13

NO ESCAPE

BOLITHO gripped the quarterdeck rail and watched the sky brighten to a harsh intensity. Beneath his fingers the rail was so caked with salt that it felt like rough stone. But the motion was easier as Truculent, now with her topgallants filled hard to the wind, plunged over a wild succession of curling wavecrests.

He stared at the sun as it tried to break through the morning haze. It was like a bright silver platter, he thought, while the aimless bunches of cloud reminded him of fog above the HelfordRiver at home in Cornwall. The air was still tinged with the smell of grease from the galley, and he had seen the seamen at work about the upper deck showing less strain than before he had suggested to Poland that a good hot meal was a priority.

He tried to picture the ship as she headed south-west, the wind following her from dead astern so that she seemed to bound over the water. Somewhere, about forty miles across the starboard quarter, were the bleak shores and fjords of Norway, beyond which lay only the Arctic. Part of the Danish coast was still abeam, and according to the sailing master’s rough calculations some thirty miles distant. Far enough to be out of sight but still within the range of Zest’s patrol area. He thought of Poland’s dislike for Zest’s captain. If he had had more time in London he might have discovered some reason for it. But he doubted it. It was like some secret held closely by each captain as if for protection, or threat.

He shaded his eyes to stare astern but their pursuer was not in sight from the deck. A lance of silver sunlight touched his eye, and he winced before pressing his hand over it while he took another look.

Inskip had appeared at his side. “Your eye bothering you?”

Bolitho snatched his hand away. “No.” He added in a calmer voice, “You are feeling more the thing now that we are in open water again?” He must try not to be taken by surprise by such an innocent comment. Inskip had no way of knowing. And besides, there was every hope that his eye would recover completely. Grasping at straws? Perhaps, but it barely troubled him.

Inskip smiled. “I suspect your man Allday can take more credit than the damned sea.”

Bolitho noticed for the first time that there was an unusually strong smell of rum, and that Inskip’s normally pallid features were glowing.

Inskip cleared his throat noisily. “Damme if he didn’t produce a potion he had concocted himself. Hot gruel, rum and brandy seem to be the main ingredients!”

Bolitho glanced at Poland who was deep in conversation with his first lieutenant. They both looked to the mastheads, and after a further discussion a warrant officer was sent aloft to join the lookout, a heavy telescope bouncing from one hip.

Inskip asked worriedly, “What does it mean?” He gestured vaguely towards the taffrail. “That Frenchman can’t do us any harm, surely?”

Bolitho saw Poland gazing at him across the deck. It was almost like defiance.

“I’d tell the captain to come about and go for that corvette, if I didn’t think it would waste valuable time.” He rubbed his chin while he pictured his chart again. “He’s hanging on to the scent. A scavenger—like a wild dog on a battlefield, waiting to pick off the bones.” He heard Poland call, “Prepare to set the maincourse, Mr Williams! I’ll not lose this soldier’s wind!”

The deck shuddered and the taut rigging seemed to whine as the ship plunged forward under a growing pyramid of canvas.

Bolitho saw Jenour by the compass, and wondered if he had guessed why Poland was piling on more sail.

Inskip said vaguely, “Funny thing about eyes, though.” He did not see Bolitho glance at him warily. “When I was honoured by the King, for instance—” His words were becoming slurred; Allday’s cure must be working well—”His Majesty wore a green eye shield all the while, and they say he cannot recognise a single soul without a strong glass.”

Bolitho recalled the general’s dry comment about guiding the King’s hand. Truer than he had realised perhaps.

Inskip said abruptly, “You think we’re running into a trap, don’t you?” The combined power of rum and brandy had put an aggressive edge to his tone. “How could that possibly be—and where would be the point?”

Bolitho replied quietly, “We were delayed a full week. Where would be the point of that?”

Inskip brooded on it. “It was all a secret, and anyway, what could the enemy hope to achieve in a week?”

Bolitho said, “When the schooner Pickle arrived at Falmouth on November fourth last year, her commanding officer, a Lieutenant Lapenotiere, was the first man to bring the news of Trafalgar and Nelson’s death to England.” He let each word sink in; it was important that Inskip should understand. “Lapenotiere posted all the way from Falmouth to London to carry the word to the Admiralty.”

“And?” Inskip was sweating despite the bitter air.

“He reached London on the morning of the sixth. All that way, in just two days. Imagine what French intelligence could make of a full week!”

He looked at the sky, a thinning here and there in the clouds revealing slivers of glacier blue.

The senior helmsman called, “Steady she be, zur! Sou’-west!”

Bolitho added, “South-west, Sir Charles, but over four hundred miles to make good, unless—” He saw Poland moving towards him. “What is it?”

Poland turned as if to keep his comments from Inskip’s ears. “May I suggest we alter course and run further to the south’rd, Sir Richard?” He looked towards the misty horizon, the drifting spray like steam over the beakhead. “It would add to the distance, but—”

Bolitho faced him impassively. “We should also lose any chance of a rendezvous on Zest’s station. But you already knew that?”

It was rare for Poland to offer such a definite suggestion, one which might later lay him open to criticism or worse.

Bolitho persisted, “Do you have any cause to doubt Captain Varian’s intentions?” He watched the emotions, the anxieties troubling Poland’s features. “It is your duty to tell me. The responsibility of command which you have earned, and which you obviously cherish, makes that duty unavoidable!”

Poland looked trapped. Alone with his command he was second only to God. Faced by a viceadmiral whose name was known throughout most of the country, he was suddenly stripped of power, endangered by his one, unexpected outburst.

He answered wretchedly, “I served with Varian some years ago. I was his first lieutenant, and I must admit that out there in the Indies I saw small chance of promotion, let alone a ship to command. We were ordered to Jamaica at the urgent request of the Governor … there was a slave uprising with some danger to the residents and the Plantations.”

Bolitho could see it. That would have been during the uneasy Peace of Amiens when many had thought the war had ended, that France and her allies, like England, had exhausted themselves in constant battle at sea and on land. As first lieutenant, Poland would have grasped at the chance of action like a drowning man clutching a piece of cork.

“I recall it. There were a lot of killings and some savage reprisals, to all accounts.”

Poland did not seem to have heard him. “We had word from a trader that a plantation was under siege by a mob of slaves. It was too far inland to quell it with gunfire, so Captain Varian ordered me to take an armed party to rout the slaves.” He wiped his mouth with the back of his hand, oblivious to Jenour and the watchful eyes of Lieutenant Williams by the quarterdeck rail. “Mob? By God, when we reached the place it was more like a blood-crazed army!” He shuddered. “The owners and their people had been hacked to death like ribbons, their wives—well, they must have welcomed death when it came!”

“And Varian weighed anchor, am I right?”

Poland gaped at him. “Aye, Sir Richard. He thought we would share the same fate as those poor butchered creatures. Varian could not stand the prospect of failure, or being associated with one. He sailed away and reported to the admiral that he had lost contact with us and had been unable to help.” He added with sudden anger, “But for the arrival of some local militia, he would have been right too!”

“Deck there! Corvette’s makin’ more sail!”

Bolitho saw the emptiness in Poland’s stare and thought he may not even have heard.

Poland continued in the same flat voice. “Varian’s never been in a big action. Hunting smugglers and chasing privateers were more to his taste.” He seemed to draw himself up as he faced Bolitho with some of his old stiffness. “I should have denounced him. I am not proud of what I did. He recommended me for command.” He looked along his ship. “I got Truculent, so I said naught.”

Bolitho tugged his hat more firmly over his forehead to give himself time to think. If half of it was true then Varian was a menace to everyone who depended on him. He thought of Zest’s being off-station at Good Hope; the terrible end of the little schooner Miranda while her executioner sped to safety.

A coward then?

“Deck there!” Bolitho saw Jenour shading his eyes to peer up at the foremast crosstrees. “Sail on the weather bow!”

Poland stared from the masthead to Bolitho. “I am sorry, Sir Richard. I spoke too soon!” He was probably seeing his only command already slipping away from his grasp.

Inskip swallowed hard. “You’re both wrong, dammit!” He wiped his eyes with his handkerchief. “I’ll wager Zest makes that damned Frenchie show a clean pair of heels!”

“Deck there!” The foremast lookout’s voice was suddenly loud as wind spilled from the topsails. “She’s a French frigate, sir!”

Bolitho saw faces turn to look towards him, not at their captain this time. So Zest was not waiting for them. Instead, the trap was about to be sprung. Bolitho looked at Inskip’s flushed face and kept his voice calm. “No, Sir Charles, I fear we were both right.” He swung on Poland. “Clear for action, if you please!”

“Deck there!” Someone by the wheel gave a groan as the lookout yelled, “Second sail astern of t’other, sir!”

“The corvette has run up her colours, sir!”

Poland licked his lips. Two ships closing on a converging tack, another still hounding them from astern. To starboard was the full power of the wind, on the opposite beam and still out of sight was the Danish coast. In those fleeting seconds he could see it all. Jaws closing around his ship. Be run ashore in a hopeless stern-chase, or stand and be destroyed by overwhelming odds. He looked at his first lieutenant, his eyes dull. “Beat to quarters, Mr Williams, and clear for action at your convenience.”

The marine fifers ran to the stations, adjusting their drums until they received a curt nod from the Royal Marines sergeant.

Bolitho saw Allday striding across the deck, his cutlass wedged carelessly through his belt. Jenour too, fingering his beautiful sword, his face suddenly determined as the drums commenced their urgent rattle to arms.

Inskip gasped, “Maybe Zest will be here yet?” Nobody spoke, and his voice was almost drowned by the rush of bare feet, the stamp of marines across the poop and the thud and clatter of screens being torn down to clear the ship of obstructions. “Why such a show of force?” He was almost pleading.

Bolitho watched Truculent’s big ensigns mounting to gaff and masthead. A challenge accepted.

He said, “They knew, Sir Charles. One of His Majesty’s most important emissaries and a senior officer for good measure! Exactly the excuse the French have been looking for. If we are taken, Napoleon will have all he needs to discredit the Danes for their secret discussions with us, and so weaken Sweden’s and Russia’s resolution to stand against him! Good God, man, even a child should see that!”

Inskip did not rise to Bolitho’s angry contempt. He stared around at the gun crews, the bustle with tackles and handspikes as each weapon was prepared to fight.

Then he peered overhead at the nets which were being rigged across the decks from gangway to gangway to protect these same crews from falling spars and debris. Even the boats were being swayed out and made ready to lower and cast adrift for the victors to recover.

Boats represented survival to most sailors, and Bolitho saw some of them turn from their work to watch, and the grim response from the scarlet squads of marines who fingered their Brown Bess muskets and fixed bayonets. If so ordered, they would shoot down anyone who created a panic or provoked any sort of disorder.

It was always a bad moment, Bolitho thought. Survival perhaps; but the peril of razor-sharp splinters hurled from tiered boats once battle was joined was far more dangerous.

Williams touched his hat, his eyes wild. “Cleared for action, sir!”

Poland looked at him coldly and then said, “That was smartly done, Mr Williams.” He looked past him and at the lines of watching gun crews, men who moments before had been thinking only of getting another tot to reward them for their efforts. “Do not load or run out as yet.” He turned and faced Bolitho. “We are ready, Sir Richard.” His pale eyes were opaque, like a man already dead.

Inskip touched Bolitho’s sleeve. “Shall you fight them?” He sounded incredulous.

Bolitho did not answer. “You may hoist my flag at the fore, Captain Poland. I think there are no more secrets left to keep.”

Inskip’s shoulders seemed to droop. It was perhaps the clearest reply of all.

As the next hour dragged remorselessly past, the sky grew clearer, the clouds breaking up as if to give every light to the scene. But the sun held no warmth, and spray when it flew over the tightly-packed hammock nettings felt like fragments of ice.

Bolitho took the big telescope from the senior midshipman and walked to the mizzen shrouds. Without haste he climbed into the ratlines and steadied himself while he waited for his mind to clear. He could see the leading French frigate quite easily, still holding on to her original converging tack, every sail spread and bulging from the wind. She was big, forty guns or more at a guess, with her Tricolour standing out like bright metal. The other vessel was slightly smaller, but well equal to Truculent. Very deliberately he raised the heavy glass and watched the picture sharpen. How near she looked now; he could imagine the sounds of voices and the creak of gun-tackles as the crews waited impatiently for the order to run out. Around and behind his back he could sense a silence, and knew that all eyes were on him as he studied the enemy. Measuring their chances against his confidence. Seeing death in any uncertainty. The French were taking their time despite the great press of canvas. If there was to be any chance … he slammed the glass shut with sudden anger. I must never think like that, or we are already lost.

He returned to the deck and handed the telescope to the midshipman.

“Thank you, Mr Fellowes.” He did not see the pleased surprise in the youth’s eyes at the easy familiarity of his name. He crossed to Poland’s side where Inskip and his secretary, the lugubrious Agnew, waited anxiously for his assessment.

Bolitho avoided the others and said, “Captain Poland, make more sail if you please.” He glanced up at the braced yards and lofty sails framed by the washed-out blue sky. “The wind has eased somewhat—you will not tear the sticks out of her, I think.”

He expected a protest, even an argument, but before Poland turned away to pass his orders to the first lieutenant, Bolitho thought he saw something like relief on his set features. Calls trilled and once again hands clambered aloft with the agility of monkeys. From the quarterdeck Bolitho saw the great mainyard bending like a bow to the following wind, heard the crack and rattle of canvas as the remaining royals were freed to lend their thrust to the ship.

Poland came back breathing hard. “Sir?”

Bolitho looked at him searchingly. Not a man who would crack, no matter what he might think of the coming fight and its likely conclusion. “The French will adopt their usual tactics today. The leading ship will continue to close until she can reach us with her fire.” He saw Poland’s bleak eyes following his arm as he pointed over towards the enemy, as if he could already see the lurid flash of cannon fire. “It is my belief that their senior officer will be confident, perhaps too much so.”

Inskip muttered, “So would I be, in his shoes!”

Bolitho ignored him. “He will try to cripple Truculent, doubtless with chain-shot or langridge, while his consort attempts to rake our stern. A divided attack is commonly used in this way.” He watched his words hitting home. “It must not happen.” He saw Poland flinch as a line snapped somewhere high above the deck. Like a pistol shot. “If they are allowed to board us we’ll be done for.” He nodded beyond the stern. “And there is always our little scavenger waiting to lend her weight to the fight.”

Poland licked his lips. “What must we do, Sir Richard?”

Inskip snapped, “It’s hopeless, if you ask me!”

Bolitho turned on him. “Well, I do not, Sir Charles! So if you have nothing sensible to offer I suggest you go below to the orlop and do something useful to help the surgeon!” He saw Inskip flush with anger, and added bitterly, “And if you ever reach London again, may I suggest that you explain to your masters, and mine, what they are asking people to do!” He waved his hand briefly over the crouching gun crews. “What they face each time a King’s ship is called to arms!”

When he turned again Inskip and his secretary had disappeared. He smiled at Poland’s surprise and said, “It were better left to us, I think, eh, Captain?” He felt suddenly calm again, so much so that there was no sensation left in his limbs. “I ordered more sail so that the French will think we are trying to run for it. They are already following suit, I see, every stitch they can muster, for this is a rich prize indeed. English plotters and a fine frigate to boot—no, the Frenchman will not wish to lose out on this!”

Poland nodded with slow understanding. “You intend to luff and come about, Sir Richard?”

“Aye.” He touched his arm. “Come walk awhile. The enemy will not be in useful range for half an hour at a guess. I have always found it helps to loosen the muscles, relax the mind.” He smiled at him, knowing how important it was for Truculent’s company to see their captain at ease.

Bolitho added, “It will have to be smartly done, sails reduced instantly as the helm goes over. Then we can tack between them and rake them both.”

Poland nodded jerkily. “I have always trained them well, Sir Richard!”

Bolitho clasped his hands behind him. That was more like it. Poland rising to any sort of criticism. He had to believe. He must think only of the first move.

Bolitho said, “May I suggest you place your first lieutenant by the foremast so that he can control, even point each gun himself. There will be no time for a second chance.” He saw him nod. “It is no place for a junior lieutenant.”

Poland called to Williams. While they were in deep discussion, with several meaning glances towards the nearest pyramid of sails, Bolitho said to Jenour, “Keep on the move, Stephen.” He saw the flag lieutenant’s eyes blink. “It will be warm work today, I fear.”

Allday massaged his chest with his hand and watched the too familiar preparations, and the way the third lieutenant stared at Williams as he passed him on his way aft. He probably saw his own removal from the forward guns as a lack of confidence in his ability. He would soon know why, Allday decided. He thought suddenly of Bolitho’s offer.

Perhaps a little alehouse near Falmouth, with a rosy-cheeked widow-woman to take care of. No more danger, the scream of shot and dying men, the awful crash of falling spars. And pain, always the pain.

“Leadin’ ship’s runnin’ out, sir!”

Poland glanced at Bolitho and then snapped, “Very well, open the ports. Load and run out the starboard battery!”

Bolitho clenched his fist. Poland had remembered. Had he run out the guns on either side it would have shown the enemy what he intended as plainly as if he had spelled out a signal.

“Ready, sir!” That was Williams, somehow out of place up forward instead of on the quarterdeck.

“Run out!”

Squealing like disgruntled hogs, the maindeck eighteen-pounders trundled up to their ports, each crew watching the other so that the broadside was presented as one.

There was a dull bang and seconds later a thin waterspout leapt from the sea some fifty yards from the starboard bow. A sighting shot.

Poland wiped his face with his fingers. “Stand by to come about! Be ready, Mr Hull!”

Bolitho saw Munro, the second lieutenant, stride to the chart-table near the companion hatch and pull aside its canvas cover.

Bolitho walked slowly past the tense group around the wheel, the marines waiting at braces and halliards, knowing that with so much canvas above them one error could crush them under an avalanche of broken masts and rigging.

The young lieutenant stiffened as Bolitho’s shadow fell across the open log book, in which he had just noted the time of the first shot.

“Is there something I can do, Sir Richard?”

“I was just looking at the date. But no, it’s not important.”

He moved away again and knew that Allday had drawn nearer to him.

It was his birthday. Bolitho touched the shape of the locket through his shirt. May love always protect you.

It was like hearing her speak those same words aloud.

Poland slammed down his hand. “Now!”

In seconds, or so it seemed, the great courses were brailed and fisted to their yards, opening up to the sea around them like curtains on a stage.

“Helm a’lee! Hard over, damn your eyes!”

Voices and calls echoed over the deck as men threw themselves on the braces to haul the yards round while the deck swayed over to the violent change of course. Gun crews abandoned their charges and ran to the opposite side to supplement the depleted numbers there, and as the ports squeaked open they ran out their eighteen-pounders, aided this time by the steep tilt of the deck. Spray lanced through the ports and over the nettings, and some of the crew gaped in astonishment as the leading French frigate seemed to materialise right before their eyes, when moments earlier she had been on the opposite beam.

“As you bear!” Lieutenant Williams held up his sword as he lurched along the deck by the larboard carronade. “A guinea for the first strike!”

A midshipman named Brown shouted, “I’ll double that, sir!”

They grinned at one another like urchins.

“Fire!”

The battery fired as one, the deafening roar of the long eighteen-pounders completely blocking out the sounds of the enemy’s response. The French captain had been taken by surprise, and only half of his guns had been brought to bear on the wildly tacking Truculent. The enemy’s sails were in total chaos as her topmen tried to take the way off her and follow Truculent’s example.

Aft by the compass box, Bolitho felt the deck shudder as some of the enemy’s iron crashed into the hull. The sea’s face was feathered with flying chain-shot which had been intended for Truculent’s mast and rigging.

Poland yelled, “Stand by to starboard, Mr Williams!”

Men scampered back to their stations at the other battery, as they had drilled so many times. The range was much greater, and the second French ship lay bows on, her topsails rippling and spilling wind while her captain tried to change tack.

“As you bear, lads!” Williams crouched by the first division of guns, then sliced the air with his sword. “Fire!”

Bolitho held his breath as gun by gun along Truculent’s side the long orange tongues spat out from this carefully timed broadside. But the enemy was still almost end-on, a difficult target at a range of some two cables. He hid his disbelief as like a great tree the frigate’s foremast seemed to bow forward under the pressure of the wind. But it did not stop; and with it went the trailing mass of broken shrouds and running rigging, and then the whole topmast, until the forward part of the vessel was completely hidden by fallen debris. It must have been almost the last shot of the battery. But just one eighteen-pound ball was enough.

Bolitho looked at Poland’s smoke-stained features. “Better odds, Captain?”

The seamen, who were already training the quarterdeck nine-pounders with their handspikes, looked at him and gave a hoarse cheer.

Allday slitted his eyes against the funnelling smoke and watched the leading frigate as she eventually came under command. She lay down to larboard now, her maincourse brailed up, but several others punctured by Truculent’s cannon fire. Bolitho had stolen the wind-gage from the Frenchie, but it was all they had. One thing was certain: Poland could never have done it, would never have tried to attempt it. He saw Bolitho glance up at the sails and then towards the enemy. As in memory. Like at The Saintes in their first ship together, the Phalarope. Bolitho was still that captain, no matter what his rank and title said. He glared at the cheering, capering seamen. Fools. They would change their tune damn soon. He gripped his cutlass more tightly. And here it comes.

Williams raised his sword and looked aft at the captain. “Ready to larboard, sir!”

“Fire!”

The ship staggered to the thunder and recoil of the guns, while the pale smoke billowed downwind towards the enemy.

It was like grinding over a reef or running into a sandbar, so that for a long moment men seemed to stare at one another as the enemy’s broadside crashed into the hull or screamed through the canvas and rigging overhead. The spread nets jumped with fallen cordage and blocks, and a scarlet-coated marine dropped from the maintop before lying spreadeagled above one of the gun crews.

Bolitho coughed out smoke and thought briefly of Inskip down in the reeling gloom of the orlop. The first wounded would already be on their way there. He looked at the marine’s corpse on the nets. It was a marvel nothing vital had been shot away.

He saw Jenour wiping his eyes with his forearm, dazed by the onslaught.

“Captain Poland, prepare to alter course, if you please. We will steer due west!” But when he looked through the thinning smoke he saw that Poland was down, one leg doubled under him, his fingers clutching his throat as if to stem the blood which flooded over his coat like paint. Bolitho dropped on his knee beside him. “Take him to the surgeon!” But Poland shook his head so violently that Bolitho saw the gaping hole in his neck where a fragment of iron had cut him down. He was dying, choking on his own blood as he tried to speak.

Lieutenant Munro joined him, his tanned face as pale as death.

Very slowly, Bolitho stood up and looked towards the enemy. “Your captain is dead, Mr Munro. Pass the word to the others.” He glanced down at Poland’s contorted features. Even in death his eyes were somehow angry and disapproving. It was terrible to see him die with a curse on his lips, although he guessed that he had been the only one close enough to hear it.

His last words on earth had been, “God’s damnation on Varian, the cowardly bastard!”

Bolitho saw Williams staring aft towards him, his hat gone but the sword still gripped in his hand.

Bolitho watched a seaman cover Poland’s body with some canvas, then he walked up to the quarterdeck rail as he had done so many times in the past.

He thought of Poland’s despairing curse and said aloud, “And my damnation too!” Then he dropped his hand and felt the ship’s anger erupt in another savage broadside.

Jenour called huskily, “The corvette’s closing, sir!”

“I see her. Warn the starboard battery, then pass the word to the marines in the tops. Nobody will board this ship!” He stared at Jenour and knew he was speaking wildly. “Nobody!”

Jenour tore his eyes away and called to a boatswain’s mate. But just for a few seconds he had seen a Bolitho he had not known before. Like a man who faced destiny and accepted it. A man without fear; without hate and maybe without hope either. He saw Bolitho turn away from the drifting smoke and look towards his coxswain. The glance excluded everyone, so that the death and danger seemed almost incidental for that one precious moment. They smiled at each other, and before the guns opened fire once again Jenour tried to recall what he had seen in Bolitho’s expression as he had glanced at his friend. If it was anything, it was like an apology, he decided.

Bolitho had seen Jenour’s desperate gaze but forgot him as the guns thundered again and recoiled on their tackles. Like demons the crews flung themselves to their tasks of sponging out the smoking muzzles, before ramming home fresh charges and finally the black, evil-looking shot. Their naked backs were begrimed from powder smoke, sweat cutting pale lines through it in spite of the bitter wind and floating droplets of spray.

There was blood on the deck too, while here and there great blackened scores cut across the usually immaculate planking, where French balls had come smashing inboard. One of the larboard eighteen-pounders had been upended and a man lay dying beneath its massive weight, his skin burning under the overheated barrel. Others had been pulled aside to keep the deck clear for the small powder monkeys who scurried from gun to gun, not daring to look up as they dropped their charges and ran back for more.

Two corpses, so mutilated by flying metal that they were barely recognisable, were lifted momentarily above the nettings before being cast into the sea. Burial when it came was as ruthless as the death which had marked them down.

Bolitho took a telescope from its rack and stared at the other frigate until his eye throbbed. Like Truculent, she had been hit many times and her sails were shot through, some ripping apart to the pressure of the wind. Rigging, severed and untended, swayed from the yards like creeper, but her guns were still firing from every port, and Bolitho could feel some of the iron hitting the lower hull. In the rare pauses, while men fell about their work like demented souls in hell, he could hear the telltale sound of pumps, and almost expected to hear Poland’s incisive tones urging one of his lieutenants to bid them work all the harder.

The glass settled on the other frigate’s poop and he saw her captain staring back at him through his own telescope. He shifted it slightly and saw dead and dying men around the wheel, and knew that some of Williams’ double-shotted guns had reaped a terrible harvest.

But they must hurt her, slow her down before her guns could find some weakness in Truculent’s defences.

He lowered the glass and yelled to Williams, “Point your guns abaft her mainmast and fire on the uproll!”

His words were lost in another ragged barrage, but a petty officer heard them, and knuckled his forehead as he dashed through the smoke to tell the first lieutenant.

He saw Williams peer aft and nod, his teeth very white in his bronzed face. Did he see his real chance of promotion now Poland was dead, as his captain had once done? Or did he only see the nearness of death?

Pieces of gangway burst from the side and scattered ripped and singed hammocks across the deck like faceless puppets. Metal clanged from one of the guns and men fell kicking and writhing as its splinters pitched them down in their own blood. One, the young midshipman named Brown whom Bolitho had seen joking with the first lieutenant, was hurled almost to the opposite side, most of his face shot away.

Bolitho thought wildly of Falmouth. He had seen enough stones there. This young fourteen-year-old midshipman would probably have one too when the news reached England. Who died for the Honour of his King and Country. What would his loved ones think if they had seen the “honour” of his death?

“Again, on the uproll!” Bolitho reeled back from the rail while the guns roared out. Some spars fell from the Frenchman’s mizzen, and one of her topsails was reduced to floating ribbons. But the flag still flew, and the guns had not lost their fury.

Munro shouted, “She’s closing the range, Sir Richard!”

Bolitho nodded, and winced as a ball slammed through an open port and cut a marine in half while he stood guarding the mainhatch. He saw Midshipman Fellowes stuffing his fist into his mouth to prevent himself from retching or screaming at the sight—he could be blamed for neither.

Munro lowered his glass. “T’other frigate is still adrift, Sir Richard, but they’re cutting the wreckage clear.”

“Yes. If she rejoins the fight before we can cripple the—”

There was a loud crack behind him and he heard more splinters whine through the air and thud into woodwork. He felt something strike his left epaulette, and rip it away to toss it to the deck like a contemptuous challenge. A foot lower, and the iron splinter would have cut through his heart. He reached out as Munro reeled against the side, his hand under his coat. He was gasping as if he had been punched in the stomach, and when Bolitho tore his hand away he saw the bright red blood running from his white waistcoat and breeches, even as Allday caught him and lowered him to the deck.

Bolitho said, “Easy, I’ll have the surgeon attend you.”

The lieutenant stared up at the empty blue sky, his eyes very wide as if he could not believe what had happened.

He gasped, “No, sir! Please, no—” He gasped again as the pain increased and blood ran from one corner of his mouth. “I—I want to stay where I can see …”

Allday stood up and said gruffly, “Done for, Sir Richard. He’s shot through.”

Someone was calling for assistance, another screaming with pain as more shot hammered into the side and through the rigging. But Bolitho felt unable to move. It was all happening again. Hyperion and her last battle, even to holding the hand of a dying seaman who had asked “Why me?” as death had claimed him. Almost defiantly he stooped down and took Munro’s bloodied hand, and squeezed it until his eyes turned up to his. “Very well, Mr Munro. You stay with me.”

Allday sighed deeply. Munro’s eyes, which watched Bolitho so intently, were still and without understanding. Always the pain.

Hull, the sailing-master who had fought his own battle with wind and rudder throughout the fight, yelled hoarsely, “Corvette’s takin’ t’other frigate in tow, sir!”

Bolitho swung round and noticed that Jenour was still staring down at the dead lieutenant. Seeing himself perhaps? Or all of us?

“Why so?” He trained the glass, and wanted to cry out aloud as the roar of another disjointed broadside probed his brain like hot irons.

He found the two ships through the pall of drifting smoke and saw the boats in the water as a towline was passed across. There were flags on the corvette’s yards, and when Bolitho turned the glass towards the attacking ship he saw a signal still flying above the flash of her armament. She showed no sign of disengaging, so why was the other ship under tow? His reeling mind would make no sense of it. It refused to answer, even to function.

He heard Williams’ voice. “Ready to larboard! Easy, my lads!” It reminded him of Keen with his men in Hyperion, quietening them as will a rider with a nervous horse.

Bolitho saw the Frenchman’s yards begin to move, while more sails appeared above and below the punctured rags as if by magic.

Jenour cried with disbelief, “He’s going about!”

Bolitho cupped his hands. “Mr Williams! Rake his stern as he tacks!”

Allday sounded dazed. “He’s breaking off the fight. But why? He’s only got to hang on!”

There was a sudden stillness, broken only by the hoarse orders of the gun-captains and the thud of the pumps. From somewhere aloft, from lookout or marine in the fighting tops, nobody knew.

“Deck below! Sail on th’ weather bow!”

The Frenchman was gathering way as she continued to turn until the pale sunlight lit up her shattered stern windows, where Williams’ carronade had scored the first strike for the price of a midshipman’s two guineas; and beneath, across her scarlet counter her name, L’Intrepide, was clear to see for the first time.

Bolitho said, “Aloft, Mr Lancer, as fast as you can. I want to know more of this newcomer!”

The lieutenant bobbed his head and dashed wild-eyed for the shrouds. He faltered only when Williams’ guns fired again and then he was up and climbing through the smoke as if the devil was at his heels.

Allday exclaimed, “By God, the bugger’s making more sail!”

Men stood back from their smoking guns, too stunned or crazed to know what was happening. Some of the wounded crawled about the torn decks, their cracked voices demanding answers when there were none to offer.

Bolitho shouted, “Stand to! She’s run out her stern chasers!” As he had watched his powerful enemy standing away, he had seen two ports in her mauled stern open to reveal the unfired muzzles pointing straight at Truculent even as the range began to open.

Williams yelled, “Ready on deck!”

As if he was totally unaware of the danger and the battle beneath him, Lieutenant Lancer shouted down in the sudden silence, “She’s making her number, sir!”

Allday whispered harshly, “Zest, by God—but too bloody late.”

But he was wrong. Even Lancer, struggling with his telescope and signal book from his precarious perch aloft, sounded confused.

“She’s Anemone, thirty-eight.” His voice seemed to shake. “Captain Bolitho.”

At that very moment L’Intrepide fired first one stern chaser then the other. A ball crashed into the quarterdeck and cut down two of the helmsmen, covering Hull with their blood before scything through the taffrail. The last ball struck the mizzen top and brought down a mass of broken woodwork and several blocks. It was a miracle that Lancer had not been hurled down to the deck.

Bolitho was more aware of falling than of feeling any pain. His mind was still grappling with Lancer’s report, hanging on although it was getting harder every second.

Hands were holding him with both anxiety and tenderness. He heard Allday rasp, “Easy, Cap’n!” What he had called him in the past. “A block struck you—”

Another voice and misty face now, the surgeon. Have I been lying here that long?

More probing fingers at the back of his skull; sounds of relief as he said, “No real damage, Sir Richard. Near thing though. A block like that could crack your head like a nut!”

Men were cheering; some seemed to be sobbing. Bolitho allowed Jenour and Allday to get him to his feet amidst the fallen debris from the last parting shot.

The pain was coming now, and Bolitho felt sick. He touched his hair and felt where he had taken a glancing blow. He rubbed his eyes and saw the dead Munro watching him with an intense stare.

Williams was yelling, “She’s an English frigate, lads! The day is won!”

Allday asked in a whisper, “Is something wrong, Sir Richard?”

Bolitho covered his left eye and waited for the fog of battle to leave his brain. Adam had come looking for him, and had saved them all.

He turned to Allday as his question seemed to penetrate. “There was a flash.”

“Flash, Sir Richard? I’m not sure I understands.”

“In my eye.” He removed his hand and made himself look towards the distant French ships as they withdrew from their near-victory. “I can’t see them properly.” He turned and stared at him. “My eye! That blow … it must have done something.”

Allday watched him wretchedly. Bolitho wanted him to tell him it would go away, that it would pass.

He said, “I’ll get a wet for you, sir. For me too, I reckon.” He reached out and almost gripped Bolitho’s arm as he would a messmate, an equal, but he did not. Instead he said heavily, “You stay put till I gets back, Sir Richard. There’s help a’comin’. Captain Adam’ll see us right, an’ that’s no error.” He looked at Jenour. “Keep by his side. For all our sakes, see?” Then he groped his way past the dead and dying, the upended guns and bloodstained planking.

It was their world and there was no escape. All the rest was a dream.

He heard a man cry out in private torment.

Always the pain.