Keen returned to his chart and explained, “The Frenchmen were sighted around the Cabo Creus, sir. An ideal anchorage, and less than twenty miles from the frontier with France. If they are still there, shall we go for them?” Bolitho toyed with the dividers. “It might provoke Spain. On the other hand it would show the Dons we are prepared to discount their one-sided neutrality. For once it will put Jobert on the defensive.” The more he considered it the less could he think of an alternative. Jobert had made all the moves, and had nearly succeeded in crippling Bolitho’s squadron. He must be provoked into coming out into the open. Winter would soon be upon them and, Mediterranean or not, the weather would favour the enemy, not the ships battling up and down on blockade duty.

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supply ships anchored briefly at Gibraltar their spies would pass on the news of the vessels, and probably their cargoes as well.

There were not enough men-of-war available. Nelson was right about that too.

Bolitho massaged his eye. He would probably find the sheltered anchorage empty. Suppose they met with Spanish patrols?

Fight or retreat?

He said grimly, “Landfall tomorrow, Val.”

“Yes, sir.” If he was anxious about the girl being aboard with a prospect of battle he did not reveal it in his voice.

Bolitho said, “It would be something to show for our setbacks, Val. Tit for tat. Jobert would be out for revenge. That is a bad incentive for any flag-officer.”

He turned away and walked to the stern windows. It is what I am seeking.

After Keen had gone Allday entered and asked, “Is there anything you need, sir?”

Bolitho immediately sensed the emptiness in his voice.

“What’s wrong?”

Allday looked at the deck. “Nothin’, sir.” Bolitho slumped down in his new chair. “Out with it, man.” Allday said stubbornly, “I’ll keep it battened down, if you don’t mind, sir.”

There was no point in pushing him further. Allday was like the oak and had deep roots. He might tell him in his own time.

Allday took down the beautiful presentation sword and tucked it under his arm. He seemed to need something to occupy his mind.

Tuson was the next visitor. Bolitho had learned to tolerate the surgeon’s regular treatment and to disguise his pain when the dressings were changed.

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blue horizon. He tensed, feeling the hope surge through him.

Then clenched his fists as the same shadow returned to curtain off his vision.

Tuson saw him tighten his fists and said, “Don’t despair, sir.” Bolitho waited for the bandage to be retied. It was almost better to see nothing from that eye than to lose hope.

He asked abruptly, “What is the matter with my cox’n?” Tuson looked at him. “Bankart, sir. His son. Pity he’s aboard, if you ask me.”

Bolitho touched his shirtsleeve. “Come on, man, you can speak with me, you should know that.” Tuson shut his black bag. “How would you like it, sir, if your nephew proved to be a coward?”

Bolitho heard the door close, the tap of a musket as the sentry changed his stance beyond the screen.

A coward. All the bitter memories surged through him as the word hung in his mind like a stain.

That moment when Midshipman Sheaffe had been left behind, probably injured. The times on Supreme’s deck when Bankart had been missing. There was not much Tuson did not glean from the men who came to him for aid.

He remembered Stayt’s voice aboard the cutter; he had known even then.

How could he waste time on such things when so much was expected of him? He thought of his instructions to Lapish.

Board them or sink them. The intruding hardness in his voice. Had blindness done that to him? But he recalled how he had hacked down the French seaman who had been carrying the lookout’s telescope. Without a thought, with no hesitation. No, it was something inside him. Perhaps Belinda had seen it and feared for him because he was being destroyed by war with the same ruth-lessness as by a ball or a pike.

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But he did care. About people. About Allday most of all.

Tuson had laid his finger right on it. How would he have felt if Adam had been a coward?

That night, as Argonaute dipped and lifted in an untidy sea of tossing white horses, Bolitho lay in his cot and tried to sleep.

When eventually he dozed off he thought of Belinda, or was it Cheney? Of Falmouth and of a sea battle which became a nightmare, for he saw himself dead.

The next day Rapid stopped a Portuguese fisherman but only after she had put a ball across her bows.

Eventually the news was passed to the flagship. The fisherman had passed Golfo de Rosas below the cape two days earlier.

A large French man-of-war lay at anchor there.

Bolitho paced up and down his stern gallery, oblivious to the wind and the spray which soon soaked him to the skin.

The French ship would not sail towards Gibraltar. She might remain at anchor, or she could decide to head for Toulon.

Argonaute would stand between her and any such destination.

He sent for his flag-lieutenant.

“Signal to Icarus. Remain on station. Rapid will stay with her.” Had he been able to he would have seen Stayt raise one eye-brow. Bolitho groped his way to the table and stared helplessly at the chart.

Then he faced Stayt and grinned. “Argonaute will sail under her old colours tomorrow.”

“Suppose it is Jobert, sir? He’ll surely recognize the ship.”

“It won’t be. He will be with his squadron. When we know where that is—” He left the rest unsaid.

Minutes later the flags broke brightly from the yards and were acknowledged by Icarus and eventually by the little brig.

If the wind changed against them he would have to think again. But if not, and the master seemed confident it would remain southerly, they might stand a chance of closing with the enemy.

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The very coastline which the enemy had seen as a refuge might soon become the jaws of a trap.

In his cabin Captain Valentine Keen took a few moments to ensure he had everything he needed for the next hours. Around and below him the ship seemed quiet except for the regular groan of timbers and the muffled sluice of water against the hull.

It is always like this, he thought. Uncertainty, doubt, but beneath it all a determination which was without fear. He saw his reflection in the mirror and grimaced. In a short while he would go on deck and give the word to clear for action. He felt the touch of ice at his spine. That too was normal. He checked himself as thoroughly as he would a subordinate. Clean shirt and breeches. Less chance of infection if the worst happened. He touched his side and felt the soreness of his wound. They said lightning never struck twice in the same place. He was still looking at his reflection and saw himself smile. He had put a letter to his mother in his strongbox. How many of those had he written, he wondered?

There was a light tap at the door. It was Stayt.

“Sir Richard has gone on deck, sir.” It sounded like a warning.

Keen nodded. “Thank you.” Stayt vanished in the gloom. An odd bird, he thought.

It was almost time. He loosened his hanger in its scabbard, and made certain his watch was deep in his pocket in case he should fall.

He heard low voices outside the door and pulled it open before anyone could knock.

For a moment he could only see the pale oval of her face; she was covered from chin to toe in his boat-cloak which he had sent to her earlier.

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and heard the creak of the helm from the quarterdeck.

He led her into the cabin. Soon, like the rest of the ship, it would be stripped bare, ready to fight.

Perhaps the French ship would not be there, but he discarded the thought. The wind was fresh, and no captain would wish to fight it and end up on a lee shore.

He took her hands. “You will be safe, my dear. Stay with Ozzard in the hold. He will take care of you. Where is your companion?”

“Millie has already gone down.” She was staring up at him, her eyes very dark in the shaded lantern.

Keen adjusted the boat-cloak and felt her shoulder tense as he touched it. He said, “It will be cold below. This will help.” He was conscious of the need to go, the seconds and the minutes. He said, “Don’t be afraid.”

She shook her head. “I only fear for you. In case—” He touched her mouth. “No. We shall be together soon.” A man coughed in the darkness. That would be Hogg, his coxswain.

He held her against him very gently and imagined he could feel her heart beating and remembered holding her breast in his hand.

He murmured, “In truth, I do love you, Zenoria.” She backed away and turned once to look at him. To remember, to reassure, he did not know.

He snatched up his hat and strode out towards the quarterdeck. He found Bolitho by the weather nettings, his body angled to the deck as Argonaute blundered her way on an uncomfortable larboard tack, as close-hauled as her yards would bear.

The quartermaster called, “Nor’-west, sir! Full an’ bye!” Keen could see it in his mind. All night the ship had clawed and beaten her way into the wind, to pass the cape well abeam and then turn again towards the land and the small gulf where COLOURS A LOF T!

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the Frenchman was said to be lying. All the back-breaking work of resetting sails and changing tack a dozen times would offer them an advantage once they made their final approach. They would hold the wind-gage; even if the enemy managed to elude them there was only one course of escape, and he would find Icarus and Rapid blocking his path.

Keen thought of the girl in his arms, the crude comment made by Icarus’ captain. He had made an enemy there, he thought.

Bolitho turned and asked, “How long?” Keen watched the painful way he was holding his head and sensed his hurt like his own.

“I shall clear for action at dawn, sir.” Bolitho clung to the nettings as the ship shuddered into a massive trough; it seemed to shake her from beak-head to taffrail.

“Will the people be fed?”

Keen smiled sadly. “Yes, sir. The galley is ready.” He had nearly answered “of course.” He had learned well under Bolitho.

Bolitho seemed to want to talk. “Are the women below?” Keen said, “Yes, sir.” He thought of the Jamaican maid called Millie. He suspected she was having an unlawful liaison with Wenmouth, the ship’s corporal, the very man chosen to protect her from harm.

He admitted, “I hate the thought of her being down there when we fight.”

Bolitho touched his bandage. “If we fight. But she is better here for the present, Val, than abandoned in some unknown harbour.” He tried to rouse his enthusiasm. “You are lucky to have her so near.”

The calls trilled between decks and petty officers bawled at all hands to lash up and stow their hammocks. In minutes the upper deck, which had been deserted but for the duty watch, was overflowing with men as they ran to the nettings to tamp down their pod-like hammocks where they would offer the 146

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best protection against splinters and musket balls.

There was a strong smell of frying pork from the galley funnel, and from one hatchway Bolitho heard the thin note of a fiddle. Time to eat, to change into fresh clothing, to share a tot and a song with a friend. For some it might be the last time.

Keen had gone forward to speak with the boatswain and Bolitho twisted round to seek the officer-of-the-watch.

“Mr Griffin!”

But the shadow was not the lieutenant but Midshipman Sheaffe.

Bolitho shrugged. “No matter. You can tell me what is happening.”

Sheaffe stood near him. “Mr Fallowfield says it will be first light in half an hour. It is cloudy, as you can see, sir—” He broke off and said, “I beg your pardon, Sir Richard.” Bolitho replied, “I am getting used to it. But I shall be glad when the day comes.”

Eventually it was time. Keen came aft again and touched his hat.

“The galley fire is doused, sir. It was a hasty breakfast, I’m afraid.”

Bolitho smiled. “But a bracing one, I gather, from the smell of rum.”

Shadows moved about, merged and separated, and there was a new greyness in the light.

“Deck there! Land on the lee bow!”

Bolitho heard Fallowfield blow his nose. Probably out of relief.

Keen exclaimed, “A timely landfall, sir. I can wear ship presently, but first—”

Bolitho turned towards him, his hair blowing in the wind.

“Remember what I told you, Val. Clear your mind of everything but fighting this ship.” The hardness left him and he added,

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Keen grinned. It was infectious.

He cupped his hands and then paused as a thin shaft of frail sunlight ran down the main-topgallant mast like liquid gold.

Then he shouted, “Mr Paget! Beat to quarters and clear for action, if you please!”

Bolitho took a deep breath as the drums rolled and the calls trilled yet again to urge, guide and muster the ship’s company into a single team.

Bolitho did not have to see it to know what was happening.

The crashes and thuds below decks as screens were removed and personal belongings taken below. Powder from the magazine, sand scattered on the decks so that the gun crews would not slip, and to contain the blood if any was to be shed.

Bolitho felt Allday beside him and raised his arm for him to clip his sword into place.

Together. Another fight, victory or failure, how much would it count in the end?

He tried not to think of the ceremony when he had been knighted. All those complacent pink faces. Did they really care about men like these, what it cost in lives to keep landsmen in comfort?

Paget’s voice. “Cleared for action, sir!” Keen said, “Well done, Mr Paget, but next time I want two minutes knocked off the time!”

“Aye, aye, sir.” It was a game. Captain and first lieutenant.

Like me and Thomas Herrick, Bolitho thought.

He saw the nearest gangway taking shape, the lines of packed hammocks like hooded figures. The breeches of the upper deck’s eighteen-pounders stood out sharply against the holystoned planking; life was returning to the ship.

Keen shouted, “Alter course, three points to starboard! Steer north by west!”

Paget raised his speaking-trumpet. “Man the braces there!” 148

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Keen gripped the quarterdeck rail and watched as the great yards were hauled round while the rudder went over. It was not much, but it took the strain out of the sails and shifted the wind more across the quarter.

As the bows lifted he saw a hint of land for the first time, tilting to larboard as if to slide the ship to windward. He turned to inform Bolitho but said nothing as he saw the vice-admiral standing as before, with Allday close behind him. Bolitho had seen nothing, and Keen was both moved and troubled.

Allday gave him a brief glance, but it told Keen everything.

It said, I shall be here.

Keen said, “Aloft with you, Mr Griffin, and tell me what you can see.”

He saw Midshipman Sheaffe and his signals party by the halliards and a huge French Tricolour trailing across the deck.

Keen took a telescope and climbed into the shrouds. The land was touched with sunlight, but without much substance. They were steering almost parallel with it and about two miles distant.

The whole gulf was only ten miles across, and at the end of it the craggy-nosed cape leaned out protectively to make a perfect shelter or anchorage.

Bolitho called, “Any ships?”

“None yet, sir.”

Bolitho sighed. “Bit different from our last commission together at San Felipe, eh?”

Then he seemed to lift from his mood. “Run up the flag, and then get the t’gallants on her. We shall need all our agility today if we are to be lucky.”

Keen gestured to the first lieutenant but paused as the voice from the masthead made them all look aloft.

“Deck there! Ship, dead ahead!”

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tience until Lieutenant Griffin yelled, “Sail of the line, sir! At anchor!”

Keen saw the big Tricolour break out from the gaff, while men swarmed up the ratlines to set more canvas.

The anchored ship was not visible from the deck, but even allowing for Griffin’s telescope they could be up to her within the hour.

“Steady as she goes, sir! Nor’ by west!” Keen heard Bolitho say quietly, “And it seems we are to be lucky after all.”

By the time the sunlight had reached the upper deck Bolitho could feel the tension rising about him while the lookouts called down their reports. He was torn between asking Keen what he was doing phase by phase or leaving him unimpeded by his questions.

Keen joined him suddenly and shaded his eyes to look at the set of the sails. Beyond them the clouds had broken up slightly to allow the sun to colour the ship and the sea around it.

He said, “The Frenchman is anchored by the bow only, not fore and aft.” He let his words sink in so that Bolitho could form his own picture. With the wind still from the south the other ship would be swinging towards them as if on a converging tack, only her larboard bow exposed.

Keen added, “No sign of excitement. Yet. Mr Griffin says there are craft alongside, a water-lighter for one.” Bolitho thought suddenly of Supreme, of Hallowes holding his hand in death.

“That is very apt.”

“I intend, with your assent, sir, to pass between her and the land. There is ample depth there. Then we can hold the advantage, and rake her as we cross her bows.” A corner of his mind 150

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recorded the hoarse shouts of the gun captains, the harsher tones of the fearsome gunner’s mate Crocker. He was with the first division starboard side. He would enjoy that.

“Ship, sir! Larboard bow!”

Keen snatched a glass from Midshipman Hext. Then he said,

“Spaniard. One of their corvettes.” Stayt murmured, “Having a job to close with us, sir. She’s almost in irons.”

Keen said, “Watch for her hoist, Mr Sheaffe. She’ll challenge us soon.” He raised his voice. “You, on deck! Keep your eyes on the Frenchman, not on this little pot of paint!” Someone laughed.

Bolitho said, “My guess is that there’ll be no signal. The Dons won’t want to be too open about their collusion.” The little corvette was changing tack, the choppy water seething along her gunports as if she had run aground.

Beyond her the land looked high and green, a few white specks here and there to mark isolated dwellings.

There might be a battery, but Bolitho doubted that. The nearest garrison of any size was said to be in Gerona, only twenty miles inland. Enough to deter any would-be invader.

The small Spanish man-of-war was within a cable’s length now. Bolitho heard the clatter of tackle from Argonaute’s forecastle as an anchor was loosened at its cathead as if they were preparing to drop it. Many eyes must be watching Argonaute from the Frenchman. Her preparations, like her design, would be noted.

Bolitho fretted at his inability to see. He took a telescope from Stayt and trained it across the nettings. He saw the corvette, watched her heeling over, her red and yellow ensign streaming almost abeam as she came up into the wind. He could ignore the blindness, forget that without the glass he would be helpless again.

Tuson would rebuke him severely for straining his good eye. But the surgeon was in his sickbay, waiting for the next harvest.

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exchanged glances with Keen. Could they ever find happiness?

Would they be allowed to?

Fallowfield growled, “Be God, sir, the wind’s a veerin’!” Men ran to braces and halliards again and Keen said, “From the sou’-west by my reckoning, sir.” Bolitho nodded, fixing the chart’s picture in his mind. Veering.

Lady Luck, as Herrick would have said, was with them.

Keen shouted, “Be ready to brail up the forecourse, Mr Paget!” A thin voice floated across the water from the corvette.

Bolitho said, “Wave your hat to them!” Keen and Stayt waved to the Spaniard, who was being rapidly driven towards the larboard quarter.

A mile to go. Bolitho gripped the rail and peered through the crossed rigging and straining jibsails. He could see the enemy, angled towards the starboard bow just as Keen had described her.

Keen glanced meaningly at Paget. “Load, if you please.” The order was instantly piped to the decks below and Bolitho could imagine the gun crews toiling with charges and rammers in semi-darkness behind sealed ports, their naked backs already shining with sweat. He had seen and done it so often from the early age of twelve. The men at the guns, the red-painted sides to hide the blood, and here and there an isolated blue and white figure of authority, a lieutenant or a warrant officer.

It did not seem to take long before each deck had reported ready.

Bolitho heard Captain Bouteiller of the Royal Marines whispering instructions to Orde, his lieutenant. Like the rest of the Marines, he was crouching out of sight of the enemy. One sign of a scarlet coat would be enough to rouse a hornet’s nest.

“Take in the forecourse!” Paget sounded hoarse. It had to appear as if they were shortening sail and preparing to drop anchor.

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him. It could not last much longer. One thing was certain, Jobert was not here. He would have been ready to fight as soon as his old flagship was revealed in the dawn light.

“Five cables, sir!”

Bolitho felt a trickle of sweat run down to his waist. Half a mile.

“The Frenchie’s hoisted a signal, sir!” That was it. No coded acknowledgement meant instant discovery for what they were.

Keen yelled, “Belay that order, Mr Paget! Get the t’gan’s’ls on her!”

Calls shrilled, and high above the decks the topmen spread out on the yards like monkeys to release the extra sails.

Fallowfield said, “Wind’s steady, sir. Sou’-west. No doubt about it.” He sounded too preoccupied to care about the enemy closing towards the starboard bow.

“Three cables, sir!”

Faintly above the din of wind and rigging they heard the urgent blare of a trumpet.

Voices called from every hand, the anchor was catted again and, as the marine marksmen swarmed up to the fighting-tops with their muskets or manned the swivels there, the rest of the detachment spread themselves along the poop nettings, their weapons already resting on the tightly packed hammocks.

Keen watched unblinking, gauging the moment, knowing that Bolitho was sharing it, and that Paget was ready to act on each command.

“Open the ports!”

Along each deck the port lids lifted on their tackles, like drowsy eyes awakening.

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Squeaking and rumbling, the Argonaute’s powerful armament poked through the open ports like snouts. The muzzles of the big thirty-two-pounders on the lower gun deck were already lifting or dipping as their captains practised their aim.

Bolitho took Stayt’s glass again and trained it on the other ship. He saw her fore-topsail breaking free from its yard and men swarming aloft while others crowded the forecastle above the cable. The water-lighter was still lashed alongside, its hull lined with staring faces as Argonaute bore down on them.

The cable parted and the French two-decker began to fall downwind, more canvas flapping in disarray as men fought to bring her under command.

“Stand by, starboard battery!”

Keen’s eyes narrowed in the strengthening sunlight as he waited for the Tricolour to tumble across the deck, and the Red Ensign to break out from the gaff in its place. At the foremast truck Bolitho’s flag flapped stiffly to the wind, and Keen heard one of his midshipmen give a shrill cheer.

Argonaute’s tapering jib-boom crossed the other ship’s bows barely a cable away.

Keen lifted his hanger. He heard the grate of a handspike from forward and saw the starboard carronade being inched round; her massive sixty-eight-pound ball would be the first to fire. The rest would shoot as they found the target, not in a full broadside, but deck by deck, pair by pair.

“As you bear, lads!” The hanger’s blade made a streak of light.

“Fire!”

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10 R etribution

WITHOUT changing tack or altering course one degree Argonaute swept past the drifting French two-decker, her hull jerking violently to each resounding bang. So conscious were the gun captains of this moment that each pair of cannon sounded like a single explosion.

Bolitho swayed and almost slipped as the deck tilted into another offshore roller. He felt his nostrils flare in the acrid smoke, his ears quake to the thunder of gunfire. The attack was begun by the carronade, but at a range of almost a cable it was more of a gesture than any danger to the enemy.

Keen wiped his face as the last division of guns recoiled inboard on their tackles and men scampered to sponge out and reload. The Frenchman had been badly mauled, and smoking scars along her tumblehome marked the accuracy of the carefully aimed attack. A few guns fired in return, and one ball smashed into Argonaute’s lower hull like a mailed fist.

Some of the crews were calling to each other, racing to beat their time, to be the first to run out and be ready to fire again.

Keen watched narrowly as the Frenchman set her forecourse and then her maintopsail. She was under command, but almost beam-on to sea and wind as she fought to bear up to her attacker.

He shouted, “Ready! On the uproll, Mr Paget!” He glanced at Bolitho, just a fraction of a second, but he saw him as he always remembered. Straight-backed, facing the enemy yet now unable to see them. “Full broadside!” This might be the only time. He caught a vague glimpse of the Spanish corvette, now well astern, a helpless and astonished spectator.

More shots hammered alongside and somewhere a man screamed out in agony.

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Keen held out his hanger, his eyes watering again as the sunlight warmed his face.

“Now!”

As the whistles shrilled and Argonaute’s topgallant masts began to tilt once more, the whole broadside thundered out with such violence it was like hitting a rock.

Smoke and charred wads drifted everywhere, but not before Keen had seen the broadside tear across the lessening gap, the wave-crests breaking to the force and the weight of iron.

He saw the enemy ship shiver, then sway over as the full onslaught smashed into her. Wood and rigging flew in all directions, and the labouring hull was masked by falling fragments and leaping talons of spray.

“Stop your vents! Sponge out! Load!” Paget’s voice echoed above the wind and the squeal of tackles like a clarion call.

Allday said in a sudden pause, “We hit ’em, sir! Even her canvas is shot through!” He sounded tense, slightly wild, like men usually are when battle is joined.

Bolitho held the quarterdeck rail, afraid he might lose his balance again. He thought he had heard the broadside strike home even at this range.

He said tersely, “Close the distance, Captain Keen!” Lieutenant Stayt lowered his telescope and looked at him. He had seen Keen’s quick glance as his mind had registered Bolitho’s sharp formality.

“Alter course to starboard, Mr Fallowfield!” Keen broke off as several balls crashed into the hull, and some hammocks burst from the forward nettings in a wild tangle, like exultant corpses.

Keen shouted, “That was chain-shot!” He looked at the sailing-master. “Close as you can!”

Men ran to the braces while along the upper deck’s eighteen-pounders others worked like demons with handspikes and tackles, training, and holding the enemy firmly in their ports.

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“Fire!”

The broadside thundered out again, and Bolitho heard someone cheering, like a demented soul in Hell, he thought.

Allday exclaimed, “Her mizzen’s gone! She’s tryin’ to come about, to save her stern from the Smasher!” Bolitho seized a glass and pressed it to his right eye. All the jokes about Nelson at Copenhagen were not so funny now. He saw the hazy outline of the French ship, shortening as Argonaute turned towards her, the bowsprit pointing directly at her poop.

The other captain had not regained control completely when the second broadside struck and raked his ship from bow to stern.

Instead of continuing to turn, she was falling downwind, her afterpart shrouded in fallen spars and canvas, while here and there along her battered side a few guns fired independently, and on her gangway tiny stabbing flashes showed that her marksmen were fighting back.

“Steady as you go!”

Keen crouched down to peer through the pall of smoke and straining rigging. The wind had risen; he had to hold the gage or lose all the advantage his attack had gained. He saw the water-lighter tilting over, spilling men and casks into the sea, the hull so pitted with holes it was a wonder it had taken so long. On the opposite, disengaged side, another harbour craft, a big yawl, had cast off, and was probably trying to beat away from her big consort before she shared the lighter’s fate.

Keen made up his mind. “Mr Fallowfield, lay her on the starboard tack!” The Frenchman was still beam-on to the wind, her progress further hampered by the trailing wreckage of spars and rigging alongside. The shattered lighter was sinking rapidly and he realized that she was still made fast by the bow to the two-decker. Either they had not had time to cast off, or the men so ordered had been scythed down by the last murderous broadside.

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balance could alter. The French captain had kept his mind above the disaster which had caught him unprepared, and had found time to order his gun crews to load with chain-shot. A well-aimed fusillade could bring down a vital spar—victory and defeat were measured by such delicate distinctions.

Orders were yelled and men hauled at the braces yet again.

Bolitho felt a shot fan past him, heard a crack and something like a fierce intake of breath as the musket ball hurled a marine from the nettings, the side of his skull blasted away. His companions left their stations as the after-guard was piped to the mizzen braces, while the ship tilted steeply and began to plough over to the opposite tack.

Keen joined Bolitho and shouted above the noise of gunfire and bellowed orders, “They see you, sir! Put on my coat!” Bolitho clung to a stay and shook his head. “I want them to see me!” More shots hissed past him and smacked into hammocks on the opposite side or cracked against the planking. Bolitho could feel the anger rising inside him, driving away reason and caution had there been any. Keen did not understand. Bolitho was afraid to release his grip and move about as any sane man would.

His bright epaulettes marked him down as a prime target; better that than lose his balance again while his men fought for their very lives around him.

Crash—crash—crash, the French ship returned fire yet again.

Bolitho raised the telescope and jammed it to his eye. It was heavy, difficult to hold steady with one hand. He saw the French ship suddenly stark and huge, towering over the Argonaute’s starboard bow. Keen’s sharp change of tack had pared away the distance. The French captain had no chance now to break off the action, to turn and fight or even to run.

He saw the enemy’s helpless stern rising still higher, isolated from the rest of the ship by the great gap in her silhouette left by the fallen mizzen.

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Keen said fiercely, “We shall pass barely a boat’s length away, sir!”

A masthead lookout waited for a pause in the firing and yelled hoarsely, “Ships to larboard, sir!” Keen shouted, “Send an officer aloft!” He ducked and coughed as a ball slammed through the nettings and hurled blasted hammocks everywhere. But for the alteration of course there would have been a solid rank of marines there.

A ship’s boy, a mere child, who was running almost doubled over with fresh shot to a quarterdeck nine-pounder, was caught even as he reached the gun. The horrified crew of the nine-pounder were drenched in blood as the ball cut the boy neatly in half so that the legs appeared to run on after the torso had fallen to the deck.

“Steady she goes, sir! Nor’-east by east!”

“As you bear!”

Keen waved to the forecastle although he doubted if the carronade crew needed encouragement this time. Every gun had extra hands to work it, men taken from the disengaged weapons on the larboard side.

More shot whined overhead, and several sails danced as holes appeared and broken rigging clattered across the nets and gangways.

Captain Bouteiller yelled, “Get those bloody sharpshooters, Orde!”

A swivel banged loudly and Bolitho recalled Okes firing into the French longboat. He felt the deck quiver by his feet and knew that a ball had almost taken him. He did not move. He wanted them to see him, to know who had done this.

A voice filtered through the noise. “They’re Spaniards, sir!” Bolitho heard Keen shouting orders. Spaniards. Some local vessels coming to drive the attacker from their waters.

“Fire!”

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The ship jerked violently as the carronade fired almost point-blank into the enemy’s stern.

It was a direct hit, and the whole ornate stern appeared to fall inboard as the massive ball exploded within the poop, its packed charge of grape bursting amongst the crowded gun crews and turning the confined deck into a slaughterhouse.

As Argonaute continued to edge remorselessly around the enemy’s broken stern, the murderous broadside swept across and into her. The lower gun deck had somehow found time to load with double shot, as if each officer knew it was their last chance before Argonaute was carried either past or into their enemy by the freshening wind.

Keen watched, chilled by what he saw, as the enemy’s maintopmast was carried away and one of the muzzles on the enemy’s lower gun deck exploded in a sheet of fire. Some terrified seaman had forgotten to sponge out before a fresh charge was rammed home, or maybe the gun was old and had outworn those who crewed it.

Keen shouted, “The Dons’ll be up to us in an hour, sir, despite the wind! Shall we discontinue the action?” More shots roared from Argonaute’s lower battery, the long thirty-two-pounders wreaking terrible havoc on the other vessel, which now appeared to be out of control with either her helm shot away or none left to take charge aft.

Bolitho did not speak and Keen swung round on him, fearful that a marksman had found him.

But Bolitho was staring towards the other ship, his head on one side as if to force a clearer view.

Keen persisted, “She’ll not fight again for a long, long while, sir!”

“Has she struck?”

Keen stared at him. He barely recognized Bolitho’s voice.

Curt, with all pity honed out of it.

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“No, sir.”

Bolitho blinked as a ball from the enemy cut through the shrouds and a man screamed shrilly like a woman in agony.

“She must never fight. Continue the action.” He caught Keen’s arm as he made to hurry away. “If we leave her she’ll anchor. I want her destroyed. Totally.”

Keen nodded, his mind reeling to the crash and roar of cannon fire, the excited chatter from the marines as they fired their long muskets, reloaded with almost parade-ground precision, and then sought out fresh targets on the enemy’s decks.

He stared sickened as blood ran down the enemy’s side; he could imagine the horror between decks.

Paget stared up at him, his eyes very clear in his smoke-grimed face.

Keen jerked his head and seconds later the broadside thundered out, measured and deliberate, with barely a gun firing back in reply. Keen watched through his telescope and saw the Frenchman’s foremast begin to dip through the smoke.

He gestured to Stayt, who snatched up a speaking-trumpet and then climbed nimbly into the mizzen shrouds.

“Abandonez!” But only musket shots answered him.

Argonaute’s sails filled and gathered the wind as Fallowfield guided her clear of the drifting, dismasted hulk.

Keen glanced quickly at Bolitho but there was no change in his expression.

Keen raised his hanger, then thought of the girl who was sheltering in the hold far below his feet and the corpses that lolled by the guns. Someone had mercifully thrown some torn canvas over the ship’s boy who had been halved by the enemy’s iron.

It was no longer a battle. The enemy was like a helpless beast, waiting for the fatal blow to fall.

He saw the nearest gun captain watching him, his trigger-line already taut.

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“Prepare to fire!” He heard his order being piped to the lower gun deck and braced himself for the broadside.

A voice shouted, “White flag, sir!” Keen looked at Bolitho, half expecting him to order the broadside to be unleashed.

Bolitho felt his glance and turned towards him. He could see only a misty outline, the blue and white of Keen’s clothing, the fairness of his hair. His eye stung with smoke and strain, but he managed to keep his voice level as he said, “Order them to abandon ship. Then sink her.”

Paget called, “There’s a lot of smoke, sir. I think she may have taken fire.”

Bolitho waited for the deck to settle then walked across to the quarterdeck rail. He heard faint shouts from the other vessel, smelt the breath of charred rigging which at any moment might turn the beaten ship into an inferno.

He said quietly, “War is not a game, Val, nor is it a test of honour for friend or foe.” His tone hardened. “Think of Supreme.

There was no mercy for poor Hallowes, and I will offer none to the enemy.” He turned and walked to the opposite side, his foot slipping on blood where the marine had fallen when the ball had missed Bolitho by mere inches.

Paget yelled, “No, it’s the yawl which has taken afire, sir.” Keen raised his glass and saw the smaller vessel drifting clear of the two-decker. To his astonishment he could see men leaping overboard, making no attempt to quench the flames. A stray ball from Argonaute’s last broadside perhaps, or maybe some burning canvas had dropped from the two-decker’s broken spars like a torch to a fuse.

Bolitho must have heard the busy speculation on the quarterdeck and said sharply, “Get the ship under way, if you please!

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while others spread out on the yards above the pockmarked sails as their ship slowly turned towards the welcoming horizon.

The explosion was like a volcano erupting, catching men in their various attitudes of shock or dismay, and shaking the hull as if to carry vengeance even to Argonaute.

The two-decker’s hidden side took the full blast of the explosion, and even as the water began to descend again like a ragged curtain she started to heel over. The explosion, which had completely obliterated the yawl without leaving even a floating spar to mark her passing, must have stove in the two-decker’s bilge like a reef.

Keen watched, his mind refusing to contain the swiftness and the horror of the explosion. Much nearer and Argonaute might have shared the same fate.

Bolitho crossed the quarterdeck and paused to face the silent group of young officers there.

“That will save us the trouble, gentlemen.” He turned to see Allday was marking his line of retreat. The smoke had played havoc with his eye and he could barely see their faces. But their shock was plain enough, as he had meant it to be.

As he made his way aft several of the smoke-blackened seamen raised a cheer: one, more daring than the rest, touched Bolitho’s back as he passed.

Keen’s men, his men. He wished those at home who took such people for granted could see them now. They did not care about the cause or the reason, and none had come to this place of his own free will. They fought like lions, for each other, for the ship around them. It was their world. It was enough.

He thought of the disbelief in Keen’s voice when he had ordered him to continue the action. For those few moments he had felt something more than anger, more than the hurt which had been done to him by the shot which had all but blinded him.

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had almost made him order another broadside. The enemy had already been defeated before some half-crazed soul had raised a white flag on a boat-hook. He considered it warily, almost fearfully. Hate. It was beyond his reckoning, as alien as cowardice, like another person.

The deck tilted and, with the wind filling her newly spread main course, Argonaute stood away from the dying ship and the great spread of flotsam and floundering survivors. They at least would be picked up by the Spaniards.

Keen had watched his face, had seen the effect of his callous remark on his youthful lieutenants and midshipmen.

Keen had seen Bolitho in almost every situation and if he loved any man he would look no further. But at moments like this he felt as if he knew him not at all.

Tuson wiped his fingers individually on a small towel and regarded Bolitho sternly.

“Much more of this, Sir Richard, and I cannot answer for your sight.”

He expected a sharp retort but was more shocked to see that Bolitho did not seem to notice. He had moved to the stern windows and sat staring at the glittering water astern, listless, the life drained out of him.

The ship echoed and quivered to the bang of hammers, the squeal of tackles as fresh cordage was run up to the yards to replace that lost or damaged in the swift battle.

There was almost a carefree atmosphere throughout the ship.

It was their victory. Five men had been killed and two more had been badly wounded. Tuson had described the rest as mere knocks and scrapes. The fierceness of their attack had cut down their losses more than Bolitho had believed possible. He had heard what Tuson had said; there was no point in arguing or disputing it.

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Icarus, her topsail almost white in the noon sun. Rapid was on station ahead and, apart from the repairs and the five burials, there was little to show for the destruction of a French third-rate.

Keen had noted that her name was Calliope before the terrible Smasher had reduced her stern to boxwood.

Tuson was saying, “If you want my advice, sir—” Bolitho looked towards him. “You are a good man. But what advice? When I try to walk I lose my footing like a drunken sailor, and I can scarcely tell one man from another. What advice?”

“You won a battle despite these things, sir.” Bolitho gestured vaguely towards the screen. “They won it, man.”

“You could request another flag-officer—” Tuson persisted stubbornly as Bolitho turned on him, “so that you could obtain better treatment.”

“I do not command in the Mediterranean, and I’ll not ask favours even of Nelson. The French will come out, I know it,” he touched his chest. “Here, I feel it.”

“And the girl? What of her?”

Bolitho leaned back and felt the sun deceptively hot through the glass against his shirt.

“I shall make arrangements.”

Tuson gave the nearest thing to a smile. “You do not wish to involve me, is that it, sir?” There was a tap at the door and Keen stepped into the cabin.

In the three days since the battle he had barely been off his feet, but, like his company, the swift victory had removed the strain, the earlier uncertainty.

Keen did not look at the surgeon in case he should discover bad news.

He asked, “Are you well, sir?”

Bolitho gestured to a chair. “No worse, anyway.” Keen watched him, the way Bolitho tapped one foot on the canvas deck covering.

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“Rapid has signalled a vessel to the sou’-west, sir. Small one closing under all sail.”

“I see.”

Keen tried to conceal his concern. Bolitho sounded uninterested. All the fire and determination he had shown when they had dished up the Frenchman seemed to have vanished.

The marine sentry shouted, “Midshipman-o-th’-Watch, sir!” Keen sighed and walked to the screen door. He looked at the small untidy figure and asked, “Well, Mr Hickling, don’t keep me in suspense.”

The boy screwed up his face as he tried to remember his message, word for word.

“Mr Paget’s respects, sir.” His eyes moved past Keen to the other cabin, to Bolitho framed against the glittering seascape.

Hickling was only just thirteen, but had been on the lower gun deck throughout the engagement and had seen one man cut down by splinters. And yet he seemed unchanged, Keen thought.

Midshipman Hickling continued, “The sail is reported as the brig Firefly, sir.”

Bolitho lurched to his feet and exclaimed, “Are they sure?” Hickling watched his admiral curiously and without awe. He was even too young for that.

“Mr Paget says that Rapid is quite certain of it, Sir Richard.” Bolitho touched the midshipman’s shoulders. “Good news.” Hickling stared at his hand, not daring to move as Bolitho added, “Your lieutenant spoke highly of your behaviour under fire.

Well done.”

The midshipman hurried away and Keen said quietly, “That was good of you, sir. Not many would care.” He watched Bolitho return to the bench seat, noticed the way he took deliberate steps, as if feeling the ship’s movement, looking for a trap.

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can I share it? How can I tell him that I am beside myself with worry? Hate, revenge, callousness, they should play no part in my life, and yet—

He said, “I care because I have not forgotten, Val. When I was his age, you too, remember it? Kicked and bullied, neither respected nor trusted, when one kind word could make all that difference?” He shook his head. “I hope I never forget while I breathe.”

The surgeon walked past with his bag. “Good day, gentlemen.” He looked at Keen. “I trust, sir, now that young Mr Bolitho is drawing near, we may get an ally in this trying situation.” Bolitho frowned. “Bloody man!”

Keen closed the door. “He makes good sense.” The sudden shock made Bolitho start. Adam did not know.

What would he think?

Keen said gently as if he had read his thoughts, “Your nephew is already proud of you. So am I.”

Bolitho did not reply and was still staring astern when Keen left to go on deck.

Keen nodded to his officers and studied the clear sky. Bright but cool. He walked to the rail and glanced down at the main deck, the marketplace as Bolitho called it. The sailmaker and his crew were busy with their needles and palms, repairing, preserv-ing. The boatswain and the carpenter were conferring on their stocks of timber, and there was a heady smell of tar in the air.

But Keen was thinking of the aftermath to the battle. Holding her in his arms, the relief, the unbelievable happiness which each gave to the other, like something pure and bright being lifted from a blacksmith’s furnace.

She had buried her face in his chest while he had held her so closely that he had felt the remains of the scar on her back through the shirt.

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The last terrible explosion had bellowed against the hold like a thunderbolt, Ozzard had told him. The girl had held his hand and that of Millie the maid. She had more courage than any of them, Ozzard had insisted.

Keen saw Allday by the restacked boats on their tier. He looked angry, his face inches from the second coxswain’s. It looked bad. Like the surgeon, Keen was beginning to regret Bankart’s presence in the ship.

“Deck there! Sail, fine on th’ larboard bow!” Keen glanced at Paget and nodded. Firefly’s arrival could not have been better timed. Young Hickling had no idea how welcome his news had been.

News from home, perhaps a letter for the admiral. There would be no time yet for anything from London about Zenoria. But at least things were being done, war or no war. He thought of her in his arms, how right it had felt, and how he longed for her.

Paget watched him and turned away satisfied.

The captain looked happy. To any first lieutenant that was more than enough.

Bolitho stood up yet again as familiar sounds thudded overhead and voices murmured near the skylight. The hands had been piped to the braces and the flagship was preparing to heave-to and receive the brig’s commander.

How he wanted to be there at the entry port when Adam came aboard. But that was Keen’s privilege, one captain greeting another.

Bolitho heard the side party being mustered, some marines falling in to do Adam his rightful honours.

It was not just tradition which kept him away, and Bolitho knew it. He was afraid of what his nephew would say and think when he met him.

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Allday moved from the sleeping cabin and held out his coat for him. Bolitho was so preoccupied that for once he did not sense Allday’s grim mood.

There might be a letter from Belinda, and she—

He raised his head as Paget’s voice echoed along the deck.

Argonaute’s helm went over and, with her sails flapping noisily, she swung heavily into the wind, swaying steeply for a while until the remaining sails were reset.

For a brief moment he had seen the brig through the streaming windows, her ensign making a dab of colour, like metal in the wind.

He wondered if Firefly’s arrival had been noted by some unseen fishing boat, her purpose already known by a spy at Gibraltar or a traitor in London?

He heard a boat passing close by, the bark of an order as the coxswain steered her towards the chains. Command. Adam had earned it twice over.

Allday watched him dully. He could not bear to see him so helpless and unsure. He had tried to shield him when they had engaged the Frenchman, fearful for Bolitho’s safety as he had stood there, unwilling or unable to move away.

Bolitho said, “It’s good to have him back if only for a moment, eh, Allday? Inch will rejoin us in a day or so, then we will go and seek out Jobert together!”

Allday took down the old sword. He hated Jobert, what he had made Bolitho become.

Pipes trilled and the marines slapped their muskets. Bolitho saw it clearly, as he had a thousand times, for others and for himself.

It seemed to take an age before Yovell opened the outer screen door and Bolitho walked to greet him, careful to stay where he could reach support from a table or chair, desperate not to show it.

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But there were two visitors, not one.

He grasped Adam’s hands and knew that he already had the news.

“How is it, Uncle?” He did not try to hide his anxiety.

“Well enough.” He shied away from it. “You are failing in your duty, sir, who is our visitor?” Adam said, “Mr Pullen.” He sounded uncomfortable. “From the Admiralty.”

The man had a bony handshake. “On passage for Malta, Sir Richard.” He sounded as if he was smiling. “Eventually.”

“Well, be seated. Allday, fetch Ozzard.” He knew Adam was staring at him, measuring his hurt as Keen had done.

“And what brings you here, Mr, er, Pullen?” The man arranged himself in a chair. He was all in black.

Like a carrion crow, Bolitho thought. He turned to keep the light behind him, knowing they would see the bandage and nothing more.

“I have certain affairs to manage in Malta, Sir Richard.

Admiral Sir Hayward Sheaffe has given me instructions.” Bolitho forced a smile. “Secret, eh?”

“Certainly, Sir Richard.” As Ozzard hurried to him with a tray he said, “Some watered wine will suffice, thank you.” Adam said, “I wish to speak with you, Uncle.” Bolitho sensed something in his tone. “Will it not keep?” The man called Pullen took an envelope from his coat and laid it on the table. Bolitho stared at it, feeling trapped, stripped of his pretence. “May I ask the same of you, Mr Pullen?” The man shrugged. “I would imagine that you have many things on your hands, Sir Richard. You have been in battle, although to glance around you you would scarce believe it.” Bolitho controlled a sudden irritation. “We destroyed a French seventy-four.” That was all he said.

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glass of watered wine. “I’d not trouble you, Sir Richard, it is after all a nuisance but a necessity none the less. I am required to serve notice on your flag-captain to attend a court of inquiry in Malta with all despatch.”

No wonder Adam had tried to warn him. Bolitho said calmly,

“To what purpose?”

Pullen seemed satisfied. “Two bothersome reasons, I understand, Sir Richard. He behaved somewhat foolishly by ignoring a government warrant and then removing a woman,” his voice lingered on the word as if it were obscene, “from custody. I feel he can explain his reasons no matter how misguided, but I must point out—”

“Who had made this accusation?”

Pullen sighed. “It was a written report, Sir Richard. As I said, it should not concern or trouble you. A nuisance, nothing more.” Bolitho said quietly, “You are impertinent, sir. That woman was being abused, flogged! Captain Keen was doing his duty!”

“That is in the past, Sir Richard.” Bolitho stared at him and replied, “This is a battleground, Mr Pullen, not a safe and secure office. Here, I command. I could have you seized up and flogged to within an inch of your life and none would question my order.” He heard the man’s quick intake of breath. “It would be months before anyone acted on it, and I would like to know if you might call that a nuisance! ” Pullen swallowed hard. “I meant no offence, Sir Richard.”

“Well, it was taken! Do you imagine that I’ll stand by and permit a gallant officer to have his name smeared by this—this absurdity?”

Pullen leaned forward, his confidence returning. “Then it is not true, any of it?”

“I do not have to answer that.”

Pullen stood up and placed his glass, still full, on the table.

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“Not to me, sir. But you will see in your orders that you are also required to attend with your captain.” Bolitho stared at him. “Leave this station? Do you know what you are saying? Have you no conception of what the enemy intends to do?”

Pullen said, “It is out of my hands, Sir Richard.” He gave a brief bow. “If I may, I would like to withdraw while you decide.” For a long moment Bolitho stood stock still beneath the skylight. It was like a bad dream. Like his failing sight. It must soon clear away.

Adam said bitterly, “He explained nothing, Uncle. You did not tell me about this woman.” He hesitated. “We must see that there is no gossip.”

Bolitho took his arm. “She is aboard this ship, Adam.” He turned him slowly to face him. “If that wretch made it sound coarse and indecent, he has done more harm than I imagined.

She is a fine, brave girl, wrongly charged, falsely transported, and we shall prove it.”

The door opened and Keen walked slowly aft, his hat dangling from one hand.

Keen said, “But in the meantime she will be sent in irons to another transport.” He looked at Adam. “You see, I love her. I love her more than life itself.”

Adam glanced from one to the other, instantly aware of the strength of Keen’s sincerity, of his uncle’s compassion.

Adam said, “Pullen plays cards.”

They both stared at him, at his dark features which had become so grim.

“I could accuse him of cheating and call him out—” Bolitho crossed to his side and grasped his shoulders.

“Enough of that. We are in enough trouble. Keep your steel covered.” He squeezed his shoulders. “Bless you.” 172

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Adam said wretchedly, “I have a letter from Lady Belinda.” He held it out. “I think I know why you did not read Pullen’s brief, Uncle.” He sounded shocked, stunned by the realization.

Bolitho asked, “Do you have to leave immediately?”

“Aye.” Adam looked down and his unruly hair fell across his forehead. “I heard about John Hallowes, Uncle. He was my friend.”

“I know.” They walked together to the screen. “I shall have to quit the squadron when I am most needed, Adam, over this tragic affair. I will place Inch in command until we return.” He looked at Keen. “Have no fear. I shall not desert that girl.” Adam followed Keen to the quarterdeck and saw Pullen waiting by the entry port. Who was behind these accusations, he wondered? The fact that they were true seemed less important.

He touched his hat to the side party and then looked at Keen.

He said, “You have my loyalty, sir.” He touched his sword.

“This too when and if you need it.” Then he followed Pullen into the boat.

Keen waited only until the gig was under oars and then crossed to his first lieutenant.

“We shall make sail as soon as a letter has been sent over to Firefly from the admiral.” It was obvious that Pullen had wanted to remain on board as an observer until they reached Malta where he would change his role to that of jailer. Now he would be there waiting for them, his determination sharpened by Bolitho’s hostility.

“I’m sorry about all this, sir.” Paget flinched under Keen’s stare but stood his ground. “We all are. It’s not fair.” Keen dropped his eyes. “Thank you. I once believed it was enough to fight a war. Apparently there are those who think we are better used fighting each other.” A boat carried a hastily penned letter across to the brig and by the time dusk had closed in, Firefly had already dipped below the horizon.

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Keen walked the quarterdeck and watched the red sunset.

Firefly had brought only bad news after all.

11 A time for caring

IT WAS early morning when Bolitho made his way to the quarterdeck. Two days since Firefly had found them and Adam had given him the news.

Argonaute was lying comfortably on the larboard tack under topsails and jib, her decks damp from the night air, her seamen moving about in the half-light, clearing up loose lines and holystoning the poop under the supervision of their petty officers. There was a sickly smell from the galley funnel, and all hands would soon be dismissed for their breakfast.

Bolitho saw the officer-of-the-watch glance at him startled, then move hastily to the lee side. The helmsmen too straightened their backs when moments before they had been clinging to the big double wheel, tired after their watch, thinking only of breakfast, poor though it might be.

One or two of the seamen looked up at him from the main deck. They had seen very little of Bolitho since the injury, and later the smoke of battle had hidden him better than any disguise.

He shaded his eye and stared towards the land. Purple and deep blue above a steely horizon. There were clouds about, rimmed with pink and gold from the sunrise. The sea was calmer and the deck much steadier.

He walked a few paces inboard, his hands grasped firmly behind him. When he sought out individual figures he felt his heart quicken. He could recognize all but those in shadow between the guns.

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He called to the lieutenant in charge of the watch.

“Good morning, Mr Machan.” The officer touched his hat and hurried towards him.

“A fine day, Sir Richard.” He sounded confused and pleased.

Bolitho studied him. Detail by detail. He could see him better than he had dared hope and recalled how he had once mistaken Sheaffe for another officer entirely.

He realized that Machan was visibly wilting under his stare.

Bolitho said, “Is Helicon in sight from the masthead?” They had seen Inch’s ship and her consort just as night had closed in, but daylight would bring them all together again except for Barracouta in her odd disguise, and they would be reduced again as soon as the flagship left for Malta.

It was madness, but Bolitho knew that the orders left nothing to chance or conjecture. If Keen was required to face a court of inquiry he must go in his own ship. To be sent as a passenger in some courier brig would be as good as condemning him and holding the door wide to a court martial.

He found he was pacing again, and that Machan had returned to his place at the lee nettings. The news would spread, first through the lower deck, then to every ship in the squadron. The admiral was up and about again.

Bolitho allowed his mind to grapple with Belinda’s letter. He was still not sure what he had expected. Her letter was not brief, but lacked any personal contact. She had written of the estate, of Ferguson’s plans for extending the market garden, of the old exciseman whose wife was having another baby.

It had been a strange experience, but he had not wanted Yovell or Ozzard to read it to him. Instead he had asked for the girl to be brought aft and to do it. Belinda’s voice had become hers, but the letter had been light and evasive, no mention of London or the coolness of their parting.

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Bolitho paused as a shaft of sunlight lanced through the shrouds, then took the letter from his pocket. He held it to the light, careful to hide what he was doing from the officer-of-the-watch and his midshipman.

He could just make out some of the words. Yesterday it would have been impossible.

It ended, “From your loving wife, Belinda.” He recalled the sound of her name on Zenoria’s lips, how it had moved him and made him vaguely uneasy because of it.

The girl had handed him the letter and had said, “She is a fine lady, sir.”

Bolitho sensed her despair and her envy. Keen had told her about Pullen.

Bolitho had said, “Sit closer.” When she had joined him he had taken her hands, remembering how he had removed his coat with the proud epaulettes the first time he had met her.

He had said, “I shall keep my word, have no doubt of that.” He had sensed her disbelief as she had replied, “How can you help me now, sir? They will be waiting.” He had heard her frightened determination. “They’ll not take me alive. Never!” He had pressed her hands between his. “What I tell you must be our secret. If you tell my captain, he will be an accomplice and there must be no more blame.”

She had hesitated. “I trust you, sir. Whatever you say.” Bolitho put the letter back in his pocket. He was still not sure how to deal with the matter. But her spirits must be held high.

Otherwise, she might throw herself overboard or do some other injury to herself rather than face arrest and custody again.

The masthead lookout yelled, “Deck there, sail in sight to the sou’-east!”

Bolitho could picture Inch’s ship, her sails like pink shells in the frail sunshine as she headed towards Argonaute.

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He thought of the girl again. She would soon hear of the other ship’s arrival. Another turn of the screw, hastening her passage to Malta and heartless authority.

Keen came on deck, hatless and without a coat. He stared at Bolitho and made to explain.

Bolitho smiled. “Easy, Val. I could not sleep. I needed to walk.”

Keen grinned with relief. “Just to see you on deck again is like a tonic, sir!”

He became serious. “I do not wish to burden you further, but—”

Bolitho interrupted. “I have a plan.”

“But, sir,—”

Bolitho held up his hand. “I know what you will say, that you will insist that the responsibility is yours. You are wrong. My flag flies over this squadron, and while it does I will pilot the affairs of my officers and in particular those of my own captain.” His voice sounded bitter as he added, “Ever since my brother deserted to the American Navy there have been those who have been eager to bring discredit on my family. My father suffered because of it, and more than once I have been a ready target for their malice and plotting. Adam too, but then you know that. So I shall not have you brought down merely because it might hurt me.”

“You really think that someone intends you harm, sir?”

“I have no doubts at all. But nobody will expect me to release you from responsibility and take it on myself.” No wonder Pullen, the carrion crow, had seemed so confident.

The realization chilled him, angered him with the same intensity as when he had almost ordered the last broadside on the French two-decker.

He heard himself say, “Let me deal with it my own way, Val.

Then we can go after the real enemy, if it is not already too late!” Keen watched him and saw the emotions, like the lines on a COLOURS A LOF T!

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chart. Perhaps Bolitho’s injury had affected his reasoning more than he realized. Keen had heard about the attacks on Bolitho’s family, the way it had been used in the past to prevent promotion or stem recognition which had been bravely earned.

But surely, in the middle of a campaign, nobody would be mad enough to exploit such deep-rooted malevolence?

Keen said, “Just so long as Zenoria is safe, sir.”

“She is merely being used, Val. I’m certain of that.” He turned as the midshipman called, “Rapid ’s signalling, sir!” Bolitho watched the flags breaking from the yard and heard Keen say, “You can see the signal, sir!” Bolitho tried to conceal his excitement. “Well enough.” He turned towards the poop. The other bandage would come off and to hell with Tuson’s gloomy predictions. When Inch came aboard he would find his admiral again, not some faltering cripple. He strode beneath the poop and only once lost his balance as the ship dipped into a long trough.

The scarlet-coated sentry made to open the door for him but Bolitho said, “No need, Collins. I can manage.” The marine gaped after him, astonished that Bolitho had even remembered his name.

Yovell looked up startled from the desk, his spectacles awry as he saw Bolitho stride through the door.

“I want to prepare some instructions for Captain Inch of the Helicon, Mr Yovell. After that I will receive that gentleman on board before we part company again.” He watched Yovell opening drawers and searching for a new pen.

“And after that I shall want Midshipman Hickling to lay aft, if you please.”

Yovell nodded. “I understand, Sir Richard.” Bolitho eyed him keenly. You don’t, but never mind.

Yovell said, “The surgeon is waiting to see you, sir.” Bolitho leaned both hands on his chair to study himself in 178

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the mirror. The small cuts had almost healed, and his eye looked almost normal. Even the occasional pricking sensation was less noticeable.

He said, “Send him in.” He tugged the bandage. “I have a job for him directly.”

Allday came through the other door and watched anxiously as Bolitho prepared to remove the bandage.

“If you’re sure, sir?”

“I shall want you to perform as a barber later on.” Allday glanced at Bolitho’s black hair. It looked suitable, he thought. But he knew better than to say or do anything which might dampen Bolitho’s new mood.

Tuson made no bones about it; he even raised his voice as he said hotly, “If you won’t listen to me, at least wait until you can be examined by someone more qualified, sir!” The bandage had fallen to the deck and Bolitho had tried not to flinch or bunch his fists as Tuson had examined the eye for the hundredth time.

“It is no better,” he said at length. “If you will but rest it, I—”

Bolitho shook his head. The vision was misty, clouded, but the pain held back as if surprised by his sudden action.

“I feel better, that is the important thing.” He turned to Tuson and added simply, “Try to understand, my friend.” Tuson closed his bag angrily. “If you were a mere common seaman, Sir Richard, I’d say you were a damned fool.” He shrugged. “But you are not, so I will say nothing.” Bolitho waited until the door closed then massaged his eye until he realized what he was doing.

Then he stared at himself in the mirror for several seconds.

He would find and destroy Jobert’s squadron no matter what.

And, like Inch, when his men looked to him at the cannon’s mouth, they must find confidence and not lose heart.

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To the cabin at large he said, “So let us be about it.” During the five and a half days it took for Argonaute to take passage to Malta, Bolitho remained for much of the time in his quarters. It allowed Keen time and scope to complete his repairs, and to change his watch-bill whenever he discovered a weakness in his company. Gun and sail drill, he kept them at it on each monotonous day. They might curse their captain, but the results were clear to Bolitho as he heard the creak of gun trucks on deck or the yells of the petty officers as they drove some reluctant land-men aloft to the dizzy yards.

As he studied his orders and information he was conscious of their slow progress, sometimes only six knots, often less. He became very aware that it would take just as long to return to his patrol area if the enemy decided to move.

He trusted Inch as a skilful and experienced captain. He did not lack initiative, but often hesitated about using it. It troubled Bolitho, for over the years Inch with his eager horse-face had become like a brother.

Keen reported as soon as the masthead had sighted the island.

“It will be late afternoon, maybe in the dogwatches, before I can anchor, sir, unless the wind freshens.” Bolitho looked at him and saw Keen trying not to stare at his unbandaged eye. It was never mentioned now but it was always there, like a threat.

“Very well. I shall come on deck when we enter the Grand Harbour.”

Keen left him alone and Bolitho sat down in his new chair.

What would the next move be? An order to remove him because of his injury? Replace him entirely? It was all too much of a coincidence to think, as Keen probably did, that he was imagining it.

There had been many letters sent home from the squadron in Firefly.

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Bolitho frowned as he pictured his officers, his captains.

Houston of the Icarus was the most likely. Anger and an obvious resentment made him first choice. He certainly had no love for either his admiral or his flag-captain.

He went on deck only briefly to train a telescope on the blue hump of islands as Malta appeared to drift sleepily towards them. He made up his mind. If things went badly wrong nothing he could say would save their accusations, or the girl either.

But he had to be ready. He knew Keen had been to visit the girl in her cabin. It would have been a difficult farewell, each trusting Bolitho, neither knowing if or when they might ever meet again. They could not even speak freely with Tuson and a marine sentry close by.

Bolitho returned to his cabin. “Ozzard, send for Allday. Now.” He walked to the windows and watched a small high-prowed fishing boat bobbing astern. Malta, fought over, won and lost, now accepting the Navy’s protection more as a defence against the French than from any sense of loyalty.

Allday had obviously been very near. He entered the cabin and waited, his face expressionless as he gauged Bolitho’s mood.

Bolitho said, “Fetch her, please.”

Allday took a deep breath. “I’m not at all certain about it, Sir Richard.”

“About what, old friend? You have heard nothing. ” Allday sighed. It was fine now, but there would be squalls later if it misfired.

He padded from the cabin, an unspoken argument left hanging in the air.

Bolitho swore silently as the deck tilted and he heard the clatter of blocks and helm as the ship altered course slightly. He had almost lost his balance again. It was unnerving, like the mist which hung over his eye like a piece of fine silk.

The door opened, then Allday closed it behind her.

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“It is almost time.” Bolitho led her to a chair and watched her grip its arms, making a lie of her composure.

He walked behind her and touched her long hair. “Are you sure, brave Zenoria?”

She nodded and held the chair even more tightly.

Allday muttered hoarsely, “Lie back, Miss.” She laid her head on the chairback and after a brief hesitation unbuttoned her shirt and bared her neck.

Bolitho took her hand. No wonder Keen adored her.

Allday said despairingly, “I can’t do it, sir. Not like this.” She said quietly, “Do it. Please. Now.” Allday released a great sigh and then pulled her hair out behind her, his scissors poised like steel jaws.

Bolitho watched the hair falling to the deck and said, “I will be on deck.” He squeezed her hand; it was like ice in spite of the cabin’s humid air. “Allday will care for you.” Then he bent down and kissed her gently on the cheek. “Your courage will yet sustain all of us, Zenoria.”

Later, as he joined Keen on the quarterdeck and watched the white forts and harbour opening up to receive the slow-moving seventy-four, he had forcibly to restrain his anxiety.

The salutes began to boom across the placid water and a flag dipped above the nearest battery.

There were many ships at anchor and several large men-of-war. He raised a telescope and held it carefully to his good eye.

A smart two-decker lay nearest to the jetty, a rear-admiral’s flag flapping only occasionally from her mizzen.

He felt a catch in his throat. There was no mistaking the Benbow. Pictures flashed through his mind. He had been a rear-admiral, when was it? Three years back in the Baltic when his nephew had been the ship’s third lieutenant and Herrick his flag-captain.

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as, with something close to physical force, he continued to examine the busy anchorage.

Thank God. The lens settled on a sturdy brig which was anchored almost end on. No wonder he had not seen her. He waited impatiently for the gentle breeze to swing her again on her cable until the sunlight glinted on her glided counter.

Bolitho read her name, Lord Egmont, although he already knew it well. She was one of the oldest in the fleet of Falmouth packets; he had known her since he had been a junior lieutenant.

He had felt certain she would be here; he had seen her name in his Admiralty instructions. But wind and sea, a change of events could have altered things, and even now—

He lowered the glass and the brig fell away into hazy distance again.

The last smoke from the salute still hung over the yards as men were piped to hoist out the two cutters in case the wind was insufficient to turn the ship at her anchorage. A swaying guard-boat with a limp anchor flag in her bows waited, pinned down on the glittering water, probably the only interested group to watch their arrival. Warships were too common for comment; only the transports and the mail carriers from England excited real attention nowadays.

Keen cupped his hands. “Be ready to let go, Mr Paget!” He glanced quickly at Bolitho, his expression suddenly apprehensive, but not for himself.

Bolitho shaded his eyes and stared at the waterfront with its ancient fortifications and busy markets. A sailor’s port, a warren of activity. He bit his lip. A place for spies too.

The admiral would be watching; Pullen too.

Keen said, “Firefly’s already gone, sir.”

“Aye.” Adam at least would be well out of it, no matter how he wanted to help. Is it something about us, the Cornish, he wondered?

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A senior officer had once told him to his face, “Cornishmen?

Pirates and rebels the whole bunch of you!” It seemed to take an age before Argonaute finally took up her anchorage, her sails furled neatly to her yards. Awnings were spread and the ship settled down to await events.

Bolitho watched the boats coming to the chains, the officer-of-the-guard, a chandler from the dockyard, an embarrassed-looking ensign from the garrison who had come to collect Millie the maid. She seemed unwilling to leave and, despite the grins of the watching sailors, clung to the ship’s corporal as if her life depended on it.

Keen watched from the poop, his thoughts elsewhere as visitors and some of his own officers waited to make their claims upon his time.

He saw Lieutenant Stayt speaking with the boatswain and then a party of seamen loosening the lashings on the barge in readiness for hoisting her outboard.

Bolitho was going ashore. Earlier than he had expected, and it made him uneasy.

The officer-of-the-guard touched his hat and handed Keen an official-looking envelope. He looked ill at ease, like someone performing his duty against his nature, but at the same time afraid of being tainted by too close a contact.

It was a summons from the admiral’s headquarters to appear before a court of inquiry two days hence. The flag-officer-in-charge must have sent it as soon as Argonaute’s sails had been sighted. Stayt waited for the guard-boat to leave the chains and then came aft.

“I have to take Sir Richard’s despatches to the flag-officer here, sir.”

Keen nodded. So Stayt was taking the barge. That explained it. He noticed that Bankart, the second coxswain, was in charge 184

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of the bargemen. That was unusual, he thought. Allday usually handled her when they were in harbour or under the eyes of the fleet.

He heard Midshipman Hickling request permission to take the jolly-boat to a nearby merchantman, and Paget’s approval when he learned that there was a message to be carried across from the admiral.

Keen glanced up at the flag. When it was hauled down again it might mean the end for both of them.

Midshipman Sheaffe hurried up to the poop ladder and said,

“The admiral’s compliments, sir, and would you see him at eight bells.”

Keen tightened his jaw. If Bolitho had any good news for him he would not wait for another hour.

Almost savagely he called to Paget, “I want all boats lowered.

Send a lieutenant in each one to examine the hull.” It was unlikely that they had overlooked any damage from the brief battle, and Keen knew he was being unfair to give them extra work.

Eventually Keen heard the bell chime from the forecastle. It was time.

He thought suddenly of his home in Hampshire. It would be cold there, probably wet too as the villagers prepared for winter and, if need be, an attempted invasion by the French. What would his brothers and sisters say when they heard the news of his court martial, and he could see no alternative to one. His father would be distressed, especially as he had been against his youngest son entering the Navy in the first place.

He passed the sentry and stepped into the glowing lights of the stern cabin.

Keen was surprised to find Bolitho dressed in his long boat-cloak, and for an instant imagined that Stayt had misunderstood his orders.

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But Bolitho said calmly, “I am going ashore, Val. I will take your gig, if I may.” He gave a quick smile as if he was on edge.

“Less formal, I thought.”

Keen said, “The ship is secured, sir, and both watches have been stood down.”

Bolitho watched him gravely. “Except for certain lieutenants, I gather?” He nodded. “Good. Never trust to luck where hull damage is concerned.”

Allday padded across the cabin and took down the old sword.

Keen watched. So Bolitho was not going to visit the admiral who commanded in Malta? It was getting a bit late for formalities anyway, he decided.

Bolitho settled his sword against his hip and said, “Take charge of the gig, Allday.” He glanced towards the stern windows.

The thick glass was twinkling with countless lights from the shore. Like the dawn, the night came swiftly.

There was a quick exchange of glances, but Bolitho faced Allday steadily and said, “We don’t have much time.” Allday looked at Keen but said nothing.

They were alone. Bolitho said, “I shall be aboard the Lord Egmont before I step ashore.” Keen nodded. He had seen the packet preparing to up-anchor, men swarming on her deck to secure some extra cargo, probably her master’s own booty.

Bolitho said, “This were better done quickly, Val.” He raised his voice. “Are you ready?”

Keen stared as the midshipman entered from the opposite screen door.

“I did not realize you were—”

He stared as the girl met his gaze and looked at him. She was dressed in a complete midshipman’s uniform, and even wore a finely gilded dirk at her side.

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removed her hat, and he saw what Allday had done to her hair.

It was short, the ends tied neatly with a black ribbon as befitted a “young gentleman” about to take charge of his admiral’s boat.

Bolitho watched them, suddenly glad of what he was doing.

With a court of inquiry about to begin and the enemy stirred into the mood for revenge, there was little room for mere people.

He said, “I’ll be on deck. No side party, eh?” As the door closed Keen took her in his arms. He could feel her heart pounding against him despite the padding she wore beneath her shirt to disguise her figure.

“You did not tell me?” Even as he said it he guessed what Bolitho had done, his sudden agitation as they had entered harbour. The Lord Egmont would be sailing to Falmouth. She was as familiar there as Pendennis Castle.

“He asked me to remain silent.” She looked up at him, her lashes shining in the soft lights. “I have a letter and some money, in case—”

He hugged her against him still tighter. He had prayed for her safety, even if it meant losing her. But now that the moment had come he could scarcely bear it.

She said softly, “Now I must tell you, my dearest one. You must be brave. For both of us.”

A boat clattered alongside and Keen heard Allday’s voice taking command.

“When I reach England—”

She put her hands to his face and held it. “I will be waiting.” She watched him steadily. “No matter what happens, I shall be there. For you.” She kissed him slowly and then stood away. “I love thee, my dear captain.”

He watched her replace her hat and tilt it over her eyes. She was very contained, like brittle steel.

“Ready, sir? ”

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He nodded, wanting to hold her again, but knowing it would finish both of them.

“Carry on, if you please, Mr Carwithen.” It was almost dark on deck and Keen saw that the lantern by the entry port had been doused.

The boat was waiting below the stairs, and there were few figures on deck to notice that someone was leaving the ship.

Keen saw that Tuson was there, Paget too, but nobody spoke; even the master’s mate-of-the-watch stood back as Bolitho passed, as if he did not exist.

Keen brushed her arm, the small contact tearing him apart.

“It is their way. They will miss you too.” She looked into the gloom and then touched her hat before she clambered down the side.

Bolitho glanced at Keen. “The Lord Egmont ’s master is an old friend, Val. I made certain he was still in command before I entrusted our passenger to his care.” He flung his cloak over one shoulder. “There is not a moment to delay.” Keen said, “We were just in time, sir.” Bolitho looked down into the boat where Allday would be worrying about his descent.

“A time to care, Val. There must always be room for that.” Then without another glance he lowered himself down to the boat. As the oars slashed at the water Keen could just see Allday in the sternsheets, one hand covering hers on the tiller, but hidden from the oarsmen by Bolitho’s shoulders.

Ozzard bounded across the deck and exclaimed in a desperate whisper, “The gown, sir! She’s forgot it!” Keen watched until the gig had merged with the anchored shadows and then replied, “No matter. I shall hand it to her myself, in England.”

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12 divided L oyalties

THE RESIDENCE of the flag-officer in charge of all His Majesty’s ships, stores and dockyards in the island of Malta was a fine, imposing building.

After the dusty sunlight of the streets Bolitho found the room to which he had been ushered both welcome and cool. One long window looked out across the harbour, the crowded ships at the anchors, the criss-crossing wakes of cutters and gigs as the Navy got down to work for another day.

Waiting. In the Navy you always seemed to be doing it. As a midshipman or lieutenant, and even as a captain. When did it cease, he wondered?

He thought of the brig Lord Egmont and pictured her under full sail, heading for the Rock. She would not pause there for fear of fever, but would head out to the Atlantic and drop anchor only when she was in Carrick Roads, within sight of the Bolitho home.

He thought too of the brig’s small cabin, and her master, Isaac Tregidgo, facing him across the table.

The master had a face like a block of weathered wood, lined and scarred by years at sea, fast passages and quick rewards.

Tregidgo’s name was legendary even amongst other masters in the Falmouth Packet Service. Storms, fever, piracy and war, the old man had faced them all. He must be over seventy, Bolitho thought, and he had known him all his life. Even his greeting had been typical.

“Sit ye down, Dick.” He had grinned hugely as Bolitho had dropped his boat-cloak. “An’ I hears yewm been honoured by King George, no less,” he had wheezed in the thick air of pipe smoke and brandy. “But yewm still Dick to me!” Bolitho had heard the girl moving about in the adjoining cabin. It was little more than a hutch, but it was safe.

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The master had eyed him curiously. “Might ’ave guessed yewd be up to summat, admiral’s flag or not.” He had raised a fist like a smoked ham. “Not to worry, Dick. She’s safe with me. I knows me crew are a bunch o’ roughknots, but I often carry me grand-children on short passages. The men knows better’n to cuss an’

blaspheme in front o’ them!” He had shaken the fist grimly. “I’ll give any man, even me own kin, a striped shirt at the gangway if I catches ’im at it!”

The brig had stirred at her cable and old Tregidgo had squinted at the deckhead. “Wind’s favourin’ me, Dick.” He had added slowly, “I’ll see ’er right, just like you said in yer letter.” He had watched him from beneath his sprouting white brows.

“Yewm not seeing too well, are yew, Dick?” He had turned aside to hide his compassion. “God will watch ’e.” The girl had entered the cabin self-consciously, the midshipman’s coat and dirk in her hands.

“Keep the shoes.” Bolitho held her hands. “Mr Hickling will not miss them. You will have to remain a youth until you reach Falmouth.”

She had watched him with that same misty stare he had first seen. It was like an unspoken question. He was still not sure how to answer it.

He had said, “I am sending you to my sister Nancy. She will know what to do.” He had gripped her hands tightly, knowing she would pull away as he added, “Her husband is the squire and the senior magistrate.”

“But, sir, he’ll have me—”

He had said, “No. I am not overkeen on the man, but he will not fail over this.”

He wrapped his cloak around him and reached for the companion.

She had said, “I shall never forget you, Sir Richard.” He had turned to see the tears in her eyes, the sad beauty 190

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which even her shorn hair and crumpled shirt could not conceal.

“Nor I you, brave Zenoria.”

On deck he had found the bewildered Hickling waiting for him. A midshipman had left with him. One would return. He had handed him his coat and dirk. Hickling would be safe, no matter what happened. No one could blame a mere midshipman for obeying his vice-admiral.

By the bulwark the old man said, “I ’ear you’ve one o’ th’ Stayt boys as yer aide, Dick? From up north?” Bolitho smiled. To a Cornishman “up north” meant merely the opposite strip of coastline.

“Yes.” There were no secrets for long in Cornwall. Except from the revenue officers.

Tregidgo had gestured in the darkness towards the skylight.

“She’s best along of me then.”

“Why d’you say that?”

“Well, ’er father was mixed up in the trouble near Zennor when a man got killed, an’ the dragoons was called. Stayt was a magistrate, like the one who’s wed to yer sister,” he had wheezed.

“The one they calls th’ King o’ Cornwall.” The master had leaned closer and had murmured, “It was ’im wot ’anged ’er father. I’m fair surprised young Stayt didn’t mention that?”

So am I. Bolitho had lowered himself into the boat and had told Allday to head for the jetty. He had to think and he knew that Keen would want to see him as soon as he returned.

Sentries had barred his way to the repair docks until he had thrown off his cloak and they had stared with astonishment at his epaulettes. Allday had followed him anxiously, watching each step in case he lost his balance and fell into a dock.

There were some lanterns by the dock where Supreme lay. In the gloom she looked as before, her wounds and state of repair hidden in shadow.

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Allday had whispered, “Goin’ aboard, sir?”

“No.” Unwilling or unable, he still did not know. But he had walked along the rough stones until he had drawn level with the taffrail where the ball had struck and flung him down.

Now, standing in the sunlight by the window, Supreme seemed like part of a strange dream. A cruel reminder.

He thought again of Tregidgo’s words about Stayt. On his way here to present himself to the flag-officer-in-charge, Bolitho had been tempted more than once to ask Stayt directly about it.

His flag-lieutenant had said nothing, even though he must have been aware that the girl was no longer on board.

Bolitho had sent Stayt ashore in the barge to protect his reputation and any suggestion of involvement. Or had he? Was the mistrust already there?

Two servants threw open the high doors and Bolitho turned to face the man who seemed to fill the entrance.

Sir Marcus Laforey, Admiral of the Blue, was gross to a point which even his immaculate uniform could not hide. He had heavy-lidded eyes and a wide mouth, and when he walked with some difficulty to a chair Bolitho saw that one of his legs was bandaged. Gout, the curse of several admirals he knew.

Admiral Laforey sank carefully into the chair and winced as a servant eased a cushion beneath his foot.

When seated he looked like an irritable toad, Bolitho thought.

The admiral waved his handkerchief. “Sit down, Bolitho.” The lids lifted slightly in a quick appraisal. “Bothersome about all this, what?”

Bolitho sat down and got the impression that his chair had already been carefully positioned so as not to be too close.

Laforey had been on one land appointment after another, and had not been in command at sea since before the war. He looked dried out, obscene, and Malta would very likely be his last appointment. The next would be in Heaven.

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“Read the report, Bolitho. Good news about the French seventy-four. Make ’em think, what?”

Bolitho tightened his hold on his sword. With the chair half turned towards the window his vision was blurred. He stared at a point beyond the admiral’s fat shoulder and said, “I believe the French will be out soon, sir. Jobert may be hoping to make a diversion so that the main fleet can slip out of Toulon. Egypt or the Strait of Gibraltar—”

Laforey grunted. “Don’t speak to me about Gibraltar! That bloody fever, not safe to let anything or anyone land here if they’ve been there en route. This place is like a ship aground, there’s always some sort of sickness amongst the people an’ the military.” He touched his brow with the handkerchief. “Good wine is gettin’ scarce. Spanish muck an’ little else, dammit!” He had not listened to a word, Bolitho thought.

Laforey stirred himself, “Now about this court of inquiry, what?”

“My captain is accused—”

Laforey wagged a spatulate finger. “No, no, dear fellow, not accused! Others may have to do that. It is all a mere formality. I have not read the details but my flag-captain and this Mr, er, Pullen from their lordships assure me that it will be a matter of hours rather than days.”

Bolitho said evenly, “Captain Keen is possibly the best officer I have ever had under me, Sir Marcus. He has shown his courage and excellence on many occasions, from midshipman to command. In my opinion he should rate flag rank.” Laforey’s lids lifted again and beneath them the small eyes were cold and without pity.

“Bit young, I’d have thought. Too many inexperienced popin-jays about these days, what?” He glared at his bandaged foot. “If I could hoist my flag above the Channel Fleet instead of this, this—” he stared round resentfully, “I’d soon make the mothers’

boys shed a few tears!”

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He tried to lean forward but his belly prevented him.

“Now, see here, Bolitho, what really happened, eh?” He searched Bolitho’s face as if for an answer. “Needed a woman, did he?”

Bolitho stood up, “I will not discuss my officers in this fashion, Sir Marcus.”

Surprisingly Laforey seemed pleased. “Suit yerself. The court will sit tomorrow. If Captain Keen is sensible I am sure that you will be able to put to sea without further delay. There is a convoy due, and I cannot stand incompetence, anything which might make life here even more unbearable.” He watched as Bolitho stood up. “I hear you were wounded too, Sir Richard?” He did not expand on it. “It is part of our service.”

“Indeed, sir.” Bolitho could barely conceal the irony in his voice. “There will be many more if the French succeed in joining their fleets together.”

Laforey shrugged. “I am afraid I cannot entertain you longer, Sir Richard. My day is full. I sometimes wonder if their lordships and Whitehall realize the extent of my responsibility here.” The interview was over.

Bolitho walked down a passageway and saw a servant with a tray carrying two decanters and a single goblet towards the room he had just left. The admiral was about to extend his responsibility, he thought bitterly.

Stayt was waiting for him in the marble lobby.

He watched curiously as Bolitho shaded his eyes to stare at the harbour. Then he said, “You asked about the Benbow, sir. She has recently completed an overhaul here.”

“And whose flag has she hoisted?”

“I thought you would know, sir. She is Rear-Admiral Herrick’s flagship.”

Bolitho turned towards the shadows in the lobby to contain his feelings. The last part of the pattern, as he had known there would be. It was not imagination, now he knew it, even before 194

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Stayt said, “Rear-Admiral Herrick is to take the chair at the court of inquiry, sir.”

“I shall see him.”

“It might be unwise, sir.” Stayt’s deepset eyes watched him calmly. “It could be misconstrued, by some, that is.” Thomas Herrick, his best friend, who had nearly died for him more than once.

In his mind he could see Herrick’s eyes, clear blue, stubborn at times, too easily hurt, above all honest. Now the word “honest” seemed to stand out to mock him.

Stayt said, “There will be a letter awaiting you aboard Argonaute, I understand, sir. You will not need to attend the court. A written statement will suffice.”

Bolitho turned towards him, his voice hard. “Will you write one also?”

Stayt met his gaze without flinching. “I am ordered to attend the court to give evidence, sir.”

It was like being snared in an invisible net which was being squeezed tighter every hour.

“I shall be there, be certain of that!” Stayt followed him into the dusty sunshine and waited on the steps which faced the harbour.

Bolitho said, “Did you imagine I would stand by and say nothing? Well, did you?”

“If there is anything I can do, sir—” Bolitho felt his eye sting and knew it was anger rather than injury.

“Not for the present. You are dismissed. Return to the ship.” He strode down towards the jetty where Allday stood by the barge. There were other Argonaute boats nearby and Stayt would have to use one of them.

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saw him. Their routine did not allow for emotions like his. Stores had to be arranged, and the purser would have been ashore since first light to carry out his bargaining with chandlers and traders alike.

Bolitho said, “To the Benbow, if you please.” Allday watched him enter the barge without any show of surprise. Herrick was here. It was only proper they should meet, no matter what some might think. Mates were mates, high or low.

“Give way all!”

The green-painted barge slid through the busy thoroughfare, other boats raising their oars or backing water to allow a flag-officer to have free passage.

Bolitho sat stiffly in the sternsheets, only his eyes moving as he focused them on familiar things, masts and rigging, seabirds and small clouds above the fortress.

Damn Laforey and his drink-sodden indifference, and anyone else who had a part in this. He glanced at the stroke oarsman and quickly along the bronzed faces of the barge crew. They all knew. Probably the whole fleet did too. Well, let them.

Vague thoughts flashed through his mind, of Belinda’s letter, of Stayt’s cool demeanour as he had mentioned his summons to the inquiry, and of Inch and the squadron who expected him to be above mere human reactions—or did they?

It would certainly not be the first time he had acted against the dictates of authority. He gave a small, bitter smile. It must run in the family. His father, who to his sons had always appeared as the stern, model example of a sea officer, had once fallen out with his army equivalent during a siege in the East Indies. Captain James Bolitho had solved the problem by arresting the soldier for negligence and then going on to win the battle. Had he lost it, Bolitho had no doubt that the family’s naval connection would have ended there.

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Allday murmured, “She looks proud, Sir Richard.” It sounded unusually formal. Allday never forgot himself when others were present. Well, hardly.

The seventy-four-gun Benbow did indeed make a fine sight.

Newly painted, and her rigging like black glass, yards crossed with each sail furled to match its companion. The ports were all open, and Bolitho had no difficulty in hearing their fearful thunder at Copenhagen and later against the French “flying squadron.” It never failed to tear at his memory, of the time he had been a prisoner of France and his subsequent escape. Allday had been with him then. Had carried the dying John Neale after his ship had foundered. Yes, many memories lay stored within her deep hull.

The barge swept round a wide arc and he saw the side party rushing to their station, the Royal Marines dressing into lines.

His unexpected arrival would get them on the move. Bolitho smiled again. Wrong, Herrick would have expected it.

Benbow must be almost ready for sea, he thought. Only a few local boats lay alongside and just one tackle was swaying up cargo nets to the men on the gangway.

Bolitho murmured, “Stand off, Allday, I’ll not be long.” He saw Allday’s face in the sunlight, caught it for just a moment as he carefully steered the sleek barge towards the main-chains.

Bolitho was shocked to see the strain on his strong features, ashamed that he had not thought about his worries over his son.

“Oars— up! ” The pale oars rose dripping in twin lines, their blades perfectly matched. Allday had done well.

Up the tumblehome to the piercing twitter of calls and then the drums and fifes of the marines. Pipeclay floated like white dust above the guard as they presented arms for his benefit. And here was Thomas Herrick, hastening to meet him, his round face beaming, and letting the formality blow away like the pipeclay.

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Herrick exclaimed, “Come aft, Sir Richard.” He gave a shy smile. “I’m not yet accustomed to it.” Nor I, Bolitho thought as they strode beneath the familiar poop. Here, and here, men had locked weapons and died. Up there shot had raked away seamen and marines alike, and where two small midshipmen were listening intently to the sailing-master he had been struck down.

In the great cabin it was warm although the windows and skylights were all wide open.

Herrick bustled round. “The stench of paint and tar makes this place like Chatham Dockyard!”

A cabin servant was placing goblets on a tray, and Bolitho sat down beneath a skylight, his shirt already clinging to his skin.

He watched Herrick affectionately. His hair was tufted with grey and his body was stockier, probably from married life and Dulcie’s cooking.

But when he turned he seemed just as before. The same clear blue eyes, the searching curiosity as he looked at his friend, originally his captain in another war when mutiny had been a greater threat than the enemy.

“I saw young Adam when he was here, er, Richard.” Bolitho took a goblet and placed it beside him. Claret.

Herrick’s taste had risen with his rank.

Herrick added, “A fine brig. It’ll be a frigate next, what he’s always dreamed of, the rascal. If he stays out of trouble—” He paused, his eyes suddenly worried. “Well, anyway, here’s to you, dear friend, and may Lady Luck stay with you.” Bolitho reached for his goblet but missed it and caught it with his cuff. The wine spilled over the table like blood, and as Herrick and the servant hurried to help Bolitho said, “No. I can manage!” It came out more sharply than he had intended and he said, “I’m sorry, Thomas.”

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Herrick nodded slowly and poured another goblet himself.

“I heard, of course, Richard. It was a shock.” He leaned over and stared at Bolitho for the first time. “Yet I see nothing, no damage, except perhaps—”

Bolitho dropped his gaze. “Aye, Thomas, except, perhaps, they sum it up very well.”

He drank the goblet without knowing what he had done.

“About the inquiry, Thomas.”

Herrick leaned back in his chair and regarded him gravely.

“It will be here, in this cabin, tomorrow.”

“It is rubbish, Thomas.” Bolitho needed to get up and move about as he had done so often in this place. “God, you know Valentine Keen. He’s a fine man, and is now an excellent captain.”

“Of course I remember everything about him. We’ve sailed together often enough.” He became serious. “I cannot talk about the inquiry, Richard, but you know that, you have had this filthy job yourself.”

“Yes. My flag-lieutenant warned me that I should not come.” Herrick watched him worriedly. “He was right. Any sort of discussion would, might be seen as collusion. We are all friends.”

Bolitho stared hotly at the windows. “I was beginning to wonder.” He did not see the hurt in Herrick’s eyes. “When I flew my flag here, and you commanded Benbow, young Val was captain of Nicator, remember?” He did not wait for a reply but hurried on, “Then, when I went to the West Indies and we fought over that damned island San Felipe, Val gave up a larger vessel to come to Achates, a little sixty-four, because I asked him to be my flag-captain.”

Herrick gripped the table. “I know. I know, Richard, but the fact is that we are all here to conduct an inquiry. I have my orders, otherwise I would say nothing more about it.” Bolitho tried to relax. Anything and everything seemed to COLOURS A LOF T!

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seize him like claws since his injury. He picked up the goblet and knew Herrick was trying not to watch in case he knocked it over again.

He said, “I shall come myself. I had no intention of sending a written statement, as if it were just a secondary matter. My captain’s future is in danger, and I’ll not stand by and see him slandered by enemies I can only guess at!” Herrick stood up and gestured to the servant, who immediately withdrew. Another Ozzard.

Herrick said steadily, “Keen behaved wrongly when he removed a prisoner from a ship under a government warrant. The fact that she is a woman could only add meat to the pot.” Bolitho pictured the filthy convict transport and young Zenoria as he had last seen her. The girl who would carry a scar on her body for the rest of her life. She would have died but for Keen. Nobody could have foreseen what would transpire from that one savage incident. It was a miracle that her mind had not been equally scarred.

Herrick said, “Had she been an ordinary male prisoner—”

“Well, she was not, Thomas. She was wrongly charged and wrongly transported. God, man, they wanted her out of the way because of her father!”

Herrick shifted under Bolitho’s angry stare. “But others will say—”

Bolitho stood up. “My warm wishes to Dulcie when next you write.”

Herrick was on his feet too. “Don’t leave like this, Richard!” Bolitho breathed slowly to compose himself before he faced the side party and marine guard.

“Who else will be present? You can at least tell me that, surely?”

He did not hide his bitterness.

Herrick replied, “Admiral Sir Marcus Laforey will be taking 200

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part, and the inquiry will be conducted by his flag-captain.” He said abruptly, “The woman, is she still aboard Argonaute? ” Bolitho picked up his hat.

“And I cannot answer that, Thomas.” He walked through the door. “It might be seen as collusion.” It was unwarranted and unfair, Bolitho knew it. But there was more at stake now than strong words.

It would not require a bad verdict in the court of inquiry to damage Keen’s future. Rumour would soon spread. It had to be stopped, overwhelmed like a forest fire under a cloudburst.

The two flag-officers walked to the entry port together, but Bolitho had never felt so isolated from his friend. He had known him longer even than Allday, who had been pressed aboard that same ship.

He hesitated as the first rank of scarlet coats moved into his vision. The colour-sergeant on the end, his eyes fixed on the nearest buildings along the shore, was strangely stiff, even anxious.

Bolitho hesitated and then the face came back. Helping him on that terrible day, just an ordinary marine then.

He said quietly, “McCall, I remember you well.” The sergeant remained rigid, his captain watching beyond Bolitho’s shoulder. But his eyes moved and he said, “Thank you, sir.” He hesitated as if afraid he was going too far. “It were a fierce battle, that ’un, sir, an’ no mistake.” Bolitho smiled. “Aye, I’m glad you are doing well in the Corps.” His words seemed to have another meaning as he added,

“Take good care that others do not spoil your efforts.” The contact was broken as the calls trilled once more.

Bolitho paused in the entry port and removed his hat to the quarterdeck. After tomorrow this ship might never seem the same again.

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because he knew that not for the first time his own honesty had come between them.

Captain Francis Inch leaned across his chart and tugged repeat-edly at his left ear as he often did when he was contemplating his next move. Around him the cabin heaved and shuddered as Helicon rolled uncomfortably in a rising wind.

It was almost noon, but because of a thickening mist, which even the wind was refusing to disperse, visibility was reduced to a few miles.

He could see the ships in his mind, Despatch directly astern, and Icarus a blurred outline at the tail-end of the line. Inch hated the uncertainty of the weather. The wind had veered greatly in the two days since Bolitho had left the squadron. It now blew almost directly from the west, from France.

He studied his chart more closely, very aware of the other two captains who remained silent as they sipped their wine.

Two hundred miles south-west of Toulon and already floundering in the rising wind. If it did not back soon or drop in force they might be driven far off their station or, worse, scatter so that they would lose contact altogether.

He pictured the little brig Rapid, far ahead of her companions. Inch was working her hard, but he envied her commander Quarrell more than he cared to admit. At least he had freedom of movement, while they blustered along, keeping station, ponderous and slow. He looked up and saw the broken white horses through the stern windows.

Captain Houston said, “I must leave soon, or I’ll never find my ship in this.”

Montresor of the Despatch said, “Can’t do anything unless the wind quietens down.”

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captain but always seemed to take a lead from the sour-faced Houston.

The latter remarked, “I still think it’s madness to keep our one and only frigate on some wild deception when she could be with us.” Encouraged by Inch’s silence he continued in his harsh voice,

“We can’t possibly seek out local craft with only Rapid to do it.” Inch glanced round his cabin. It looked French still in spite of the paintings he had hung around it. Pictures of country scenes, brooks and meadows, churches and farms. Like his own Dorset home. He thought momentarily of Hannah, his wife. She had already given him a little son, and another child was on the way.

How could she imagine what he was doing, he wondered?

He said, “Vice-Admiral Bolitho has explained about Barracouta.

I accept his judgement.”

Houston said, “Naturally.” He smiled wryly at Montresor,

“But then we have not known him as long as you.” Inch showed his teeth in a dangerous grin. “He made me acting-commodore until his return. That should be enough for you, I think.”

Houston’s smile vanished at Inch’s change of tone. “I wasn’t doubting the thinking behind this. It’s just that—”

“Quite.” Inch listened to the groan of timbers, the distant crack of canvas as the ship leaned uncomfortably from the wind.

It felt wrong and incomplete without Bolitho. He always seemed able to foretell what the enemy might do, and Inch had never known him to scoff at or underestimate what the French had up their sleeves.

Houston said, “Maybe we should pass word to the squadron off Toulon. Nelson might have views on what we’re about. I still think the French will head for Egypt again as they attempt to break out. We beat ’em once at the Nile, but they might favour a second attempt.” He stood up and swayed to the deck’s slant.

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Inch nodded regretfully. There were many things he needed to discuss, but Houston was right: much worse and he would never fight his way back to his own ship.

He heard a voice on the wind, far away, lost.

Montresor said, “They’ve sighted something.” He shuddered.

“Not a good day for it.”

There was a tap at the door, Inch’s first lieutenant had come in person.

“Signal from Rapid, sir. Sail in sight to the nor’-west.” He glanced at the others. “Wind’s getting up, sir. Shall I order another reef?”

Inch tugged his ear. “No. Prepare to see these gentlemen into their boats. After that I want to signal Rapid before we lose contact.”

He turned to the others as the lieutenant hurried away.

“Rapid is unlikely to report or even sight a fishing boat in this weather.” He watched his words going home. “I must close on her immediately. So keep station on Helicon and be prepared to fight.” Montresor stared at him. He had not been a captain long enough to learn how to hide his feelings.

“The French? You really think so?”

Inch thought of Bolitho, how he would have presented it.

“Yes, I do. The wind is right for them; equally it is unfavourable to us.” He shrugged his bony shoulders. “However, we must do what we came to do. At least we are ready for them.” The two captains left the ship with unseemly haste, Helicon heaving-to for the minimum of time before butting into the heavy rollers once again.

Inch stared up at the masthead, the pendant standing out and seemingly almost at right angles to the ship.

He glanced at the compass; north-east by east. Spray swept over the weather nettings and made the watchkeepers duck and swear.

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Savill, his first lieutenant, shouted above the wind, “Masthead reports that Rapid has her signal still hoisted, sir.” He looked excited, glad perhaps that they were doing something other than beating up and down.

Inch considered it. That probably meant that Quarrell had sighted or anticipated more than one strange sail.

“Signal from Despatch, sir. Her captain is safely on board.” Inch grunted, fretting as he thought of Houston’s boat smash-ing its way further astern to his own command.

The masthead lookout yelled, “Signal from Rapid, sir! Two sail in sight to the nor’-west!”

Inch looked at his second-in-command. Two sails. It would not be any of Nelson’s fleet so far south in the Golfe du Lion, and certainly no trader would attempt to break the blockade in this weather, especially in company with another.

He pondered Houston’s words. He was right about one thing, Barracouta would make all the difference if she were here.

“I think the French mean business this time, Mr Savill. Make more sail, if you please. I intend to close on Rapid now.” He took a telescope and climbed to the poop to look for Icarus. He saw the wet mist far astern; even Despatch was shrouded in it. God, what a time for it to happen. He snapped to the midshipman-of-the-watch who had followed him like a terrier, “General signal.

Make more sail. ”

He saw the flags break out to the wind, very bright against the low cloud.

It was his chance. For once he was not looking to the flagship for instructions. He was in command today. Hannah would look at him with those adoring violet eyes when he told her.

Nobody could have guessed or anticipated that Bolitho would be struck down by a stray ball, and not even in the midst of battle.

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the whys and the wherefores, Francis Inch was in temporary charge of the squadron.

It was like having a weight suddenly lifted. He knew he had no doubts and could deal with this without anxiety.

He glanced around the deck, proud of his ship and her company. He watched the hands moving out along the yards, their white trousers flapping wildly as they fought into the wind. Canvas thundered out and bulged to the pressure so that the deck heeled over even further. Another look astern. There was Icarus visible just briefly astern of Despatch. A ghost ship. He grinned into the spray. Houston was a miserable man, he thought.

“Deck there!” That was one of the lieutenants. Savill had done right to put an experienced officer up there. “Rapid has signalled.

Three sail of the line to the nor’-west!” Inch felt a tingle run through his body. Three. There was no doubt now. They might try to avoid a confrontation, but Inch had no doubts about what he would do. Must do.

“General signal, Mr Savill. Prepare for battle. ” He made himself smile. “After that, you may clear for action.” He thought of Bolitho, and felt sudden pride that he had entrusted this day to him.

The drums began to roll, and as Helicon hurled spray over her beak-head the violence of sea and wind seemed like a foretaste of their destiny.

13 W est wind

INCH stared up at the topsails as spindrift floated through the drumming shrouds like ragged banners. There was much movement and the hull was staggering over each successive crest, every stay and ringbolt protesting to the violent motion.

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But he knew that all the noise and discomfort hid the fact that their progress was slow, painfully so. Unless the wind backed in their favour—he pushed the conjecture from his mind.

“Bring her up a point, Mr Savill. Steer nor’-east.” He heard the muted cries of the topmen, the hiss of halliards and blocks as his men fought to obey him. He dare not let her pay off just to gain more advantage from the wind. He must leave that until the last moment, when manoeuvrability would count the most. The second lieutenant was up there on the crosstrees watching the oncoming vessels, although even his vision must have been impaired by spray and the persistent layers of wet mist.

The land was only five miles abeam and yet it was invisible. The sea had changed completely in a single hour, from shark-blue to pewter, and then to angered crests which broke in the wind as it moaned through shrouds and running rigging like an onslaught of demented souls.

Savill lurched up the canting deck, his face and chest running with water.

“Cleared for action, sir!”

Inch bit his lip. They could not attempt to open the lower gunports on the lee side. They would flood the whole deck in minutes. He comforted himself with the thought that the three French ships would not be finding it easy either. How could he be sure they were French? Spanish maybe? He discounted it instantly as he pictured Rapid ’s young commander. Quarrell would have signalled the fact by now.

He considered his feelings. They were the enemy. Another time, a different place. The same flag.

Savill said, “No sign of Icarus, sir.” He grinned. “A change indeed.” It was well known in the squadron that Houston always liked to be the first and the best. This time he was sadly lagging behind the others.

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Three to three. Good odds. Maybe the enemy would try to avoid them. There was little chance, Inch decided. If they headed for open sea, Helicon would lead the others round to take better advantage of the wind. No, it was far more likely that the French commander would continue on a converging tack with that same wind offering him all the advantage.

Inch looked at his ship. Cleared of unnecessary gear, the nets rigged above the gangways, the arms chests opened below the mainmast. The gun crews were stripped to the waist, their bodies already wet from spray as they crouched around their weapons or listened to their captains. Inboard of the black breeches the lieutenants moved restlessly about, their bodies angled to the tilt and shuddering vibration each time that Helicon ploughed into a trough or roller.

“Run up the Colours, Mr Savill.” He looked round for the Royal Marines officer. “Ah, Major, I suggest you tell your fifers to strike up a jig, eh?” He gave his wide horsy grin. “It will be a while yet before we match points with the Frogs.” And so Helicon, followed as closely as her people could manage by Despatch, headed towards the distant sails; the small marine fifers marched up and down the deck playing jig after jig, sometimes barely able to keep on their feet.

Inch saw his gun crews watching and grinning at the miniature parade. It took their minds off the inevitable. Only here and there a man stared across the nettings or above a gangway to seek out the enemy. New men probably, he thought. Or those who had done it before too often.

He glanced at his first lieutenant. A good and reliable officer. He seemed popular with the hands and that was a real bounty.

It was a difficult thing for a first lieutenant to be.

“Deck there!”

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Several of the men near him laughed.

But all smiles faded as the lieutenant in the crosstrees continued, “The leading sail is a three-decker, sir.” Inch felt them all looking at him. A first or second rate—bad odds, but he had known worse.

“Signal Despatch, repeated Icarus, close line of battle. ” The three-decker’s captain would be quick to exploit any weakness in his adversary, Inch thought.

Eventually the signals midshipman lowered his glass.

“Acknowledged, sir.”

Inch paced back and forth, deep in thought. It was taking much too long.

He looked up as the air quaked to sporadic cannon fire.

“What th’ devil?”

The masthead yelled, “Firin’ on Rapid, sir!” Inch swore. “Signal Rapid to stand away! What does that young fool think he’s playing at? If he tries to harass one of those ladies he’ll soon get a bloody nose!” Savill had climbed on to the shrouds with his telescope and shouted, “One of the ships is closing with Rapid, sir! Trying to cut her off from us!”

Inch stared at him. Facing a battle, and yet the French commander seemed prepared to waste time and strength on a small brig.

Houston’s words seemed to mock him, as if he had just spoken them aloud. Rapid was their only link now that Supreme was in dock. But for Bolitho, she would have been on the bottom. Now, with Barracouta to the north, the brig’s importance was paramount.

“No acknowledgement, sir.”

“God damn!” Inch looked round. “Chase your younkers aloft and get the t’gan’s’ls on her, Mr Savill. Then the main course.

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the wild freedom of the topgallant sails as they were released from their yards. He felt the ship shivering to the extra power, and when the mainsail thundered out he saw its yard bend and knew he was risking everything to cut down the range before one of the French guns scored a fatal hit on Rapid.

He said urgently, “General signal. Make more sail. ” Savill glanced at the sailing-master and saw him grimace.

“Aye, aye, sir.”

The cannon fire continued with just an occasional gun being used. It would only require one of those massive balls to bring down the brig’s masts or hit something vital below deck.

“Signal from Despatch, sir!” The midshipman was almost yelling. “In difficulty!”

Inch snatched a glass and ran up a poop ladder where his marines leaned on the muskets and waited for something to do.

He rested the telescope on the hammocks and felt his heart go cold as he saw the other two-decker’s outline changing as she paid off to the wind. He did not notice the anguish in his voice as he exclaimed, “Steering’s gone!” He saw the sails being taken in, tiny figures risking death on the madly pitching yards as they struggled to prevent the ship from being laid over or dismasted. It was common enough in a gale. The rudder or a parted yokeline, it was just another hazard and could always be repaired. But the gap was already widening, and Icarus was completely invisible in the lurking mist.

He hurried down the ladder and saw Savill’s anxious expression; others were staring at him with dismay, when moments earlier they had been ready and willing to fight,

“It will take Despatch a hundred years, Mr Savill. She will be as helpless as Rapid if we cry in our aprons and do nought.” Savill seemed to relax. “You can rely on me, sir.” Inch looked at him. “I never doubted it. Now, have the guns loaded, but do not run out until I order it.” He turned away as 210

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the gun crews leaped from their various stances to seize their rammers and handspikes.

Despatch was continuing to drift. The enemy must be wondering what was happening. Some ruse or trap to make the French commander think again. Inch frowned. Not for long.

“We will engage to larboard, Mr Savill.” He narrowed his eyes as he stared across the packed hammocks. He could see the other ships now without a glass. The three of them were advancing in echelon, their masts and sails overlapping to create one monster leviathan.

The rearmost ship was the one which was firing on the brig.

Rapid was trying to haul off, but the last waterspout from a falling ball showed how close it had been.

Inch’s coxswain hurried towards him, his captain’s hanger in his hands.

Inch looked at the curved fighting sword. “No, the other one.” He thought of Bolitho in his best uniform while the ship had rocked to the thunder of broadsides. Bolitho had known that he stood out as the captain, a sure target at any time. But he had also known it was necessary that his own people should see him until the end. When was that? It seemed a lifetime ago.

He allowed his coxswain to buckle on his best sword, the one he had bought before getting married to his dear Hannah.

Just thinking her name was like a cry from the heart. He forced the door closed on her and shouted, “We’ll take ’em down with us, eh, lads!”

They cheered, as he had known they would.

Here they come. He watched the oncoming sails, writhing and altering their outline as each captain reduced his canvas and prepared to fight. The leading ship made a splendid, terrible sight as she suddenly opened her ports and the black snouts showed themselves deck by deck.

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stopped. He was unable to move or drag his eyes from the enemy.

She was a ninety-gun ship at least. She had a bright figurehead beneath her beak-head and when Inch raised his telescope he saw that it was fashioned in the likeness of a springing beast, a leopard, with both its front paws reaching out in anger. It was Jobert.

It had to be.

“Open the ports, Mr Savill. Then run out to larboard.” There was still time. Time to run. Inch hardened his heart. “Have the boats cast adrift, Mr Savill.”

It was always a bad moment when the boats were cut free to drift on a sea anchor until recovered by the victors. Being left aboard on their tier doubled the risk of flying splinters when the enemy’s iron pounded across the decks. But to any sailor boats represented safety, a chance to survive. Inch began to pace between the quarterdeck guns, his chin in his neckcloth, the bright sword slapping against his thigh. Except, for his men, there would be no survival.

Bolitho felt the sun across his shoulders, magnified by the thick glass, as Argonaute swung heavily to her cable. He could hear the watch on deck shouting as they hoisted one of the boats inboard.

He put down his pen and looked moodily through the windows towards the shore and at the cluster of shipping which lay between it and the flagship.

It would soon be time to leave for Herrick’s ship. Bolitho thought of yesterday’s meeting, more so of the parting. It had grieved him, and he felt trapped, with few courses left to attempt.

He watched the craft. Huddled together, as if the great harbour was no longer a haven and they wanted to put to sea. The expected convoy had been sighted at first light. Bolitho had heard the warning gun while he had toyed restlessly with his breakfast.

The harbour would be crammed with ships.

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leave. Boots tramped across the damp planking and he guessed the marines were preparing to see him over the side. Keen’s gig had already left. Bolitho had spoken with him only briefly. They had shaken hands. It had reminded Bolitho of a highwayman he had seen doing just that with his executioner before the trap had dropped beneath his kicking legs.

Why had he told Belinda? Because she deserved to know? Or was it merely that he had to confide in her because he needed her? Was that it?

He sighed and stood up, the pen left beside the letter.

The ship was swaying quite steeply, and he wondered if the wind would be gone before he sailed. If he sailed.

He stared at himself in the mirror, much as Herrick had looked at him. His right eye felt almost normal, or perhaps he had become used to it. The left, he sighed again, it was no worse, but the least strain and he felt it, his balance still unsure. Even now, in harbour, he had to consider every move.

He heard Ozzard in the next cabin brushing his best coat, and thought of Keen in his as he had left the ship. He was youthful and mature all in one. No wonder they loved each other. He thought of the girl with the brown, misty eyes. How far had the packet reached, he wondered?

There was a light tap on the door, and as the sentry said nothing Bolitho knew it was Allday.

He too was in his best blue jacket with the gilt buttons which he prized. His nankeen trousers looked newly cleaned and his buckled shoes would do credit to a post-captain.

Allday watched him grimly. “Barge is alongside, sir.”

“I’m coming. I want to be on time, not early.” Allday nodded and tried to smile. “Keep ’em guessin’, eh, sir?”

“Something like that.” He saw Allday glance at the unfinished letter. “For the next courier.” Allday sounded distant. “I heard that the convoy will unload COLOURS A LOF T!

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today an’ tomorrow. Then it’ll sail for England again, or some of it will.”

Bolitho looked at him. “What else have you heard?” Allday was a better source of information than any signal and usually far more accurate.

Allday said, “Two of ’em are carryin’ gold, from the Sultan o’