no matter what.

Bolitho cleared his raw throat and shouted, 'To me, Achates!’

It was their only chance, if a precious frail one.

But from forward came a sharp command and then a sparkling line of musket-fire. Bolitho stared, unable to believe it. It was like the moment at San Felipe when Dewar had chosen his moment on the track to the fortress. The neat lines of scarlet, the muskets ready and waiting. But now Dewar lay dead, his face shot away, his body trampled on a dozen times as they had fought back and forth across him. And the marines had not been waiting, gauging the moment. They had been in action since the first shots.

And yet they were doing it. He could see Hawtayne's hat above the smoke, hear his shrill voice as he shouted, 'Rear rank, advance! Present! Fire!'

The shots raked through the packed mass of French boarders.

There would be no time to reload.

Bolitho dashed down one of the quarterdeck ladders, the pain of his wound forgotten as he ran through the litter of bodies and fallen rigging, his eyes fixed on the enemy.

Hawtayne was calling, 'Advance!' The bayonets glittered in the hazy light as the marines moved into the attack.

Bolitho saw a young officer running to meet his challenge. He was about the same age as Adam, with similar dark good looks. The steel clanged against steel and Bolitho was almost blinded by the realization that his nephew was very likely dead.

The young French officer lost his stance as Bolitho parried his blade away. Just for the merest split-second he saw the officer's eyes widen with understanding or acceptance. Then he was down. Bolitho pulled the sword free and felt his men surge past him, their voices strengthened by the sudden change of roles.

Lieutenant Scott waved his sword. 'Boarders away!'

Cheering, cursing, and sometimes dying, a tide of seamen and marines fought their way across to the other ship.

Bolitho hacked another officer to one side but could barely raise his sword now. How long could they hold out?

He was on the gangway, carried part of the way along by his men as they rushed aft to seize the poop.

Small pictures flashed across Bolitho's mind. Adam's face when he had tried to tell him about the girl in Boston. Tyrrell's old pride returning as he had stepped aboard the ship for passage to a country he had never seen. Little Evans, watching the burning Spanish ship, or following him like a small shadow. And Allday, trying to protect him when his own terrible wound was tearing him apart. Pulling him down like a fallen oak.

Shouts and screams exploded across the broad quarterdeck and bodies were flung about in bloody bundles from a murderous blast of canister.

Bolitho wiped the sweat from his eyes with his forearm and stared up at the poop.

He must really be mad. But surely it was Adam and another lieutenant up there with some of Achates' men? The smoking swivel, depressed on to the mass of defending seamen and their officers, had had the same effect as the sight of the marines charging from the smoke with their levelled bayonets.

Lieutenant Scott forgot all his usual self-control and clapped Bolitho hard across the shoulder.

'By God, it's the flag-lieutenant, sir! The young devil's blown the heart out of 'em!'

He ran after his men but paused to look back at his vice-admiral. It was just a glance, but it spoke more than a thousand words.

The enemy still outnumbered Achates' men and at any moment a leader would emerge, one for them to follow, to renew the fight.

Bolitho looked at his gasping, gashed and bruised seamen, the way they leaned on their cutlasses and pikes. They could not take another battle.

Lieutenant Trevenen marched across the deck and touched his hat with the hilt of his sword.

Achates' junior lieutenant, who had been a hostage in Rivers' fortress.

Seconds ago he had been fighting with his men and working the guns in his division.

Now, filthy but bright-eyed, he was a boy again, and his eyes shone with emotion as he reported, 'They have hauled down their colours, sir.' He fell silent as the seamen and marines crowded closer to hear. Then he tried again, 'Mr Knocker has sent a messenger across . . . ' He looked down, the tears running unheeded on his grimy cheeks.

Bolitho said quietly, 'You've done well, Mr Trevenen. Please continue.'

The lieutenant looked at him. 'A ship has been sighted to the south'rd, sir. One of our seventy-fours!'

Bolitho moved through his men, hearing them cheering and slapping each other. It was as if it was all somewhere else and he was a mere spectator.

He found the French rear-admiral by the wheel. He had been slightly wounded in the arm and was supported by two of his officers.

They stood and faced each other.

Then Jobert said simply, 'I should have known when I saw it was your ship.' He tried to shrug but the pain made him wince. He added, 'You were to give me an island.' He struggled with his sword. 'Now I must give you this.'

Bolitho shook his head. 'No, M'sieu. You've earned the right to it.'

He turned and walked back towards the side, his ears ringing to the shouts and wild huzzas.

Hands reached out to assist him across to the Achates' torn and littered deck, and he saw Midshipman Ferrier and Rooke, the boatswain, watching him, grinning and waving their hats.

If only they would stop.

He glanced at the figures on the gun-deck, ones who would never cheer now. How sleep the brave? And he thought of the others on the orlop who were paying the price of his victory.

He turned as he heard Allday's painful, dragging steps and saw that he was carrying Jobert's flag over his shoulder.

Bolitho gripped his arm. 'You old dog! Will you never do as I say?'

Allday shook his head, his breath wheezing. But he managed to grin as he replied, 'Doubt it, sir. Too long in th' tooth now.'

Bolitho walked blindly to the rail where Keen was sitting propped in a chipped and blood-stained chair while Tuson examined his wound.

Keen said huskily, 'We did it, sir. I'm told the ship which is heading this way is a seventy-four.' He tried to smile. 'You'll be able to shift your flag to her and be home long before us.'

Bolitho heard the cheering again and again. Three to one. Yes, they had won, and all England would soon know about it.

He said, 'No, Val. My flag stays here. We'll sail home together.' He smiled sadly. 'With Old Katie.'

Epilogue

Bolitho's home-coming was more than he had dared to hope for during the long months he had been away. In other ways it was sad, as he knew it would be. The farewells at Plymouth were as moving as the welcome when the scarred and battered Achates had dropped her anchor, her prize, the Argonaute, given immediately into the hands of the dockyard.

It must have been Old Katie's finest hour, Bolitho thought, with her pumps going as they had every hour of the day since that terrible battle. Even her ill-matched jury-rig had somehow managed to look rakish with his flag fluttering at half its proper height. She had brought crowds to the Hoe which few could remember.

Adam had watched Bolitho's grave features as he had walked from beneath the splintered poop to say good-bye to those who had become so familiar to him since they had sailed from the Beaulieu River a year ago.

Scott and Trevenen, Hawtayne and young Ferrier. And Tuson, the surgeon, who had removed a metal splinter from Keen's side the size of a man's thumb. And little Evans, who in his own way had become a man.

Bolitho had been thinking of those he would not see again, who could not share in the home-coming.

The captured seventy-four would be under the British ensign in a matter of months, a very valuable addition to the depleted fleet. But Achates had taken the battle badly. It was unlikely she would ever feel the blue waters of the Caribbean again, and would probably end her days as a hulk.

It had been a slow and painful passage up the Channel, and they had sailed so near to the Cornish coast that Adam had shinned aloft to the mizzen cross-trees with a glass to see it for himself.

When he had returned to the deck he had said simply, 'I saw part of the house, Uncle.' It had seemed to bring to him then and there how near he had been to not seeing it again. 'There are crowds on the headland, all the way to St Anthony.'

So slow had been their progress in the warm spring airs that a carriage had been sent to Plymouth in time to meet him.

He was thankful Belinda had not come herself. He had made her promise because of Allday, and if she had seen the ship, listing and blackened, she would have been deeply distressed.

Keen had accompanied him in the barge for the last time. The crowds on the waterfront had cheered and thrown their hats in the air, and women had held up their babies to see Bolitho. The news of his victory had preceded him like a rainbow. He had noticed there were few young men in the crowds.

Once again England was at war with the old enemy, and the press-gangs would be quick to snatch any suitable hands left over by the recruiting parties.

He had also said good-bye to Tyrrell. That had been harder than he had expected. But Tyrrell's dogged independence forced them apart.

Tyrrell had grasped his hands in both of his own and had said, 'I'll be lookin' around for a while, Dick. Just to discover if I like what I see.'

Bolitho had persisted. 'Come to Falmouth soon. Don't forget us.'

Tyrrell had slung his bag over his shoulder and had said, 'I never forgot you, Dick. Nor will I. Ever.'

That had been a week ago. Now, as Bolitho stood by a window and looked out across the flowers and shady trees, he could still scarcely believe it.

Their first meeting had been one of joy and tears.

Belinda had pressed her face into his coat and had whispered, 'I made Ferguson take me to the headland. I saw you sail past. That poor little ship. I was so afraid, and yet so proud.' She had looked up at him, searching out the strain on his face. 'There were people everywhere. They began to cheer. You couldn't hear them of course, but they seemed to want you to know they were there.'

Bolitho saw Allday speaking with the groom, making the man laugh with one of his yarns. That was another memory fixed in his mind.

When Allday had walked from the coach, worried and trying not to drag his feet up the stone steps.

She had gone to him and had put her arms round his neck and had said quietly, 'Thank you for bringing my men home, Allday. I knew you would.'

She had given him life, as she had this old house, he thought. Her very presence here had made its mark.

How quickly the week had flashed past and yet they had not left the grounds. Her gentle understanding after what he had endured, her passion which she gave without restraint, had brought them closer than ever.

He thought too of his first meeting with their child. He smiled as he recalled the exact moment.

The way Belinda had laughed at him and had cried at the same time when she had said, 'She won't break, Richard! Pick her up!'

Elizabeth. A new person. Belinda had chosen the name herself, like she had managed everything else during his absence.

Nothing seemed to matter now beyond here and his family. Rivers had gone to London in the same coach as Jobert. The French admiral would be exchanged eventually, but Rivers' fate was less certain.

He looked from the window again but Allday had gone. It was hard to think there was a war again. What had happened to the peace?

The door opened and she entered carrying Elizabeth. Bolitho took her and carried her to the window while the child's hands tugged at his gilt buttons.

It was all perfect, and he felt he should be ashamed when so many had nothing, and so many had died.

Adam entered the room and looked at them. He belonged here. They had made it possible.

Allday hurried towards the outer doors and Bolitho heard him say to one of the maids, 'Quick, girl, here's a courier!'

Belinda's hands went to her breast. In a mere whisper she said, 'Oh no, not now, not so soon!'

Bolitho heard her despair and held the child more tightly to his body.

In this very room his father had once said to him, 'England needs all her sons now.' That had been another war, but the same was just as true today. It was here that his father had given him the old sword, and the last time he had seen him alive.

Adam strode from the room and returned a few minutes later with a heavy, sealed envelope.

He said, 'The courier's not from the Admiralty. He is from St James's in London.'

Belinda nodded without understanding. 'Please read it, Adam, I am too afraid . . .

Adam opened the envelope and read it in silence.

Then he said, 'Thank God.'

Allday hovered by the door with Ferguson at his side as the young lieutenant handed the imposing letter to her. As he watched her surprise and happiness he said, 'Well, Allday, you must have influence in the right places. It's what you wanted.'

Allday stared as Belinda moved to the window and kissed her husband on the cheek, her arms round him and their child.

Adam smiled and said softly, 'I think my uncle is content with the reward he is holding!'

But Allday did not hear him, and his eyes were far-away as he said, 'Sir Richard Bolitho.' He nodded firmly, the old gleam back in his eyes once more. 'Not before time, an' that's no error neither.'