Turkey, whoever he might be when ’e’s at ’ome.” For whatever reason or purpose, the Sultan’s wealth would be more than welcome in England. It sounded like Nelson’s hand behind it. He had received several favours from the Sultan after their victory at the Nile.

Ozzard entered and held out the coat for him.

Bolitho looked at the mirror. A changed man again. To any outsider he would seem to be and to have everything. Rank, authority, a beautiful wife. Everything.

He touched the gold Nile medal which hung about his neck.

Is this what a hero looks like? Hardly as he felt, he decided.

“Let us go.” Bolitho touched Allday’s sleeve then drew him aside. “I have not forgotten about your son.” Allday met his gaze, his eyes steady but sad. “I ’ave, sir. He wants to quit the service, an’ good riddance, I say.” Ozzard had gone on ahead and Bolitho heard Captain Bouteiller calling his marines to attention. But he said, “You don’t mean that, Allday.”

Allday stuck out his jaw. “Don’t you fret about ’im, sir. It’s you I’m fair bothered for. After all you done for King an’ country, an’ now you’re goin’ across to Benbow to smash all of it!” Bolitho said, “Don’t be ridiculous, man. You don’t know what the hell you’re saying!”

Allday took a slow breath; his chest wound bothered him sometimes when he became excited or angry.

“Yes, I do, sir, an’ you knows it.” As they walked towards the screen door Allday added fiercely, 214

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“I’ve said me piece. One more thing, sir. I’ll be right there with you.”

Bolitho swung round, shocked by the distress in his voice. “I know that, old friend. Your loyalty means more to me than—” He did not finish. If anything, Allday’s simple acceptance had decided him. As Allday had known all the time.

Bolitho barely noticed the swift pull to Benbow. Through the entry port, more salutes, formal greetings and then aft to the great cabin.

Herrick’s furniture had been removed and there were many chairs, even benches, all of which appeared to be filled with naval uniforms, some civilians, and one or two of the Argonaute’s own company. He saw Stayt, who still managed to stay apart from all the others, Keen with Paget sitting beside him. The latter was not required to attend, but Bolitho was glad he had made the choice.

Athwartships was a long table, its chairs backing on the stern windows, so that the few officers already seated there were silhouettes against the sunny panorama beyond.

All heads turned as Bolitho entered, and as he walked down to an empty chair at the front he saw their searching glances.

Awe, pity, curiosity. There would be some who would be glad to see a flaw in his record if only because Keen was under his command. Keen looked at him and gave a brief nod. Their glances held and spanned the years, midshipman and captain, now together once more. Fear, love, tragedy, they had both shared it, just as the girl Zenoria had seen and understood. She would, more than most.

From a vast distance Bolitho heard four bells chime. Ten o’

clock exactly, to coincide with Herrick’s arrival aft.

Bolitho stood with the others as the court found their seats.

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bandaged foot. Bolitho saw a young lieutenant nudge his companion. If Laforey caught them at it they would think the world had toppled on them. Mr Pullen from the Admiralty, still dressed in black, his face severe, two other captains whom Bolitho did not recognize, and lastly Captain the Hon. Sir Hedworth Jerram.

Laforey’s flag-captain was tall and thin with a long nose to match his haughty demeanour. As he rose now, he looked along his nose like a man who had discovered something unsavoury.

Herrick said shortly, “This court of inquiry at the direction of their lordships is open. Those advised of the content of the inquiry will be required to answer questions. Some written state-ments may be used, but the court is gathered mainly to discuss the behaviour of Captain Valentine Keen of His Britannic Majesty’s ship Argonaute, at the times and dates as specified.” He looked at Keen for the first time. “Please be seated. You are not on trial here.”

Bolitho looked at Captain Jerram. His expression clearly said, Not yet.

The captain stood facing the cabin, some papers grasped loosely in his bony fingers. In a penetrating tone he described the squadron’s departure from Spithead, and its eventual meeting with the convict transport ship Orontes.

“At some time during this operation we are to understand that several attempts were made to take this vessel in tow, she having lost steerage-way. For some reason the squadron’s flagship decided to take control of the damaged vessel, although prior to that the Helicon, ” he glanced sharply at his papers, “under Captain Inch, had already achieved some success.” Keen said, “The reason for that—”

Herrick tapped the table. “Later, Captain Keen.” Bolitho looked at Herrick’s eyes. He was unhappy about this, but there had been no recognition in his voice.

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Orontes. ” His eyes fixed on Keen as if he expected an argument. He continued, “And this is where the captain’s behaviour becomes a matter for the court and perhaps a more serious one at a later stage.”

In the cabin you could have heard a pin drop. Even the ship was unusually silent. Just the creak of wood and the lap of water below the counter.

The Hon. Sir Hedworth Jerram said in his precise voice, “A woman being transported to New South Wales was removed from that ship by the—by Captain Keen.”

Bolitho clenched his fist. Jerram had all but called him “the accused.”

“Argonaute’s surgeon is present. Please stand.” Tuson rose above the other heads and shoulders, his hair very white against his plain blue coat.

Jerram said, “The woman in question had been punished?” Tuson eyed him bleakly. “Beaten, sir, yes. Whipped, sir, yes.” Jerram snapped, “Punished. How bad was the injury?” Tuson described the cut on the girl’s back in his usual controlled voice. If they had been expecting the average ship’s surgeon the court was soon made to realize they were mistaken.

Jerram persisted, “But she was in no danger of dying?” Tuson stared at him. “If she had been returned to that ship—”

“Answer the question, if you please.”

“Well, no, sir, but—”

“Stand down.”

Jerram dabbed his mouth with a handkerchief. Bolitho watched Keen’s profile. He looked pale beneath his bronzed skin.

Bitter too.

Stayt was called next. As it was only an inquiry the court could ask what it liked through Jerram. No sort of cross-examination was permitted.

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Bolitho gripped his sword until his fingers felt numb. A gathering of facts, it said in the book. An exclusion of others.

“You boarded the Orontes, Lieutenant Stayt. What happened?” Stayt began, “The ship’s crew were in disarray and had been drinking.”

“Who said so?”

“I assumed that for myself.”

“I shall overlook your impertinence.” Jerram added, “A punishment was being executed, I believe?” Before Stayt could reply he said sharply, “And you were ordered to shoot the man carrying out the punishment, I understand, shoot him dead if he continued? Am I correct?”

Stayt said hotly, “It was an ugly situation, Sir Hedworth. We were without support.”

“Or many reliable witnesses, it would seem?” He nodded.

“Sit.”

Jerram looked at his papers momentarily, although Bolitho had the feeling he knew every detail by heart.

Bolitho accepted that the procedure was right, but, without any mention of what had happened before and since—the loss of Supreme, of the squadron’s vice-admiral too—and without Keen’s appraisal of what had happened, the evidence was meaningless.

Jerram continued, “No attempt was made to return the woman to the transport. Orontes’ captain was treated shamefully in front of his company.” He walked to the opposite side, his feet tapping on the canvased deck. “At Gibraltar, when other women were landed, the prisoner was retained on board in Captain Keen’s care. ”

Someone at the rear of the crowd tittered.

“In fact a native girl was taken on board to look after this prisoner. ”

His gold-laced sleeve shot out. “Please stand, Captain Keen!

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from Orontes for your own purposes, which we can only guess at?” Keen said bitterly, “Yes, I took her off that ship. She was being treated like an animal!”

“And that upset you, a King’s officer!” Bolitho stood up; he was on his feet before even Jerram had noticed him.

Herrick looked at him, seemingly for the first time.

“Yes, Sir Richard?”

“How dare this officer sneer at my flag-captain! I will not sit here and tolerate one more insult, do you hear?” Keen was looking at him, imploring him to stop. But Bolitho did not, nor did he want to. All the frustration and disappointment had moulded together and he no longer cared what they might do, not even Herrick.

Jerram said, “This is most unorthodox.” He was looking at Laforey.

Laforey grunted. “Well, let’s get on with it, what? Say your piece, Sir Richard, if you must. You are known as something of a firebrand, I believe.”

It was quite unintentional but his remark seemed to take the edge out of the confrontation.

Bolitho said in a calmer voice, “Captain Keen is a fine and brave officer.” He turned and saw their eyes shift to the gold medal on his chest, the same one that Nelson wore with pride.

“I chose him as my flag-captain because of his record, and because I know him.” He sensed Jerram’s restored confidence, as he had known it would return. Jerram would be quick to point out that his choice of a flag-captain, even his record, was irrelevant. If he got the chance. Bolitho was a good swordsman, his father had seen to that. He had never done well with any other weapon. It felt like that right now: letting the opponent test your arm, lead him on, and then take him off balance.

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escort surely? Then Captain Keen will have to answer for his actions at a later date. We are at war, gentlemen.” Bolitho felt the touch of ice at his spine, but it was the same as the thrill of battle, heedless of the outcome.

“Why not ask me, Sir Hedworth?”

Jerram glared at him for several seconds. “Very well, Sir Richard, since it seems we are forced to dally here. Where is the prisoner?”

“Thank you, sir.” Bolitho felt his left eye sting and prayed it would not fail him now. “She has returned to England under my protection. I paid for her passage and will produce the bill for same if you intend to court-martial me. Not before. I ordered Captain Keen to bring her to the flagship. Do you imagine that any captain can act without his flag-officer giving consent or encouragement?” He glanced at Keen’s face. “I did both.” He continued, “That girl was unlawfully transported, something I intend to prove, Sir Hedworth, in a far more convincing court than your charade here today! How could you possibly know what the Orontes ’ master said or did not say? My God, man, he’s almost halfway to New South Wales!” His voice sharpened. “And you will know about it when the proof is published, gentlemen, believe me, you shall know about it, and what greedy, dishonest men will do for revenge!”

Pullen stood up. “You take all the responsibility, Sir Richard?” Bolitho faced him, calm again. “Yes. Captain Keen is under my command and will remain so until I am ordered otherwise.” He looked as steadily as he could manage at the black-garbed figure.

“When you explain to your superiors of admiralty, Mr Pullen, and you tell them what I intend, you may be surprised at the outcome, and when that happens I trust you will show the same zeal as you did when you tried to arrest a young girl who has already suffered brutality beyond measure.” He looked again at Keen.

“That too is being taken care of.”

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Laforey asked irritably, “Why did we not know about this?” Bolitho tried not to blink his damaged eye. “Some were too eager for the kill, Sir Marcus. To hurt or to damage me through another’s reputation.”

Jerram dabbed his face. “I can proceed no further, sir.” He looked at Herrick. “At this stage.” Herrick opened his mouth and then looked towards the screen doors as a lieutenant entered and after some nervous hesitation made his way aft.

He handed a piece of paper to Laforey, who thrust it across to Herrick.

Bolitho remained standing. He may have ruined his career, but Keen and his Zenoria were safe.

Herrick looked up, “I think you should see this, Sir Richard.” Bolitho took the paper and read it carefully, aware that every face was watching him. He could feel the rising tension, mounting to match his despair and anger.

He looked around the great cabin, the same one where he had planned each battle, had survived, when so many had not.

He said quietly, “His Majesty’s armed schooner Columbine has entered harbour.” His voice was so low that many craned forward to hear him better. “My squadron was attacked last week and the Helicon, ” he glanced at Jerram without expression, “under that same Captain Inch, was severely damaged with many killed and wounded.” He saw Keen watching him, his handsome features quite stricken. Bolitho continued in spite of the catch in his voice which he could not control. Dear God, not Inch too. “What we anticipated has happened. Jobert is out, and my squadron engaged them. When they needed me, I was here.” He picked up his hat.

“As Sir Marcus said, we are at war. It is a pity that some still do not realize the fact.”

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“I have one more thing to say.” He glanced from face to face.

“God damn all of you!” Then he strode from the cabin, and after a brief moment Keen followed.

Herrick sat quite still for several moments.

Then he said, “This court is dismissed.” He was stunned by Bolitho’s anger, and yet not surprised. He had done and given too much to care any more.

Pullen said breathlessly, “He’ll never get away with this!” Herrick said flatly, “You didn’t understand, did you? The French are out, man, and Nelson will be watching Toulon like a hawk, and be too hard-pressed to release ships to search for Jobert!

Nothing stands between Jobert and his intentions but that man we all wronged just now!”

Laforey watched the people leaving the cabin. Silent now, as if they had pictured the battle through Bolitho’s quiet voice.

Herrick helped Laforey out of his chair. “I know Bolitho better than any man.” He thought suddenly of Allday. “Except one possibly. To him loyalty stretches in both directions. If people try to scar him through others he will fight back like a lion.” He tried not to think of the blazing anger in Bolitho’s eyes. “But there are some battles he can’t win.”

He waited for his captain to see the visitors into their boats and then returned to the cabin of which he had been so proud. If I were still his captain he would have acted the same way for me. When he needed me, what did I do? My duty? It was an empty word now.

If Bolitho had been with his squadron the result might have been exactly the same. But Bolitho would feel it deeply, nurse it like another wound until he conquered it. Or it killed him.

His servant peered in at him.

“Can I bring some hands to return the furniture, sir?” Herrick eyed him sadly. “Aye, do that. And clean it too. It smells rotten in here.”

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While Herrick stared through the stern windows Argonaute’s green barge moved slowly amongst the other ships.

Bolitho noticed that the stroke was slower and guessed Allday was taking his time to give him a moment to recover himself.

Keen sat beside him, his face grave as he watched the harbour. He said suddenly, “You should not have done what you did, sir.”

Bolitho looked at him and smiled. “You had no control over events where that girl was concerned, Val. I took the responsibility because I wanted to. She has come to mean a lot to me, just as her happiness counts a great deal.” His face softened. “With you it was a matter of humanity to begin with, then your heart took the tiller.”

Keen said in a low voice so that the oarsmen could not hear him, “May I ask how you know who is behind this attack, sir?”

“No. Not yet.” Bolitho tried to find comfort in the fact that a simple bluff had worked, but it evaded him. All he could see was Inch facing the enemy. The schooner’s message had little news of value, except that the enemy flagship was named Léopard.

Almost to himself Bolitho said, “The French went for Rapid.

Inch tried to support her and took the whole weight of the attack.

Why did they want the brig, I wonder?” Keen watched his profile and wondered how much more there was about Bolitho he did not understand.

Bolitho shrugged, “Remember Achates, Val?” Keen nodded and smiled, “Old Katie, yes, I remember her.”

“When Jobert attacked us we were outnumbered three to one.

To draw him into close quarters we concentrated our fire on his smallest ship, the Diane, and so we took Argonaute. ” Understanding flooded Keen’s face. “And now he’s done the same to us!”

Argonaute’s shadow covered them as the barge glided alongside in the choppy water.

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Bolitho gripped his sword. The wind was still strong. The same one which had blown from the west and had brought the French with it. He looked up at the faces of the waiting side party. Was this ship cursed after all? Still French, no matter what they could do to her?

As his head lifted through the entry port and the salutes died away, Lieutenant Paget, who had preceded them in the gig, raised his hat and yelled, “A cheer for the Admiral, lads!” Keen had seen the look in Bolitho’s eyes; he said, “It’s men, not ships, sir.”

Bolitho raised his hat and held it above his head. He wanted them to stop cheering just as he needed it to continue to drive back his thoughts like beasts into the shadows.

When they reached the stern cabin it felt like sanctuary.

Bolitho sat down in his chair and tried not to rub his eyes.

They both ached and the vision in his good eye was blurred from strain and, he knew, emotion.

“I would like to see the schooner Columbine’s commander immediately.” He saw Ozzard pouring some brandy. The little man looked both pleased and sad. He would remember Inch too.

“I must discover everything I can before we rejoin the others.

There must be something. ”

“Captain Inch may be safe, sir.” Keen watched him fondly.

“We can only hope.”

“A good friend, Val.” He thought of Herrick’s face at the table. “Losing one is bad enough.”

He got up and walked vaguely round the cabin.

“God, I’ll be glad to leave here, Val. The land has no warmth for me.” He glanced at the unfinished letter. “Inform the admiral that I intend to weigh before dusk.” Keen hesitated by the door. “I’ll go to the schooner myself.” He added quietly, “I can never thank you enough, sir.” Bolitho looked away, unable to hold his depression at bay.

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“She is worth it, Val. So are you. Now fetch that officer for me.” The door closed and Bolitho picked up the letter. Then he screwed it up and with sudden determination began to write another.

My dearest Belinda— and suddenly he was no longer alone.

14 S peak with pride

BOLITHO stood quite still beside Helicon’s wheel which had somehow remained intact. He had forcibly to examine the ship’s upper deck, masts and gangways if only to convince himself that the fight had been two weeks ago. It looked as if it had been yesterday.

The wind which had brought the French down like thunder on this shattered vessel had died away completely; in fact the last few miles before Argonaute had made contact with the squadron had been an additional torment.

There was a deep, oily swell, above which a hard sun, more silver than gold, laid bare the scattered ships, their disorder seeming to symbolize their combined shock and defeat.

Figures bustled about the decks, sailors from other ships, for there were not so many from Inch’s company who were fit to work. The clank of pumps was a reminder of the damage, if anyone needed reminding, and as a crude jury-rig began to emerge from the tangle of cordage and tackles Bolitho wondered how the ship had managed to survive.

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private battles while the ships’ surgeons did what they could for the ones who still refused to die.

Bolitho could feel Allday watching with him, sharing it, remembering all those other times.

It had not been a battle. More like a slaughter. But for the arrival of Barracouta, tearing down on the scene under full sail, Helicon would be on the bottom. If the wind rose again she might still make that final journey, he thought.

Barracouta had tossed caution aside, had even shredded her studding sails to the wind as she had endeavoured to turn aside the enemy’s calculated assault.

Allday said, “Why not go back to the ship, sir. Good bath an’

a shave, might do wonders.”

Bolitho looked at him. “Not yet.” He felt sick, stunned by the savagery of the destruction all around him. “If I ever forget this day, remind me.” He added fiercely, “No matter what!” He saw Tuson below the poop. Even that deck was mauled and knocked out of shape. As if a giant had crushed it and left great black scars, like burning clawmarks. So many had died here, and many more were paying for that day.

He asked, “How is he now?”

Tuson regarded him impassively. “The ship’s surgeon took off his arm too low, sir. I am not satisfied with it. I would suggest—”

Bolitho seized his sleeve. “God damn you, man, that is my friend you are speaking of, not some bloody carcass!” He turned aside and said quietly, “Forgive me.” Tuson watched him and said, “I understand. But I would like to deal with it myself.”

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tide of broken, frightened men who had been dragged down to the orlop to face his knife and saw, while the ship had quaked to the roar of guns, the terrifying fire from the enemy.

“I must see him.” Bolitho watched some seamen flinging broken timber and other fragments over the side. They had not been in this ship and yet they moved like survivors, the heart gone out of them.

Tuson said, “I cannot promise anything.” He glanced at Bolitho’s profile. “I am sorry.”

Beneath the poop there was still the stench of burning and pain, death and anger. A few guns lay on their sides or at the full extent of their tackles where they had recoiled on a last broadside before their crews were scattered or cut down. The sunlight shone through distorted gunports, gouged into strange shapes by the intensity of the attack.

From the main deck the sounds of hammers and squeaking blocks became muted as Bolitho groped his way down the companion to all that was left of the wardroom. Inch’s own quarters had been swept away completely, charred beyond recognition, and had taken those of the gun crews and after-guard who had stayed to the last. Bolitho saw men glancing at him, parting to let him through before returning to their work in saving the ship and preparing her for a passage to safety. The regular clank of pumps seemed to sneer at their efforts, and the cries from the wounded as they waited for relief or death added to a backcloth of hopelessness.

Helicon’s wardroom seemed almost cold after the upper deck, and even though the stern windows had been blasted away it could not free the place of its stench.

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been. The thing he had always feared most for himself had happened to his friend.

Tuson drew down a blanket and said, “He took a metal splinter here, sir.” He replaced the blanket and added heavily. “Their surgeon says he removed it.” He sounded doubtful.

It was then Bolitho realized that Inch had opened his eyes and was staring at him. His eyes did not move, as if he was concentrating all his strength to recognize and discover what was happening.

Bolitho leaned over him and took his hand. “I’m here, old friend.”

Inch licked his lips. “I knew you’d come. Knew it.” He shut his eyes and Bolitho felt his grip tighten as the agony tore through him. But the grip was feeble nonetheless.

Inch said, “Three ships of the line. But for Barracouta, I’m afraid—”

Tuson whispered, “Please, sir, he’s terribly weak. He’ll need all his will to survive what I must do.” Bolitho turned to him, their faces almost touching. “Must you?”

Tuson shrugged. “Gangrene, sir.” It needed no more words.

Bolitho leaned over the cot again. “Don’t give in. You’ve a lot to live for.” He wanted to ask Inch about the French ships, but how could he?

He saw Carcaud, the surgeon’s mate, and two assistants waiting by an upended gun. Like ghouls. Bolitho felt his eyes smart.

They would do it here and now, hold him down while Tuson did his bloody work.

Bolitho lowered his head, unable to look at him. Francis Inch, a man with all the courage and so much luck. Who would care?

His pretty young wife and a few old comrades, but who would really spare a thought for the cost of unpreparedness, of ignorance?

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Inch looked past him and saw Allday. A shadow of a smile creased his long face and he whispered, “You’ve still got that rascal, I see!”

Then he fainted and Tuson snapped, “Now!” He glanced only briefly at Bolitho. “I suggest you go elsewhere, sir.” Bolitho barely recognized this Tuson. Steady-eyed, coldly professional. To him it was not a wrecked wardroom but a place of work.

Bolitho walked up to the quarterdeck again and saw that a young lieutenant, one of Helicon’s, was supervising the hoisting and rigging of two staysails. It would give them steerage-way, but little else until they could replace some of the yards. Bolitho looked at the forecastle and decking again. Point-blank range, mostly grape by the look of it.

The lieutenant saw him and touched his hat. He said,

“Addenbrook, sir, fifth lieutenant.”

“Where were you?” Bolitho watched the strain and emotion on the lieutenant’s grimy features. At a guess about eighteen and newly promoted like most of Keen’s. Probably the first time in battle in his junior rank.

Addenbrook said, “Lower gun deck, sir. The French laid off and concentrated their fire on us. Heavy artillery, everything.” He was reliving it, the roaring, sealed world of the lower gun deck.

“We heard the masts shot away, but we kept firing, just like we’d been trained, what he expected of us.”

“Yes. Captain Inch is a fine man.”

The lieutenant barely heard him. “They kept coming for us, sir, until half our crews were laid low. They still closed the range and started to use grape.” He pressed one hand to his forehead.

“I kept thinking, in God’s name, why don’t they stop? My senior was killed, and some of my men were half mad. They were beyond reason, screaming and cheering, loading and firing, not like the men I knew at all.”

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Grape at close range. That explained the utter devastation.

There could have been hardly a gun to return the fire by that time.

The lieutenant looked down at his stained uniform, scarcely able to believe it had happened, that he had survived without a scratch.

“We were alone, ’til Barracouta joined in, sir.” He looked up, his face suddenly bitter. “We had no chance.” For just a moment some pride cut through the hurt in his eyes. “But we didn’t strike to the buggers, sir!”

There was a splash alongside and Bolitho saw Carcaud walk away from the gangway, wiping his hands on his apron. He did not have to guess what he had pitched into the sea. Was that all it took? He beckoned to the gangling surgeon’s mate.

“How is he?”

Carcaud pursed his lips. “I don’t think he knew what had been done, sir, but later on—”

Bolitho nodded and walked slowly towards the entry port, or what was left of it.

Helicon’s first lieutenant appeared on deck, his head in a bandage. He saw Bolitho and hurried towards him.

Bolitho said, “You have done well, Mr Savill. If you need any more men, signal the flag to that effect.” He saw the man sway.

“Are you fit to be here?”

The lieutenant tried to grin. “I’ll manage, sir.” He had a round Dorset accent—no wonder Inch liked him. “I shall lighten the ship as soon as I can rig some tackles.” His eyes sharpened. “Not the guns though. We’ll fight this old lady again once we can get her into dock.”

Bolitho smiled sadly. A sailor’s faith in his ship. And he was probably right.

“You saw the French flagship, the Léopard, I understand?”

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in the next broadside.” He glanced aft. “They were all cut down, smashed like a bowl of eggs. But, oh yes, sir, I saw her right enough.” He gave a rueful smile. “Pity I’ve not got that Frenchie’s extra boom. I could use it to hoist up some of the shot an’ stores!” A man called out and he touched his forehead. “If you’ll pardon me, sir.” He hesitated and turned. “Cap’n Inch just stood there an’ damned th’ lot of ’em, sir. He was a good cap’n, a real gentleman to the people.”

Bolitho looked away. Was. “I know.” In the barge he twisted round in the sternsheets to look for his other ships, his mind trying to grapple with the mauled squadron as Helicon’s lieutenants were fighting to restore life to their ship.

If Barracouta had not arrived the French would have gone for the other ships. He had already heard that Barracouta had been hurrying with the news that the enemy was moving out of Spanish waters when she had been chased by two French frigates.

But for her speed, and the fact that the two enemy vessels had believed her to be a small two-decker, she would never have been able to help.

Once or twice he turned to look astern at Helicon. Scarred and burned, with only stumps for masts, she made a grim spectacle. How many had died? One more list of names to be considered. Jobert would not have wasted so much time if he had known the frigate was that near. But he had wanted to destroy Helicon, utterly. To pay him back for destroying his Calliope or because she was a prize-ship? Or was it a savage warning of the fate he intended for Argonaute if he could not retake her?

He pictured each of his remaining ships in turn. Without Inch, he was left with Houston and Montresor, who had yet to prove their ability in battle. Then there was Rapid, and with luck the cutter Supreme would rejoin them if the Maltese dockyard kept its promise. And one frigate. It was strange that Lapish, who COLOURS A LOF T!

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had got off to such a bad start, had shown both skill and initiative. Bolitho wished in his heart that he was still captain of a frigate.

He sighed. “We must fetch Captain Inch aboard the flagship as soon as he may be moved, Allday.” Allday glanced down at Bolitho’s squared shoulders, the stains on his arms and legs from his examination of the other ship.

“If you think he can.” He flinched as Bolitho looked up at him. Those grey eyes were still the same. It was hard to accept that one was half blind.

He tried again. “You know how it is, sir.”

“Yes.” Bolitho stared at the Despatch, hove-to above her own reflection. But for her steering failing. He turned the thought aside. It would merely have delayed the inevitable.

Jobert must have imagined that Barracouta was one of Nelson’s ships, the vanguard of his blockading squadron off Toulon.

He said, “But he’ll not survive a passage to Malta.” Allday persisted, “He’ll never leave ’is ship, sir!” Bolitho shook his head. “I think otherwise. This time.” Keen was waiting for him, his face full of questions.

How different were Argonaute’s decks, Bolitho thought. Order, purpose. But despair was infectious; it would soon spread, with Helicon’s hull a constant reminder to them.

He said, “Captain’s conference, Val, this afternoon if possible.

If the wind gets up, it might be days before I can speak with them together.”

Keen looked across at Helicon and said quietly, “There’s the heart of a ship, sir.”

Bolitho shaded his eyes and saw a thin fragment of sail being hoisted between the fore and mainmast stumps.

He said, “Inch’s heart.”

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itself, then so much the better, but there was far more to it. Was it to draw Nelson’s blockade from Toulon so that Admiral Villeneuve’s main fleet could break out in force? With Gibraltar under siege from another fever, it was unlikely that any English ships would stay there to act as a deterrent. Jobert might well try for the Strait. Bolitho dismissed the idea at once. Jobert could have done that already, could be in Brest by now if he had managed to slip past the blockade there.

Bolitho made his way aft as Keen called out to the signals midshipman to pipe his assistants on deck. Allday watched him and noticed that he was so wrapped up in his thoughts that he did not even falter or hesitate when the deck tilted in the swell.

Bolitho walked through the screens and made his way right aft to stare through the stern windows. He should have been exhausted, worn down by shock and a sense that he had failed.

Instead his mind seemed to have taken on a new edge, sharpened still further whenever he thought of Inch, lying over there in his stricken ship.

Keen entered and said, “The signal is bent on, sir.” He sounded strained.

Knowing Keen, he was probably blaming himself for what had happened. If he had not been recalled to Malta—

Bolitho faced him. “Dismiss any doubts from your mind, Val.

At least by going to Malta I discovered something I might never have known otherwise.”

“Sir?” Keen was astounded by Bolitho’s demeanour.

“Hoist the signal, and call our gallant captains.” He waited until Keen was almost at the door. “And, Val, when you next hold her in your arms you will know that Fate left you no choice.” Bolitho walked to the windows and out onto the gallery with its two smiling mermaids.

He heard a shout and guessed that the signal had broken aloft. He would speak with his captains. Repair the damage.

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Restore their confidence. He saw Helicon drift slowly into view.

But not you, dear old friend, you have done your share.

During the day the wind rose only slightly, but there were more clouds and perhaps a hint of rain.

Bolitho stood aft by the windows again and watched his captains as they sat in their various attitudes in the great cabin. Not the wardroom this time. He wanted no retreat. There was none.

He had gone through the details of Jobert’s squadron, its strength, and its possible purpose.

“There is nothing to gain from remaining in the gulf, gentlemen. I intend to sweep to the south-east’rd. If Jobert has headed west to pass through the Strait then we have already lost him. If not—” He looked at their intent faces, “then we must find him and call him to action.”

There were muffled shouts from the main deck and the cabin quivered as two of Helicon’s thirty-two-pounders were lowered on board.

Bolitho said, “Those guns will be conveyed to Rapid tomorrow.” He saw her young commander start up in his chair as if he had been only half listening.

Quarrell stammered, “Too heavy, sir, I mean—” Bolitho eyed him bleakly. “You have shipwrights and a carpenter, I believe? I want you to mount two guns forward as bow-chasers. By shifting ballast and stores and shoring up the deck you should manage it easily enough. I once commanded a sloop-of-war—she was not much bigger and had a very heavy bow armament. So do it.”

Captain Montresor said, “My steering is repaired, sir. I had no way of knowing.” He looked bitterly at Houston. “I wanted to fight. I didn’t expect Helicon to stand alone.” Captain Houston sat with his arms folded, unrepentant.

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wind and that damned mist. I saw Despatch was in trouble.” His thin mouth opened and shut, each word rationed. “I would have been a target and nothing more had I gone to assist Helicon.

Anyway, I knew the Frogs would do for the lot of us piecemeal, so I decided to take Montresor in tow.” Bolitho nodded. So typical of the man, he thought. Hard, uncompromising, but in this case right. His choice had been straightforward, in his view at least. Save a ship or lose the squadron.

He said, “Jobert has a purpose for everything he does. So far he has been one step ahead of us.” He saw Keen watching him grimly. He knew that by quitting their station he was taking a huge responsibility, a greater risk to himself. It was odd, but it no longer mattered. After the court of inquiry at Malta he was a marked man anyway. He felt lightheaded. It was beyond personal risk and reputation now.

Houston said in his harsh voice, “We shall have to consider where and when we will replenish water supplies, sir.” Bolitho looked at him, suddenly aware of the shadow across his left eye. It taunted him but for once he was able to ignore it.

“There will be no watering, Captain Houston.” He glanced at the others. “For any of us. Cut the ration, halve it if need be, but we stay together until this is finished.” He did not add one way or the other but the thought was obvious on their faces.

“I need all the information we can gather. Coastal craft must be stopped and searched thoroughly. If they are neutral, do it just the same. If not, sink them.” He felt the hardness creep into his tone, like that other time. It made him think of Herrick, the pain in his blue eyes when he had left Benbow. In his heart Bolitho knew Herrick had acted only as he saw fit. Bolitho hated any sort of favouritism and despised those who used it for advancement or personal gain in the Navy. Yet he had done exactly that for Keen, and because Herrick was his friend. What would he have COLOURS A LOF T!

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done had he been in Herrick’s position and another had asked a favour of him? But the thought of what it had cost in lives made him shy away from an answer. Inch was a broken man. If he lived it was unlikely he would ever tread his own deck again. He saw some of them glance at him as he unwittingly touched his left eye. That thought was always there. Suppose I lost the sight of my right eye? Blind, as he had been in Supreme, but forever.

Captain Lapish asked, “Will Jobert have any more ships at his command, sir?” He even sounded more confident than before.

Bolitho gave a grave smile. “Are there not enough already?” Houston muttered, “Two frigates, y’say? And we’ve but one.” Commander Quarrell exclaimed, “My brig is worthy enough!” Bolitho said, “Save your steel for the enemy, all of you. Drill your people until they can point and fire in their sleep. Make each one aware that the enemy is human, not a god. We can and will beat him, for I believe we are the only bulwark ’twixt Jobert and his objective.”

The deck tilted heavily and a book slithered from the table.

Bolitho said, “Return to your ships. If there is rain, gather it as part of the rations. Whenever you need to search or seek out small craft, use your boats to full advantage. I want our people to be ready to fight and to expect trouble in advance.” Houston commented, “Léopard is a second-rate, I believe, sir?”

Bolitho saw the blunt reminder move round the others like a chill wind through corn.

He glanced at Keen. “My flag-captain took on this ship and two frigates at once, Captain Houston. Battered we may be, but you will see that we are both still here!” Quarrell laughed outright and grinned at his friend Lapish.

They had both learned a lot in a short while. And they were still too young to nurse fear for long.

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to the cabin and asked, “Do you already know what Jobert is about, sir?”

“When I am certain I shall tell you, Val. Until then we must make sure that our ships do not grow slack or careless. A lack of vigilance now can mean only defeat.” The sentry called, “Surgeon, sir!”

Tuson entered and eyed them curiously. “You sent for me, sir?”

Bolitho said, “Make arrangements to ferry Captain Inch aboard. I fear the weather may change.” Tuson nodded. “He was speaking with me when I was aboard Helicon earlier, sir. He is in great pain, but I would prefer him here in my care.”

Bolitho said, “I know that.” He watched the surgeon leave and said, “If Helicon gets into difficulties en route for Malta, it were better that Inch be with us. He’d be on deck, taking charge, otherwise.”

Keen smiled, “Like you, sir.” He moved to the chart. “A needle in a haystack. Damn Jobert! He might be anywhere.” Bolitho walked to the table and caught his foot in a ringbolt and almost lost his balance. He felt the touch of fear once more.

He thought of Inch returning home. What would his pretty Hannah think? What might Belinda think, for that matter? Even if Adam had not told her of the full extent of his injury, his handwriting in that last letter would make her realize something was wrong. The letter. He thought of the way his words had poured out; it had been as if he had been listening to his own voice. It was so unlike him; he was almost sorry he had written to her of his innermost hopes and fears, of the love which had burned with such passion and which he had imagined was gone forever.

Keen said suddenly, “It breaks a confidence, sir, but, like you, I cannot bear to see Allday in the doldrums.”

“You know something, Val?”

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Keen sat on a chair. Half of him needed to be on deck, but Paget could deal with most things now. The other half wanted to be here, with this one man who had risked so much for his happiness and had shown no regrets for it.

“My cox’n told me, sir. Old Hogg is a solid fellow and cares for little in this world but himself and, I believe, for me. Also Allday confides in him occasionally.” Water laced the stern windows and Bolitho tried not to think of Inch being swayed down into a lively boat for the crossing. A sudden shock could kill a man in his condition.

Keen said, “It seems that young Bankart believed Allday would soon quit the sea after being wounded so badly at San Felipe. He had learned of his life in Falmouth with you, sir, of his security there. He wanted to share it. He had had enough of farm work, and a life at sea didn’t appear to satisfy him even though he is a volunteer.” He watched Bolitho’s profile and asked, “Can we be certain that Bankart is his son, sir?” Bolitho smiled. “If you had known Allday when he first came aboard my ship, Phalarope, that was twenty years ago, remember, you’d not need to ask. He is exactly like him, in looks anyway.” Keen stood up as the bell chimed out from the forecastle. “As his captain I shall deal with it, sir. It might be better if he is dis-charged when we reach England.”

They stared at each other, startled by the word. England.

Bolitho looked away. It seemed likely they might never see green fields again.

“I shall speak to Allday myself, Val. A troubled man is often the first to fall in battle.”

Keen raised his head to listen to the sounds on deck.

He said, “You brought the squadron together today, sir. I watched the others and saw the pride coming back to them.” Bolitho shrugged. “I should have been with them, with Inch.

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He heard a sudden wave of cheering and said, “We’ll go on deck. This will be an ordeal for Inch.” Keen hurried beside him. “I’ll tell Mr Paget to stop the hands from doing it!”

Bolitho shook his head. “No. Let them.” On the quarterdeck Bolitho saw Big Harry Rooke, the boatswain, supervising the tackle on a chair to sway Inch’s cot over the side. Across the water the listing Helicon was pitching heavily in the swell, her gangway lined with tiny faces as they watched the slow-moving boat which approached the flagship with such care. Bolitho adjusted his swordbelt and tugged his hat down over his forehead.

Another familiar face, broken with pain. Another of the Happy Few, who even if he defied death would never be the same again.

Paget looked at his superiors. “Ready, sir.” Bolitho stepped forward, “Man the side, if you please.” He walked to the entry port and leaned out to watch the approach-ing boat. He did not hold on, and knew the risk he took for such a small gesture.

He heard the Royal Marines guard picking up their dressing from Sergeant Blackburn, the hiss of steel as Captain Bouteiller drew his spadroon.

He saw the boatswain’s mates moistening their silver calls on their tongues while the tackle took the strain and all cheering stopped dead.

Keen looked at Bolitho, framed against the heavy swell. He knew what this moment was costing him. But Keen’s voice was steady as he called, “Stand by on deck!” He saw Bolitho turn to look at him, their eyes understanding as they had in the cabin.

“Prepare to receive Helicon’s captain!” After the din of calls and commands, as the cot was man-handled towards the poop, Bolitho took Inch’s hand and said quietly, “Welcome aboard, Captain Inch.” COLOURS A LOF T!

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Inch tried to grin but looked very pale and suddenly older.

He said in a hoarse whisper, “Please let me see my ship.” They carried him to the gangway and Tuson himself cradled Inch’s shoulders so that he could look at the distant seventy-four with her pathetic scraps of sail.

Inch said slowly, “I’ll not see that old lady again.” Tuson wanted to look away, surprised that he could still be moved by such men and such moments.

Bolitho watched as the little procession was swallowed up in the poop and then said, “And we’ll not see his like again, either.” He swung away and added bitterly, “Get the ship under way.

Signal the squadron to take station on the flag as ordered.” If anything, Keen thought, Inch’s presence aboard would be a reminder and a warning to them all.

On the larboard side of Argonaute’s orlop deck, in the tiny berth which he shared with Mannoch, the sailmaker, Allday moved a flickering lantern closer to his handiwork. Allday was big and powerfully built, and his fists made a cutlass look like a midshipman’s dirk, but the model which he had half completed was as delicate as it was perfect. Wood, bone, even human hairs had been used to fashion it, but Allday was ever critical of his work.

He had made models of every ship in which he had served with Bolitho, and on occasions he had produced more than one.

He cradled the little ship in one palm and turned it slowly before the lantern. It was a seventy-four, and he grunted with grudging approval as the ship it represented quivered and murmured around him.

Down on the orlop, which never saw the light of day, the air was always thick. In the small berth it was still heavy from the sailmaker’s rum. He was a marvel at his work and could run up a sail or a suit of clothes with equal skill. But he loved his tot and was known by his crew as Old Grog Mannoch.

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Allday shifted his buttocks on his hard sea-chest and thought of Bolitho, two decks above his head. It had been painful to watch him when the bandages had first come off; now it was hard to tell the extent of his injury and he rarely mentioned it any more.

He heard Tuson laugh, and his assistant Carcaud say something in return. The sickbay was just a few yards away on the opposite side. A place to avoid at all costs. They were playing chess by the sound of it. Inch had been given an empty cabin elsewhere. The air down on the orlop could kill a man in his state, Allday decided.

He recalled the girl as he had last seen her with her shorn hair and borrowed clothes. There had been a nasty moment when they had headed for the Falmouth packet at Malta: one of the guard-boats had passed almost directly alongside. He had threatened his boat’s crew with a quilting if one of them had said a word about it. Some of them had not even noticed. One midshipman was much like another in the dark.

It had made Allday think seriously about getting married himself. He grinned silently. Who would want an old bugger like me?

There was a tap on the narrow door and he looked up, surprised to see Bankart looking at him.

“Yes?”

“I’d like to talk a spell, if it’s all right?” Allday shifted along the chest to make room. “What about?” He looked at the youngster’s features and remembered his mother. A clean, fresh girl. He had even thought of wedding her at the time. There had been so many of them, different faces, in many ports. The landlord’s daughter of the inn near Bolitho’s home was the only one who still held a firm place in his thoughts.

He had thought her too young, but after what had happened to Captain Keen, well, you never know.

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would not look at him. Like Allday, he was stubborn, and surprised that he had come to this place at all.

“Spit it out then.” Allday watched him sternly. “An’ no lies.” Bankart doubled his fists. “You may be me father, but—” Allday nodded. “I know. I’m not used to it. Sorry, son.” The youth stared at him. “Son,” he repeated quietly.

Then he said, “You was right about me. I wanted to get ashore, to come to where you was.” He looked at him, his eyes bright. “I wanted a ’ome, a real one.” He shook his head despairingly. “No, don’t stop me or I’ll never get it out. I wanted it ’cause I was sick of bein’ chased an’ cheated. I’d always sort of looked up to you, ’cause of what me Mum said an’ told me ’bout you. I joined up as a volunteer ’cause it seemed the proper thing to do, like you, y’see?”

Allday nodded, the model ship forgotten.

“Then Mum died. Best thing for ’er, it was. They wore ’er out, the bastards. I wanted somethin’ of me own, so I got a mate to write to you. We was told you were leavin’ the sea.” He looked at the deck. “It was a ’ome I wanted more’n a father.” When he looked up again he exclaimed, “I can’t ’elp bein’ afraid. I’m not like the others! I never seen men killed like that afore!” Allday gripped his wrist. “Easy, son. The sawbones’ll be comin’

to see what’s up.” He groped behind the chest and brought up a stone bottle and two mugs. “’Ave a wet.” Bankart took a quick swallow and almost choked.

Allday said, “That’s the real stuff, not the muck that the pusser hands out! Most o’ the others are scared too.” Allday let the rum float across his tongue and smiled as he recalled when Bolitho had drunk some in his despair and his relief. “You must learn not to show it.” He shook his wrist gently. “That takes real courage, believe me, matey.”

“It’s different for you, I ’spect.” Bankart took a wary swallow.

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“Maybe it is. Our Dick has taken good care o’ me. He’s a fine man. A friend. Not many can say that, an’ I’d lay down me life for him, make no mistake on it!”

Bankart made to get up, his hair brushing a massive deckhead beam. “I just wanted to tell you, I—” Allday pulled him down again. “ ’Old still! I knew anyway, or most of it. I was the one who was wrong, I knows that now.” He took another full measure of rum. “You don’t belong in a King’s ship. It took courage to volunteer, I can tell you that! They ’ad to press me!” He shook with silent laughter until the pain of his wound stopped him. “No, a job ashore, with a good ’ome, an’ I’ll make proper certain you gets one. Until then, do what I tells you and keep out of trouble, see?” There were more voices and he guessed the sailmaker and one of his cronies were coming aft.

“We’ll talk again, an’ soon, right?” Bankart looked at him, his eyes shining. “Thanks, er—” Allday grinned. “Call me John if it’s easier. But call me Cox’n when there’s others about, or I’ll tan your hide for you, an’ that’s no error, son!”

Bankart hesitated, unwilling to break the contact. He said quietly, “I—I think I might be killed. I wouldn’t want to let you down. I’ve seen the man you are, ’eard what they all say about you. I never bin proud of anyone afore.” Allday did not even hear the door close. He sat staring at the unfinished model, at a complete loss.

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15 F ate

BOLITHO walked up the sloping quarterdeck and allowed the wet wind to drive all tiredness aside. It was early morning, and around and above him the ship’s company prepared for another weary day.

There had been some overnight rain, but Bolitho walked back and forth too far from any handhold if he should slip on the wet planking. It was a struggle but he was slowly regaining his confidence and blamed his earlier despair on self-pity and worse.

He heard Keen speaking with the first lieutenant and knew from the tone in his voice that they were discussing the punishment to be awarded to three seamen during the forenoon.

It was the same throughout the squadron. After Helicon’s departure there had been several outbreaks of disorder. Threats or actual violence used against petty officers or each other, with the usual aftermath of floggings. The flagship was no exception; even Keen’s humanity had failed to prevent the latest flare-up of tempers, and the harsh justice which would follow.

Bolitho pictured his ships, each living her own life, controlled and led by her individual captain.

An admiral, even a junior one, was not supposed to concern himself with such abstract matters, Bolitho thought. He also knew that a ship was only as strong as her people.

When full daylight found them again his ships would be sailing in line abeam, Argonaute in the centre position. Barracouta, still in her rough disguise, was somewhere astern, ready to rush down from windward to wherever a signal dictated. Rapid, completely alone, was far ahead, tacking back and forth in the hope of finding a fishing boat or some trader who might have some valuable information for them.

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only three. One of the ones which had eluded Rapid ’s chase until she had been recalled to her station had been a fast schooner. It was customary for any merchantman to fly from a man-of-war, the flag did not matter. But out here any stranger might be an enemy, worse, a spy who would carry news of their strength and movements to Jobert.

It could not last. Bolitho knew it; so probably did his officers. He would have to admit failure and send the brig to seek out Nelson and tell him what had happened. It seemed likely that Nelson would scatter Bolitho’s ships amongst his own fleet and wait for the French to fight their way out of Toulon. Jobert would not be considered. Bolitho guessed that the admiral in Malta, maybe even Herrick, imagined that Jobert had become like a crude joke or a figment of Bolitho’s imagination.

It was the fourth day since they had parted company with Inch’s ship. At any other time it would have been good sailing weather, with a favourable wind and fair visibility for the masthead lookouts along Bolitho’s line of ships.

Keen crossed the deck and touched his hat. “Any special orders today, Sir Richard?” His formality was for the benefit of the helmsmen and master’s mate nearby. He sounded strained, or was he critical of his superior’s actions and their results?

Bolitho shook his head. “We will continue the search. The French may have left us alone, but I doubt it.” Together they watched the ship taking shape around them, the sails and rigging picking up the sun’s colour. Abeam, Despatch rolled her bilge into a deep swell, so that her shining hull and lower gunports shone like fragments of glass.

Bolitho looked up at the mainmast, at the lookout’s tiny figure.

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Bolitho shrugged. He had not realized what he had said.

Had he meant that he would need to break off the search and admit failure? Or was that same, chilling instinct offering him a warning?

“I feel uneasy, Val.” He thought of breakfast, and the fact he had been pacing the deck for most of the night. To regain his confidence, or was it because he had already lost it completely?

“Tell me if you sight anything.” He strode aft to his quarters where Ozzard and Yovell were waiting for him as usual.

Bolitho sat at the table and watched while Ozzard prepared his breakfast and poured some coffee. He felt in need of a wash from head to toe, and his shirt was crumpled and stale. But, as he had explained to Keen, as the water ration was cut, and if need be would be cut again, it had to be for everyone. Except for Inch, that was. It was painful to see him, sometimes delirious and on other occasions dulled into a state of collapse.

The amputation was still holding well, according to Tuson.

But Inch needed to be ashore, in a hospital with those who could give him proper care. Bolitho knew from bitter experience that each shout from the upper deck, every change of wind and rudder, would stir even a dying sailor with old anxieties. Especially a captain.

Ozzard said, “Just as you like it, sir.” He laid a pewter plate on the table. “Last of the Maltese bread, I’m afraid, sir.” Bolitho looked at the thinly sliced pork, fried pale brown in biscuit crumbs. The bread would be like iron, but Ozzard had managed to stop it going mouldy; anyway the black treacle which Bolitho enjoyed would deaden the taste.

He thought of the breakfasts at Falmouth, of Belinda sitting and watching his pleasure. Like a schoolboy, she had said. What would she make of this, he wondered? And down in the messes it was a hundred times worse.

He looked at the open skylight as voices drifted aft from the 246

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quarterdeck. Then feet pounded along the passageway and he saw Keen coming into the cabin.

“I beg your pardon for disturbing you, sir.” Bolitho put down his knife. It was not like Keen to leave the deck in a crisis.

“Rapid is in sight. She has news, sir.” Bolitho thrust the plate aside and then spread the uninspir-ing bread with a thick coating of treacle.

“Tell me.”

“She sighted a ship and boarded it. More I cannot say, but Rapid is certainly making all efforts to close with us.” Bolitho stood up, his mind busy. “Make more sail and tell our ships to do the same.” With a physical effort he sat down again and bit into the treacled bread. “I want to speak with Quarrell as soon as we are hove-to.”

Keen hurried away, and soon the deck quivered to the thud of bare feet and then the clatter of blocks and rigging.

But it was halfway through the forenoon watch before Rapid was able to beat up to the rest of the squadron. The first air of excitement gave way to silent resignation as the gratings were rigged and the hands piped aft to witness punishment. Two dozen lashes a man while the drums rolled and the spray pattered across the prisoners and onlookers alike.

Paget touched his hat. “Punishment carried out, sir.” Keen nodded and watched the hands dismissed, the gratings removed for scrubbing, while the flogged men were taken below to the sickbay. He handed the Articles of War to Paget and said,

“God damn this waiting!”

When eventually Quarrell climbed aboard from his gig he could barely control his excitement and pleasure.

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master had been able to speak English and had been more than willing to cooperate. The vessel had been loaded with olive oil and figs, but Quarrell described her as being so filthy that it was a marvel she obtained any cargoes at all.

Quarrell took a deep breath. “The master was carrying several bottles of wine and brandy, sir. My first lieutenant saw them at once.” He turned and beamed at Keen. “All French, sir.” They glanced at Bolitho. He said nothing so Keen remarked,

“Your lieutenant had his wits about him, eh?” Bolitho unrolled a chart across the table, his mouth suddenly dry. “Continue.” It was Quarrell’s moment—to prod him into haste would only fluster him.

The young commander said, “When questioned about the bottles, sir, the fellow admitted they had been given to him in exchange for oil three days ago.” He watched Bolitho’s grave features. “It was Rear-Admiral Jobert’s squadron, sir, no doubt about it. The Greek was able to describe them, even the Leopard figurehead on the flagship.”

“Show me.” Bolitho held down the chart with a ruler and dividers. He could feel Quarrell’s eagerness, sense the pride his discovery had given him.

Quarrell peered at the chart, at the marks and lines which showed the squadron’s position and progress.

“They were steering due east, sir.” He placed one finger on it. “That would put them about there.” Keen leaned over the table beside him. “Corsica.” He gave a sigh. “I should have guessed.”

Quarrell glanced from him to Bolitho. “The Greek master said that a French officer came aboard. He told him they were going to take on fresh water.”

Keen frowned, “Another long passage maybe?” Bolitho stood up, his mind working busily. Fresh water. Why did the mention of it always provoke such painful memories?

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“What have you done about the brigantine?” Quarrell looked blank. There was no warmth in Bolitho’s voice.

“I—I knew how much you needed information, sir, so I considered it my duty to—”

“You let him go? You put no guard aboard?”

“Well, no, sir.” Quarrell looked helplessly at Keen for support.

Keen said, “It could be the truth, sir.” Bolitho walked aft to the windows and pushed his hand through his hair. He felt the deep scar on his temple, a ready reminder of that other time when collecting water had seemed such a simple mission.

Quarrell said, “I could chase after him, sir.” He sounded lost.

“Too late.” Bolitho watched some fish jump from Argonaute’s shadow. “He would give you the slip after nightfall. Heading for Corsica, you think? To take on water for three sail of the line, and the two fifth-rates, what do you estimate?” He turned and looked at Keen, his eye throbbing painfully. “Three, four days?” Keen nodded slowly. “We could still run him to earth, sir!” Bolitho sat on the bench seat and clasped his hands together.

He did not need a chart; he could see it clearly in his mind.

Jobert’s ships—if the wind stayed fair, they could be pinned on a lee shore or trapped until they came out to fight.

Keen said, “So it was neither Egypt nor Gibraltar after all, sir.”

“Fetch my flag-lieutenant, Ozzard.” It was strange how he had managed to converse with Stayt without touching on the court of inquiry. Stayt was wary, withdrawn to such a point that they barely spoke except on matters of orders and signals.

When Stayt arrived his eyes moved swiftly across the group by the table. He asked, “May I get something, Sir Richard?”

“The reports from the flag-officer in Malta. Bring them.” Quarrell said, “My first lieutenant was satisfied that the Greek told him the truth, sir.”

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Bolitho said, “Or maybe what the French wanted him to believe.”

Stayt laid down a folder on the table and Bolitho strained his eyes to look through it. Convoy arrival, escorts and departure times, passengers and equipment to be disembarked or carried elsewhere.

Bolitho pulled one paper towards him, the name Benbow standing out from the unknown clerk’s writing.

Ignoring the others he snatched up the brass dividers and moved them quickly across his chart. It was all he could do to stop himself from cursing aloud as his good eye watered with the strain he was putting on it.

Three days, four at the most. It had to be. Had to be.

He looked up. “Benbow sailed from Malta in company with two homebound ships. There is one frigate as additional escort.” Keen exclaimed, “All that for just two ships? And we are expected to manage with—”

Bolitho held up his hand. “I should have seen it, Val.

Something that Inch’s first lieutenant said after the battle.” In his mind he could picture the weary lieutenant with the bandaged head. Pity I’ve not got that Frenchie’s extra boom. He could almost hear Savill’s voice. The man who had seen it, yet had not realized what he had discovered.

Bolitho said, “The ships are carrying a cargo of gold and precious stones. A king’s, or should I say a sultan’s, ransom.” He wanted to shout at them, to bang the table and make them realize the enormity of the discovery, and of Jobert’s confidence.

“Jobert intends to attack that convoy and lift off the gold at sea.

Corsica, Val? I think not. I believe this is what was intended from the start. Jobert and I got in the way. But now that way is clear.” Bolitho looked at Quarrell. “Return to your command and await orders.”

Quarrell backed away. “I—I am sorry, Sir Richard.” 250

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Bolitho eyed him calmly. “Your lieutenant was convinced, so why not the rest of us?”

As the door closed Keen said, “We have nothing definite, sir!” Stayt added, “If the French are really in Corsican waters, and we fail to seek them out or inform Lord Nelson—” Bolitho looked past him. “I know, gentlemen. I shall be held responsible.” He smiled shortly. “And this time I shall have no defence.”

Once more he crossed to the chart. Keen was trying to warn and protect him. If they carried on as they were nobody would be able to blame him. He lowered his head to study the neat calculations. But if he went against everything but instinct, and a new, strange sense of destiny, he might still be wrong.

“In my estimation, we have two days. No more.” He touched the chart with the points of the dividers. “Allowing for the weather, we should make a rendezvous with the convoy about there.” He turned away so that they should not see his expression. While they hunted fruitlessly along the rugged Corsican coast, the gold would be seized and Herrick overwhelmed. He would die fighting alongside his men. But he would certainly die.

Bolitho raised his voice, “Mr Yovell! Come out, you quill-pusher, and I shall dictate my fighting instructions!” Yovell padded across the cabin, smiling happily, as if he had just been awarded a title.

Bolitho looked at Stayt. “Warn the signals midshipman to be ready.” He thought of Sheaffe and wondered how he got along with his father.

Alone with Keen he said, “It’s a chance I must take.” He added with a wry smile, “It was the wine and the brandy which alerted me. I could never imagine Jobert giving anything to a poor Greek trader unless he wanted us to know about it. Perhaps this time he has been too clever and overconfident.” Keen doubted if Quarrell’s information was enough to be COLOURS A LOF T!

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certain of anything. Jobert may have laid some more bait, but he was wily enough to know how Bolitho might react.

Bolitho’s change of mood, this new confidence which left him free to joke with his secretary, was unnerving.

Keen said simply, “Then it will be a fight.” Bolitho took his arm, the tone of Keen’s voice making the vague strategy into stark, brutal reality.

“We shall face it together, Val,” he said quietly.

Keen smiled. “Yes. Together.” But all he saw was her face, and for the first time he was afraid.

Commander Adam Bolitho pushed the unruly hair from his eyes as he stared up at the men working on the fore-topsail yard. The sturdy brig Firefly was heeling hard over on the larboard tack, the sea creaming up to the sealed gunports and cascading along the lee scuppers.

He wore only his shirt and breeches and his clothes were plastered to his body like a wet skin. He would never tire of it.

He wanted to laugh or sing as the brig, his command, dipped her bows steeply and threw up a sunburst cloud of spray.

He waited for the bows to rise again and then moved to the compass box. It gave him a marvellous feeling of pride. The vessel was heading due east, with the Balearic Islands somewhere below the larboard horizon.

Down again, and another great curtain of spray flew above the forecastle where other men worked busily to trim the yards.

Adam’s first lieutenant, a youngster of his own age, lurched from the rail and shouted, “Take in another reef, sir?” Adam showed his teeth and laughed. “No! It’s not time yet!” The lieutenant grimaced then smiled. It never was time with his young commander.

Adam moved restlessly about the poop while his Firefly lifted and thundered over the tossing water. Just days ago he had been 252

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under the Rock’s shadow, ready to leave the Mediterranean and make his way back to an English winter. Instead he had received orders to return instantly to Malta.

The fever on the Rock was over, and the despatch which Adam had locked in his strongbox was to tell the admiral at Malta to prevent a convoy from leaving for England. If it had already sailed Adam was to place himself under the orders of the convoy’s senior officer. That too made him grin. Rear-Admiral Herrick. To Adam he was more like a fond uncle than a flag-officer.

It was exciting. His own command, and the sea to himself.

The French were out, one squadron under Rear-Admiral Jobert had been reported on the move. If it had somehow managed to slip past his uncle’s squadron, his ships were needed now at Gibraltar to close gates and cut off any attempt by Jobert to enter the Atlantic. A gigantic game of cat-and-mouse.

Adam wiped the spray from his lips. A game for admirals and great ships of the line. While here—

He walked to the taffrail and stared at the frothing wake beneath the counter. Down there was his own cabin. A luxury beyond imagination. A place of his own.

He thought suddenly of the court of inquiry in Malta. He would learn the result when he reached there. Captain Keen might share the Bolitho curse of being hounded out of envy or revenge.

They had passed the homebound packet Lord Egmont, and Adam had wondered about her. It would be just like his uncle to—

The lookout called, “Sail! Weather bow!” Morrison, his first lieutenant, hurried to the ratlines but Adam said, “No, I’ll go.” As a midshipman he had always enjoyed skylarking with his companions during the dogwatches. Up and down the masts, out and around the futtock shrouds. Few captains interfered. They probably thought it would keep their “young gentlemen” out of mischief. He climbed rapidly up the ratlines, the wind ripping at his shirt. Once he hung out from the shrouds and COLOURS A LOF T!

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looked down at the forward part of the vessel as the sea boiled over the catheads and tightly lashed anchors before frothing along the decks and leapfrogging over the black four-pounders.

He had always wanted a frigate. Be like his uncle had once been, one of the best frigate captains in the fleet. But when he looked at his lively Firefly he could scarcely bear to think of ever leaving her.

He found the lookout perched comfortably on the crosstrees, his battered face creased with curiosity as he watched his young lord and master swarming up to join him.

Adam pulled a telescope from his belt and tried several times without success to steady it towards the larboard bow.

The lookout, one of the oldest seamen in the ship, said hoarsely,

“I think there be two on ’em, sir.” He barely raised his voice but it carried easily above the roar of wind and bucking canvas. Many years in all kinds of ships had taught him that.

Adam wrapped his leg around a stay and tried again. The mast was shaking so violently it was like a giant whip, he thought.

He gasped, “There she is! It’s fine eyesight you have, Marley!” The seaman grinned. He didn’t need a telescope. But he liked the new commander. A bit of a devil with the girls, or soon would be, he decided.

An extra lively wave thundered beneath the stem and lifted the hull towards the sky like a surfacing whale. And there she was, standing before the wind under close-reefed topsails, her hull still hidden by leaping crests as if she was driving herself under.

Adam wiped the lens with his hand and almost lost his hold as his ship dived once more.

He waited, counting the seconds until the jib-boom began to lift again, the sails flapping from it like wet banners.

Adam closed the glass with a snap. “You were right. There are two of them.” He patted the man’s thick shoulder. “I’ll send you a relief.”

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The seaman would have spat had he been able but contented himself with, “Nah, sir, I’ll stay. They’ll be some o’ Lord Nelson’s ships.”

Adam slithered down a backstay, all dignity forgotten as Morrison hurried to meet him.

“Two sail of the line.” Adam dropped his voice. “Same tack as ourselves.”

Morrison grinned. “We’d better not draw too close, sir, or we might be given some more orders!”

Adam pushed his fingers through his black hair. It felt sticky with salt. He knew he should be nervous, perhaps even fearful.

But the same excitement would not leave him and he said, “You may take in that reef now. And do not worry yourself about more orders from on high, Mr Morrison, for those two liners are French!”

The men scampered to shorten sail, then Morrison took a deep breath. “What do you intend, sir?” Adam gestured to the nearest four-pounder. “Even we are no match for them.” He became serious for a moment. “We shall follow them and see what they are about.” Morrison had been first lieutenant under the previous captain, who had managed to make daily life aboard Firefly little better than drudgery. Commander Bolitho was like a breath of clean air; he was very capable and nobody’s fool.

He hinted cautiously, “But your orders, sir?”

“Are to find the convoy or Malta, whichever comes first.” His mouth crinkled in a grin again. “I think these two gentlemen will lead us to one or t’other, eh?”

Morrison hurried away to assist the second lieutenant. The old captain had never been like this.

He glanced aft again and saw Adam Bolitho beside the helm speaking with the master’s mate. He acted more like a midshipman than a captain.

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Aloud he said, “He’ll do me, that’s for certain!” But only the wind heard him.

Two hundred miles east-north-east of his nephew’s Firefly and ignorant of the fact Adam had been sent back from Gibraltar, Bolitho gripped the poop rail and watched his ships reeling and buffeted in the same gale.

The wind, which had veered to a strong north-westerly, showed no signs of easing, and when he steadied his telescope Bolitho saw the little brig Rapid standing out to windward, her hull and lower spars deluged with spray and spindrift.

It was to be hoped that Quarrell had made quite certain that the big thirty-two-pounders from Helicon were properly mounted and lashed firmly to their tackles. A gun breaking loose in a gale could kill and maim like a mad beast. It could also wreck the upper deck whilst doing it.

The sky was clear of all but a few streaky clouds, hard blue and with little warmth. He saw a party of seamen with a boatswain’s mate hauling a ragged line through a block and preparing to reeve a new one to replace it. They were soaked in spray, and the salt would do little to help their thirst.

Too much rum or brandy would do more harm than good.

Bolitho bit his lip and wondered at his earlier confidence. After pounding their way farther south with Sardinia’s blurred coastline rarely lost from view, the hope of making a rendezvous with Herrick’s convoy seemed like a bad dream. Even supposing Jobert was making for the same objective. He stamped on his doubts and turned from the rail to see Midshipman Sheaffe and his signal party watching him. They immediately dropped their eyes or became engrossed elsewhere.

Bolitho allowed his aching mind to explore his calculations yet again. The convoy would be very slow and precise in its progress. He had done all he could, with his small sqaudron spread 256

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out as far as possible without losing contact completely. Thank God for Barracouta and Rapid, he thought despairingly. But for them—

He heard Paget shout at a helmsman, and a muttered answer.

Paget would stand no nonsense, and he at least showed no signs of doubt. He was a good man, Bolitho thought, and as a young lieutenant had fought under Duncan at Camperdown. There were not too many officers in the squadron who had seen a battle like that one.

Keen climbed up from the quarterdeck to join him. He had been down on the orlop to visit one of the midshipmen who had broken a leg after being flung bodily from a gangway in the gale.

Keen stared at the forecastle, his eyes red with strain, and Bolitho knew he had barely left the deck since the wind had risen.

Bolitho smiled, “A strange sight, Val. Bright and bitter, like a dockside whore.”

Keen laughed despite his apprehension. He wanted to tell Bolitho to break off the hunt. It was finished before it had begun.

Even if he had been right about Jobert, and it seemed less likely with each aching mile, they would not find him now.

Keen was sick and tired of it, and hated to think what it would do to Bolitho when the truth came out. Everyone said that Nelson had survived only on his luck. He had been fortunate. It was rare.

Bolitho knew Keen was watching him and could guess what he was thinking. As flag-captain he wanted to advise him. As a friend he knew he could not.

Bolitho looked at the cold sky and thought again of Falmouth.

Maybe Belinda would have received his letter, or have heard the news from someone else. He thought too of the girl with the dark misty eyes. He smiled. Brave Zenoria, he had called her. She was the one good thing in all this endurance and failure.

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this? It was fanatical, unswerving, but it would not save him at a court martial.

“How was the boy? Midshipman Estridge, wasn’t it?”

“A clean break, sir. The surgeon was more troubled by some of his other injured hands. He’s had more cuts and gashes than a small war!”

There was a seaman working beside one of the nine-pounders and Bolitho had seen him earlier. He was stripped to the waist, not out of bravado, but to try and keep his clothing dry. When he had turned, Bolitho had seen his back, scarred from shoulders to waist, like the marks of a giant claw. It made him think of Zenoria and what Keen had saved her from.

But when Keen laughed at his earlier remark the seaman had turned and looked up at him. Bolitho had rarely seen such hatred in a man’s glance.

Keen saw it too and said tightly, “I read the Articles of War before a flogging. I did not compose the bloody rules!” Bolitho could sense his anger, something he had rarely shown even after the court of inquiry.

He saw extra marines at hatchways, their scarlet coats dark with flung spray. Keen was taking no chances. Better to prevent trouble than enforce the misery of suppressing it.

Bolitho said, “I am going below.” He looked at him squarely.

“If I am wrong—” He shrugged as if it were of little concern.

Then he added, “Some will be pleased. I hope that then they will let my family rest in peace.”

Keen watched him stride towards the poop ladder and felt a stab of pity as Bolitho caught his arm against the mizzen bitts.

Paget moved quietly beside him. “May I ask what you think of our chances, sir?”

Keen glanced at him. The first lieutenant, the link between captain and ship’s company, quarterdeck and forecastle.

He replied, “Ask me again when we have run Jobert ashore.” 258

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They both turned and Paget exclaimed, “Not thunder too!” Keen looked past him. Bolitho was climbing to the poop again, and wearing the old sword, with Allday a few paces behind him.

The lookout yelled with disbelief, “Gunfire, sir! To th’

south’rd!”

Bolitho looked at them. “No. Not thunder this time.” Keen stared. How did he do it? Moments earlier he must have been accepting failure. Now he looked strangely calm. Even his voice was untroubled as he said, “General signal, Mr Sheaffe.

Make more sail. ”

He watched the flags hurriedly bent onto the halliards and sent soaring up to the yards for all his ships to see.

Bolitho wanted to grip his hands together for surely they must be shaking.

“Acknowledged, sir!” That was Stayt, appearing silently like a cat.

The distant murmur of cannon fire rolled across the water. It was a long way off. Bolitho said, “We’ll not fight before dawn tomorrow.” That was a fact which had to be faced. When darkness closed in the ships might be scattered by the blustery wind.

By dawn it could be too late. Benbow was more than a match for any eager privateers or corsairs from the North African shore, but against a whole squadron she would stand no chance. He cocked his head to listen as the gunfire came again. Not many ships.

Perhaps two. What could that mean?

He said, “General signal. Prepare for battle. The people will sleep at their guns tonight.”

He touched the hilt of the old sword and felt a shiver run through his body.

He could recall as if it were yesterday the moment when he had been walking with Adam to the sallyport on Portsmouth Point. Then he had looked back to search for something. So perhaps he had known it would be the last time.

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16 M en of war

REAR-ADMIRAL Thomas Herrick stood by the weather nettings, his chin sunk in his neckcloth while he watched Benbow’s seamen hauling on the braces to trim the yards and reset the reefed topsails.

Everything took an eternity; it had taken a whole day to make any progress and drained all their skill. Now at last they were past the southernmost tip of Sardinia, which lay some fifty miles to starboard. On the other beam was Africa at about the same distance.

Wallowing downwind of Benbow were two heavy merchantmen, Governor and Prince Henry. Herrick could only guess at the value of their cargoes.

He thought yet again of Bolitho’s face in the stern cabin of this ship, the one which had once proudly flown his flag when Herrick had been his captain. He could not forget the bitterness in Bolitho’s voice, the reckless contempt when he had damned the admiral’s court of inquiry.

It was a strange coincidence which had decided Admiral Sir Marcus Laforey to take passage in Benbow. He had left his flag-captain in temporary charge, although the way Sir Marcus ate and drank it seemed unlikely he would ever return to Malta.

He could head Captain Dewar discussing something with the sailing-master. Herrick sighed. He would have to make it up with his flag-captain, for Dewar was an excellent officer and very con-scientious. Herrick blamed himself for Dewar’s wariness. He had been foul company since the inquiry.

He felt the spray on his face and peered beyond the starboard bow where, reeling like a ship in distress, his only frigate was tacking yet again to try to stand up to windward. She was the Philomel of twenty-six guns and, but for the grave news of the 260

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French squadron, she would have been completing a much needed refit in the dockyard where Benbow had been overhauled.

Herrick gripped his hands behind him and looked along the tilting main deck. He thought too of Inch, another friend, one of their close-knit community. Was he dead, he wondered? It was unlikely he would have struck to the French.

He glanced at the sky, so clear yet so hostile. Perhaps by tomorrow the wind would have died down—any reduction would be a blessing.

Captain Dewar crossed the deck and said, “Shall we lie-to tonight, sir?”

Herrick shook his head. He felt the ship lift under him and his sturdy legs bracing to take it. Unlike Bolitho, he had never got into the habit of pacing the deck. He liked to stand and feel his ship. He could think better that way, he had long decided.

“No. We need more sea room. Before dark, pass the word for lights to be hoisted on the merchantmen. We can hold station that way. Philomel will have to manage on her own.” Dewar gauged the moment as a wildfowler tests the wind before firing a shot.

“D’you think Vice-Admiral Bolitho has met with this, this Jobert?”

“If not, I’m sure he’ll stand between us and the enemy.” He thought suddenly of the eight hundred miles which still lay ahead before they could moor beneath the guns of the Rock. Fever or not, it would offer a breathing space, and perhaps he might obtain another escort. But he said, “If anyone can do it, our Dick will.” Dewar eyed him curiously but remained silent. They were on good terms again. He would try again later.

Herrick toyed with the idea of going aft, but the thought of Laforey, with his gout and his steady drinking, turned him against it.

The masthead lookout yelled, “Gunfire! To the west’rd!” The COLOURS A LOF T!

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sound must have carried more swiftly to his dizzy perch for even as Herrick made to speak he heard the distant bang of cannon fire and some intermittent shots from smaller weapons. Herrick’s worried mind cleared as if he had ducked his head in ice water.

“Clear for action, Captain Dewar.” That was another thing which Herrick did not understand. He could never bring himself to use his captain’s first name. Yet in other ways he had learned and used so much from Bolitho’s example. “Signal the convoy to close up.” He swore as the calls shrilled and Benbow’s six hundred seamen and marines dropped what they were doing and rushed to obey the awakened drums.

Damn the light and the wind. Everything was against them.

How many were there? He forced himself to show a confidence which had eluded him after the lookout’s cry. Who were they firing at? More crashes and bangs rolled across the tossing white horses, but the lookout stayed silent. They were still a long way off and the sullen explosions were using the stiff wind to carry their message.

“Signal Philomel to investigate.” Herrick opened and closed his hands behind him. The little frigate could always turn and fly with the wind if she got into danger. It would have helped so much if he knew her captain. His name was Saunders, that was all he had discovered.

Herrick strode to the opposite side and saw the nearest merchantman setting her topgallants to bear up on her companion.

God, they looked like fat beasts for the slaughter, Herrick thought glumly. He heard the first lieutenant’s voice urging the hands to extra efforts as they cleared the ship for action, each man fully aware that they now had two admirals on board.

Herrick considered his choices. Turn back for Malta? Even with the wind in their favour it was still another four hundred miles. In daylight the French would soon find them. So hold the present course? There was always a chance that the enemy was 262

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being engaged by an unexpected friendly force or that they might manage to lose them during the night.

He said, “We will stand-to throughout the night, Captain Dewar.”

He seemed to see dear Dulcie in his thoughts. She was always so proud of him. He turned towards the western horizon which was already painted in the deeper hues of sunset.

A nervous-looking lieutenant, one of Laforey’s staff, hovered at his elbow and said timidly, “My admiral has nowhere to go, sir, now that the ship is cleared for action.” Herrick bit back a rude retort. There were too many ears around him.

He replied calmly, “I am most sorry, but as you see, all our people are having the same inconvenience. ” Under his breath he muttered, “Bloody fool!”

A shrill voice pealed down from the mainmast crosstrees.

Dewar had sent his signals midshipman aloft with a telescope.

“Deck there! Two sail of the line to west’rd, sir! They wear French colours!”

Herrick glanced quickly along the deck before him. Every gun manned, other half-naked figures waiting to trim or set more sails. Marines in their scarlet coats and crossbelts, ready to fight.

Benbow could and would give good account of herself, as she had proved several times. Even her company was lucky to have so many trained and seasoned seamen. She had been too long out of England to have to rely on the press and the sweepings of the assizes. Two to one were acceptable odds. If Lady Luck had been less kind, the enemy might have been amongst them soon after dusk, and it would have been impossible to fight and protect the merchantmen at the same time.

He saw Philomel ’s masts strain hard over as she fought across the eye of the wind and then filled her sails on the opposite tack.

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Herrick smiled grimly. Bolitho had always loved frigates; he on the other hand preferred something steadier and more powerful under his feet. Maybe his early experience of a tyrannical captain and a mutinous company had soured him against them in his later years.

The midshipman called down again, “Small vessel is engaged with them, sir!” His shrill voice cracked in disbelief, “A brig, sir!” Herrick stared up at the topmast. Whoever commanded that brig was trying to warn him. How could he know? He rubbed his eyes and saw the second signals midshipman peering up at his friend. More like a lover than a would-be officer, Herrick thought.

He snapped, “Alter course. Steer sou’-west by south.” He waited for the signal to be run up. “What the devil is Captain Saunders about?” A few isolated bangs echoed across the water as Philomel gathered the wind and increased speed towards the enemy.

“Recall that madman! I shall require him right here very soon!”

Eventually the midshipman lowered his glass and called,

“Philomel does not acknowledge, sir.”

“God damn it, is everyone blind?” He thought of Bolitho as he said it and was ashamed. He added, “Alter course anyway, Captain Dewar.”

The slight change of direction laid the two big merchantmen almost in line abeam under Benbow’s lee. It might at least make them feel more confident when the enemy’s full strength became apparent.

The nervous lieutenant returned and Herrick glared at him.

“Well?”

The lieutenant stared round at the gun crews, the sanded decks, the marines’ bayoneted muskets.

“Sir Marcus sends his compliments, sir, and—” Herrick had an idea. “Tell my servant to give the admiral a 264

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bottle of my best port.” As the lieutenant hurried towards the poop he shouted, “And another after that!” He looked at Dewar.

“That should keep him quiet, damn him!” The darkness moved across from the opposite horizon like an endless cloak; even the wave crests seemed to diminish as men became shadows, and the sea lost its menace.

But the gunfire continued on and off, the quick, snapping bang of the brig’s cannon, followed by the angry bellow of heavier artillery.

Captain Dewar took a glass of brandy from his coxswain and watched as his admiral did likewise.

“Whoever is doing that is a brave man, sir.” Herrick felt the brandy sear his salt-cracked lips. There were a few other brigs reported in this area, but in his heart he knew which one had tossed caution aside to warn him.

He said slowly, “At first light I intend to engage.” Dewar nodded and wondered why Herrick had said it. He knew his admiral by now. He had never doubted that he would attack.

Bolitho lowered his head and stood between two deckhead beams.

The orlop deck, a place of spiralling lanterns and prancing shadows. After the long, open gun decks overhead it seemed all but deserted. The surgeon’s mate and his loblolly boys in their long aprons stood around the makeshift tables where Tuson would perform his grisly work. Freshly scrubbed tubs for the wings and limbs of his amputations were a grim reminder of the work which went on here once a battle was joined.

Carcaud was checking over a line of instruments which seemed to blink like lamps as the lanterns swung above them. He, like most of the men Bolitho had seen while he had walked tirelessly through his flagship, avoided his glance. It was as if they felt COLOURS A LOF T!

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unsure of him in their presence instead of standing aloof on the quarterdeck amongst his officers.

At the door of the sickbay Bolitho paused and waited for Tuson to look up from his preparations. There was a smell of dressings and enforced cleanliness. The only other occupant peered at Bolitho from a cot. Midshipman Estridge was not entirely saved by his broken leg; Tuson had had him rolling bandages although he was lying on his back.

Bolitho nodded to him and then said to the surgeon, “It will be daylight in an hour.”

Tuson regarded him bleakly. “How is the eye, sir?” Bolitho shrugged. “It has been worse.” He could not account for his strange disregard for danger, even death. He had been on every deck, had made sure that everyone had seen him. He had imagined that down here at least, a place he had always dreaded, he would have felt anxiety. If anything he felt only relief. It was a level of recklessness he did not remember in the past. Resigned perhaps, so where was the worth in worrying any more?

Tuson looked at the low deckhead. It almost brushed his white hair. “The ship is full of sounds.” Bolitho knew what he meant. Normally you could recognize the general movement of men, of seamanship and the daily routine of eating and working.

But now, with the ship cleared for battle, the noises were all overhead, concentrated around the guns as they lay behind sealed ports, their crews huddled against them, trying or pretending to sleep. Soon those same guns would be like furnace bars, and no man would dare to touch them with bare hands.

The sounds of sea and wind were muted here. The sluice of water against the bilge, the occasional clatter of a pump as men, unfit to fight, carried out their regular soundings of the well. It was uncanny, eerie, he thought. They must be so close to the 266

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enemy, and yet, with the coming of darkness, the distant gunfire had ceased. As if they were alone.

Tuson watched him. He had already noted that Bolitho had changed into a crisp new shirt and neckcloth, and his uniform coat bore the glittering epaulettes with the twin silver stars. He pondered on it. Did Bolitho not care? Did he have a death wish?

Or was it that he cared too much, so that his own safety had become secondary? He was hatless, and his black hair shone in the moving beams, and only the loose lock of hair which, Tuson knew better than most, hid a terrible scar showed any signs of greyness. An odd mixture. He would be handed his hat and sword when he returned to the deck.

Tuson had never seen it, but the silent ceremony was almost legendary in the squadron, perhaps throughout the whole fleet. Allday with the sword was as well known as a bishop with his mitre.

Tuson said, “I have had Captain Inch taken forrard, sir. The place is less comfortable,” he glanced briefly through the door at the empty table and the waiting instruments, his crew standing or sitting like scavengers, “but I feel that he will be better placed there.”

A midshipman’s white breeches appeared on the companion ladder and after a slight hesitation he said, “Captain Keen’s respects, Sir Richard, and—”

Bolitho nodded. It was little Hickling, who, although quite unsuspecting, had helped him to smuggle the girl aboard the packet brig at Malta.

“I am ready, thank you.” He looked at Tuson, a lingering glance in which the surgeon later realized he could see no flaw or injury.

“Take care of the people.”

Tuson watched him leave. “And you take care of you, ” he murmured.

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Bolitho, with Hickling panting behind him, made his way, ladder by ladder, to the quarterdeck.

It was still very dark, with just occasional whitecaps beyond the sides to distinguish sea from sky. But the stars were fainter, and there was an air of morning, stale and damp.

Keen waited by the rail. “The wind’s eased, sir. Still fresh enough to keep ’em guessing.” He sounded relieved that Hickling had found him. Keen had never known Bolitho to tour a ship alone before. Not even with Allday, as if he needed to feel the mood of each man under his flag.

Allday clipped on his sword and Ozzard handed him his hat before scuttling away to the hold where he would remain until the day was won or lost.

Bolitho could distinguish the litter of flags on the deck, the occasional movements of the signals midshipman and his assistants. Stayt was here too, and Bolitho guessed that he had taken time to clean and load his beautiful pistol.

“Just a matter of waiting, Val.” He wondered if the other ships were following astern, if Rapid and Barracouta were on station. It must have been a long night for most of them, Bolitho thought.

He remembered the Battle of the Saintes when he had commanded his first frigate. It had taken an eternity for the two fleets to draw near enough to each other to fight. All day, or so it had seemed, they had watched the tremendous display of the French masts as they had lifted above the horizon. Like knights on the field of battle. It had been awesome and terrible. But they had won the day, if too late to win a war.

Keen stood beside him, silently preparing himself and searching his thoughts for any weakness. The sporadic gunfire had been a clear message that the convoy lay somewhere ahead and was under attack. Once he glanced at Bolitho to see if there was any surprise or satisfaction that he had been proved right, that he had found the enemy, when any honest man would have admitted that 268

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he had doubted his wisdom in acting on Rapid ’s information. But even in the gloom he recognized Bolitho’s quiet determination, rather than any hint of relief.

And they were going to fight. It did not sound as if many vessels were involved. Keen saw the girl again in his mind and wanted to speak her name aloud if only to reassure himself. It only took a second for a man to die. The cause and the victory did not matter to the one who heard the cannon’s roar for the last time.

He pictured Inch down on the orlop, hearing the din of war, unable to help or be with his friends. Keen had visited him after he had left the quarterdeck to speak with his lieutenants on the gun decks. Inch was very weak and in great pain from the two amputations to his arm.

Keen felt the sweat cold on his spine. He had been wounded, and still felt the raw wound on occasions. But to lie on a table, with his men all around watching and suffering, waiting their turn, how could anyone stand it? The flensing knife and then the agony of the saw, choking on the leather strap to stifle the screams.

He recalled what he had told Zenoria. It is what I am trained to do. The words seemed to mock him now.

Luke Fallowfield, the sailing-master, banged his red hands together and the sound made several of the men nearby start with alarm. We are all on edge, Keen thought. The odds no longer matter. It is like a reckoning.

Bolitho looked abeam and saw the first hint of dawn, a faint glow on the horizon’s edge. Many eyes would be watching it.

Measuring their chances, the margin of life and death.

Keen strode to the compass and peered at the flickering light.

“Bring her closer to the wind, Mr Fallowfield. Alter course two points to starboard.”

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far east they would never be able to beat back in time to close with the convoy. He bunched his fists and pressed them against his thighs. They needed light, and yet many were dreading what they might see.

Bolitho touched his left eyelid and wanted to rub it. He thought of all Tuson’s arguments and warnings. They would count for nothing today.

The helmsman called, “Sou’-sou’-west, zur. Full an’ bye!” Bolitho heard the maintopsail flap as if with irritation as Argonaute nudged still further into the wind, her yards braced hard round to hold her on the same tack.

Soon, soon. He thought momentarily that he had spoken aloud.

He heard Keen telling Paget to put more lookouts aloft, one to take a telescope. When he looked up he thought he could see the white crossbelts of the marines in the maintop, a man stretching out in a yawn. Not tiredness this time, he thought. It was often the first sign of fear.

It was strange, he thought, that he might fall today and Falmouth would not hear of it until next year. A Christmas in the big grey house below Pendennis Castle, singers from the town to wish them well, and to amuse little Elizabeth.

He stopped his drifting thoughts and said, “Union Flag at the fore, if you please.”

He heard the squeal of halliards as his red command flag was hauled down and replaced seconds later by the biggest Jack in the ship. It was still hidden in darkness, but when the sun came up Jobert would see it. He felt strangely elated, with no sense of anxiety at all.

Paget’s shadow turned from the quarterdeck rail. “Colours aloft, Sir Richard!”

Bolitho nodded. Paget sounded much as he felt. Committed, a chance to end the waiting.

“Deck there! Sail on the lee bow!”

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Bolitho said, “Well done, Val. We are in a perfect position!” A gun echoed across the water, just the one, and Bolitho thought he saw the flash for just a split-second.

Another lookout yelled, “Convoy ahead!”

“Make a general signal.” Bolitho moved restlessly across the deck, his fingers to his chin.

The lookout’s cry made him look up again. “Two sail of the line, weather bow!”

Bolitho said, “So there we have it, Val. Two of the devils.” He glanced at Stayt, “Make to the squadron, Enemy in sight. ” When he looked across the lee side again he saw the horizon, salmon-pink, like an unending bridge.

Above the braced yards of the foremast the flag flicked out, huge and bright, and completely isolated from the ship, which remained in shadow for a few more moments.

“General chase, sir?” That was Stayt.

Bolitho opened his mouth and then shut it again. Two ships of the line. It was not the numbers, but the bearing. It did not fit the pattern. Again he felt the touch of warning. “No. Signal the squadron to maintain station.” He did not turn as more gunfire cracked over the array of white horses.

Some of the Royal Marines in the foretop were staring up at the flag above them and cheering, their voices wild above the press of wind and canvas.

Bolitho loosened his sword in its scabbard without even noticing what he had done. Into battle. All the resentment and suffering would be forgotten. It was their way.

Another gun banged out but from the squadron astern.

Keen exclaimed, “Hell’s teeth, who is doing that?” Stayt called, “Icarus, sir.” Stayt clambered into the shrouds as the first light touched the masts and yards of the two ships which followed in their wake.

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“From Icarus, sir. Enemy in sight to the nor’-east.” Keen stared. “I don’t believe it!”

Bolitho walked to the rail and grasped it firmly. It felt cold and damp. Not for long.

“Inform Barracouta and Rapid. ” He watched the breathless signals party hoisting more signals and then walked to the shrouds where Stayt hung with one arm bent over a ratline while he levelled his telescope.

“Three sail of the line, sir.” His lips moved as he read the flags.

“And two other vessels.”

Bolitho found that he could accept it, even though he could see his squadron caught in the prongs of the converging ships, like the neck of a poacher’s bag.

The two ships originally sighted must have arrived by sheer coincidence or had been sent from hiding by another commander. But Jobert was here, and the balance had tilted completely.

Five to three, and one of them would be Jobert’s powerful three-decker. The two lesser vessels, as yet unidentified, must be the two frigates. The odds were formidable and his choice nonexis-tent. He watched the sun’s rim as it lifted above the sea and painted the sails of friends and enemies alike in pale gold.

Bolitho took a glass and rested it on the hammock nettings, waiting for Argonaute to dip her flank into a trough. He saw the overlapping cluster of the convoy, and felt his heart tighten as he recognized Benbow’s familiar hull and raked masts, her ports already open, her guns still in black shadow.

A ripple of flashes spat from the two Frenchmen, and he watched thin waterspouts leap amongst the waves and then be shredded by the keen wind.

Jobert’s squadron must have sailed down the other coastline of Sardinia, making all speed while he had dealt with Helicon and her wounded. Now like tracks on a chart they were all met.

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Jobert’s ships on the larboard quarter and not yet visible from the quarterdeck. The other two converging to starboard, firing towards Benbow as they advanced. Chain-shot and langridge to dismast or at least cripple her. Jobert would finish it. More gunfire crashed out, and Bolitho shifted the glass to stare at a small frigate which had appeared around the two seventy-fours. She must be Herrick’s other escort, perhaps the one which had challenged the enemy and so foiled their surprise attack. She was out of control, and almost totally dismasted. She must have attempted to harry the enemy’s rear, like a terrier going for a bear, but had drawn too near to their stern-chasers.

A marine was shouting, “There be another, lads!” Bolitho saw a second set of sails filling and shortening as a brig appeared close to the crippled frigate.

It was impossible. The one thing which unnerved him. She was Adam’s brig, Firefly, her tiny four-pounders spitting defiantly at the enemy but unable to draw off their advance.

Benbow was changing tack, the sunlight laying bare her ranks of black muzzles as she turned towards the enemy. Bolitho saw the double line of guns shoot out their vivid orange tongues, the smoke billowing inboard as if Herrick’s ship had taken fire.

Bolitho said harshly, “Prepare to engage Jobert’s squadron.” Herrick would have to defend himself; the treasure-ships could wait.

Keen cupped his hands. “Stand by, Mr Paget! Wear ship, and lay her on the larboard tack!” He hurried to the compass as his men flung themselves on the braces and halliards.

“We will steer nor’-east, Mr Fallowfield!” He was round again even as the first signal broke from the yards. “General, Form line of battle! ”

The deck tilted to the thrust of rudder and braced yards, and Bolitho watched as first one, then the other of Jobert’s ships appeared to glide into view.

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“Steady she goes, sir! Nor’-east!”

We have the wind-gage, Bolitho thought, but not for long.

It would be every ship for herself.

More crashes came from the convoy but Bolitho ignored them. He caught a glimpse of Despatch as she floundered round to follow her flagship, resetting her topgallants and even her main course to keep on station. Icarus was hidden astern of her, but every captain knew the odds, and there were the two frigates waiting to pounce if one of the bigger ships became disabled.

He said, “Signal Barracouta to engage the enemy.” Keen looked at him, a muscle in his throat jerking as a full broadside vibrated against the hull like a peal of distant thunder.

Bolitho met his glance. “Lapish must do his best.” It might baffle the enemy when they saw a two-decker suddenly clap on more sail and dash into the fray. If Lapish used that surprise he might bring down some spars unless . . . Bolitho closed his mind to the appalling risks he was telling Lapish to take.

He heard Allday whispering fiercely to Bankart, and saw the youth shake his head, his stubborn determination somehow pathetic as the distant guns roared out once again. Bankart stood his ground. Whatever it was costing him, he was more terrified of showing fear.

Bolitho raised his telescope and trained it through the black rigging and for a few moments saw familiar faces leap into view before he found the enemy. There she was, her leaping leopard savage and realistic in the strengthening sunshine, the rear-admiral’s flag streaming out from her mizzen.

Keen crossed to join him, his fingers drumming a silent beat on his sword hilt.

Bolitho said, “We must stop her, Val.” He felt him watching him. “Jobert will sacrifice every ship and man he has just to snatch the gold with us helpless to stop him.” Keen nodded, his mind still reeling from the change of events.

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To begin with he had been able to ignore the danger in the face of their timely arrival. Now there seemed no chance even of survival. He watched Bolitho’s expression, the way he covered his left eye while he rested the glass on a seaman’s bare shoulder to get a clearer view.

It seemed to steady him. He was able to accept what must happen. But first—

Bolitho lowered the glass. “Load and run out. Then—” He looked at Stayt. “Hoist the signal for close action.” He handed the glass to Sheaffe’s small assistant. “I’ll not need this again, I think.” He walked away from the others and stared at the blue water and the endless desert of small crests.

Throughout his small squadron it would be the same, he thought. Brave men afraid to die, cowards fearful of living. They would follow his flag wherever it led. He saw their faces, Montresor, Houston, Lapish and young Quarrell nursing his two big guns. And Adam. Back there in his first command, in his twenty-third year. Or perhaps, like Inch, he had already paid for his impudent courage.

He looked up as the signal for close action broke out, and recalled that other time when men and boys like some of these had died to keep it flying. He shifted his gaze to the bright flag at the fore, and as guns cracked out from the convoy he was surprised to discover that all hate and bitterness were gone.

They were the luxuries of the living.

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17 beneath the F lag

THE TWO converging lines of ships appeared to be closing rapidly, although Jobert’s squadron still stood at about three miles’ range.

Keen watched fixedly and then said, “He’s not reduced sail yet, sir.”

Bolitho wanted to climb to the poop and see what was happening in the convoy. There the firing had become general, and the last time he had looked Bolitho had seen Benbow wreathed in smoke as she engaged the two French seventy-fours on either beam at once. It was never a comfortable plan; it meant dividing the gun crews and left few hands to carry out repairs and remove the wounded.

The sharper crack of small weapons told him that Adam’s Firefly had thrown any caution to the wind as she tacked as close as she dared to the two big Frenchmen. Adam knew Benbow wore Herrick’s flag. Not that he would need any encouragement to fight. Bolitho thought of Keen’s comment. Jobert had hoisted no signals either and had obviously drilled his ships for this very moment.

Keen asked without lowering his glass, “Shall I shorten sail, sir?”

“Yes. Take in the courses. Otherwise Jobert will overreach our line before we can cripple some of his ships.” Paget shouted, “Barracouta has gone for the frigates!” He sounded excited. “God, she’s crossing the stern of one of ’em!” Lapish had used his disguise well. While the two French frigates had held their station, one astern of the other, he had swept suddenly towards them with all the wind in his favour. His starboard battery was blasting into the enemy while he cut so dangerously close across the leader’s stern that it looked as if they had collided. Smoke and flame belched from the Frenchman, and 276

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somebody gave a wild cheer as the maintopmast plummeted over her side, the attendant tangle of rigging and snapped spars dragging her over and giving Lapish’s gun crews the rare chance of a second broadside, before Barracouta’s helm went down and she changed tack towards the French line.

Even some of Keen’s seamen paused as they fisted and kicked the main and forecourses against their yards, to stare as their one frigate curtsied round before the second enemy vessel had time to follow. Her two broadsides had rendered the other ship momentarily helpless and the list of killed and wounded must have struck them hard.

Bolitho made himself watch Jobert’s flagship. Like her consorts, she was painted in black and white stripes, her gunports rising up her tumblehome in a checkered pattern.

Keen said, “He intends to overreach us, sir.” Bolitho said nothing. Léopard ’s jib-boom appeared to be pointing directly at their own.

Then Keen said, “They’re shortening now, sir.” He sounded tight with concentration. Relief too, for if Jobert’s ships crossed their line of battle, they could smash into the convoy while Keen lost vital time trying to head round and engage. The reduction of sails might settle their final embrace.

The range was less than two miles now, and seemed to make Jobert’s flagship loom even higher above the choppy wave crests.

“Stand by, starboard batteries!” Keen drew his sword, his eyes slitted in concentration.

Bolitho heard the order being piped to the lower gun deck and imagined the faces he had come to know.

He said, “We must try to break the line. Pass astern of Jobert, and let Montresor and Houston tackle the others. Ship to ship, broadside to broadside.”

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screeched above him and tore rigging to shreds and punched a dozen holes in the sails. Men swarmed aloft with the boatswain’s bellowing voice guiding them to the worst damage.

Less than a mile now. More shots crashed overhead, and two balls hit the lower hull like battering rams. Bolitho wiped his eyes as smoke swirled over the quarterdeck in a freak downdraught before being sucked away downwind.

“Signal Rapid to assist Benbow. ” Bolitho tried not to consider Quarrell’s chances, but it would lend heart to Herrick—he bit his lip—and Adam. Please God he was still safe.

Paget yelled, “He’s resetting his tops’ls, the bugger!” Bolitho watched as Léopard ’s topmen struggled out on their yards while the helm went over and Jobert’s ship changed tack as if to avoid a final encounter. As she presented her full broadside she fired. It was like one gigantic explosion and Bolitho had to seize the rail as many of the balls struck Argonaute’s side or crashed across the forecastle. Wood fragments whirled in the air and most of the starboard carronade’s crew were cut to bloody fragments.

Keen’s sword flashed down. “Fire!” The gun captains jerked their lanyards and Argonaute swayed over to the thrust of her combined broadside. The lower battery, their main armament, reacted badly; some of the crews there must have been stunned or unnerved by the weight of the enemy’s iron.

Some of Léopard ’s sails lifted and writhed, and her fore-topsail was torn apart by the force of the wind through the ragged holes. It was not enough to make her even falter.

Despatch was closing with the second Frenchman, and Bolitho could hear Icarus firing from extreme range at the rearmost two-decker. He hurried to the nettings, the crews of the unemployed nine-pounders staring at him, their eyes wild, their naked bodies heaving with exertion as if they had been running.

Bolitho watched his two ships closing with the enemy, Icarus almost hidden in a rolling fog of gunsmoke.

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He shouted, “Follow Jobert!” He winced as more balls slammed into the hull and a man screamed briefly as he was cut down.

Keen shouted, “Put up your helm! Close with her, man!” Fallowfield glared at him and then gestured to his helmsmen, who clustered around the big wheel as if it was a last refuge.

Small flashes lit up Léopard ’s fighting-tops and several musket balls, almost spent, slammed harmlessly into the hammocks.

The Royal Marines crouched against their frail protection and waited for the command to fire; some even glanced at Captain Bouteiller, willing him to give the order.

Keen called, “Set the forecourse!”

The hands had been waiting and Bolitho saw the great sail billow from its yard, cutting away the vision of the enemy like a huge curtain.

More shots whimpered across the quarterdeck and poop and Allday muttered, “Stay close to me, lad. They’re out of range, but—”

Stayt pulled out his pistol and stared at it as if he were seeing it for the first time.

The air was filled with noise, gun captains yelling and gesturing to their crews who wielded their handspikes to heave the smoking barrels round towards the enemy. Overhead, seamen called to one another while severed standing and running rigging flapped out in the wind and defied their grasping fingers.

Occasionally the spread nets would jerk as something broke free and plummeted down from aloft, and Bolitho knew it was a miracle that more damage had not been done.

He heard two bangs, loud and resonant, and knew Rapid was using her borrowed thirty-two-pounders. They would give the French ships something to worry about. They might even draw one of them away from Herrick who was being raked from two sides at once.

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He saw a frigate falling downwind, her foremast trailing over the side, antlike figures swarming amongst the wreckage to hack it away. A cheer from some of the gun crews stopped abruptly, as if to a word of command.

Bolitho gripped his sword and saw Barracouta reel over as another burst of crossfire tore into her and brought down more spars and flailing rigging.

Keen murmured, “Bad luck. But he’s knocked one of them out of the fight!” He ran to the side as Jobert’s ship fired again, some of the balls ripping overhead with just a few feet to spare.

Stayt said abruptly, “We can’t mark him down!” The words were wrung from his lips as if he were feeling every shot. “Must get closer!”

Bolitho shouted, “Captain Keen! Head for the convoy!” It was suddenly more than clear that Jobert intended to take the merchantmen as he had planned, and abandon his captains to stop or delay Bolitho’s ships from interfering.

A great shower of sparks burst from Despatch’s main deck and timber splashed down alongside. For an instant Bolitho imagined that a magazine had exploded, but it must have been a powder charge which had burst before it could be rammed home. As the French ship drifted away from her Bolitho saw that she too was badly mauled, and Despatch was already nudging round, her lower battery firing again and again, although many of her upper gun crews had been cut down by the explosion. Icarus too was obeying the signal, and appeared to be overlapping her enemy, her sails filled with holes and some of her guns unmanned or smashed.

With her helm over, Argonaute’s bowsprit followed Jobert’s ship as if to impale her. The arrowhead of sea between them was torn again and again by leaping fins of spray, many followed by the terrible thud of iron striking deep into the hull.

Stayt remarked, “We’re alone!”

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Bolitho looked at him. Stayt sounded so calm, almost matter of fact. A man without nerves, or one resigned to the inevitable.

“Larboard battery!” Keen’s sword caught the sunlight. “Fire!” There were some wild cheers as the Frenchman’s sails bucked and split, and tell-tale puffs of smoke along her tall hull told of their success. Keen’s regular drills were paying off even now.

Stayt ducked as musket balls scythed over the hammock nettings, and two seamen were hurled to the deck, one screaming as he clawed at his stomach. The dead man was thrown over the side, the other dragged to the nearest hatch and eventually down to Tuson.

Bolitho shuddered. It was happening there now. The knife and saw, the dreadful agony while some poor wretch was held on the table.

Stayt coughed.

Bolitho looked at him and saw him falling very slowly to his knees, a look of intent concentration on his dark features.

Midshipman Sheaffe ran to his aid and put an arm round his shoulders.

Bolitho said, “Get him below!”

Stayt looked up at him, but seemed to have difficulty in focus-ing his eyes. He had one hand to his waist, and already his fingers were wet with blood.

Stayt tried to shake his head but the pain made him cry out.

“No!” He stared at Bolitho, his eyes desperate. “Hear me!” Bolitho knelt beside him, his ears cringing to the crash and roar of cannon fire. Léopard ’s masts were no longer at a distance; they were rising up alongside, huge and formidable, as the two ships continued to drive together.

“What is it?” He knew Stayt was dying. Men were falling everywhere; one of the helmsmen was dragging himself into the gloom of the poop, his efforts mocked by the great pattern of blood he left behind him.

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“It was my father . . . I wanted to tell . . .” He coughed violently and blood ran from his mouth. “I wrote to him about the girl, never thought what he might . . .” He rolled up his eyes and gasped, “Oh dear God, help me!”

Sheaffe said, “I’ll carry him, sir!” Sheaffe’s voice seemed to give Stayt some impossible strength.

His eyes turned towards the midshipman and he started to grin.

It made him look terrible. “Admiral Sheaffe, it was. A friend of my father, y’see.”

He turned back to Bolitho and shut his eyes tightly as shots scored across the deck, killing a seaman who was thrusting his rammer into a gun and taking off the arm of his companion like a dead twig.

“Always hated you. Thought you knew, sir. All fathers together.” He tried to speak clearly but there was too much blood.

He was drowning in it. “Yours, mine and this young mid—” He coughed again and this time the blood did not stop.

Sheaffe lowered him to the deck, and when he looked up his face was like stone. Then he picked up the silver-mounted pistol and thrust it into his belt.

Keen hurried across the deck and shouted, “We’re all but into her!” The deck bucked and splinters flew like hornets, hurling men aside or leaving them too badly injured to help themselves.

He saw Stayt’s body and said, “Damn them!” Bolitho walked to the nettings again and, using a marine’s shoulder for support, climbed up to look at the other vessel. On every hand the battle raged, flotsam and broken spars drifted abeam, while here and there a lonely corpse floated beneath the thunder of cannon fire, like an uncaring swimmer.

He saw Jobert’s command flag above the smoke, the sparkle of musket fire as the sharpshooters sought out targets. The shot which had killed Stayt had probably been aimed at him.

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down at the bronzed marine. It was sheer madness, and he expected to feel the crushing agony between his shoulderblades at any second. His epaulettes would make a fine marker.

But he could feel the same recklessness, the need to make these men trust him, even though he had led them to disaster.

He said, “Aim well, my lad! But save the admiral for me, eh?” He clapped the marine on his rigid shoulder and saw his wild-ness change to astonishment, his face split into a huge grin.

The marine exclaimed, “God’s teeth, sir, I got two o’ the buggers already!”

He was levelling and firing again as Bolitho jumped down to the deck.

The hull shook violently as more shots hammered into it, and an eighteen-pounder was lifted by an invisible hand and toppled onto some of its crew. The barrel must have been as hot as a furnace, but the men soon died, their screams lost in the bom-bardment. The fore-topsail blew in ribbons, and without warning the main-topgallant mast staggered and then plunged to the deck like a forest giant.

Bolitho stared through the smoke, his eyes stinging and streaming. They had to get alongside. A sudden gap in the smoke made him realize how close they were to the convoy. He saw Benbow, her flags still flying, but her mizzen gone, firing without a pause into the ship nearest to her. The other one was almost dismasted, and he saw the two little brigs firing at her before the smoke swirled down again.

His foot touched Stayt’s outflung arm and he looked down at him. In those few minutes he had learned more about the man than ever before. How petty and empty all the jealousy and hate seemed now.

He looked at Keen. “We have the wind. Use it.” His voice hardened. “Ram her!” Then he drew his sword and heard Allday pull out his cutlass.

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“Now! Hard over! ”

Keen swung away. It was pointless to try to protest or explain.

Jobert’s company would overwhelm them. They would have no chance. But they never had from the beginning.

He shouted, “Man the braces! Put up your helm, Mr Fallowfield!”

But the master’s mate had taken charge. Fallowfield lay near the wheel where he had died, his ear to the deck as if he were listening for something.

“Mr Paget! Prepare to ram!”

Paget stared up at him and then ran towards the forecastle, his hanger already drawn as, with ponderous intent, Argonaute turned towards her enemy, her jib-boom like a lance, her sails so torn and holed that even the jubilant wind, a cruel spectator to the fight, could barely offer steerage-way.

Despatch was alongside another ship, her guns still firing even though her muzzles were grinding against those of her enemy.

Jobert had now realized Bolitho’s intention but could do little about it. By changing tack directly towards the convoy he had the wind abeam. He could neither turn towards Argonaute, nor could he allow the wind to carry him away without exposing his stern to a murderous broadside.

Oblivious to the din, Bolitho watched the shrieking balls as Jobert’s guns tried to traverse onto the slow-moving ship with the huge Jack at her foremast.

French sailors were already running along the gangway, firing towards Argonaute, some falling or pitching overboard as they came under fire from Bouteiller’s marksmen. A swivel blasted out from somewhere, and Bolitho saw one of the scarlet coats fall. It was Lieutenant Orde, his sword still in his hand as he stared up at the sky.

Keen gripped the rail, watching transfixed as the big three-decker, once so aloof and distant, loomed above them. Men were 284

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firing down, and he felt the planks jerk by his feet. A heavy ball hit Stayt’s body so that it convulsed as if he were only shamming death. The Frenchmen were running to the point of impact, and the chorus of their cries and curses was like one tremendous voice which even the battle could not quench.

Keen turned as Bolitho touched his sleeve. “Are the guns ready?”

Keen nodded. “At this range, sir?” The jib-boom thrust slowly through Léopard ’s foremast shrouds. It looked such a gentle motion but Keen knew the whole weight of his command was behind it. He waved his sword to the lieutenant at the larboard battery.

The seconds seemed like hours and Keen had time to consider several things at once. The great chorus of voices and then, in that fragment of time before the trigger-lines were jerked taut, he heard Bolitho say, “Fine words do not a broadside make, Val.” Then the space between the hulls vanished in a frothing torment of flame and smoke. Burning wads floated towards the torn sails, and the crash of metal against the enemy’s hull was like a thunderclap.

The mass of French seamen and marines were gone, and Léopard ’s side below the gangway was running bright red, so that the ship herself seemed to be bleeding to death.

Then like a last convulsion the two vessels ground together, the shrouds and spars entangled, guns, men and wind all suddenly silent. As if their world had ended.

Bolitho was almost knocked over by the marines from the poop as they charged towards the forecastle, some hatless and wild-eyed, their bayonets glittering in the smoky sunshine. The ships rolled more heavily together and, through the dangling creepers of rigging and strips of blackened canvas, Bolitho saw the stab of musket fire and the gleam of steel as the two sides came together.

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From above the smoke the marksmen kept up their fire, and Bolitho saw Phipps, the fifth lieutenant, clutch his face as a ball smashed into his forehead. He had been one of Achates’ midshipmen. In the twinkling of an eye he had become nothing.

The ships were being carried slowly and heavily downwind and away from the convoy. It would give Herrick a chance, but no more than that unless—Bolitho saw several seamen cut down by a blast of swivel, the canister shot raking them into bloody ribbons while they screamed and kicked out their lives.

Bolitho shouted, “Take the ship, Val! Hold her! ” He saw the shocked understanding on Keen’s face and repeated, “No matter what!” Then with his sword in his hand he ran along the starboard gangway with Allday and Bankart behind him. He found time to wonder what was keeping Bankart from hiding below, how long it would be before it all ended, as it had for too many already.

Allday rasped, “God, they’re aboard us!” Bolitho saw Paget by the foremast and shouted, “Clear the lower battery! Every man on deck!”

Then he found himself by the starboard cathead, and already the place was littered with corpses. Seamen and marines, friends and enemies, clawed for handholds on the beak-head, and slid down stays and torn sails to get at each other. Bayonets thrust; others hacked at the boarders with anything they could find, cutlasses and axes; one man was even using a rammer like a club until a ball brought him down and he tumbled outboard between the grinding hulls.

From the quarterdeck Keen watched despairingly as more enemy uniforms appeared through the smoke, some already on the larboard gangway. They would swamp his company. He stared round and saw Hogg, his coxswain, fall to the deck, one hand reaching for help even as the light died in his eyes.

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They were all dying, and for two ships full of bloody gold.

He yelled, “Open fire with the nine-pounders, Mr Valancey!

Mark down their poop!”

It was almost impossible to speak or breathe as the smoke billowed over the decks and men slipped and hacked at each other, stamping on the corpses of their companions.

There was a cracked cheer and Keen saw more men swarming up from the lower gun deck, Chaytor, the second lieutenant, waving them forward with his hanger.

The nine-pounders lurched inboard on their tackles and blasted grape into the smoke, some of which might find a target on the enemy’s stern and amongst her officers.

Keen saw a seaman running towards him and his startled mind made him realize it was one of the enemy, a single seaman suddenly cut off from the rest of the boarders.

He lunged forward, seeing the stranger through a mist of combined pain and fury. Hogg was dead, Bolitho would soon be killed or captured as he led his own counter-attack.

The French seaman aimed a pistol but a mocking click from the hammer made him stare wildly before flinging the useless weapon away. He raised his heavy cutlass and kept his eyes on Keen’s face.

He was young and nimble-footed, but the madness of battle blinded him to Keen’s skill.

Keen parried the heavy blade, the weight and power of the man’s thrust carrying his attacker almost past him. Then Keen slashed him across the neck and, as he fell, shrieking, hacked him once again across the face.

He turned away, the anger giving him an unnatural strength; he did not even look round as more shots whimpered past him or slammed into the deck.

Then he stared towards the forecastle. It was the most terrible scene of all.

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Captain Inch, naked but for his breeches, was hurrying to the larboard ladder, his raw stump jerking violently as he waved his sword and yelled, “Stand fast, Helicons!” The words were torn from him, the agony of his wound making it pitiful. He shouted again, his voice rising above the clash of steel and the screams of the dying, “To me, Helicons! Repel boarders, my lads!” Keen wiped his eyes with his sleeve.

“In God’s name, he thinks he’s in his own ship again!” It could not last. The packed, stamping figures were being forced back, and there were some French boarders already fighting amongst the fallen cordage and bodies on the main deck.

A midshipman, unarmed, driven beyond reason, ran for a hatchway, his ears covered with his hands as he tried to escape.

Keen saw it was Hext, one of the youngest aboard. As he reached the hatch coaming he slipped on some blood and fell sprawling. A tall Frenchman bounded towards him, his cutlass already swinging. The boy rolled over and stared at him. He did not cover his face or plead, he just lay and watched death.

But Inch was there, and drove his blade under the seaman’s ribs, swinging him round, the man’s weight tearing the sword from his grasp. The sailor dropped beside Midshipman Hext, his bare feet drumming in agony on the deck.

Keen saw a boarding pike come from the smoke. It took Inch in the back. As he fell to his knees the pike was torn free and then driven into him once more.

Bolitho watched Inch fall, and then, along the length of the deck, above the swaying, exhausted figures he saw Keen looking at him. For a moment longer the battle seemed elsewhere.

They shared the moment. All their memories, and the brave Zenoria. The brightness of hope and love, the illusion of a precious discovery.

The voices roared through it and Bolitho swung round to face a French lieutenant.

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Savagely he slashed the young officer’s blade aside and then seized his lapel and drove the knuckle bow into his jaw. The lieutenant lurched aside and gasped in terror as Allday’s great cutlass swept across the sunlight like a shadow.

Allday wrenched the blade free and gasped thickly, “We can’t

’old ’em!”

Bolitho saw his men falling back; they were trapped here; both gangways had as many Frenchmen on them as Keen’s people.

Bolitho shouted, “Hold fast, lads!” A seaman dropped on his knees and tried to fend off another bright blade. He screamed as his severed hand fell beside him. Bolitho lunged over the wounded man’s shoulder and felt the Frenchman against the sword, then reel over as the point grated off his crossbelt and slid into his chest.

He turned to rally some seamen and marines on the other side and then saw something rising above the great pall of smoke.

Allday croaked, “Bastards are alongside! ’Nother of ’em!” One of the French seventy-fours must have fought free of Bolitho’s ships and was coming to assist his admiral.

There was a crazed cheer and Bolitho saw that the newcomer had lost her mizzen. Guns bellowed from her side, and Bolitho felt the jerk of iron transmit itself even to Argonaute’s own deck.

It was an impossible dream, the stern-faced figurehead in breastplate and with out-thrust sword. Admiral Benbow .

Cheering and whooping, Herrick’s marines and seamen swarmed across in a tide of smoke-blackened, battered men, who had already fought and won their battle to protect the convoy.

Suddenly Bolitho was being carried forward on Argonaute’s new strength and almost fell into the swirling water as two seamen hauled him roughly over the forecastle rail and onto the bowsprit. Caught between Benbow’s men and Keen’s own company, the French were already fighting their way onto one gangway, COLOURS A LOF T!

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a bridge of escape to their own ship, and still held the advantage over those below them.

Bolitho heard Bouteiller yell, “Royal Marines, still! ” He could not see them but pictured the scarlet coats, no longer smartly pressed and clean, as they responded to their captain’s command. Dazed, wild, even the fury within them was not enough to withstand their familiar discipline.

They stood or knelt along the opposite gangway, their muskets rising as one. A marine fell dead from the rank, but nobody flinched. Revenge would come later.

Bouteiller yelled, “Fire!”

The musket balls crashed into the packed mass of boarders and, even as the living struggled free from the dead, the marines were already charging towards them, shouting and screaming like demons as they went in with their bayonets.

Bolitho slipped, but held on to the massive bowsprit, his feet kicking at the spritsail yard and shrouds while he stared with stunned disbelief at the deck below him, Léopard ’s forecastle.

But for the lanyard around his wrist he would have lost his sword for ever.

There was more firing from that other existence beyond the smoke, ships locked together or surging towards the French rear-admiral’s flag, Bolitho could not tell. A command flag was supposed to lead and direct. Now it had become a beacon, a guide for carnage. Men fought and struggled all around him; it was impossible to grasp direction or time. Bodies were sometimes pressing against him, with brief flashes of recognition as a wild face found his.

Someone even managed to shout, “ ’Tis the admiral, lads!” Another yelled, “You keep with us, Dick!”

It was wild, terrifying, and yet the madness was like rich wine.

Bolitho locked hilts with another lieutenant and was astonished that he found it so easy to disarm him with one twist of the wrist which tore the weapon from his hand. He would have left it at 290

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that as the yelling, panting seamen carried him along, but a marine paused and glared at the cowering officer. All he said was, “This is for Cap’n Inch!” The thrust carried the lieutenant to the rail, the point of the bayonet glinting red through the back of his coat.

Bolitho dashed his wrist across his face. It felt like a furnace and he was almost blinded by sweat.

He saw the gouged planks across the broad sweep of quarterdeck where Keen’s grape had fired so blindly. Bodies lay scattered near the abandoned wheel, others ran to meet the rush of boarders, probably unable to accept what had happened.

A sailor darted under a bayonet and headed for Allday. He stared at the Frenchman and then lifted his cutlass. He almost laughed through his despair. It was so easy.

As he raised the blade and tightened his hold on the cutlass he suddenly cried out, the pain in his old wound burning through his chest, rendering him helpless, unable to move.

Bolitho was separated from him by an abandoned gun, but hurled himself towards him, his sword hitting out.

But Bankart leaped between them armed only with a belaying pin.

He screamed, “Get back! Don’t you touch him!” He threw himself protectively against his father, sobbing with anger and fear as the Frenchman darted forward for the kill.

Bolitho felt the ball fan past his face, although his dazed mind did not record the sound of a shot.

He saw the Frenchman slide back and drop to the deck, his cutlass clattering beneath the feet of the crowd.

Bolitho saw Midshipman Sheaffe, his face white with strain, with Stayt’s pistol still smoking in one hand, his puny dirk in the other.

Then he forgot him; even the fact that, with Allday about to be cut down, his son had found himself and the courage which he believed would never be his.

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Bolitho saw Jobert by the poop ladder, saw him shouting to his officers, although the din, the mingled roar of victory and defeat, made it impossible to understand.

Lieutenant Paget, his coat sliced from shoulder to waist and cut about the face by wood splinters, waved his bloodied hanger to his men.

Bolitho stared through the smoke, now almost blind from it, or was it something worse? He could not even find the will to care any more.

Paget yelled, “Get him! Cut the bastard down!” Bolitho found himself lurching through the jubilant seamen, some of whom were strangers from Herrick’s ship.

It had to stop. The past could not repair anything; nor must it destroy.

He knocked a marine’s musket aside with the flat of his sword.

He heard Allday gasping behind him. He would die rather than leave him now.

Bolitho shouted, “Strike, damn you!” Jobert stared at him, his eyes shocked. He peered past Bolitho and must have sensed that only he was keeping him alive. There was a great wave of cheering and someone yelled, “There goes their flag, mates! We beat the buggers!” The voices and faces swirled round, while the cornered Frenchmen in various parts of their ship began to throw down their weapons. But not Jobert. Almost disdainfully he drew his sword and tossed his hat to the deck.

Paget gasped, “Let me take him, Sir Richard!” Bolitho gave him a quick glance. Paget, the man who had faced the odds of Camperdown, was no longer the calmly efficient first lieutenant. He wanted to kill Jobert.

Bolitho snapped, “Stand back.” He raised his sword and felt the raw tension in his wrist and forearm.

So it was a personal duel after all.

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There was silence now, and only the groans and cries of the wounded seemed to intrude. Even the wind had dropped without anyone noticing it. Jobert’s command flag flapped only slightly and in time with the bright Union Flag on the ship whose jib-boom still impaled the shrouds.

The blades circled one another like wary serpents.

Bolitho watched Jobert’s face, as dark as Stayt’s. It was all there. He had been a prisoner before, and his flagship had been taken from him only to rise again and repeat the disgrace. The impossible had happened. Jobert was a professional officer, and did not have to look farther than the man who now faced him for the reason. A last chance to even the score, to give him the seeds of a victory even if he never lived to see it for more than minutes after Bolitho had fallen.

Jobert moved around the deck and even the English sailors fell back to give him room.

Paget pleaded desperately, “Can I take him?” He saw Bolitho’s foot catch on some broken rigging, the way he staggered. Paget whispered, “Fetch Captain Keen, for God’s sake!” The messenger scuttled away, but Paget knew he would be too late.

Then Jobert struck, lunged forward again and again, his foot stamping hard down as he advanced. He turned still farther and made Bolitho twist his head as the sunlight lanced down through the ragged sails and blinded him.

Was it imagination or did he see a quick flash of triumph in the French admiral’s eyes? Did he know his weakness? The blades glanced together and the steel hissed as each fought to retain balance and the strength to hold the other at arm’s length.

Clash—clash—clash, the blades struck, parried and parted.

Midshipman Sheaffe stared wildly at Allday. “Stop him, can’t you, man?”

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Bolitho stepped carefully over some more rope. His arm throbbed with pain and he could barely see Jobert’s intent face.

Why prove anything? He is beaten, finished. It is enough.

Jobert’s blade moved like lightning, and when Bolitho swung his own to beat it aside he felt it pass through his coat below his armpit, the searing pain as the edge cut across his skin. Bolitho smashed his hilt down on Jobert’s wrist so that they lurched together, chest to chest.

Bolitho could feel the strength going from his arm, the biting pain of the cut on his side like a branding iron. He could feel the man’s breath on his face, see the strange darkness in his eyes.

Everything else was lost in mist, and even when he heard Herrick’s voice coming through the packed figures around him, it was like an intrusion.

He raised his arm and thrust at Jobert’s chest with all of his remaining strength. Jobert staggered back against a quarterdeck cannon and then stared with horrified disbelief as the old sword flashed forward and struck him in the heart.

Bolitho almost fell as the sailors surged around him, cheering and sobbing like madmen.

He handed his sword to Allday and tried to smile at him, to reassure him, like those other times.

Herrick pushed his men aside and seized his arm.

“My God, Richard, he might have killed you!” He studied him anxiously. “If I’d been here I’d have shot him down!” Bolitho touched the hole in his coat and felt the blood wet on his fingers.

The cheering dazed him, but they had every right to give vent to their feelings. What did they know or understand of strategy, or the need to defend two unknown merchantmen? Why should they obey, when the harvest was so savage, so cruel?

He looked down at Jobert and saw a seaman prise the sword from his outflung hand. Jobert’s dark eyes were half open, as if 294

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he were still alive, listening, and watching his enemies.

“He wanted to die, Thomas. Don’t you see that?” He turned and peered across to his own ship and saw Keen shading his eyes to look at him. Bolitho raised his arm in a tired salute. He was safe. It would have been the final blow had he fallen.

He felt Herrick’s hand holding his arm as someone brought a dressing to staunch the blood.

“He lost the fight. He would not surrender his pride too.” Bolitho made his way through his blackened and bleeding men. It did not seem real or possible. He looked up at the sky above the masts and lifeless sails.

He turned and looked at his friend and added quietly, “In his way, Jobert was a victor after all.” Allday heard him and then put his arm around his son’s shoulders. He had not the words, not now anyway.

Bankart glanced at his father’s face and smiled.

Pride of friend or enemy did not need any words.

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