Herrick sat squarely in Hyperion's stern cabin and grasped a tankard of ginger-beer with both hands.

'It feels strange.' He dropped his eyes. 'Why should that be?'

Bolitho walked about the cabin, remembering his own feelings when the lookouts had sighted Benbow and her two consorts in the dawn light.

He could understand Herrick's feelings. Two men drawn together like passing ships on an ocean. Now he was here, and not even the coolness Bolitho had seen between him and Keen as the latter had greeted his arrival on board could dispel a sense of relief.

Bolitho said, 'I have decided to head west now that we are joined, Thomas.'

Herrick looked up, but his eyes seemed drawn to the elegant wine cabinet in the corner of the cabin. He probably saw Catherine's hand here too.

'I am not certain it is wise.' He pouted, and then shrugged. 'But if we are called to support Nelson, then the closer we are to the Strait the better, I suppose.' He did not sound very certain. 'At least we can face the enemy if he comes our way in the narrows.'

Bolitho listened to the tramp of feet as the afterguard manned the mizzen braces for changing tack again. Eight ships-of-the-line, a frigate and a small sloop-of-war. It was no fleet, but he was as proud of them as a man could be.

Only one was missing, the little prize frigate La Mouette which Herrick had sent further north to scout for any coastal shipping from which she might glean some information.

Herrick said, 'If the Frogs decide not to venture out, we shall remain in ignorance of their next plan of attack. What then?' He waved Ozzard aside as he made to bring the tray and some claret. 'No, I would relish some more ginger-beer.'

Bolitho turned away. Was it really that, or had Herrick become so rigid in his bias against Catherine that he would take nothing from her cabinet' He tried to dismiss the thought as unworthy, petty, but it still persisted.

He said, 'We'll move in separate formations, Thomas. If the weather remains our ally, we shall stand two miles or more apart. It will give our mastheads a better scan of the horizons. If the enemy is chased our way, we should have good warning of it, eh ?' He made to smile. 'It is never wise to stand in the path of a charging bull!'

Herrick said abruptly, 'When we return home, what will you do?' He moved his shoes on the deck. 'Share your life with another⁵'

Bolitho braced his legs as the ship heeled slightly to an extra thrust in her canvas.

He replied, 'I share nothing. Catherine is my life.'

'Dulcie said —' The blue eyes lifted and watched him stubbornly. 'She believes you will regret it.'

Bolitho glanced at the wine cabinet, the folded fan lying on top of it.

'You can go with the stream, Thomas, or fight against it.'

'Our friendship means a lot to me.' Herrick frowned as Ozzard padded in with a fresh tankard. 'But it gives me the right to speak my mind. I can never accept this —' he licked his lips, 'this lady.'

Bolitho faced him sadly. 'Then you have made your decision, Thomas.' He sat down and waited for Ozzard to refill his glass. 'Or have you had it made by others?' He watched Herrick's angry reaction and added, 'Perhaps the enemy will decide our future.' He raised the glass. 'I give you a sentiment, Thomas. May the best man win!'

Herrick stood up. 'How can you jest about it!'

The door opened and Keen peered in. 'The rear-admiral's barge is standing by, Sir Richard.' He did not glance at Herrick. 'The sea is getting up, and I thought —'

Herrick looked round for his hat. Then he waited for Keen to withdraw and said flatly, 'When we meet again —'

Bolitho held out his hand. 'For friendship?'

Herrick grasped it, his palm as hard as it had ever been.

He said, 'Aye. Nothing can break that.'

Bolitho listened to the calls as Herrick was piped over the side for the lively pull to his flagship.

Allday lingered in the other doorway, his rag moving up and down on the old sword.

Bolitho said wearily, 'They say love is blind, old friend. It seems to me that only those who have never known it are blind.'

Allday smiled and replaced the sword on its rack.

If it took war and the risk of a bloody fight to make Bolitho's eyes shine again, then so be it.

He said, 'I knew a lass once —'

Bolitho smiled, and recalled his thoughts when he had written his orders.

A time for action. It was like an epitaph.

 

 

 

 

The twenty-six gun frigate La Mouette was completely shrouded in a heavy sea-mist. The lookouts could barely see more than a few yards on either beam, and from the deck the upper shrouds and limp sails were invisible.

There was a slow, moist breeze, but the mist kept pace with the ship to add a sense of being motionless.

Occasionally the disembodied voice of a leadsman floated aft, but the water was deep enough, although if the mist suddenly lifted the ship might be close inshore, or completely alone on an empty sea.

Aft by the quarterdeck rail the first lieutenant, John Wright, stared at the dripping maincourse until his eyes smarted. It was eerie, like thrusting into something solid. He could picture the jib-boom feeling the way like a blind man's stick. There was nothing beyond the pale patch of the figurehead, a fierce-looking seagull with its beak wide in anger.

Around and behind him the other watchkeepers stood about like statues. The helmsman, the sailing master close by. The midshipman of the watch, a boatswain's mate, their faces shining with moisture, as if they had been standing in a rainfall.

Nobody spoke. But that was nothing new, Wright thought. He longed for the chance of a command for himself. Anything. It had meant the next step on the ladder just being first lieutenant. He had not bargained for a captain like Bruce Sinclair. The captain was young, probably twenty-seven or so, Wright decided. A man with fine cheekbones, his chin always high, like a haughty pose, someone who was always quick to seek out slackness and inefficiency in his command.

A visiting admiral had once praised Sinclair for the smartness of his ship. Nobody ever walked on the upper deck, orders were carried out at the double, and any midshipman or petty officer who failed to report a man for not doing so would also face punishment.

They had been in several single-ship actions with privateers and blockade runners, and Sinclair's unyielding discipline had, on the face of it, worked well enough to satisfy any admiral.

The master joined him at the rail and said in a low voice, 'This mist can't last much more, Mr Wright.' He sounded anxious. 'We could be miles off course by now. I'm not happy about it.'

They both looked at the gundeck as a low groan made the men on watch glance uneasily at each other.

Like all the other ships in the squadron La Mouette was short of fresh water. Captain Sinclair had ordered it to be severely rationed for all ranks, and two days ago had cut the ration still further. Wright had suggested they might call at some island provided there was no sign of an enemy, if only to replenish a portion of the water supply. Sinclair had studied him coldly. 'I am ordered to seek information about the French, Mr Wright. I cannot spare any time for spoonfeeding the people merely because their lot is not to their taste!'

Wright stared at the man by the larboard gangway. He was quite naked, his legs braced apart by irons, his arms tied back to a gun so that he looked as if he had been crucified. The man occasionally rolled his head from side to side, but his tongue was too swollen in his blistered mouth to make sense of his pleas.

Aboard any King's ship a thief was despised. The justice meted out by the lower deck against such an offender was often far harsher than that of a proper authority.

The seaman McNamara had stolen a gallon of fresh water one night, when a Royal Marine sentry had been called away by the officer-of-the-watch.

He had been caught by a boatswain's mate, drinking the rancid water in secret while his messmates had slept in their hammocks. Everyone had expected his punishment to be severe, especially as McNamara was a regular defaulter, but Sinclair's reaction had taken even the most hardened sailor aback. For five days he had been in irons on the upper deck, in blazing sunlight, and in the chill of the night. Naked, and in his own filth, he had been doused with salt water by other hands under punishment, to clean up the deck rather than afford him any relief from his torment.

Sinclair had turned up the hands to read the relevant sections of the Articles of War, and had ended by saying that McNamara would be awarded three dozen lashes when the example of his theft was completed.

Wright shivered. It seemed unlikely that McNamara would live long enough to face the flogging.

The master hissed, 'Cap'n's comin' up, Mr Wright.'

It was like that. Whispers. Fear. Smouldering hatred for the man who ruled their daily lives.

Sinclair, neatly dressed, his hand resting on his sword hilt, strode first to the compass, then to the quarterdeck rail to study the set of any visible sails.

'Nor'-west-by-west, sir!'

Sinclair waited as Wright made his report, then said, 'Direct a boy to fetch your hat, Mr Wright.' He smiled faintly. 'This is a King's ship, not a Bombay trader!'

Wright flushed. 'I'm sorry, sir. This heat —'

'Quite.' Sinclair waited until a ship's boy had been sent below for the hat and remarked, 'Deuced if I know how much longer I can waste time like this.'

The wretched man on the gundeck gave another groan. It sounded as if he was choking on his tongue.

Sinclair snapped, 'Keep that man silent! God damn his eyes, I'll have him seized up and put to the lash here and now if I hear another squeak from him!' He looked aft. 'Bosun's mate! See to it! I'll have no bleatings from that bloody thief!'

Wright wiped his lips with his wrist. They felt dry and raw.

'It is five days, sir.'

'I too keep a log, Mr Wright.' He moved to the opposite side and peered down at the water as it glided past. 'It may help others to think twice before they follow his miserable example!'

Sinclair added suddenly, 'My orders are to rendezvous with the squadron.' He shrugged, the dying seaman apparently forgotten. 'The meeting is overdue, thanks to this damnable weather. Doubtless Rear-Admiral Herrick will send someone to seek us out.'

Wright saw the boatswain's mate merge with the swirling mist as he hurried towards the naked man. It made him feel sick just to imagine what it must be like. Sinclair was wrong about one thing. The anger of the ship's company had already swung to sympathy. The torture was bad enough. But Sinclair had stripped McNamara of any small dignity he might have held. Had left him in his own excrement like a chained animal, humiliated before his own messmates.

The captain was saying, 'I'm not at all sure that our gallant admiral knows what he is about.' He moved restlessly along the rail. 'Too damn cautious by half, if you ask me.'

'Sir Richard Bolitho will have his own ideas, sir.'

'I wonder.' Sinclair sounded faraway. 'He will combine the squadrons, that is my opinion, and then —' He looked up, frowning at the interruption as a voice called, 'Mist's clearin', sir!'

'God damn it, make a proper report!' Sinclair turned to his first lieutenant. 'If the wind gets up, I want every stitch of canvas on her. So call all hands. Those idlers need work to keep their fingers busy!'

Sinclair could not restrain his impatience and strode along the starboard gangway, which ran above a battery of cannon and joined quarterdeck to forecastle. He paused amidships and looked across at the naked man. McNamara's head was hanging down. He could be dead.

Sinclair called, 'Rouse that scum! You, use your starter, man!'

The boatswain's mate stared up at him, shocked at the captain's brutality.

Sinclair put his hands on his hips and eyed him with contempt.

'Do it, or by God you'll change places with him!"

Wright was thankful as the hands came running to halliards and braces. The muffled stamp of bare feet at least covered the sound of the rattan across McNamara's shoulders.

The second lieutenant came hurrying aft and said to the master, 'Lively, into the chartroom. We shall be expected to fix our position as soon as we sight land!"

Wright pursed his lips as the master's mate of the watch reported the hands ready to make more sail.

If there was no land in sight, God help them all, he thought despairingly.

He watched some weak sunshine probing through the mist and reaching along the topsail yards, then down into the milky water alongside.

The leadsman cried out again, 'No bottom, sir!'

Wright found that he was clenching his fingers so tightly that he had cramp in both hands. He watched the captain at the forward end of the gangway, one hand resting on the packed hammock nettings. A man without a care in the world, anyone might think.

'Deck there! Sail on the weather bow!'

Sinclair strode aft again, his mouth in a thin line.

Wright ran his finger round his neckcloth. 'We'll soon know, sir.' Of course, the lookout would be able to see the other ship now, if only her topgallant yards above the creeping mist.

The lookout shouted again, 'She's English, sir! Man-o'-war!'

'Who is that fool up there?' Sinclair glared into the swirling mist.

Wright answered, 'Tully, sir. A reliable seaman:'

'Hmph. He had better be.'

More sunlight exposed the two batteries of guns, the neatly flaked lines, the pikes in their rack around the mainmast, perfectly matched like soldiers on parade. No wonder the admiral had been impressed, Wright thought.

Sinclair said sharply, 'Make sure our number is bent on and ready to hoist, Mr Wright. I'll have no snooty post-captain finding fault with my signals.'

But the signals midshipman, an anxious-looking youth, was already there with his men. You never fell below the captain's standards more than once.

The foretopsail bellied out from its yard and the master exclaimed, 'Here it comes at last!'

'Man the braces there!' Sinclair pointed over the rail. 'Take that man's name, Mr Cox! God damn it, they are like cripples today!'

The wind tilted the hull, and Wright saw spray lift above the beakhead. Already the mist was floating ahead, shredding through the shrouds and stays, laying bare the water on either beam.

The naked seaman threw back his head and stared, half-blinded, at the sails above, his wrists and ankles rubbed raw by the irons.

'Stand by on the quarterdeck!' Sinclair glared. 'Ready with our number. I don't want to be mistaken for a Frenchie!'

Wright had to admit it was a wise precaution. Another ship new to the station might easily recognise La Mouette as French-built. Act first, think later, was the rule in sea warfare.

The lookout called, 'She's a frigate, sir! Runnin' with the wind!'

Sinclair grunted, 'Converging tack.' He peered up to seek out the masthead pendant, but it was still hidden above a last banner of mist. Then like a curtain rising the sea became bright and clear, and Sinclair gestured as the other ship seemed to rise from the water itself.

She was a big frigate, and Sinclair glanced above at the gaff to make certain his own ensign was clearly displayed. 'She's hoisting a signal, sir!'

Sinclair watched as La Mouette's number broke from the yard.

'You see, Mr Wright, if you train the people to respond as they should —'

His words were lost as somebody yelled, 'Christ! She's runnin' out!'

All down the other frigate's side the gunports had opened as one, and now, shining in the bright sunshine, her whole larboard battery trundled into view.

Wright ran to the rail and shouted, 'Belay that! Beat to quarters!'

Then the world exploded into a shrieking din of flame and whirling splinters. Men and pieces of men painted the deck in vivid scarlet patterns. But Wright was on his knees, and some of the screams he knew were his own.

His reeling mind held on to the horrific picture for only seconds. The naked man tied to the gun, but no longer complaining. He had no head. The foremast going over the side, the signals midshipman rolling and whimpering like a sick dog.

The picture froze and faded. He was dead.

 

Commander Alfred Dunstan sat cross-legged at the table in Phaedra's cramped cabin and studied the chart in silence.

Opposite him, his first lieutenant Joshua Meheux waited for a decision, his ear pitched to the creak and clatter of rigging. Astern through the open windows he could see the thick mist following the sloop-of-war, heard the second lieutenant calling another change of masthead lookouts. In any fog or mist even the best lookout was subject to false sightings. After an hour or so he would see only what he expected to see. A darker patch of fog would become a lee shore, or the topsail of another vessel about to collide. He watched his cousin. It was incredible how Dunstan was able to make his ship's company understand exactly what he needed from them.

He glanced round the small cabin, where they had had so many discussions, made plans, celebrated battles and birthdays with equal enthusiasm. He looked at the great tubs of oranges and lemons which filled most of the available space. Phaedra had run down on a Genoese trader just before the sea-mist had enveloped them.

They were short of water, desperately so, but the mass of fresh fruit which Dunstan had commandeered, as he had put it, had tilted the balance for the moment.

Dunstan glanced up from the chart and smiled. 'Smells like Bridport on market day, don't it?'

His shirt was crumpled and stained, but better that than have the ship's company believe that water rationing did not apply to the officers as well.

Dunstan tapped the chart with his dividers. 'Another day, and I shall have to come about. We are sorely needed with the squadron. Besides, Captain Sinclair will have an alternative rendezvous. But for this mist, I'd wager we would have sighted his ship days ago.'

Meheux asked, 'Do you know him?'

Dunstan lowered his head to peer more closely at his calculations. 'I know of him.'

The lieutenant smiled to himself. Dunstan was in command. He would go no further in discussing another captain. Even with his cousin.

Dunstan leaned back and ruffled his wild auburn hair. 'God, I itch like a poxed-up whore!' He grinned. 'I think Sir Richard intends to join the fleet under Nelson. Though he will take all the blame if the French outpace him and slip back into port in these waters.'

He reached under the table and then produced a decanter of claret. 'Better than water anyway.' He poured two large glasses. 'I'll bet that our vice-admiral will be in enough hot water as it is! God damn it, any man who can accept the wrath of Admiralty and that of the dandified Inspector General must be made of stern stuff.'

'What was he like as a captain?'

Dunstan looked at him, his eyes distant. 'Brave, courteous. No conceit.'

'You liked him?'

Dunstan swallowed the claret; the casual question had slipped through his guard.

'I worshipped the deck he walked on. All of us in the gunroom did, I believe.' He shook his head. I'd stand beside him any day.'

There was a tap at the door and a midshipman, dressed in an even grubbier shirt than his captain's, peered in at them.

'The second lieutenant's respects, sir, and he thinks the mist may be clearing.'

They looked up as the deck quivered very slightly, and the hull murmured a gentle protest at being disturbed again.

'By God, the wind is returning.' Dunstan's eyes gleamed. 'My compliments to the second lieutenant, Mr Valliant. I shall come up presently.' As the boy left he winked at Meheux. 'With a name like his he should go far in the navy!'

Dunstan held up the decanter and grimaced. It was almost empty.

He remarked, 'It will be a drier ship than usual, I fear.' Then he became serious again. 'Now this is what I intend —'

Meheux stared at the decanter as the glass stopper rattled for several seconds.

Their eyes met. Meheux said, 'Thunder?'

Dunstan was groping for his shabby hat. 'Not this time, by God. That came from iron guns, my friend!'

He slipped his arms into his coat and climbed up the companion ladder to the deck.

He glanced through the drifting mist, seeing his seamen standing and listening. Such a small vessel, yet so many men, he thought vaguely. He tensed as the booming roar sighed through the mist and imagined he could feel the sullen vibration against the hull. Faces had turned aft towards him. Instantly he remembered Bolitho, when they had all stared at him as if expecting salvation and understanding, because he had been their captain.

Dunstan tucked one hand into his old seagoing coat with the tarnished buttons. I am ready. Now they look to me.

Meheux was the first to speak.

'Shall we stand away until we are sure what is happening, sir?'

He did not reply directly. 'Call all hands. Have the people lay aft.'

They came running to the pipe, and when they were all packed from side to side, with some clinging to the mizzen shrouds and on the upturned cutter, Meheux touched his hat, his eyes curious.

'Lower deck cleared, sir.'

Dunstan said, 'In a moment we shall clear for action. No fuss, no beat of a drum. Not this time. You will go to quarters in the manner you have learned so well.' He looked at those nearest him, youngsters like their officers, grizzled old hands such as the boatswain and the carpenter. Faces he had taught himself to know and recognise, so that he could call any one of them by name even in pitch darkness. At any other time the thought would have made him smile. For it was often said that his hero Nelson had the same knack of knowing his people, even now that he had reached flag rank.

But he did not smile. 'Listen!' The booming roar echoed through the mist. Each man would hear it differently. Ships at war, or the sound of enraged surf on a reef. Thunder across the hills in a home land which had produced most of these men.

'I intend to continue on this tack.' His eyes moved over them. 'One of those ships must be a friend. We shall carry word of our finding to Sir Richard Bolitho and the squadron.'

A solitary voice raised a cheer and Dunstan gave a broad grin. 'So stand-to, my lads, and God be with you all!'

He stood back to watch as they scattered to their various stations, while the boatswain and his own party broke out the chain slings and nets for the yards to offer some protection to the gun crews should the worst happen.

Dunstan said quietly, 'I think we may have found La Mouette.' He kept the other thought to himself. That he hoped Sinclair was as ready for a fight as he was with the lash.

The thuds of screens being taken down, stores and personal belongings being lowered to the orlop deck, helped to muffle the occasional sound of distant thunder.

Lieutenant Meheux touched his hat and reported, 'Cleared for action, sir.'

Dunstan nodded and again recalled Bolitho. 'Ten minutes this time. They take fairly to their work.' But the mood eluded him and he smiled. 'Well done, Josh!'

The sails billowed out loudly, like giants puffing their chests. The deck canted over and Dunstan said, 'Bring her up a point! Steer nor'-nor'-west!'

He saw Meheux clipping on his hanger and said, 'The people are feeling this.' He looked at the crouching gun crews, the ship's boys with their buckets of sand, the others at the braces or with their fingers gripping the ratlines, ready to dash aloft when the order was piped to make more sail.

Dunstan made up his mind. 'Load if you please, I —'

There was a great chorus of shouts and Dunstan stared as the mist lifted and swirled to one violent explosion.

He said sharply, 'Load, Mr Meheux! Keep their minds in your grasp!'

Each gun captain faced aft and raised his fist.

'All loaded, sir!'

They looked aloft as the mist faded more swiftly and laid bare the rippling ensign above the gaff.

Dunstan plucked his chin. 'We are ready this time anyway.'

All eyes turned forward as the mist lost its greyness. Something like a fireball exploded through it, the sound going on and on until eventually lost in the beat of canvas, the sluice of water alongside.

'Ship on the starboard bow, sir!'

Dunstan snatched a glass. 'Get aloft, Josh. I need your eyes up there today.'

As the first lieutenant swarmed up the mainmast shrouds a warning cry came from the forecastle.

'Wreckage ahead!'

The master's mate of the watch threw his weight onto the wheel with that of the two helmsmen but Dunstan yelled, 'Belay that! Steady as you go!' He made himself walk to the side as what appeared to be a giant tusk loomed off the bow. It was always best to meet it head on, he thought grimly. Phaedra did not have the timbers of a liner, nor even a frigate. That great pitching spar might have crashed right through the lower hull like a ram.

He watched the severed mast pass down the side, torn shrouds and blackened canvas trailing behind it like foul weed. There were corpses too. Men trapped by the rigging, their faces staring through the lapping water, or their blood surrounding them like pink mist.

Dunstan heard a boatswain's mate bite back a sob as he stared at one of the bobbing corpses. It wore the same blue jacket with white piping as himself.

There was no more doubt as to who had lost the fight.

Some of the small waves crumpled over as the rising wind felt its way across the surface.

Dunstan watched the mist drawing clear, further and further, leaving the sea empty once again. He stiffened as more shouts came from forward.

Something long and dark which barely rose above the uneasy water. There was much weed on it. One of the vessels which should have been released for a much needed overhaul. Surrounded by giant bubbles and a great litter of flotsam and charred remains, it was a ship's keel.

Dunstan said, 'Up another point. Hands aloft, Mr Faulkner! As fast as you like!'

High above it all, Lieutenant Meheux clung to the main crosstrees beside the lookout and watched the mist rolling away before him. He saw the other ship's topgallant masts and braced yards, and then as the mist continued to outpace the thrust of the sails, the forepart of the hull and her gilded figurehead.

He slid down a backstay and reached Dunstan in seconds.

Dunstan nodded very slowly. 'We both remember that ship, Josh. She's Consort — in hell's name I'd know her anywhere!'

He raised his telescope and studied the other vessel as more sails broke to the wind, and her shining hull seemed to shorten while she leaned over on a fresh tack. Towards Phaedra.

The midshipman was pointing wildly. 'Sir! There are men in the water!' He was almost weeping. 'Our people!'

Dunstan moved the glass until he saw the thrashing figures, some clinging to pieces of timber, others trying to hold their comrades afloat.

Dunstan climbed into the shrouds and twisted his leg around the tarred cordage to hold himself steady.

The masthead lookout yelled, 'Ships to the nor'-east!'

But Dunstan had already seen them. With the mist gone, the horizon was sharp and bright; it reminded him of a naked sword.

Someone was shouting, 'It'll be th' squadron! Come on, lads! Kill them buggers!'

Others started to cheer, their voices broken as they watched the survivors from La Mouette. Men like themselves. The same dialects, the same uniforms.

Dunstan watched the ships on the horizon until his eye ached. He had seen the red and yellow barricades around their fighting-tops in the powerful lens, something the lookout had not yet recognised.

He lowered the glass and looked sadly at the midshipman. 'We must leave those poor devils to die, Mr Valliant.' He ignored the boy's horrified face. 'Josh, we will come about and make all haste to find Sir Richard.'

Meheux waited, dazed by the swiftness of disaster.

His captain gestured towards the horizon. The Dons are coming. A whole bloody squadron of them.'

The air cringed as a shot echoed across the sea. The frigate had fired a ranging ball from one of her bow chasers. The next one —

Dunstan cupped his hands. 'Hands aloft! Man the braces! Stand by to come about!' He bit his lip as another ball slammed down and threw up a waterspout as high as the topsail yard. Men ran to obey, and as the yards swung round Phaedra's lee bulwark appeared to dip beneath the water.

Another shot pursued her as the frigate made more sail, her yards alive with men.

Meheux was waving to his topmen with the speaking trumpet. He shouted breathlessly, 'If they reach our squadron before we can warn them —'

Dunstan folded his arms and waited for the next fall of shot. Any one of those nine pounders could cripple his command, slow her down until she reeled beneath a full broadside as Sinclair had done.

'I think it will be more than a squadron at stake, Josh.'

A ball crashed through the taffrail and seared across the deck like a furnace bar. Two men fell dead, without even uttering a cry. Dunstan watched as two others took their place.

'Run, my beauty, run!' He looked up at the hardening sails, the masts curving like coachmen's whips.

'Just this once, you are the most important ship in the fleet!'

 

 

 

 

Captain Valentine Keen walked up the slanting deck and hunched his shoulders against the wind. How quickly the Mediterranean could change her face at this time of year, he thought. The sky was hidden by deep-bellied clouds, and the sea was no longer like blue silk.

He stared at the murky horizon, at the endless serried ranks of short, steep white horses. It looked hostile and without warmth. There had been some heavy rain in the night and every available man had been roused on deck to gather it in canvas scoops, even in humble buckets. A full glass, washed down with a tot of rum for all hands, seemed to have raised their spirits.

The deck heaved over again, for Hyperion was butting as close to the wind as she dared, her reefed topsails glinting with spray as she held station on the other ships astern.

For as Isaac Penhaligon, the master, had commented, with the wind veered again to the nor'-east, it was hard enough to dawdle until Herrick's ships joined them, without the additional problem of clawing into the wind, watch in and watch out. For if they were driven too far to the west, they would find it almost impossible to steer for Toulon should the enemy try to re-enter that harbour.

Keen pictured the chart in his mind. They were already at that point right now, another cross, a new set of bearings and the noon sights. With such poor visibility they could be miles off their estimated course.

Keen walked to the quarterdeck rail and stared along the maindeck. As usual it was busy despite the weather. Trigge the sailmaker with his assistants, squatting on the deck, their needles and palms moving intricately like parts of a mill as they repaired heavy-weather canvas brought up from below.

Trigge was experienced enough to know that if they entered the Atlantic in search of the enemy, every spare sail would be needed.

Sheargold the purser, his unsmiling features set in a permanently suspicious frown, was watching as some casks of salt-beef were hoisted through another hatch. Keen did not envy anyone in that trade. Sheargold had to plan for every league sailed, each delay or sudden change of orders which might send the ship in an opposite direction without time to restock his provisions.

Hardly anybody ever felt grateful to Sheargold. It was generally believed between decks that most pursers retired rich, having won their fortunes by scrimping on the sailors' meagre rations.

Major Adams was up forward, standing at an angle on the tilting deck while he studied a squad of marines being put through their paces. How bright the the scarlet coats and white cross belts looked in the dull light, Keen thought.

He heard the boatswain, Sam Lintott, discussing the new cutter with one of his mates. The latter was the villainous-looking one named Dacie. Keen had been told of his part in the cutting-out of the Spanish treasure-ship. He could believe all that he had heard. With his eye patch, and crooked shoulder, Dacie would frighten anybody.

Lieutenant Parris approached the rail and touched his hat.

'Permission to exercise the quarterdeck guns this afternoon, sir?'

Keen nodded. 'They will not thank you, Mr Parris, but I think it a good idea.'

Parris looked out to sea. 'Shall we meet the French, sir?' Keen glanced at him. Outwardly easy and forthcoming with the sailors, there was something else within the man, something he was grappling with, even in casual conversation. Getting his command? Keen did not know why he had lost it in the first place. He had heard about Haven's animosity towards him. Maybe there had been another superior officer with whom he had crossed swords.

He replied, 'Sir Richard is torn between the need to watch the approaches to Toulon, and the strong possibility we will be called to support the fleet.' He thought of Bolitho in the cabin, dictating letters to Yovell or his clerk, telling young Jenour what might be expected of him if they met with the enemy. Keen had already discussed the possibility with Bolitho.

Bolitho had seemed preoccupied. 'I do not have the time to call all my captains aboard. I must pray that they know me well enough to respond when I so order.'

I do not have the time. It was uncanny. Bolitho seemed to accept it, as if a battle was inevitable.

Parris said, 'I wonder if we shall see Viscount Somervell again.' Keen stared at him. 'Why should that concern you?' He softened his tone and added, 'I would think he is better off away from us.'

Parris nodded. 'Yes, I — I'm sorry I mentioned it, sir.' He saw the doubt in Keen's eyes. 'It is nothing to do with Sir Richard's involvement.'

Keen looked away. 'I should hope not.' He was angry at Parris's interest. More so with himself for his instant rush of protectiveness. Involvement. What everybody was probably calling it.

Keen walked to the weather side and tried to empty his mind. He took a telescope from the midshipman-of-the-watch and steadied it on the ships astern.

The three seventy-fours were somehow managing to hold their positions. The fourth, Merrye's Capricious, was almost invisible in spray and blown spume. She was far astern of the others, while work was continued to replace the main topgallant mast which had carried away in a sudden squall before they could shorten sail.

He smiled. A captain's responsibility never ceased. The man who was seen by others as a kind of god, would nevertheless pace his cabin and fret about everything.

A lookout yelled, 'Deck there! Tybalt is signallin'!'

Keen looked at the midshipman. 'Up you go, Mr Furnival. Tybalt must have news for us.'

Later, Keen went down to the cabin and reported to Bolitho.

'Tybalt has the rest of the squadron in sight to the east'rd, Sir Richard.'

Bolitho glanced across his scattered papers and smiled. He looked and sounded tired.

That is something, Val.' He gestured to a chair. 'I would ask you to join us, but you will need to be on deck until the ships are closer.'

As he left, Sir Piers Blachford said, 'A good man. I like him.' He was half-lying in one of Bolitho's chair. The heron at rest.

Yovell gathered up his letters and the notes he would add to his various copies.

Ozzard entered to collect the empty coffee cups, while Allday, standing just inside the adjoining door, was slowly polishing the magnificent presentation sword. Bolitho's gift from the people of Falmouth for his achievements in this same sea and the events which had led up to the Battle of the Nile.

Bolitho glanced up. 'Thank you, Ozzard.'

Blachford slapped one bony fist into his palm.

'Of course. I remember now. Ozzard is an unusual name, is it not?'

Allday's polishing cloth had stilled on the blade.

Blachford nodded, remembering. 'Your secretary and all the letters he has to copy must have brought it back to me. My people once used the services of a scrivener down by the London docks. Unusual.'

Bolitho looked at the letter which he might complete when the others had left him. He would share his feelings with Catherine. Tell her of his uncertainty about what lay ahead. It was like speaking with her. Like the moments when they had lain together, and she had encouraged him to talk, had shared those parts of his life which were still a mystery to her.

He replied, 'I've never asked him about it.'

But Blachford had not heard. 'I don't know how I could have forgotten it. I was directly involved. There was the most dastardly murder done, almost opposite the scrivener's shop. How could one forget that?'

There was a crash of breaking crockery from the pantry and Bolitho half-rose from his chair.

But Allday said quickly, 'I'll go. He must have fallen over.'

Blachford picked up a book he had been reading and remarked, 'Not surprised in this sickening motion.'

Bolitho watched him, but there was nothing on his pointed face to suggest anything other than passing interest.

Bolitho had seen Allday's expression, had almost heard his unspoken warning.

Coincidence? There had been too many of those. Bolitho examined his feelings. Do I want to know more?

He stood up. 'I am going to take my walk.'

He could feel Blachford's eyes following him as he left the cabin.

 

It was not until the next day that Herrick's three ships were close enough to exchange signals.

Bolitho watched the flags soaring aloft, Jenour's unusual sharpness with the signals midshipmen, as if he understood the mood which was gripping his vice-admiral.

Bolitho held on to a stay and studied the new arrivals, the way they and his own seventy-fours lay about haphazardly under reduced canvas, as if they and not their captains were awaiting instructions.

The weather had not improved, and overnight had built the sea into a parade of steep swells. Bolitho covered his damaged eye with one hand. His skin was wet and hot, indeed like the fever which had brought him and Catherine together.

Keen crossed the slippery planking and stood beside him, his telescope tilted beneath his arm to keep the lens free of salt spray.

The wind holds steady from the nor'-east, Sir Richard.'

'I know.' Bolitho tried not to listen to the clank of pumps. The old ship was working badly, and the pumps had continued all through the night watches. Thank God Keen knew his profession and the extent of his complete authority. Haven would have been flogging his luckless sailors by now, he thought bitterly. Hardly an hour had passed without the hands being piped aloft to make or shorten sail. Manning the pumps, lashing loose gear in the uncomfortable motion — it took patience as well as discipline to keep men from flying at each other's throats. The officers were not immune to it. Tempers flared out of all proportion if a lieutenant was just minutes late relieving his opposite number; he had heard Keen telling one of them to try and act up to the coat he wore. It was not easy for any of them.

Bolitho said, 'If it gets any worse we'll not be able to put down. any boats.' He studied his scattered ships. Waiting for his lead. He saw Benbow swaying steeply as she hove-to, her sails billowing and cracking, shining in the filtered glare like buckled breastplates.

Herrick was coming to see him. Face-to-face. It was typical of him.

Herrick's barge had to make three attempts before the bowman could hook on to the main chains.

In the cabin the sounds faded, and only the sloping horizon, blurred by the thick glass of the stern windows, appeared to be swaying, as if to tip the weatherbeaten ships into a void.

Herrick got straight to the point.

'I wish to know what you intend.' He shook his head as Ozzard hovered nearby with a tray in his hand. 'No, but thank you.' To Bolitho he added, 'I'd not want to be marooned here, away from my flagship.' He glanced at the spray running down the glass. 'I don't like this at all.'

Bolitho said, 'No sign of La Mouette, Thomas?' He saw Herrick shake his head. 'I sent Phaedra to hunt for her.'

Herrick leaned forward in his chair. 'Captain Sinclair knows what he is about. He will find the squadron.'

Bolitho said, 'I will use every vessel which can scout for us. It was not a criticism.'

Herrick settled back again. 'I think we should stand towards Toulon. Then we shall know, one way or the other.'

Bolitho rested his hands on the table. He could feel the whole ship shivering through it, the rudder jerking against helm and wind.

'If the enemy intend to re-enter the Mediterranean, Thomas, we could lose them just as easily as Nelson lost contact when they ran to the west.' He made up his mind. 'I intend to head for Gibraltar. If we still have no news we shall proceed through the Strait and join the fleet. I see no other choice.'

Herrick eyed him stubbornly. 'Or we can stay here and wait. No one can blame us. We shall certainly be damned if we miss the enemy when they break through to Toulon.'

'I would blame myself, Thomas. My head tells me one thing, instinct directs me otherwise.'

Herrick cocked his head to listen to the pumps. 'Is it that bad?'

'She will stand more of it.'

'I sent Absolute into harbour because she was too rotten.'

Bolitho retorted, 'I could use her too, rotten or not.'

Herrick stood up and walked to the stern windows. 'I should leave. I mean no disrespect, but my barge will have a hard pull as it is.'

Bolitho faced him. 'Listen to me, Thomas. I don't care what you think about my private life, for private it is not apparently. I need your support, for fight we shall.' He clapped his hand to his heart. 'I know it.'

Herrick watched him as if seeking a trap. "As your second-in-command I will be ready if we are called to battle. But I still believe you are misguided.'

Bolitho said despairingly, 'You are not listening, man! I am not commanding you, I am asking for your help!' He saw Herrick's astonishment as he exclaimed, 'In God's name, Thomas, must I plead? I am going blind, or did that piece of gossip rouse no interest amongst you?'

Herrick gasped, 'I had no idea —'

Bolitho looked away and shrugged. 'I will trouble you to keep it to yourself.' He swung round, his voice harsh. 'But if I fall, you must lead these men, you will make them perform miracles if need be — are you listening now?'

There was a tap at the door, and Bolitho shouted, 'Yes?' His anguish tore the word from his throat.

Keen entered and glanced between them. 'Signal from Phaedra, sir, repeated by Tybalt.'

Herrick asked quickly, 'What of La Mouette?

Keen was looking only at Bolitho. He guessed what had happened, and wanted to share it with him.

He answered abruptly, 'She is down.'

Bolitho met his gaze, grateful for the interruption. He had almost broken that time.

'News, Val?'

'There is an enemy squadron on the move, Sir Richard. Heading west.'

Herrick asked, 'How many?'

Still Keen avoided his eyes. 'Phaedra has not yet reported. She is damaged after a stern-chase.' He took a step towards him, then let his arms fall to his sides. 'They are Spanish, Sir Richard. Sail of the line, that we do know.'

Bolitho ran his fingers through his hair and asked, 'How many ships does Nelson have?'

Keen looked at him, and then his eyes cleared with understanding.

'It was last reported as two dozen of the line, Sir Richard. The French and their Spanish ally are said to have over thirty, which will include some of the largest first-rates afloat.'

Bolitho listened to the moan of the wind. Divide and conquer. How well Villeneuve had planned it. And now with this new formation of ships, discovered only accidentally by Phaedra, Nelson's fleet would be overwhelmed and hopelessly outnumbered.

He said simply, 'If they slip through the Strait we may never catch them in time.' He looked at Keen. 'Signal Phaedra to close on the Flag.' He caught his arm as he made to leave. 'When that brave little ship draws close enough, spell out well done.'

When Keen left Herrick said with sudden determination, 'I am ready. Tell me what to do."

Bolitho stared through the stained windows. 'Minimum signals, Thomas. As we discussed.'

'But your eyesight?' Herrick sounded wretched.

'Oh no, not any more, Thomas. Little Phaedra has lifted my blindness. But hear me. If my flag comes down, Benbow will take the van.'

Herrick nodded. 'Understood.'

Bolitho said, 'So hold back your conscience, my friend, and together we may yet win the day!'

He turned to look at the breaking wave-crests, and did not move until he heard the door shut.

 

Bolitho put his signature to his final letter and stared at it for several minutes.

The swell was as steep as before, but the wind had lessened, so that the hull seemed to rise and fall with a kind of ponderous majesty. He glanced at the quarter windows as a pale shaft of sunlight penetrated the sea-mist and showed up the salt stains on the glass like ice-rime. He hoped the sun would break through completely before the day ended. The air was heavy with damp; hammocks, clothing, everything.

He reread the last of the letter which Phaedra would carry to the fleet. He tried to picture Nelson eventually reading it, understanding as a sailor, better than any other, what Bolitho's ships and men were trying to do.

He had finished with, 'And I thank you, my lord, for offering my nephew, who is most dear to me, the same inspiration you have given to the whole fleet.'

He pushed it aside for Yovell to seal and turned the other letter over in his fingers, while he imagined Catherine's dark eyes as she read the words, his declaration of love which now can never die. There would be many letters going in Phaedra. What would Herrick say to his Dulcie, he wondered? Their parting yesterday had left a bad taste. Once, such a thing would have seemed impossible. Maybe people did change, and he was the one who was mistaken.

Keen would have written to his Zenoria. It was a great comfort that she would be with Catherine. He stood up, suddenly chilled to the marrow despite the damp, humid air. Nothing must happen to Val. Not after what they had shared. The pain and the joy, the fulfilment of a dream which had been snatched from Keen and had left him like half a man. Until Zenoria. The girl with the moonlit eyes; another whose love had been forged from suffering.

Keen looked in. 'Phaedra's captain is come aboard, Sir Richard.'

Bolitho faced the door as Dunstan almost bounded into the cabin.

A young man of tireless energy, and certainly one of the scruffiest captains Bolitho had ever laid eyes on.

'It was good of you to come.' Bolitho held out his hand. 'I believe it was intended we should pass the despatches over by line and tackle.'

Dunstan beamed and looked around the cabin. 'I thought, damn the sea, Sir Richard. I'll go myself.'

Bolitho gestured to the letters. 'I place these in your hands. There is one for Lord Nelson. When you have run him to ground I would wish you to present it to him personally.' He gave a quick smile. 'It seems I am fated not to meet him in person!'

Dunstan took the letter and stared at it as if he expected it to look different from all the others.

Bolitho said, 'I am told that you had some casualties.'

'Aye, Sir Richard. Two killed, another pair cut down by splinters.'

For just a moment Bolitho saw the young man behind the guise of captain. The memory and the risks, the moment of truth when death sings in the air.

Dunstan added, 'I am only sorry I could not linger to estimate the full array of Spanish vessels.' He shrugged. 'But that damn frigate was at my coat-tails, and the mist hid many of the enemy.'

Bolitho did not press him. Keen would have laid all of his findings and calculations alongside his own on Hyperion's charts.

Dunstan said, 'It struck me that war is an odd game, Sir Richard. It was just a small fight by today's standard, but how strange the contestants.'

Bolitho smiled. 'I know. A captured British frigate fighting under Spanish colours against a French prize beneath our own flag!'

Dunstan looked at him squarely. 'I would ask that you send another to seek out Lord Nelson. My place is here with you.'

Bolitho took his arm. 'I need the fleet to know what is happening, and my intention to prevent these ships of yours from joining with Villeneuve. It is vital. In any case I can spare nobody else.' He shook his arms gently. 'Phaedra has done enough. For me, and for us all. Remember that well and tell your people.'

Dunstan nodded, his eyes searching Bolitho's face as if he wanted to remember the moment.

He said, 'Then I shall leave, Sir Richard.' Impetuously he thrust out his hand. 'God be with you.'

For a long while afterwards Bolitho stood alone in the cabin, watching the sloop-of-war as she went about, her gunports awash as she took the wind into her courses and topsails.

He heard distant cheers, from Phaedra or the other ships he could not tell.

He sat down and massaged his eye, hating its deception.

Allday clumped into the cabin and regarded him dubiously.

'She's gone then, Sir Richard?'

'Aye.' Bolitho knew he must go on deck. The squadron was waiting. They must assume their proper formation long before dusk. He thought of his captains. How would they react? Perhaps they doubted his ability, or shared Herrick's opposition to his intentions.

Allday asked, 'So, it's important?'

'It could well be, old friend.' Bolitho looked at him fondly. 'If we head them off, they must fight. If they have already outrun us then we shall give chase.'

Allday nodded, his eyes faraway. 'Nothin' new then.'

Bolitho grinned, the tension slipping away like soft sand in a glass.

'No, nothing new! My God, Allday, they could do with you in Parliament!'

By the next morning the weather had changed yet again. The wind had veered and stood directly from the east. That at least put paid to any hope of beating back to Toulon.

The squadron, lying comfortably on the starboard tack, headed north-west with the Balearic Islands lying somewhere beyond the starboard bow.

Sixth in the line leading his own ships, Rear-Admiral Herrick had been up since dawn, unable to sleep, and unwilling to share his doubts with Captain Gossage.

He stood in one corner of Benbow's broad quarterdeck and watched the ships ahead. They made a fine sight beneath an almost clear sky, broken only by fleecy patches of cloud. His face softened as he remembered his mother, in the little house where he had been born in Kent.

Watch the big sheep, Tommy! She had always said that.

Herrick looked around at the busy seamen, the first lieutenant in a close conversation with several warrant officers about today's work.

What would that dear, tired old lady think of her Tommy now?

Captain Gossage crossed the deck, his hat tilted at the jaunty angle which he seemed to favour.

Herrick did not wish to pass the time in idle conversation. Each turn of the log was taking his ships further westward. He felt uneasy, as if he had suddenly been stripped of his authority. He shaded his eyes to peer across the starboard nettings. Their one remaining frigate was far away from the squadron. Tybalt would be the first to sight any enemy shipping. He bit his lip until it hurt. If the enemy had not already slipped past them. Slamming a door after the horse had bolted.

Gossage remarked, 'I suppose that Phaedra's captain was not mistaken, sir?'

Herrick glared. 'Well, somebody sunk La Mouette, he did not imagine that!'

Gossage grunted. 'Had we been relieved from the Maltese station we would have been at Gibraltar anyway, sir. Then our ships would have had the honour —'

Herrick snapped, 'Honour be damned! Sir Richard Bolitho is not the kind of man to seize glory for himself!'

Gossage raised his eyebrows, 'Oh, I see, sir.'

Herrick turned away, quietly fuming. No, you don't. Try as he might he could not tear his thoughts from the twenty-odd years that he had known Bolitho.

All the battles, some hard-won, others surprisingly kind to them. Bad wounds, old friends lost or maimed, sea-passages and landfalls when at times they had wondered if they might ever walk ashore again. Now it had gone rotten, thrown away because of —

Gossage tried again. 'My wife wrote to me and says that there is talk of Sir Richard being relieved.'

Herrick stared at him. Dulcie had said nothing of the kind.

'When?'

Gossage smiled. He had caught his admiral's attention at last.

'Next year, sir. The fleet will be reformed, the squadrons allocated differently. In this article she read —'

Herrick gave a cold grin. 'Bloody rubbish, man! Sir Richard and I have been hearing the bleats of shorebound experts all our lives. God damn it, the day we —'

The masthead yelled, 'Deck there! Signal from Flag!'

A dozen telescopes rose as one and the signals midshipman called, 'General, sir! Have Tybalt in sight to the north!'

Gossage hissed to the officer-of-the-watch, 'Why in hell's name did they sight her first?'

Herrick smiled wryly. 'Acknowledge it.' To the first lieutenant he called, 'Send a good master's mate aloft, Mr O'Shea!'

The lieutenant turned as if to confirm the order with Gossage but Herrick snapped, 'Just do it!'

He moved away, his hands grasped behind his back. He had never got used to flag rank, nor had he expected it, no matter what flattering things Dulcie had said about the matter.

He knew he was being petty but he felt better for it. At heart he would always remain a captain and not leave it to others to carry out his plans.

All down the line of eight ships, the air would be buzzing with speculation. Herrick thought of the missing third-rate Absolute. He had done the right thing. One great gale like the last one, and that poor, rotten ship would surely have foundered.

Bolitho's refusal to accept his action still rankled deeply. He took his own telescope, the latest and most expensive one which Dulcie could find, and trained it on the ships astern. In perfect formation, their masthead pendants licking out like serpents' tongues, the sunlight glistening on the checkered patterns of gunports.

The new voice hailed from the masthead. 'Tybalt in sight, sir!'

Herrick climbed up the starboard poop ladder and levelled his beautiful telescope. He could just make out the frigate's top-gallant sails, like the fleecy clouds, pink-edged and delicate against the hard horizon. The edge of the sea, he thought. Deep, dark blue. Still no sign of rain. Perhaps Bolitho would decide after all to send some of the ships to seek fresh water.

He saw the tiny pin-pricks of colour rise against the frigate's pyramid of sails. Herrick blinked his eyes. His vision was not as good as it had been, although he would never admit it. He thought of Bolitho's expression, the anguish when he had revealed to him about his damaged eyesight.

It troubled Herrick for several reasons, not the least being that he had failed Bolitho when he had most needed him.

Herrick's flag lieutenant, a willowy young man called De Broux, called, 'From Tybalt, sir!'

Herrick waited impatiently. He had never really liked his flag lieutenant. He was soft. Even had a Frenchie-sounding name.

Unaware of Herrick's distaste De Broux said, 'Strange sail bearing north-east!'

Several of the officers nearby chuckled amongst themselves and Herrick felt his face smart with anger, and embarrassment too for Bolitho.

Gossage said cheerfully, 'A strange sail, eh? Damn my eyes if I don't think that our eight liners can't take care of it, what?' He turned to his officers. 'We can leave Tybalt outside to act as umpire!'

Herrick said harshly, 'Hold your damn noise!' He spoke to the lieutenants. It was meant for Gossage.

'From Flag, sir. General. Make more sail.'

Herrick watched the acknowledgement dashing aloft.

Gossage, sulking slightly, called, 'Hands aloft, Mr O'Shea! Shake out all reefs!' His tone suggested it was merely to cover Bolitho's confusion.

Herrick raised the telescope and climbed up two more steps.

She had been so proud when she had bought it for him, from one of the best instrument makers in London's Strand. His heart sank. She had gone there with Belinda.

De Broux shouted suddenly, 'Tybalt to Flag, sir!' For once he seemed unsure of himself. Then he stammered, 'Estimate twelve sail-of-the-line!'

Herrick climbed down to the quarterdeck again. He was uncertain how he felt. Resigned, or stunned by the last signal.

Gossage was staring at him, and made to speak as De Broux called desperately, 'General signal, sir. Prepare for battle!'

Herrick met Gossage's disbelief with something close to complete calm. To feel that way under such circumstances was almost unnerving.

Herrick asked coolly, 'Well, Captain Gossage, how do the odds appeal to you now?'

 

 

 

 

Bolitho held out his arms and tried to contain his impatience as Ozzard nimbly buttoned his white waistcoat. After all the shortages it felt strange to be dressed from head to toe in clean clothing. Over Ozzard's shoulder he watched Keen, who was standing just inside the cabin so that he could still hear the shouted commands and replies from the quarterdeck.

Hyperion had not yet cleared for action; he would leave it to Herrick and the individual captains to do it when they were ready, and in their own time.

Hyperion's company were snatching a last hasty meal, although how the average sailor managed to eat anything before a fight was beyond Bolitho.

Keen said, 'If the Dons continue that approach, Sir Richard, neither of us will hold the wind-gage. It would seem that the enemy is on a converging tack.' His eyes were clouded with concentration as he tried to picture the distant ships. A day later and the enemy would have slipped past them to close with the coast of Spain before a final dash through the Strait.

Bolitho said, 'I must take the wind-gage from them. Otherwise, ship-to-ship they will swamp us.' He could feel Keen watching him as the plan formed itself so that they could both see it. As if it was here and now. 'We shall hold our forces together until the last moment. I intend to alter course to starboard and form two columns. Herrick knows what to do. His will be the shorter line, but no matter. Once battle is joined we may throw the Dons into confusion.' He allowed Ozzard to offer him his coat and hat.

Keen said, 'I must protest, Sir Richard.' He looked at the gold lace, the Nile medal which Bolitho would hang about his neck. 'I know your custom. I have shared this suspense too many times to forget.'

Allday entered by the other door and reached up for the old sword. Over his shoulder he remarked, 'You're wastin' your time, with all respect, Cap'n Keen.'

Keen and Allday looked at one another. Allday recalled better than any how he had seen Bolitho on board the embattled Phalarope at the Saintes. In his best uniform, a ripe target for any sharp-eyed marksman, so that the people should see him. Oh yes, Allday knew it was impossible to talk him out of it.

Bolitho slipped his arms into the coat and waited for Ozzard to stand on tip-toe to adjust the bright epaulettes with the twin silver stars.

This will not be a battle to test each other's mettle, Val. We must not even consider losing it. It is vital; you accept that now.'

Keen smiled sadly. 'I know it.'

There was a muffled hail from the masthead, and a lieutenant came running from the quarterdeck.

He stared at Bolitho and then said, 'The first lieutenant's respects, sir.' He tore his eyes from his vice-admiral and faced Keen. 'The mainmast lookout has just reported the enemy in sight. Steering south-west.'

Keen glanced at Bolitho, who nodded, then said, 'General signal. Enemy in sight.'

As the lieutenant hurried away Keen said, 'Brief and to the point. As you like it, Sir Richard.'

Bolitho smiled, and beckoned to Ozzard. 'You may clear the cabin. The bosun's party is waiting to carry the bits and pieces to the hold.' He rested his hand on Ozzard's bony shoulder. 'Go with them. No heroics today.' He saw his wistful gaze and added, 'I know not what ails you, but I will deal with it. Remember that, eh?'

As Ozzard made to pick up some small items Bolitho called, 'No! Not that!' He took the fan from Ozzard's hand and looked at it. Remembering.

Keen watched as Bolitho slipped the fan into his coat-pocket.

Bolitho reached for his hat. 'A small thing, I know, Val. But it is all I have of hers.'

Allday followed them from the cabin, then he paused, the old sword over one arm as he stared back at the place he knew so well. Why should this time be any different? The odds were bad, but that was nothing new, and the enemy were Dons. Allday felt he wanted to spit. Even the Frogs were better fighters than them. He took a last glance round, then touched his chest where the Spanish blade had thrust into him.

The cabin was deserted. He turned away, angry with the thought. For it looked as if it would remain empty forever.

On deck Bolitho walked to the centre of the quarterdeck rail and took a telescope from the senior midshipman. He looked at him more closely, then at the other officers and master's mates near the wheel. Everyone appeared to be dressed in his best clothing.

Bolitho smiled at the midshipman. That was nicely done, Mr Furnival.'

He raised the glass and found Tybalt's sails almost immediately. He moved it still further and saw the dark flaws on the horizon, like the rippling edge of some distant tidal wave.

Bolitho returned the glass and looked up at the sky. The pendant was still pointing towards the larboard bow. The wind held steady, but not too strong. He recalled something his father had said. A good wind for a fight. But out here that could easily change, if the mood took it.

Keen stood watching him, his fair hair ruffling beneath the brim of his hat, even though it had been cut in the modern fashion. Bolitho gripped the rail with both hands. Like Adam's. He felt the old wood, hot in the sunshine. So dented and pitted with the years, yet worn smooth by all the hands which had rested here.

He watched Major Adams with his lieutenant, Veales, standing below the quarterdeck. The major was frowning with concentration as he pulled on a fresh pair of white gloves.

Bolitho said, 'It is time.' He saw Keen nod, the lieutenants glance at one another, probably wondering who might still be here when the smoke cleared.

Keen said, 'The wind is firm, Sir Richard. They'll be up to us before noon.'

Penhaligon remarked indifferently, 'Fine day for it anyway.' Bolitho drew Keen to one side. 'I have to say something, Val. We must clear for action directly; after that we shall be divided by our duties. You have come to mean a great deal to me, and I think you must know it.'

Keen answered quietly, 'I understand what you are trying to say, Sir Richard. But it will not happen.'

Bolitho gripped his arm tightly. 'Val, Val, how can we know? It will be a hard fight, maybe the worst we have endured.' He gestured towards the ships astern. 'All these men following like helpless animals, trusting the Flag to carry them through, no matter what hell awaits them.'

Keen replied earnestly, They will be looking to you.'

Bolitho gave a quick smile. 'It makes it less easy to bear. And you, Val, what must you be thinking as the Dons draw to an embrace? That but for me you would be at home with your lovely Zenoria.'

Keen waited while Allday stepped up with the sword.

Then he said simply, 'If I never lived beyond this day I have still known true happiness. Nothing can take that away.'

Allday clipped on the old sword and loosened it in its scabbard.

He said gruffly, 'Amen to that, I says, Cap'n.'

Bolitho looked at both of them. 'Very well. Have the marines beat to quarters.' He touched his pocket and felt the fan inside. Her presence. 'You may clear for action, Captain Keen!'

They faced each other, and Keen formally touched his hat. He smiled, but it did not reach his eyes. 'So be it.'

The stark rattle of drums, the rush of feet from every hatch and along both gangways made further speech impossible. Bolitho watched the gun crews throwing themselves around their charges, topmen swarming aloft to rig the slings and nets, ready to whip or splice their repairs even in the carnage of a broadside.

Jenour appeared on deck, his hat tugged well down on his forehead, the beautiful sword slapping against his hip. He looked stern, and somehow older.

As the ship fell silent once more, Parris strode aft and faced up to the captain. He wore a pair of fine hessian boots.

'Cleared for action, sir. Galley fire doused. Pumps manned.'

Keen did not take out his watch but said, 'Nine minutes, Mr Parris. The best yet.'

Bolitho smiled. Whether it was true or not, those who had heard Keen's praise would pass it on to each deck. It was little enough. But it all helped.

Keen came aft. 'Ready, Sir Richard.'

Bolitho saw him hesitate and asked, 'What is it, Val?'

'I was wondering, Sir Richard. Could we have the fifers strike up' Like we did in Tempest?'

Bolitho looked at the sea, the memory linking them once again. 'Aye, make it so.'

And as the old Hyperion leaned over to the same starboard tack, and while the edge of the horizon broke into more silhouettes and mastheads, the Royal Marine fifers struck up a lively march. Accompanied by the drums from the poop, and the seamen's bare feet stamping on the sanded planking, they strode up and down as if they were on parade at their barracks.

Bolitho met Keen's glance and nodded. Portsmouth Lass. It was even the same tune.

 

Bolitho raised his telescope and slowly examined the Spanish line from end to end. The two rearmost ships were well out of formation, and Bolitho suspected that the very end vessel was standing away so that the other one could complete some repairs as Olympus had done.

He shifted his gaze to the solitary frigate. It was easy to see why La Mouette's captain had been deceived. It took much more than a foreign ensign to disguise an English-built frigate.

He knew that Consort had been launched on the Medway, near Herrick's home. Would he be thinking of that now, he wondered⁵

Twelve sail-of-the-line. The flagship in the van had already been identified by Parris, who had met with her before. She was the ninety-gun San Mateo, flagship of Almirante Don Alberto Casares, who had commanded the Spanish squadrons at Havana.

Casares would know all about Hyperion's part in the attack on Puerto Cabello. Some of these very ships had probably been intended to escort the treasure galleons to Spain.

Bolitho watched the Intrépido. At least the two squadrons had something in common, two frigates between them.

He heard Parris saying to the signals midshipmen, 'It will be a while yet.'

Bolitho glanced at the two youths, who could barely drag their eyes from the enemy. How much worse for anyone who had never faced a line of battle, he thought. It could take hours to draw together. At the Saintes it had taken all day. First the few mastheads topping the horizon, then they had risen and grown until the sea's face had seemed to be covered.

A lieutenant who had written home after the Saintes had described the French fleet as 'rising above the horizon, like the armoured knights at Agincourt'. It had been a fair description.

Bolitho walked forward to the rail and looked along the maindeck. The men were ready; the gun captains had selected the best-fashioned balls and grape for the first, double-shotted broadside. This time they would need to fight both sides of the ship at once, so there would be no extra hands to spare. They had to break through the line — after that, it was every ship for herself.

The Royal Marines were in the fighting tops, the best marksmen Major Adams could find, with some others to man the vicious swivels. The bulk of the marines lined the poop, not yet standing to the packed hammock nettings to mark down their targets, but waiting in gently swaying ranks, Sergeant Embree and his corporals talking to each other without appearing to move their mouths.

Penhaligon and his master's mates were near the wheel, with two extra hands at the helm in case of casualties.

Apart from the sea noises and the occasional slap of the great driver sail above the poop, it seemed quiet after the fifers had stopped playing. Bolitho raised his glass yet again and saw a seaman turn from a maindeck eighteen-pounder to watch him.

The enemy flagship was much nearer. He could see the glint of sunlight on swords and fixed bayonets, men swarming up the ratlines of her foremast, others rising from their guns to watch the approaching squadron.

The Spanish admiral might expect his opposite number to fight ship-to-ship. His ninety guns against this old third-rate. Bolitho smiled grimly. It would even be unwise to cross San Mateo's ornate stern in the first stage of the engagement. To be crippled breaking the line would throw the following ships into disorder, and Herrick would be left to attack on his own with just three ships.

Bolitho said, 'Signal Tybalt to take station astern of Olympus. It might add some weight to Herrick's line.' He heard the flags rushing aloft but continued to watch the big Spanish flagship.

Keen must have read his thoughts. 'May I suggest we break the line astern of the third or fourth ship, as it may present itself?'

Bolitho smiled. 'The further away from that beauty the better. Until we have lessened the odds anyway.'

Jenour was standing near the signals party and heard Bolitho's casual comment. Was it all a bluff, or did he really believe he could win against so many? Jenour tried to concentrate on his parents, how he would word his next letter. His mind reeled when he realised that the concept eluded him. Perhaps there would be no more letters. He felt a sudden terror and stared up at the wispy clouds directly above Bolitho's flag at the foremast truck. He was going to be killed.

Midshipman Springett, who was the youngest in the ship, appeared on deck. His station was on the lower gundeck, to relay messages back and forth to the poop. In the bright sunlight he had to blink several times after the gloom of the sealed gundeck.

Bolitho saw the boy turn, watched his expression as he gazed at the enemy ships, seeing them probably for the first time.

For those few moments his uniform and the proud, glinting dirk at his belt meant nothing. He drove his knuckles into his mouth as if to hold back a cry of fear. He was a child again.

Jenour must have seen him, and strode across. 'Mr Springett, isn't it? I could do with you assisting me today.' He gestured to the two signals midshipmen, Furnival, the senior, and Mirrielees, who had red hair and a face covered with freckles. These old men are getting past it, I fear!' The two in question grinned and nudged one another as if it were all a huge joke.

The boy stared at them. Mesmerised. He whispered, 'Thank you, sir.' He held out a paper. 'Mr Mansforth's respects, sir.' He turned and trotted back to the ladder without once looking at the imposing ranks of sails.

Keen said quietly, 'Your flag lieutenant just about saved that lad from bursting into tears.'

Bolitho watched more flags rising and dipping above the San Mateo. To himself he said, 'And it saved Stephen Jenour, I suspect.'

Even across the expanse of glistening swell you could hear the slow rumble of gun trucks, while something like a sigh came from the waiting sailors as shadows painted the San Mateo's tall side. All her larboard battery had been run out. It was like looking into the mouth of every one of them.

Bolitho heard the blare of a trumpet, and pictured the enemy gun crews at their quarters. Eyes peering over the muzzles, the next shots and charges already to hand.

'Hoist Benbow's number.' Bolitho took Keen aside as the flags were swiftly bent on to the halliards. 'I dare not wait too much longer, Val.' They both stared at the converging lines of ships, like one great arrowhead which must soon meet at some invisible westerly point.

There was a dull bang and Bolitho saw a puff of smoke drifting away from San Mateo's side. The ball hit the sea, rebounded and smacked down, flinging a ragged waterspout half a cable clear. A ranging shot? Or was it merely to raise the spirits of the Spanish seamen who had been sharing the same agony of suspense as Hyperion's?

'Benbow's acknowledged, sir!'

Make the signals as few as possible. Bolitho had always believed it a good idea in principle. It was not difficult for an enemy to guess or determine the next move from another's signals. It was likely too that the prize, Intrépido, had been captured with some secret signals still intact.

When poor Captain Price had run his ship aground he could never have visualised any of this.

Bolitho looked at Keen and his first lieutenant. 'We will alter course in succession. Hyperion and Benbow will lead the two divisions.' He saw them nod; Parris was watching his lips as if to read what he had not said.

'It will be as close to the wind as she can lie, so it will reduce our progress.' He saw their understanding. It might also mean that it would give the enemy more time to traverse his guns. Bolitho walked to the starboard side and stood on the truck of a quarterdeck nine-pounder, his hand gripping the bare shoulder of one of its crew.

He could see Benbow's masts beyond the others astern, Herrick's flag rippling out from the mizzen. Benbow was still flying her acknowledgement, just as Hyperion had kept her number hoisted close-up. Like a trumpet signalling a cavalry charge into the jaws of hell. A charge which cannot be halted once it has been urged to attack. Bolitho felt the man's shoulder tense as he turned to stare up at him. Bolitho looked at him. About eighteen. The sort of face you saw around the farms and lanes of Cornwall. But not in times of war.

He said, 'Naylor, am I right?'

The youth grinned while his mates winked at each other. 'Aye, Sir Richard!'

Bolitho kept his eyes on him, thinking of the terrified midshipman, and Jenour, who was more frightened of showing fear than of fear itself.

'Well, Naylor, there is our enemy. What say you?'

Naylor stared at the nearest ships with their trailing banners and curling pendants, some of which almost touched the water. 'I reckon we can take 'em.' He nodded, satisfied. 'We can clear the way for t'others, Sir Richard!'

Some of the gun crews cheered and Bolitho climbed down, afraid that his eye might choose this moment to betray him.

Just an ordinary sailor, who if he survived today, would likely end in another battle before he was a year older.

He thought suddenly of the grand London house, and Belinda's scathing words to him.

He nodded to the bare-backed seaman called Naylor. 'So we shall!' He turned quickly. 'Captain Keen!' Again, time seemed to stop for both of them. Then Bolitho said in a more level tone, 'Alter course three points to starboard, steer nor'-by-west!' He waved to Jenour. 'Now! Execute!'

Every man in Herrick's flagship must have been poised for the moment. For as the flags were hauled down Benbow appeared to swing immediately out of the line, as if she, and she alone, was mounting a solitary attack on the enemy.

Keen watched closely, as pursued by Parris's speaking trumpet the scrambling seamen hauled on the braces, while others freed the big maincourse even as the yards creaked round.

Penhaligon spread his legs while the deck leaned to larboard, as the wind explored the braced sails and thrust the ship over.

Then Keen was at the compass, although Bolitho had not seen him move.

'Meet her! Steady as you go!'

The sails boomed and thundered in protest, and the driver rippled from peak to foot as if it was about to tear apart. She could stand no closer to the wind, and from the Spanish line it must appear as if all her sails were overlapping fore-and-aft.

Bolitho clutched the rail and stared at the enemy. Someone was firing, but the nets rigged above the maindeck gunners, and the huge billowing maincourse hid the flashes.

Bolitho saw Benbow drawing level abeam, barely three cables away. The others astern of her were already following round, with Tybalt tacking wildly to take station as the last of the line.

Keen exclaimed, The Dons are taken aback, by God!'

Bolitho looked at the Spanish flagship. Now she seemed to be heading away from Hyperion's larboard bow, two others still following her as before.

Bolitho shouted, 'Load and run out, Captain Keen!'

The order was repeated to the deck below, and it seemed barely a minute had passed before each gun captain was faced aft, his fist above his head.

'All loaded, sir!'

'Open the ports! Run out!'

Squeaking noisily, the guns were hauled up to their ports. On the lee side the sea appeared to be curling up to the black muzzles as if to drive them inboard again.

Hyperion's deck shivered violently as the nearest enemy ships opened fire. But the two small divisions had taken the Spanish admiral by surprise, and most of his guns could not be brought to bear. Several tall waterspouts shot above the gangways, and Bolitho felt the tell-tale crash of a ball hitting Hyperion's lower hull.

'Brail up the courses!'

Shots whimpered overhead, and the gun crews crouched even lower, their faces running with sweat as each group peered through their open port, waiting for a target.

As the forecourse was brailed up the scene opened on either bow as if a giant curtain had been raised.

Bolitho heard one of the midshipmen gasp with alarm as the stern of the nearest Spaniard appeared from nowhere, or from the depths — her high, ornate gallery, stabbing musket fire from above, and her name, Castor, reflecting the spray beneath her counter.

'Stand by to larboard!' Lovering, the second lieutenant, was striding inboard from the first division of guns. 'As you bear!'

Keen raised his sword, then sliced it down. 'Fire?

The larboard carronade on the forecastle hurled its huge ball into Castor's stern with terrible effect. Bolitho heard the roar of its explosion within the other ship's hull, could imagine the scything horror of the packed grape as it swept through the ship. Cleared for action, any man-of-war was most vulnerable when an enemy was able to cross her stern.

The ship on the other side was looming through the smoke, her guns shooting out vivid orange tongues.

'Fire!'

Bolitho was deafened by the roar of guns as both sides vanished in swirling smoke and charred fragments from the charges. The ship to starboard was already being engaged by Obdurate, and Bolitho could see just her mastheads rising above the dense smoke like lances. He felt the deck jar again and again, Parris yelling, 'On the uproll, lads!' Then the next division fired as one, and Bolitho saw the Castor's mizzen mast topple, suspended momentarily in the rigging and stays before going over the side with a sound like thunder.

'Fire!'

Keen strode across the quarterdeck, his eyes streaming, as the upper battery recoiled singly and in pairs on their tackles, the crews leaping forward with sponges and rammers, ready to tamp home the next ball. To do what they had been taught, to keep on firing no matter what was happening about them.

Jenour coughed in the smoke, then shouted, 'Obdurate is in collision with a Spaniard, Sir Richard!' He winced as a musket ball slammed into the deck nearby and added, 'She requests assistance!'

Bolitho shook his head.

Keen said tersely, 'Inability!'

The flags bearing Keen's curt signal lifted and vanished into a great pall of smoke which came surging inboard as the lower battery roared out to starboard.

Parris shouted, 'We're through, we're through!' He waved his hat wildly. 'Huzza, lads! We've broken the line!'

More sails loomed like giant ghosts astern. Crusader, and Redoubtable, the latter almost colliding with another Spaniard which had either lost her steering or had her helmsmen shot down.

'Stand by to alter course to larboard!' Bolitho tossed his telescope to one of the midshipmen. 'I don't need this now!' He could feel his lips set in a grin.

'Deck there!' Someone up there above the smoke and shrieking iron was keeping his head. 'Benbow's through the line!'

There were more wild cheers and coughs as the larboard battery fired a full broadside through the smoke, some into the Castor's side, while the rest fell on and around the second ship in the enemy column.

'Lay her on the larboard tack, Mr Penhaligon! Afterguard, man the mizzen braces there!' Selected marines put down their muskets and ran to help, while some of their comrades squinted above the hammocks, their weapons cradled to their cheeks, seeking a target.

Bolitho looked up and saw lengths of severed cordage dangling on the protective nets, while above it all there was still the same peaceful sky.

A ball slammed into the larboard side, and crashed amongst the men by one of the forward eighteen-pounders. Bolitho gritted his teeth as two were smashed to bloody ribbons, and another rolled across the deck, his leg held on by a thread of skin.

He tried to concentrate. All his ships must be engaged now. The roar of battle seemed to roll all around, as if vessels were on every hand, masked from each other by their own smoke. Sharper gunfire, like the staccato beat of drums, echoed over the water, as if it were another part of destiny.

Bolitho shouted, 'General signal. Close on the Flag. Reform line of battle!'

How they could work with their flags was a miracle, Bolitho thought.

'All acknowledged, Sir Richard!' Jenour tried to grin. 'I think!'

'No matter!' Bolitho strode to the rail as he saw a Spanish two-decker standing out from the others as she made more sail. Her captain either wished to rejoin his own flagship, or he had increased sail to avoid hitting the crippled Castor. Bolitho pointed, 'There, Val! Engage her!" Keen yelled, 'Stand by to starboard!'

The newcomer seemed to gather speed as the distance fell away, but Bolitho knew it was the illusion made by smoke. He watched the Spaniard changing tack so that she would cross Hyperion's bowsprit; he could see the scarlet and gold banner of Spain, the huge cross on her forecourse. Keen's sword rose in the air. 'As you bear!' The other ship fired almost at the same time. Iron and wooden splinters flew across the maindeck, while overhead the sails flailed and kicked, shot through so many times that some could not hold a cupful of wind. Bolitho wiped his face and saw the other ship's foremast going down in the smoke, rigging and pieces of canvas vanishing into bursting spray alongside.

But he could ignore even that. Hyperion had been badly wounded. He had felt part of the enemy's broadside crash into the lower hull with the weight of a falling cliff.

He made to cross the deck but something held his shoe. He looked down and saw it was the young seaman, Naylor. He was lying against his upended gun, and was trying to speak, his face creased with pain, and the effort to find words.

Keen called, 'Over here, Sir Richard! I think we may —' He stopped, his feet slipping on blood as he saw Bolitho drop to his knee beside the dying seaman.

Bolitho took the youth's hand. The Spaniards must have used extra grape in their broadside. Naylor had lost half of his leg, and there was a hole in his side big enough for a fist.

'Easy, Naylor.' Bolitho held his hand tightly as the deck seemed to leap beneath him. He was needed, probably urgently. Around them the battle raged without let-up. Obeying his instruction. No matter what.

The seaman gasped, 'I — I think I'm dyin', sir!' There were tears in his eyes. He seemed oblivious to his blood, which poured unchecked into the scuppers. It was as if he was puzzled by what was happening. He almost prized his broken body away from the gun, and Bolitho felt a sudden strength in his grip.

The youth asked, 'Why me, sir?' He fell back, blood making a thin line from a corner of his mouth. 'Why me?'

Keen waited while Bolitho released his hand and let it fall to the deck.

Keen said, 'Capricious is in support, Sir Richard! But there is another Don breaking through yonder!' He stared at his own raised arm. There was a strip torn from his sleeve. Yet he had not even felt the ball hiss past.

Bolitho hurried to the side and saw the second ship already overhauling the one which had fired the last broadside.

Bolitho nodded. 'Trying to join her admiral.'

Keen waved his hand. 'Mr Quayle! Pass word to the lower battery! We will engage this one immediately!'

The fourth lieutenant was no longer pouting disdainfully. He was almost beside himself with terror.

Keen turned. 'Mr Furnival!' But the midshipman had fallen too, while his companion stood rigidly beside Jenour, his eyes on the flags where his dead friend lay as if resting from the heat of battle.

Bolitho snapped, 'Get below, Mr Quayle! That is an order!'

Keen dashed the hair from his forehead and realised that his hat had been plucked away. 'God damn,' he said.

'Ready, sir!'

Keen sliced down with his sword. 'Fire!'

Gun by gun the broadside painted the heaving water between the ships in the colours of the rainbow. It was possible to hear Hyperion's weight of iron as it crashed into the other ship's side, smashing down men and guns in a merciless bombardment.

The smoke swirled away in a rising breeze and Keen exclaimed, 'She'll be into us! Her rudder's shot away!'

Bolitho heard a splash and when he turned his head he saw some of the boatswain's party hurrying from the upended gun. Naylor's corpse had gone over the side. There was only blood left to mark where he had fought and died.

Bolitho could still hear his voice. Why me? There were many more who would ask that question.

He saw Allday with a bared cutlass in his fist, watching the oncoming Spaniard with a cold stare.

Parris yelled, 'Stand by to repel boarders!'

Major Adams went bustling forward, as the other ship's tapering jib-boom rose through the smoke and locked into Hyperion's bowsprit with a shudder which made even the gun crews pause at their work.

Keen shouted, 'Continue firing!'

Hyperion's lower battery of thirty-two pounders fired relentlessly across the littered triangle of smoky water. Again, and yet once more, before the enemy's jib-boom shattered to fragments and with a great lurch she began to sidle alongside, until the gun muzzles of both friend and enemy clashed together.

Muskets cracked from the tops and a dozen different directions. Men dropped at their guns, or collapsed as they ran to hack away fallen rigging and blocks.

The swivels barked out from Hyperion's maintop, and Bolitho saw a crowd of Spanish sailors blasted away even as they swung precariously across the boarding nets.

Keen shouted, 'We've lost steerage way, Sir Richard! We'll have to fight free of this one, and I think the other two-decker is snared into her!'

'Clear the lower battery, Val. Seal the ports! I want every spare hand up here!'

They dared not fire into the ship alongside now. They were locked together. It only needed one flaming wad from a gun to turn both ships into an inferno.

The seamen from the lower battery, their half-naked bodies blackened by the trapped smoke, surged up to join Major Adams's men as they charged to meet the attack.

Keen tossed his scabbard aside and tested the balance of his sword in his hand. He stared around in the drifting smoke, picking out his lieutenants amongst the darting figures. 'Where's my bloody coxswain?' Then he gave a quick grin as Tojohns ran to join him, his cutlass held high to avoid the other hurrying seamen.

'Here, sir!' He glanced at Allday. 'Ready when you are, sir!' Keen's eyes settled on Parris by the rail. 'Stay here. Hold the quarterdeck.' Just the flicker of a glance towards Bolitho. It was as if they had clasped hands.

Then he too was up and running along the starboard gangway, as the enemy clambered aboard, or fired down from their own ship. Lieutenant Lovering pointed with his hanger and yelled, 'To the fo'c'stle, lads!' Then he fell, the hanger dangling from his wrist as an unseen marksman found his victim.

Dacie the one-eyed boatswain's mate was already there on the beakhead, swinging a boarding axe with terrible effect, cutting down three of the enemy before some of Adams's marines jumped down to join him, their bayonets licking through the nets, hurling aside the men caught there like flies in a web.

The swivels in the maintop banged out again, and some of Spanish sailors about to join the first boarders were scattered in a deadly hail of canister. Those already aboard Hyperion fell back, one throwing away his cutlass as the marines cornered him on the forecastle, but it was already too late for quarter. Gunsmoke drifted over the deck and when it cleared, there were only corpses as the jubilant marines fought their way across to the other ship's deck.

Jenour stood close beside Bolitho, his sword drawn, his face like one already dead. He shouted, 'Two of the Dons have struck, Sir Richard!'

Despite the clash of steel and the sporadic bang of muskets, there were faint cheers from another ship, and Bolitho imagined he could hear drums and fifes.

He climbed up the poop ladder and rubbed his eyes before peering through the enveloping smoke. He could just make out Obdurate, now completely dismasted and lashed alongside the Spanish two-decker she had collided with. A British ensign flew above the other vessel's deck, and Bolitho guessed it was Captain Thynne's men who were cheering.

Then he saw Benbow, pushing past another crippled Spaniard, pouring a slow broadside into her as she moved by. Masts toppled like felled trees, and Bolitho saw Herrick's flag curling above the smoke, so bright in the mocking sunlight.

He thought wildly, Hyperion had cleared the way, just as Naylor had promised she would.

Allday shouted, 'Here, watch out!'

Bolitho turned and saw a group of Spanish seamen clamber up over the starboard gangway, slashing aside the nets before anyone had noticed them. They must have climbed from the main chains; they could have been creatures from the sea itself.

Bolitho drew his sword, and saw some of Adams's red-coated marines already hacking their way aft on the other ship. These boarders had no chance at all. Their own vessel would have to strike unless the other two-decker could come to her aid. But another broadside hurled smoke and debris high in the air and even on to Hyperion's maindeck, as one of Bolitho's squadron, probably Crusader, raked her from stern to bow.

There was a lieutenant leading the small group, and as he saw Bolitho he brandished his sword and charged to the attack.

Jenour stood his ground, but the Spaniard was a fine swordsman. He parried the blue blade aside as if it was a reed, twisted it with his hilt and sent it flying. He drew back to balance himself for a last thrust, then stared with horror at the boarding pike which lunged up through the quarterdeck ladder. The seaman gave an insane yell, tugged the pike free and drove it into the lieutenant's stomach.

Bolitho faced another Spaniard who was armed only with a heavy cutlass.

Bolitho yelled, 'Surrender, damn you!'

But whether he understood or not the seaman showed no sign of giving in. The wide blade swung in a bright arc and Bolitho stepped aside easily, then almost fell as a shaft of sunlight probed through the smoke haze and touched his injured eye. It was like that other time. Like being struck blind.

He felt himself swaying, the old sword held straight out, pointing uselessly at nothing.

Parris yelled, 'Stop that man!' Bolitho could only guess what was happening, and waited for the searing agony of the cutlass he could not see. Someone was screaming, and occasional yells told Bolitho that more of Keen's men were running to vanquish the last of the attackers,

Allday sliced his blade at an angle, his mind numb as he saw the other man lunging towards Bolitho, who was apparently unable to move. The blade took the man on one side of his head, a glancing blow, but it had Allday's strength and memory behind it. As he pivoted round, squinting into the sudden glare, he saw Allday looming towards him.

Jenour heard the next blow even as he scrabbled in the bloodstained scuppers to retrieve his sword. Parris, who was sobbing with pain from a slash across his wounded shoulder, saw the cutlass hit the Spaniard on the forearm; could only stare as the arm, complete with cutlass, clattered across the deck.

Allday spat, 'An' this is for me, matey!' He silenced the man's scream with one final blow across the neck.

He grasped Bolitho's arm. 'You all right, Sir Richard?'

Bolitho took several deep breaths. His lungs felt as if they were filled with fire; he could barely breathe.

'Yes. Yes, old friend. The sun…' He looked for Jenour. 'You have true courage, Stephen!'

Then he saw Jenour's features change yet again and thought for an instant he had already been wounded. There were wild cheers from the ship snared alongside by a tangle of fallen rigging, but as a freak gust of wind drove the smoke away Bolitho knew the reason for Jenour's stunned look of dismay.

He turned, covering his left eye with his hand, and felt his body cringe.

The Spanish admiral's flagship San Mateo had stayed clear of the close-action, or maybe it had taken her this long to put about. She seemed to shine above her own tall reflection; there was not a scar or a stain on her hull or a shot hole in her elegant sails. She was moving very slowly, and Bolitho's mind recorded that there were many men aloft on her yards. She was preparing to change tack again. Away from the battle.

Bolitho could feel his limbs quivering, as if they would never stop. He heard Parris shout, 'In Christ's name! She's going to fire!'

San Mateo had run out every gun, and at the range of some fifty yards could not miss with any of them, even though two of her own consorts lay directly in the path of her broadside.

Bolitho's mind refused to clear. It was Hyperion they wanted. The defiant ship with his flag still at the fore which had somehow broken their line, and inspired the others to follow. He looked at Allday but he was staring at the enemy flagship, his cutlass hanging loosely from his fist.

Together Even now

Then the flagship fired. The sound was deafening, and as the weight of the broadside smashed into the drifting Hyperion, Bolitho felt the deck rear up as if the ship was sharing their agony.

He was thrown to the side of the quarterdeck, his ears deaf to the thundering roar of falling spars, of men crying and screaming before the torn rigging dragged them over the side like corpses in a huge net.

Bolitho crawled to Midshipman Mirrielees and dragged at his shoulder to turn him on to his back. His eyes were shut tight, and there was moisture like tears beneath the lids. He was dead. He saw Allday crouching on his knees, his mouth wide as he sucked in the air. Their eyes met and Allday tried to grin.

Bolitho felt someone pulling him to his feet, his eyes blinded again by the sunlight as it laid bare the destruction.

Then the smoke drifted lower and hid San Mateo from view.

 

 

 

Sir Piers Blachford steadied himself against the makeshift table while the guns thundered out yet again and shook the whole ship. He wiped his streaming face and said, 'Take this man away. He's dead.'

The surgeon's assistants seized the naked corpse and dragged it away into the shadows of the orlop deck.

Blachford reached up and felt the massive beam by his head. If there was really a hell, he thought, it must surely look like this.

The swinging lanterns which dangled above the table made it worse, if that were possible, casting shadows up the curved sides of the hull one moment, and laying bare the huddled or inert shapes of the wounded who were being brought down to the orlop with hardly a let-up.

He looked at his companion, George Minchin, Hyperion's own surgeon, a coarse-faced man with sprouting grey hair. His eyes were red-rimmed, and not only from fatigue. There was a huge jug of rum beside the table, to help ease the agony or the passing moments of the pitiful wounded who were brought to the table, stripped, then held like victims under torture until the work was done. Minchin seemed to drink more than his share.

Blachford had seen the most terrible wounds. Men without limbs, with their faces and bodies burned, or clawed by flaying splinters. The whole place, which was normally the midshipmen's berth, where they slept, ate and studied their manuals by the dim light of their glims, was filled with suffering. It stank of blood, vomit and pain. Each thundering roar of a broadside, or the sickening crash of enemy balls hitting the ship around them, brought cries and groans from the figures who waited to be attended.

Blachford could only guess what was happening up there, where it was broad daylight. Here on the orlop, no outside light ever penetrated. Below the waterline it was the safest place for this grisly work, but it revolted him none the less.

He gestured to the obscene tubs below the table, partly filled with amputated limbs, a stark warning to those who would be the next to be carried to endure what must be an extension of their agony. Only death seemed like a blessed relief here. 'Take them out!'

He listened to the beat of hammers in the narrow carpenter's walks, which ran around the ship below the waterline. Like tiny corridors between the inner compartments and the outer hull, where the carpenter and his mates repaired shot holes or leaks as the iron smashed again and again into the side.

There was a long drawn out rumbling directly overhead, and Blachford stared at the red-painted timbers as if he expected them to cave in.

A frightened voice called from the shadows. 'What's that, Toby?'

Someone replied, 'They're runnin' in the lower battery, that's what!'

Blachford asked quickly, 'Why would they do that?'

Minchin took a cupful of rum and wiped his mouth with a blood-stained fist.

'Clearing it. We're alongside one o' the buggers. They'll need every spare Jack to fight 'em off!'

He shouted hoarsely, 'Next one, Donovan!'

Then he eyed Blachford with something like contempt. 'Not quite what you're used to, I expect? No fancy operating rooms, with lines of ignorant students hanging on your every word.' He blinked his red-rimmed eyes as smoke eddied through the deck. 'I hope you learn something useful today, Sir Piers. Now you know what we have to suffer in the name of medicine.'

A loblolly boy said, 'This one's an officer, sir.'

Blachford leaned over the table as the lieutenant was stripped of his torn shirt and pressed flat on the table.

It was the second lieutenant, Lovering, who had been shot down by a Spanish marksman.

Blachford studied the terrible wound in his arm. The blood looked black in the swinging lanterns, the skin ragged where the ball had split apart upon hitting the bone.

Lovering stared at him, his eyes glazed with pain. 'Oh God, is it bad?'

Minchin touched his bare shoulder. It felt cold and clammy. 'Sorry, Ralph.' He glanced at Blachford. 'It's got to come off.'

Lovering closed his eyes. 'Please God, not my arm!'

Blachford waited for an assistant to bring his instruments. He had had to order them to to be cleaned again and again. No wonder men died of gangrene. He said gently, 'He's right. For your own sake.'

The lieutenant rolled his head away from the nearest lantern. He was about twenty-two, Blachford thought.

Lovering said in a whisper, 'Why not kill me? I'm done for.'

More crashes shook the hull and several instruments fell to the deck. Blachford stooped to retrieve one of them and stared, sickened, as a rat scurried away into the shadows.

Minchin saw his disgust and set his teeth. Coming here with all his high-and-mighty talk. What did he know about war?

From one corner of his eye he saw the lamplight glint on Blachford's knife.

'Here, Ralph.' He placed a wedge of leather between his jaws before he could protest. 'I'll give you some proper brandy after this.'

A voice yelled through the misty smoke. 'Another officer, sir!'

An assistant held up his lantern and Blachford saw Lieutenant Quayle slipping down against one of the massive umbers, trying to cover his face with his coat.

A seaman protested angrily,'

'E's not even marked!'

Lieutenant Lovering struggled on the table, and but for the assistant holding his uninjured arm, and Minchin's hands on his shoulders, would have fought his way to his feet.

'You bloody bastard! You cowardly —' His voice trailed away as he fell back in a faint on the table.

Blachford glanced again at Quayle; he was gripping his fingers and whimpering like a child.

'Call him what you will, but he's as much a casualty as any of them!'

Minchin replaced the leather wedge between Lovering's jaws. Brutal, callous; they were the marks of his trade. He held Lovering's shoulders and waited for him to feel the first incision of the knife. With luck he might lose consciousness completely before the saw made its first stroke.

Minchin could dismiss what Blachford and others like him thought about the navy's surgeons. He could even ignore Lovering's agony, although he had always liked the young lieutenant.

Instead he concentrated on his daughter in Dover, whom he had not seen for two years.

'Next.' Lovering was carried away; the amputated limb fell into the tub. The wings and limbs tub as most of them called it. Until it was their turn.

Blachford waited for a seaman whose foot had been crushed beneath a careering gun-truck to be laid before him. Around him the loblolly boys and their helpers held the flickering lanterns closer. Blachford looked at his own arms, red to the elbows, like Minchin's and the rest. No wonder they call us butchers.

The man began to scream and plead but sucked greedily on a mug of rum which Minchin finished before laying bare the shattered foot. The hull quivered again, but it felt as if the battle had drawn away. There seemed to be cannon fire from all directions, occasional yells which were like lost spirits as they filtered through the other decks.

Hyperion might have been boarded, Blachford thought, or the enemy could have drawn away to reform. He knew little about sea-warfare other than what he had been told or had read about in the Gazette. Only since his travels around the fleet had he thought about the men who made victories and defeats real, into flesh and blood like his own.

'Next!' It never stopped.

This time a marine ran down a ladder and called, 'We've taken the Don alongside, lads!' He vanished again, and Blachford was amazed that some of the wounded could actually raise a weak cheer. No wonder Bolitho loved these sailors.

He looked down at the young midshipman. A child.

Minchin probed open part of his side where the ribs showed white through the blood.

Blachford said quietly, 'God, he looks so young.'

Minchin stared at him, wanting to hurt him, to make him suffer.

'Well, Mr Springett won't be getting any older, Sir Piers. He's got a fistful of Spanish iron inside him!' He gestured angrily. 'Take him away.'

'How old was he?'

Minchin knew the boy was thirteen, but something else caught his attention. It was the sudden stillness, which even the far-off gunfire could not break. The deck was swaying more slowly, as if the ship was heavier in the water. But the pumps were still going. God, he thought, in this old ship they never seemed to stop.

Blachford saw his intent expression. 'What is it?'

Minchin shook his head. 'Don't know.' He glanced at the dark shapes of the wounded along the side of the orlop. Some already dead, with no one to notice or care. Others waiting, still waiting. But this time…. He said harshly, 'They're all sailors. They know something is wrong.'

Blachford stared at the smoke-filled ladder which mounted to the lower gundeck. It was as if they were the only ones left aboard. He took out his watch and peered at it. Minchin reached down and refilled his cup with rum, right to the brim.

He had seen the fine gold timepiece with the crest engraved on its guard. God rot him!

The roar of the broadside when it came was like nothing Minchin had ever experienced. There must have been many guns, and yet they were linked into one gigantic clap of thunder which exploded against the ship as if the sound, and not the massive weight of metal, was striking into the timbers.

The deck canted right over, shivered violently as it reared against the ship alongside, but the din did not stop. There was an outstanding, splitting crack which seemed to come right through the deck; it was followed immediately by a roar of crashing spars and rigging, and heavy thuds which he guessed were guns being hurled back from their ports.

The wounded were shouting and pleading, some dragging themselves to the ladder, their blood marking the futility of their efforts. Blachford heard the broken spars thudding against the hull, then sudden screams from the carpenter's walk, men clawing their way in darkness as the lanterns were blown apart.

Minchin picked himself up from the deck, his ears still ringing from the explosion. He saw some rats scurrying past the bodies of those who were beyond pain, and shook his head to clear it.

As he brushed past, Blachford called, 'Where are you going?'

'My sickbay. All I own in this bloody world is in there.'

'In Heaven's name, tell me, man!'

Minchin steadied himself as the deck gave another great shudder. The pumps had finally stopped. He said savagely, 'We're going down. But I'm not staying to watch it!'

Blachford stared round. If I survive this… Then he took a grip on his racing thoughts.

'Get these men ready to move on deck.' The assistants nodded, but their eyes were on the ladder. Going down. Their life. Their home, whether from choice or impressment; it could not happen. Shoes clattered on the ladder, and Dacie, the one-eyed boatswain's mate, peered down at them.

'Will you come up, Sir Piers? It's a bloody shambles on deck.'

'What about these wounded?'

Dacie gripped the handrail and wiped his remaining eye. He wanted to run, run, keep on running. But all his life he had been trained to stand fast, to obey.

'I'll pass the word, Sir Piers.' Then he was gone.

Blachford picked up his bag and hurried to the ladder. As he climbed the first steps he felt they were different. At an angle. He sensed the chill of fear for the first time.

He thought of Minchin's anger.

Going down.

 

Lieutenant Stephen Jenour retained his grip on Bolitho's arm even after he had pulled him from the deck. He was almost incoherent in his relief and horror. 'Thank God, oh thank God!'

Bolitho said, 'Take hold, Stephen.' His eyes moved across the quarterdeck and down to the awful spread of destruction. No wonder Jenour was close to a complete breakdown. He had probably imagined himself to be the only one left alive up here.

It was as if the whole ship had been stripped and laid bare, so that no part of her wounds should be hidden. The mizzen mast had gone completely, and the whole of the foretopmast had been severed as if by some gigantic axe, and was pitching alongside with all the other wreckage. Spars, ropes, and men. The latter either floated in the weed of rigging, or floundered about like dying fish.

Jenour gasped, 'The first lieutenant, Sir Richard!' He tried to point, but his body was shaking so violently he almost fell.

Bolitho forgot his own despair as he hurried down a splintered ladder to the maindeck. Guns lay up-ended and abandoned, their crews strewn around them, or crawling blindly for the nearest hatch to hide. Parris was pinned beneath an overturned eighteen-pounder, his eyes staring at the sky until he saw Bolitho.

Bolitho dropped beside him. To Jenour he said, 'Send some one for the surgeon.' He held his coat. 'And Stephen, remember to walk, will you? Those who have survived will need all their confidence in us.'

Parris reached up to touch his arm. Through gritted teeth he gasped, 'God, that was bad!' He tried to move his shoulders. 'The San Mateo, what of her?'

Bolitho shook his head. 'She has gone. There was no point in continuing the fight after this.'

Parris released a great sigh. 'A victory.' Then he looked at Bolitho, his eyes pleading. 'My face — is it all right, sir?'

Bolitho nodded. 'Not a mark on it.'

Parris seemed satisfied. 'But I can't feel my legs.'

Bolitho stared at the overturned gun. The barrel was still hot from being fired, yet Parris could feel nothing. He could see his hessian boots protruding from the other side of the truck. Both legs must have been crushed.

'I'll wait here until help comes.' He looked along the shattered deck. Only the foremast still stood as before, with his flag rippling from the truck above the shredded sails.

He felt the deck quiver. The pumps had stopped, probably choked or smashed apart. He made himself face the truth. Hyperion was dying, even while he waited. He glanced across at the dead midshipman Mirrielees, whose body had been hurled down from the quarterdeck where he had been killed. He was sixteen. I was just his age when Hyperion's keel tasted salt water for the first time.

He heard voices and hurrying feet and saw seamen and marines returning from the Spanish two-decker alongside. It was strange, but Bolitho had not even glanced at their battered prize.

He saw Keen, an arm wrapped around Tojohns' shoulders, a bloody bandage tied about one leg, limping anxiously towards him.

'I died a dozen times back there, Sir Richard. I — I thought you must have fallen in that broadside.' He saw Parris and said, 'We should move him.'

Bolitho took his arm. 'You know, don't you, Val?'

Their eyes met. Keen replied, 'Yes. She's sinking. There's little we can do.' He stared at the abandoned cannon, unable to watch Bolitho's pain. 'Even if we could cast these guns overboard. But time is against us.'

Parris gave a groan and Bolitho asked, 'Is the prize safe, Val?'

'Aye. She's Asturias of eighty guns. She took much punishment too from that battering, as did her neighbour. But she is useful for repeating signals.'

Bolitho tried to clear his throbbing mind; his ears were still aching from that terrible broadside.

'Signal Benbow to secure the prizes and then give chase with whatever forces we have still seaworthy. The Dons will doubtless be running for the nearest Spanish port.' He stared at the bloody decks. 'Leaving their friends as well as their enemies to manage for themselves!'

Keen tightened his hold on his coxswain. 'Come, Tojohns! We must muster the hands!'

Bolitho said to Jenour, 'Go below and take charge of the boatswain's party. Can you do that?'

Jenour stared at Parris. 'What about him, Sir Richard?'

I'll wait for the surgeon.' Bolitho lowered his voice. 'He will want to amputate both legs, I fear.'

Parris said vaguely, 'I am sorry about this, Sir Richard.' He gasped as a great pain went through him. 'I — I could have helped. Should have come to you earlier when I learned about your troubles in London.'

He was rambling. Bolitho leaned over him and grasped his hand. Or was he?

Parris continued in the same matter-of-fact tone, 'I should have known. I wanted a new command so much, just as I hated to lose the other. I suppose I didn't want it quite enough.'

Figures were clambering over from the other ship, voices of command emerged from chaos, and he saw Penhaligon, the master, with one of his mates coming from the wrecked poop, carrying the ship's chronometer, the same one she had carried in all her years of service. He half-listened to Parris's vague sentences but he was thinking of this ship he had known better than any other. Hyperion had carried three admirals, served fifteen captains, and countless thousands of sailors. There had been no campaign of note she had missed except for her time as a hulk.

Parris said, 'Somervell became very dear to me. I fought against it, but it was no use.'

Bolitho stared at him, for a moment not understanding what he was saying.

'You and Somervell — is that how it was?' It came at him like a blow, and he was stunned at his own blindness. Catherine's dislike for Parris, not because he was a womaniser as Haven had believed, but because of his liaison with her husband. There was no love between us. He could almost hear her words, her voice. It must have been why Parris had lost his only command, the matter dropped by some authority which required the scandal to be buried.

Parris gazed at him sadly. 'How it was. I wanted to tell you — you of all people. After what you did for me and this ship what you had to endure because of my folly.'

Bolitho heard Blachford hurrying along the deck. He should have felt anger or revulsion, but he had been in the navy since he had been twelve years old; what he had not seen in that time he had soon learned about.

He said quietly, 'Well, you've told me now.' He touched his shoulder. 'I shall speak with the surgeon.'

The deck gave a shudder, and broken blocks and discarded weapons clattered from a gangway like so much rubbish.

Blachford looked as white as a sheet, and Bolitho could guess what it had been like for him in the cockpit.

'Can you do it here on deck?' Blachford nodded. 'After this I can do anything.'

Keen came limping down from the quarterdeck and called, 'Benbow has acknowledged, Sir Richard. Rear-Admiral Herrick wishes you well, and offers you all assistance!'

Bolitho smiled sadly, 'Tell him no, but thank him.' Dear Thomas was alive, unharmed. Thank God for that.

Keen watched Blachford stooping to open his bag. His eyes said, it could have been either of us, or both. He said, 'Six of the Dons have struck, Sir Richard, including Intrépido which was the last to haul down her colours to Tybalt.'

There was the crack of a line parting and Keen added, 'She drags heavily on Asturias, Sir Richard.'

'I know.' He stared round. 'Where's Allday?'

A passing seaman called, 'Gone below, Sir Richard!'

Bolitho nodded. 'I can guess why.'

Blachford said, 'I'm ready.'

There was another loud crack but this time it was a pistol shot. Bolitho and the others stared at Parris as his arm fell to the deck, the pistol he always carried still smoking in his fingers.

Blachford closed his bag, and said quietly, 'Perhaps his was the best way, better than mine. For such a courageous young man, I think living as a cripple would have proved unbearable.'

Bolitho removed his hat and walked to the quarterdeck ladder.

'Leave him there. He will be in good company.'

Afterwards he thought it sounded like an epitaph.

Scarlet coats moved into the ship, and Major Adams, hatless but apparently unmarked, was bellowing orders.

Bolitho said, 'The wounded first, Major. Over to the Spaniard. After that —' He did not finish.

Instead he turned to watch as Benbow, accompanied by Capricious, passed down the opposite side. There were no cheers this time, and Bolitho could envision how Hyperion must look. Was it imagination, or were the figurehead's muscled shoulders already closer to the sea? He stared until his damaged eye throbbed.

He could think of nothing else. Hyperion was settling down. They could not even anchor, for here the sea had no bottom, so her exact position could never be marked.

Men moved briskly around him, but like the moment he had hoisted his flag aboard, the faces he saw were different ones.

He touched the fan in his pocket. Sharing it with her.

He saw Rimer, the wizened master's mate who had accompanied him on the cutting-out of the treasure galleon. He was sitting against a bollard, his eyes fixed and unmovmg, caught at the moment the shot had cut him down. Loggie the ship's corporal, sprawled headlong across another marine he had been trying to haul to safety when a marksman had found him too.

The first of the wounded were being swayed up through one of the hatchways. A few cried out as their wounds touched the coaming or the tackles, but most of them just stared like the dead Rimer; they had never expected to see daylight again.

Allday reappeared by his side; he had brought Ozzard with him.

He said, 'He was still in the hold, Sir Richard.' He forced a grin. 'Didn't know the fight was over, bless 'im!' He did not say that he had found Ozzard sitting on the hold's ladder, Bolitho's fine presentation sword clutched against his chest, staring at the last lantern's reflections on the black water which was creeping slowly towards him. He had not intended to leave.

Bolitho touched the little man's shoulder. 'I am very glad to see you.'

Ozzard said, 'But all that furniture, the wine cabinet from her ladyship —' He sighed. 'All gone.'

Keen limped over and said, 'I hate to trouble you, Sir Richard, but—'

Bolitho faced him. 'I know, Val. You continue your work. I shall attend the ship.' He saw the protest die on Keen's lips as he added, 'I know her somewhat better than you.'

Keen stood back. 'Aye, aye, Sir Richard.' He glanced at the tautening hawsers to the ship alongside. 'There may not be long.'

'I know. Single-up your lines.' Then almost to himself he added, 'I have never lost a ship before.'

He saw Minchin coming on deck with one of his assistants, their clothing dark with blood, each carrying a bag.

Minchin approached Bolitho and said, 'Permission to leave with the wounded, Sir Richard?'

'Yes, and thank you.'

Minchin forced a grin to his ruined face. 'Even the rats have gone.'

Bolitho said to Ozzard, 'Leave with the others.' Ozzard clutched the bright sword. 'No, Sir Richard, I'm staying—'

Bolitho nodded. 'Then remain here, on deck.'

He looked at Allday. 'Are you coming with me?'

Allday watched him despairingly. Must you go down there? Aloud he said, 'Have I ever left you?'

They walked beneath the poop and down the first companionway to the lower gundeck. The ports were still sealed, but most of those on the larboard side had been blasted open, their guns hurled from their breechings. There were few dead here. Mercifully Keen had cleared the deck to storm the Spaniard alongside. But there were some. Lolling figures, eyes slitted as if because of the smoky sunlight, watching as they passed. Half a man, chopped neatly in two by a single ball even as he had run with his sponge to the nearest gun. Blood everywhere; no wonder the sides were painted red, but it still showed itself. Lieutenant Priddie, second-in-command of the lower gundeck, lay face down, his back pierced with long splinters which had been blasted from the planking. He was still holding his sword.

Down another ladder, to the orlop, where Bolitho had to duck beneath each low beam. There were still one or two lanterns alight here. The dead lay in neat rows covered by sail-cloth. Others remained around the bloodied table, where they had died while they waited. Above their heads a heavy object fell to the deck, and then after a few seconds began to rumble along the scarred planking, like something alive.

Allday whispered, 'In the name of Christ!'

Bolitho looked at him. It must be a thirty-two pounder ball which had broken free of its garland and was now rolling purposefully down towards the bows.

They paused by the last hatchway and Allday dragged back the cover. It was one of the holds, where Ozzard always kept his vigil when the ship was in action.

Bolitho dropped to his knees and peered down while Allday lowered a lantern beside him.

He had expected to see water amongst the casks and crates, the chests and the furniture, but it was already awash from side to side. Barrels floated on the dark water, and lapped around a marine who had been clinging to a ladder when he had died. A sentry put to guard against terrified men running below in battle. He might have been killed by one of them, or like Ozzard had been trying to find refuge from the hell on deck.

The deck quivered again, and he heard heavy fragments booming against the carpenter's walk where more of his men had been trapped and drowned.

The orlop, and the holds and magazines beneath it, places which had remained in total darkness for all of Hyperion's thirty-three years. When they had returned the old ship to service after a hasty refit, it was more than likely the dockyard had missed something. Probably down there, where the first heavy broadside had smashed into the hull, there had still been some rot, unseen and undiscovered. Gnawing at the timbers and frames as far down as the keelson. San Mateo's last bombardment had dealt the mortal blow.

Bolitho watched Allday shut the hatch and made his way back to the ladder.

So many memories would go with this ship. Adam as a midshipman; Cheney whom he had loved in this same hull. So many names and faces. Some would be out there now in the battered squadron where they waited to secure the prizes after their victory. Bolitho thought of them watching Hyperion, remembering her perhaps as she had once been, while the younger ones like Midshipman Springett… He cursed and held his hand to his eyes. No, he was gone too, with so many others he could not even remember.

Allday murmured, 'I think we'd better get a move on, sir.'

The hull shook once more, and Bolitho thought he saw the gleam of water in the reflected light, creeping through the deck seams; soon it would cover the blood around Minchin's table.

They climbed to the next deck, then threw themselves to one side as a great thirty-two pounder gun came to life and squealed down the deck, as if propelled by invisible hands. Load! Run out! Fire! Bolitho could almost hear the orders being screamed above the roar of battle.

On the quarterdeck once more Bolitho found Keen and Jenour waiting for him.

Keen said quietly, 'The ship is cleared, Sir Richard.' His eyes moved up to the flag, so clean in the afternoon sunlight.

'Shall I have it hauled down?'

Bolitho walked to the quarterdeck rail and grasped it as he had so many times as captain and now as her admiral.

'No, if you please, Val. She fought under my flag. She will always wear it.'

He looked at the Spanish Astunas. He could see much more of her damage, her side pitted by Hyperion's own broadsides. She appeared much higher in the water now.

Bolitho looked at the sprawled figures, Parris's outflung arm with the pistol he had chosen as his final escape.

They had succeeded in driving off and scattering the enemy. Looking at the drifting ships and abandoned corpses, it seemed like a hollow victory. Bolitho said, 'You are my ship.'

The others stood near him but he seemed quite alone as he spoke.

'No more as a hulk. This time with honour!' He swung away from the rail. 'I am ready.'

It took another hour for Hyperion to disappear. She dipped slowly by the bows, and standing on the Spaniard's poop Bolitho heard the sea rushing through the ports, sweeping away wreckage, eager for the kill.

Even the Spanish prisoners who gathered along the bulwarks to watch were strangely silent.

Hammocks floated free of the nettings, and a corpse by the wheel rolled over as if it had been only feigning death.

Bolitho found that he was gripping his sword, pressing it against the fan in his pocket with all his strength.

They were all going with her. He held his breath as the sea rolled relentlessly aft towards the quarterdeck until only the poop, and the opposite end of the ship, his flag above the sinking masthead, marked her presence.

He remembered the words of the dying sailor.

Hyperion cleared the way, as she always had.

He said aloud, 'There'll be none better than you, old lady!'

When he looked again she had gone, and only bubbles and the scum of flotsam remained as she made her last voyage to the seabed.

Keen glanced at the stricken survivors around him and was inclined to agree.

 

 

Bolitho paused near the edge of the cliff and stared hard across Falmouth Bay. There was no snow on the ground, but the wind which swept the cliffs and hurled spume high above the rocks below was bitterly cold, and the low dark-bellied clouds hinted at sleet before dusk.

Bolitho felt his hair whipping in the wind, drenched with salt and rain. He had been watching a small brig beating up from the Helford River, but had lost sight of her in the wintry spray which blew from the sea like smoke.

It was hard to believe that tomorrow was the first day in another year, that even after returning here he was still gripped by a sense of disbelief and loss.

When Hyperion had gone down he had tried to console himself that she had not made a vain sacrifice, nor had the men who had died that day in the Mediterranean sunshine.

Had the Spanish squadron been able to join with the Combined Fleet at Cadiz, Nelson might well have been beaten into submission.

Bolitho had transferred to the frigate Tybalt for passage to Gibraltar and had left Herrick in command of the squadron, although most of the ships would need dockyard care without delay.

At the Rock he had been stunned by the news. The Combined Fleet had broken out without waiting for more support, but outnumbered or not, Nelson had won a resounding victory; in a single battle had smashed the enemy, had destroyed or captured two-thirds of their fleet, and by so doing had laid low any hope Napoleon still held of invading England.

But the battle, fought in unruly seas off Cape Trafalgar, had cost Nelson his life. Grief transmitted itself through the whole fleet, and aboard Tybalt where none of the men had ever set eyes on him, they were shocked beyond belief, as if they had known him as a friend. The battle itself was completely overshadowed by Nelson's death, and when to Bolitho eventually reached Plymouth he discovered it was the same wherever he went.

Bolitho watched the sea boil over the rocks, then tugged his cloak closer about his body.

He thought of Nelson, the man he had so wanted to meet, to walk and talk with him as sailor to sailor. How close their lives had been. Like parallel lines on a chart. He recalled seeing Nelson just once during the ill-fated attack on Toulon. It was curious to recall that he had seen Nelson only at a distance aboard the flagship; he had waved to Bolitho, a rather shabby young captain who was to change their world. Stranger still, the flagship Nelson had been visiting for orders was that same Victory. He thought also of the few letters he had received from him, and all in the last months aboard Hyperion. Written in his odd, sloping hand, self-taught after losing his right arm, There you may discover how well they fight their wars with words and paper instead of ordnance and good steel. He had never spared words for pompous authority.

And the words which had meant so much to Bolitho when he had asked for, and had been reluctantly given, Hyperion as his flagship. Give Bolitho any ship he wants. He is a sailor, not a landsman. Bolitho was glad that Adam had met him, and been known by him.

He glanced back along the winding cliff path towards Pendennis Castle. The battlements were partly hidden by mist, like low cloud; everything was grey and threatening. He could not remember how long he had been walking or why he had come. Nor did he remember when he had ever felt so alone.

Upon returning to England he had paid a brief visit to the Admiralty with his report. No senior had been available to see him. They were all engaged in preparing for Nelson's funeral, apparently. Bolitho had ignored the obvious snub, and had been glad to leave London for Falmouth. There were no letters for him from Catherine. It was like losing her again. But Keen would see her when he joined Zenoria in Hampshire.

Then I shall write to her. It was surprising how nervous it made him feel. Unsure of himself, like the first time. How would she see him after their separation?

He walked on into the wind, his boots squeaking in the sodden grass. Nelson would be buried at St Paul's, with all the pomp and ceremony which could be arranged.

It made him bitter to think that those who would be singing hymns of praise the loudest, would be the very same who had envied and disdained him the most.

He thought of the house now hidden by the brow of the hill. He had been glad that Christmas had been over when he reached home. His moods of loneliness and loss would have cast a wet blanket over all festivities. He had seen no one, and he imagined Allday back at the house, yarning with Ferguson about the battle, adding bits here and there as he always did.

Bolitho had thought often of the battle. At least there had been no mourning in Falmouth. Only three of Hyperion's company had come from the port, and all had survived.

There had been a letter from Adam waiting for him. The one shining light to mark his return.

Adam was at Chatham. He had been appointed captain, in command of a new fifth-rate now completing in the Royal Dockyard there. He had got his wish. He had earned it.

He stopped again, suddenly tired, and realising he had eaten nothing since breakfast. Now it was afternoon, and darkness would soon arrive to make this path a dangerous place to walk. He turned, his cloak swirling about him like a sail.

How well his men had fought that day. The Gazette had summed it up in a few lines, overshadowed by a nation's sense of mourning. On 15th October last, some hundred miles to the East of Cartagena ships of the Mediterranean squadron under the flag of Vice-Admiral Sir Richard Bolitho KB encountered a superior Spanish force of twelve sail-of-the-line. After a fierce engagement the enemy withdrew, leaving six prizes in British hands. God Save The King. Hyperion was not mentioned, nor the men who now lay with her in peace. Bolitho quickened his pace and almost stumbled, not from any blindness, but because of the emotion which blurred his eyes.

God damn them all, he thought. Those same hypocrites would praise the little admiral now that they no longer had to fear his honesty. But the true people would remember his name, and so would ensure that it lived forever. For Adam's new navy, and the ones which would follow.

A figure was approaching by way of the path which ran closest to the edge. He peered through the mist and rain and saw the person wore a blue cloak like his own.

In an hour, maybe less, it would be dangerous here. A stranger perhaps?

…She came towards him very slowly, her hair, as dark as his own, streaming untied in the bitter wind off the sea.

Allday must have told her. He was the only one in the house who knew about this walk. This particular walk they had both taken after his fever, a thousand years ago.

He hurried towards her, held her at arms' length and watched her laughing and crying all in one. She was dressed in the old boat-cloak he kept at the house for touring the grounds in cold weather. A button missing, a rent near the hem. When it lifted to the wind he saw she was wearing a plain dark red gown beneath. So far a cry from the fine carriage and the life she had once shared.

Then Bolitho clutched her against his body, feeling her wet hair on his face, the touch of her hands. They were like ice, but neither of them noticed.

'I was going to write —' He could not go on.

She studied him closely, then gently stroked his brow near his injured eye.

'Val told me everything.' She pressed her face against his, while the wind flung their cloaks about them. 'My dearest of men, how terrible it must have been. For you and your old ship.'

Bolitho turned her and put his arm over her shoulders. As they mounted the path over the hill he saw the old grey house, light already gleaming in some of the windows.

She said, 'They say I am a sailor's woman. How could I stay away?'

Bolitho squeezed her shoulder, his heart too full to speak

Then he said, 'Come, I'll take you home.'

He paused at the bottom to help her over the familiar old stile-gate where he had played as a child with his brother and sisters.

She looked down at him from the stile, her hands on his shoulders. 'I love thee, Richard.'

He made the moment last, sensing that peace like a reward had come to them in the guise of fate.

He said simply, 'Now it's your home, too.'

The one-legged ex-sailor named Vanzell touched his hat as they passed; but they did not see him.

Fate.