18

FIRE AND MIST

BOLITHO stood by the Black Prince’s stern windows and half listened to all the familiar sounds as she made more sail again and got under way. In the quarter gallery he could see the ghost-like reflection of the frigate Tybalt, as she stood off from the flagship and prepared to return to the Nore for orders.

Her new captain was doubtless relieved to have delivered his passenger without mishap or risk of any blame for delays, and that he could now resume his own individual role.

Bolitho thought of that last farewell in the house on the river. Catherine had wanted to drive with him to Chatham, but she had not pleaded when he had said, “Go to Falmouth, Kate. You will be amongst friends there.” They had parted as passionately as they had lived together. But he could still see her. Standing on the stone steps, her eyes filling her face, her high cheekbones holding shadows as the sun reflected from the river.

Bolitho heard Ozzard banging about in the sleeping compartment: he seemed to be the only one of his little band who was actually glad to be back with the squadron.

Even Allday was unusually depressed. He had confided that when he had seen his son aboard Anemone, the younger man had confessed that he wanted to quit the navy after all. It was like a slap in the face for Allday. To discover a son he had known nothing about, to learn of his courage when he had first suspected him a coward, and then to see him made coxswain to Captain Adam Bolitho—it had been more from life than he had ever hoped.

His son, also named John, had explained that he wanted an end to war. He loved the sea, but he had said that there were other ways of serving it.

Allday had demanded to know what they might be, and his son had replied without hesitation, “I want to fish, and one day own my own boat. Settle down with a wife—not like so many.”

Bolitho knew that last remark was what had really hurt him. Not like so many. His father, perhaps?

Allday had described his son’s enthusiasm as he had relived their too-brief encounter after the battle. He had ended by saying, “When he told me that Cap’n Adam agreed with him, I knew I was beaten.”

Maybe Allday had been comparing his own life, and what might become of him one day.

There was a knock at the outer door, and Keen entered and gave his hat to Ozzard.

“Come in, Val.” He watched him curiously. Keen looked more relaxed than for a long time. Even his face was untroubled by the duties which lay heavily on any squadron’s flag captain. Bolitho had carried a letter for him which Catherine had been holding in her care.

Bolitho said, “You can scan these papers at your leisure, Val. But to cut it short, it seems that Admiral Godschale’s prophesies and plans have been put into motion.” They crossed to the table and looked at the chart. “A large fleet, including some of the ships released from Good Hope, has been gathered at North Yarmouth in Norfolk. It’s about the nearest anchorage of any size to Denmark. Admiral Gambier has hoisted his flag in Prince of Wales, and he has some twenty-five sail of the line under his command.”

He smiled at Keen’s alert profile. “I gather the admiral originally intended to take Black Prince as his flagship, but he feared she would not be completed in time.” He became serious, thinking suddenly of Herrick as he said, “There will be many transports and troopships—some will carry all the flat-bottomed boats they will need for landing the army, as well as artillery for laying siege. It will be the biggest combined operation since Wolfe took Quebec in fifty-nine.” He thought of the general at Good Hope and added slowly, “Lord Cathcart commands the army, and I’m told he has some ten major-generals in company, one of whom is Sir Arthur Wellesley. I believe that Cathcart and many others will see this attack as a preparation for the eventual assault on Europe.”

Keen said gravely, “Then God help the Danes.”

Bolitho slipped out of his heavy coat and tossed it onto a chair.

“We will remain on station until Gambier’s fleet is through the Skagerrak, in case the French attempt to pounce on the supply vessels—it would leave the army high and dry if they succeeded! Then we follow in support.”

“As ordered, sir, Captain Crowfoot’s Glorious is still with our second division to the north’rd.”

“I know.” He rubbed his chin vigorously. “Have a signal repeated to Anemone, Val. Recall her to the squadron and I will send Adam with my despatches for Crowfoot. I think it best if we stand together until we know what is happening.”

As Keen made for the screen Bolitho asked, “What other news, Val?”

Keen looked at him searchingly and then gave a huge grin. “I have heard from Zenoria, sir.”

Bolitho gave a wry smile. “I rather gathered so!”

“The date is arranged.” The words seemed to flood out of him. “Lady Catherine’s hand was in it, it seems. They talked together, and she has asked her to visit her at Falmouth.”

Bolitho smiled. “I am glad to know it.” He walked around the table and clasped Keen’s hands. “There is nobody who better deserves the love and happiness she will offer.”

When Keen had gone to have the signal made which would eventually be repeated to Anemone beyond the horizon, Bolitho wondered what the two women had spoken of. Catherine had said little about it, but had obviously been very pleased about their meeting. Something in her tone had suggested that Zenoria’s uncle, newly returned from the Indies, might have tried to discourage the marriage. Had he wanted the lovely girl with the moonlit eyes for himself, perhaps?

He went back to the canvas-covered folder, which he had carried in Tybalt in its lead-weighted bag in case they had run into a stronger enemy force again, and turned over the pages. A door opened and closed and he heard Jenour whispering, Yovell’s deeper response. They were gathering around the wheel’s hub again, the spokes waiting to reach out to other ships and different minds from the man who led them.

But Bolitho was seeing reality in the beautiful writing. Twenty thousand soldiers, artillery and mortars, with all the small vessels like bombs and gun brigs to support their landings.

They would batter their way ashore between Elsinore and Copenhagen itself. If the Danes persisted against a long siege, that lovely city of green spires would lay in ruins. It did not seem right. The Danes were good people who wanted only to be left alone.

Bolitho slammed the cover shut. But there was no other way. So be it then.

Keen returned and said, “Signal made, sir. The visibility is good, so Anemone should be here before dusk.”

They were still discussing tactics and the correct wording of his orders to the squadron’s captains when the midshipman-ofthe-watch entered to report that Anemone’s topgallants were in sight.

Bolitho realised it was his nephew, and asked, “How are you settled, Mr Vincent?” Then he saw a dark bruise on his cheek, and several scars around his mouth.

Vincent answered sulkily, “I am well enough, Sir Richard.”

As he left the cabin Bolitho suggested mildly, “A little altercation, no doubt?”

Keen shrugged. “It is difficult sometimes to watch over all young gentlemen at once, sir.”

Bolitho observed his discomfort and said, “That young fellow is a bully, with a conceit as wide as this cabin. Because he is related to me, it makes no difference in matters of discipline. And I will share something else with you. He will never make lieutenant unless you believe in miracles!”

Keen stared at him, astonished by such frankness, and that Bolitho could still surprise him.

“It was a fight, sir. A sort of gunroom court of law. The other one was Mr Midshipman Segrave.”

Bolitho nodded slowly. “I should have guessed. No one would understand better how to deal with a petty tyrant!”

The mood left him and he touched Keen’s arm and grinned. “Just be thankful you do not have to be the one to tell my sister Felicity!”

Lanterns were being lit when Anemone finally hove-to under Black Prince’s lee and rounded-up into the wind.

Yovell was sealing the despatches for Captain Crowfoot when the calls trilled at the entry port, and Keen led Adam aft to the great cabin.

Bolitho related the bones of what he had already explained to Keen.

“If the French make any show of strength or attempt to interfere with the attack or our supply vessels, I must know without delay. I will send word to Zest and Mistral at first light, but our little schooner can do it.”

Adam asked, “What do they say in London about the big liner Radiant sighted?”

Keen said sharply, “They do not believe it.”

Adam murmured, “I do, sir.”

Bolitho watched him. Adam must return to his ship before darkness closed in and they took up their stations for the night. But something was wrong. He could hear it in Adam’s voice; he had always been very close to this other nephew. He allowed himself to think it. His brother’s son. There had been many times when Bolitho had wished he had been his own.

He said, “Perhaps Lieutenant Evans did make a mistake.” He recalled how the Welshman had swallowed the tankards of rum. “But I trust him.”

Adam stood up. “I had better go, Uncle.” He faced him, with troubled, restless eyes. “If we fight, Uncle—you will take good care? For all our sakes?”

Bolitho embraced him. “Only if you do the same.” He saw Keen leave the cabin to order his men to recall Adam’s gig and said quietly, “You are worried about something, Adam. You may command a King’s ship, but to me you are still the midshipman, you know.”

Adam forced a smile but it only made him look more wistful. “It is nothing, Uncle.”

Bolitho persisted, “If there is anything, please tell me. I will try to help.”

Adam turned aside. “I know that, Uncle. It has always been my sheet-anchor.”

Bolitho accompanied him to the companion ladder while shadows between decks watched them pass in silence, thinking themselves invisible, or beneath their admiral’s notice. How wrong they were.

Bolitho listened to the sea’s subdued murmur and was conscious that this might be the last time he saw Adam before the sea-fight which every one of his senses had now warned him was imminent. He felt a sudden chill. Perhaps the last time ever.

He said, “Allday told me about his son.”

Adam seemed to rouse himself from his mood. “I was sorry, but in truth, he has no place in the line of battle. I understand how Allday must feel, but I also know that his son will fall in battle if he remains. I see the signs.”

Bolitho watched him in silence. It was like hearing somebody much older speaking from past experience. As if his dead father was still a part of him.

“You are his captain, Adam—I suspect you know him much better than his father. A coxswain must be close to his commander. The nearest of all men maybe.” He saw Allday with the side-party, his bronzed face standing out in the slow sunset. The nearest of men.

“Side-party, stand by!”

That was Cazalet, another link in the chain of command.

Keen, Cazalet, and the embattled midshipmen, drawing together as one company; in spite of the ship, or perhaps because of her.

Adam held out his hand. “My warm wishes to Lady Catherine when next you write to her, Uncle.”

“Of course. We often speak of you.” He wanted to press him further, to drag out of Adam what was weighing him down. But he knew Adam was too much like himself, and would tell him only when he was ready.

Adam touched his hat and said formally, “Your permission to leave the ship, Sir Richard?”

“Aye, Captain. God’s speed go with you.”

The calls shrilled, and the side-boys waited at the foot of the ladder to steady the gig for a departing captain.

“I wonder what ails him, Val?”

Keen walked with him towards the poop, where he knew Bolitho would fret out his worries in a measured walk.

He smiled. “A lady, I shouldn’t wonder, sir. None of us is a stranger to the havoc they can create!”

Bolitho watched Anemone’s lower yards change shape in the gold light as her fore and main courses filled to the wind.

He heard Keen add admiringly, “By God, if he can handle a fifth-rate like that, he should be more than a match for a saucy glance!”

Again he saw Allday standing by a tethered twelve-pounder; alone, despite the bustling shadows around him.

Bolitho nodded to Keen and climbed down to the quarterdeck.

“Ah, there you are, Allday!” Once again he saw the watching eyes, figures still unknown to him. How would he convince them when the time came?

In a quieter voice he said, “Come aft and share a glass with me. I want to ask you something.”

Somehow he knew Allday was going to refuse; his pride and his hurt would leave him no choice.

He added, “Come, old friend.” He sensed his uncertainty, even though Allday’s features were now lost in shadow. “You are not the only one who is lonely.”

He turned away, and heard Allday say awkwardly, “I was just thinkin’, Sir Richard. You takes risks all your life at sea—you fight, an’ if Lady Luck favours you, you lasts a bit longer.” He gave a great sigh. “An’ then you dies. Is that all there is to a man?”

Lady Luck … it reminded him of Herrick, the man he had once known.

He turned and faced him. “Let us wait and see, eh, old friend?”

Allday showed his teeth in the shadows and shook his head like some great dog.

“I could manage a wet, Sir Richard, an’ that’s no error!”

Lieutenant Cazalet, who was about to do his evening rounds of the ship, paused by Jenour and watched the viceadmiral and his coxswain disappear down the companion ladder. “A most unusual pair, Mr Jenour.”

The flag lieutenant studied him thoughtfully. Cazalet was a competent officer, just what any captain needed, in a new ship more than ever. Beyond that, he decided, there was not much else.

He replied, “I cannot ever imagine the one without the other, sir.”

But Cazalet had gone and he was alone again, mentally composing his next letter home about what he had just seen.

Captain Hector Gossage of the seventy-four gun Benbow moved restlessly about the ship’s broad quarterdeck, his eyes slitted against the hard sunlight. Eight bells had just chimed out from the forecastle and the forenoon watch had been mustered; and yet already the heat seemed intense. Gossage could feel his shoes sticking to the tarred seams and silently cursed their snail’s progress.

He stared across the starboard bow and saw the uneven line of twenty store and supply ships reaching away towards the dazzling horizon. A pitifully slow passage—their destination Copenhagen, to join Admiral Gambier’s fleet in support of the army.

Gossage was not a very imaginative man but prided himself on Benbow, a ship which had been in almost continuous service for several years. Many of the seasoned hands and warrant officers had been in the ship since he had assumed command; it had been, if there was such a creature in the King’s navy, a happy ship.

He glanced at the open skylight, and wondered what his rearadmiral’s mood would be when he eventually came on deck. Ever since he had received news of his wife’s death, Herrick had changed out of all recognition. Gossage was prudent enough not to mention certain things which his rearadmiral had overlooked, or more likely forgotten. As flag captain he might easily have the blame laid at his own door, and this he intended to avoid at all costs. He was nearly forty, and he had his sights set on a commodore’s broad-pendant before another year had passed—the obvious step to flag rank which he cherished more than anything. RearAdmiral Herrick had always been a reasonable superior, ready to listen, or even to use an idea which Gossage had put forward. Some admirals would bite your head off for so doing, then present the idea as their own. But not Herrick.

Gossage bit his lip and remembered the terrible nights at sea when Herrick had been incapable of speaking with any coherence. A man who had always taken his drink in moderation, and who had been quick to come down hard on any officer who saw wine and spirits as a prop for his own weakness.

He took a glass from the rack and levelled it on the wavering column of ships. Deep-laden, they were barely making a few knots, and with the wind veering due north overnight it would be another day before they entered the Skagerrak. A rich convoy, he thought grimly. Two hundred troopers of the light brigade and their horses, foot guards and some Royal Marines with all the supplies, weapons and powder to sustain an army throughout a long siege. He turned away and felt his shoe squeak free of the melting tar. At this rate, the war would be over before they even reached Copenhagen.

He moved the glass slightly before the sunlight blinded him and made him blink the tears from his eye. He had seen Egret, the other escort, an elderly sixty-gun two-decker which had been brought out of retirement after many years as a receiving vessel. Then the sea-mist blotted her out again.

Relics, he thought with bitterness. Anything which would stay afloat long enough for Their Lordships’ purposes.

At first light, the masthead lookout of one of the supply ships had sighted land far off on the starboard bow, a vague purple shadow which was soon hidden by the haze as the August sunshine changed the North Sea to an endless procession of undulating glass humps.

Lieutenant Gilbert Bowater climbed through the companion hatch and touched his hat vaguely.

“RearAdmiral Herrick is coming up, sir.”

Even the piggy flag lieutenant had entered into a conspiracy with the other officers to keep out of Herrick’s way, and avoid another blistering scene like the time recently when Herrick had berated a midshipman for laughing on watch.

The forenoon watchkeepers straightened their backs and a master’s mate peered unnecessarily at the compass.

Gossage touched his hat. “Wind’s still steady from the north, sir. The convoy’s closed-up since dawn.”

Herrick walked to the compass box and turned over the limp, damp pages of the log. His mouth and throat were raw, and when he turned towards the sun he felt his head throb without mercy.

Then he shaded his eyes and looked at the ships which they had escorted all the way from North Yarmouth. A meaningless task, a burden more than a duty.

Gossage watched him warily, as a post-boy will study a dangerous hound.

“I have put the boatswain’s party to blacking-down, sir. She’ll be smart enough when we enter harbour.”

Herrick saw his flag lieutenant for the first time. “Nothing to do, Bowater?” Then he said, “Don’t let these ships straggle like a flock of sheep, Captain Gossage. Signal Egret to come about and take charge of them.” Once again, his anger overflowed like water across a dam. “You should not need to be told, man!”

Gossage flushed and saw some of the men by the wheel glance at one another. He replied, “There is a thick sea-mist, sir. It is difficult to maintain contact with her.”

Herrick leaned against the nettings and said heavily, “It will take a month to repeat a signal along this line of grocery captains!” He swung round, his eyes red in the glare. “Fire a gun, sir! That will wake Egret from her dreams!”

Gossage flung over his shoulder, “Mr Piper! Call the gunner. Then have the larboard bowchaser cleared away!”

It all took time, and Herrick could feel the heat rising from the deck to match the raw thirst in his throat.

“Ready, sir!”

Herrick gave a sharp nod and winced as the pain jabbed through his skull. The gun recoiled on its tackles, the smoke barely moving in the humid air. Herrick listened to the echo of the shot going on and on as it ricochetted across each line of rollers. The supply ships continued on their haphazard course as if nothing had happened.

Herrick snapped, “A good man aloft, if you please. As soon as Egret is in sight I wish to know of it!”

Gossage said, “If we had retained our frigate—”

Herrick looked at him wearily. “But we did not. I did not. Admiral Gambier so ordered it once we had reached this far. The North Sea squadron is also with him by now.” He waved one hand around him. “So there is only us, and this melancholy collection of patched-up hulks!”

A dull bang echoed over the ship and Gossage said, “Egret, sir. She’ll soon harry them together!”

Herrick swallowed and tugged at his neckcloth. “Signal to Egret immediately. Close on the Flag.”

“But, sir—” Gossage glanced at the others as if for support. “She will lose more time, and so shall we.”

Herrick rubbed his eyes with his hands. He had not slept for so long that he could scarcely remember what it was like. Always he awoke with the nightmare which instantly froze into reality and left him helpless. Dulcie was dead. She would never be there to greet him again.

He said sharply, “Make the signal.” He walked to the poop ladder and peered over the side. “That shot came from yonder, not from Egret.” He was suddenly quite calm, as if he was somebody else. The air quivered again. “Hear it, Captain Gossage? What say you now?”

Gossage gave a slow nod. “My apologies, sir.”

Herrick eyed him impassively. “You hear what you want to hear. It is nothing new.”

Lieutenant Bowater murmured nervously, “The merchantmen are drawing into line, sir.”

Herrick smiled bleakly. “Aye, they smell the danger.”

Gossage felt that he was going mad. “But how can it be, sir?”

Herrick took Dulcie’s telescope and levelled it carefully across the quarter as Egret’s topsails appeared to float, unattached, above a bank of white mist. He said, “Perhaps Sir Richard was right after all. Maybe we were all too stupid, or too stricken to listen to him.” He sounded detached, indifferent even, as a midshipman yelled, ” Egret’s acknowledged, sir!”

Then he said, “The North Sea squadron is no longer on station.” He trained the splendid telescope on the nearest merchantman. “But the convoy is still our responsibility.” He lowered it and added irritably, “Signal Egret to make more sail, and take station ahead of the Flag.” He watched as Bowater and the signals midshipman called their numbers and sent the bright bunting soaring up the yards.

One hour, then two dragged past in the melting heat. A faulty challenge? An exchange between privateer and smuggler? Each was a possibility.

Herrick did not glance up as the masthead shouted, “Deck there! Land on the lee bow!”

Gossage remarked, “Another hour or so and we shall be in sight of the Skagerrak, sir.” He was beginning to relax, but slowly. Herrick’s unpredictable temper was having its effect.

“Deck there! Sail on the starboard quarter!”

Men ran across, and a dozen telescopes probed the blinding mirrors of water and the gentle mist.

There was something like a gasp of relief as the lookout cried, “Brig, sir! She wears our colours!”

Herrick contained his impatience while he watched the brig as she beat this way and that to close with the flagship.

The signals midshipman called, “She’s the Larne, sir. Commander Tyacke.”

Herrick screwed up his eyes to clear his aching brain. Larne? Tyacke? They triggered off a memory, but he could not quite grasp it.

Gossage exclaimed, “God, she’s been mauled, sir!”

Herrick raised his telescope and saw the brig rise up as if from the sea itself. There were holes in her fore topsail, and several raw scars in the timbers near her forecastle.

“She’s not dropping a boat, sir.” Gossage sounded tense again. “She’s going to close with us to speak.”

Herrick moved the glass still further and then felt the shock run through him. He could see the sunlight glinting on the commander’s single epaulette, the way he was clinging to the shrouds, a speaking-trumpet already pointing towards the Benbow.

But his face … even the distance could not hide its horror. It was like being drenched with icy water as the memory flooded back. Tyacke had been with Bolitho at Cape Town. The fireship, the escaping French frigate—his head reeled with each revelation.

“Benbow ahoy!” Herrick lowered the glass and thankfully allowed the man’s identity to fall back into the distance. ” The French are out! I have met with two sail of the line and three others!”

Herrick snapped his fingers and took a speaking-trumpet from the first lieutenant.

“This is RearAdmiral Herrick! What ships did you see?” Each shouted word made his brain crack.

The man’s powerful voice echoed across the water and Herrick thought it sounded as if he were laughing. A most unseemly sound.

“I didn’t wait to discover, sir! They were eager to dampen my interest!” He turned away to call some commands as his brig slewed dangerously across Benbow’s quarter. Then he shouted, “One is a second-rate, sir! No doubt of that!”

Herrick faced inboard and said, “Tell him to carry word to Sir Richard Bolitho.” He stopped Gossage and revised it. “No. To Admiral Gambier.”

He walked to the compass and back again, then glanced at the old Egret’s pyramid of tanned canvas which seemed to tower directly beyond Benbow’s jib-boom. He saw all and none of it. They were things and moments in his life too familiar to comment on. Even the old cry, The French are out! could not move him any more.

Gossage came back, breathing hard as if he had just been running.

“The brig’s making more sail, sir.” He eyed him despairingly. “Shall I order the convoy to scatter?”

“Have you forgotten Zest’s captain so soon, man? Waiting somewhere for his wretched court-martial? They once executed an admiral for failing to press home an attack—d’you imagine they would even hesitate over Captain Varian?” Or us, he thought, but did not say it.

He looked for the little brig but she was already tacking around the head of the column. The man with the horribly disfigured face might find Gambier or Bolitho by tomorrow. It was probably already pointless.

But when he spoke again, his voice was steady and unruffled.

“Signal the convoy to make more sail and maintain course and distance. Spell it out word by word if you have to, but I want each master to know and understand the nearness of danger.”

“Very well, sir. And then … ?”

Herrick was suddenly tired, but knew there would be no respite.

“Then, Captain Gossage, you may beat to quarters and clear for action!”

Gossage hurried away, his mind groping for explanations and solutions. But one thing stood out above all else. It was the first time he had seen Herrick smile since his wife had died. As if he no longer had anything to lose.

Captain Valentine Keen held his watch against the compass light, then glanced around at the shadowy figures on the quarterdeck. It was strange and unnerving to hear and see the flash of cannon fire from the land while Black Prince lay at anchor, another cable run out from aft so that they could kedge her round to use at least one broadside against attack.

When there was a lull in the bombardment Keen felt blind, and could sense the tension around him. A boat was hooked on to either cable, with Royal Marines crouched over the bulwarks armed with muskets and fixed bayonets in case some mad volunteer attempted to swim out and cut them adrift. Other marines lined the gangways, while the swivel guns were loaded and depressed towards the black, swirling current of Copenhagen’s great harbour.

The first part of the attack had gone well. The fleet had anchored off Elsinore on the twelfth of August; there had been no opposition despite the presence of so many men-of-war. Three days later the army had begun to advance on the city. The closer they got the heavier became the Danish opposition, and in the last attack the navy had been savaged by a fleet of praams, each mounting some twenty powerful guns, and a flotilla of thirty gunboats. They were eventually driven off after a fierce engagement, and the military and naval batteries ashore were soon repaired.

Keen looked up as Bolitho crossed the quarterdeck, and guessed he had not slept.

“It is timed to begin soon, Val.”

“Aye, sir. The army have got their artillery in position. I heard they have seventy mortars and cannon laid on Copenhagen.”

Bolitho looked around in the darkness. Black Prince had followed Gambier’s main fleet to Elsinore and had soon been engaged with the Danish guns of the Crown Battery. It was not that much different from their other attack on Copenhagen, except that here they were fighting small craft and shadows, while the army pressed forward against persistent and dogged resistance.

Two divisions of sail of the line were anchored between the defenders and the Danish fleet, most of which appeared to be laid up in ordinary or in a state of repair, perhaps to appease the English and French predators.

In the midst of the bombardments and the far-off forays of cavalry and infantry, Lord Cathcart, the commander-in-chief, had found time to grant passports to the Princess of Denmark and the King’s nieces to travel safely through the English lines, “So that they could be spared the horrors of a siege.”

When Keen had remarked on the effect that might have on Danish morale, Bolitho had answered with sudden bitterness, “King George the Second was the last British monarch to lead his army into battle—at Dettingen, I think it was. I doubt if we’ll ever see such a thing again in our lifetimes!”

He winced as the whole sky burst into flame and the systematic bombardment started. To add to the horror, powerful Congreve rockets were soon falling on the city, disgorging their deadly loads of fire, so that within the hour many of the buildings nearest the waterfront were ablaze.

Keen said between his teeth, “Why don’t the Danes strike? They have no chance!”

Bolitho glanced at him and saw his face flickering in the red and orange reflections, while the hull, deep beneath them, shook to each fall of shot.

The Danes, he thought. No one ever referred to them as the enemy.

“Boat ahoy! Stand off, I say!”

Marines ran along the deck and Bolitho saw a boat pause abeam, rocking gently in the current and laid bare by the lurid flash of rockets.

There were white crossbelts visible, and someone yelled at the sentries to hold their fire. Another moment, and the nervous marines would have poured a volley into the boat.

An officer stood in the sternsheets and cupped his hands, pausing between each roar of explosions to make himself understood.

“Sir Richard Bolitho!” A pause. “The Admiral-Commanding sends his compliments, and would you join him in the flagship?”

“What a time to choose!” Bolitho glanced round and saw Jenour with Allday close by. To Keen he said, “I will go across in the guardboat. It must be urgent not to keep until dawn.”

They hurried to the entry port where the boat had eventually been allowed to hook on.

Bolitho said tersely, “You know what to do, Val. Cut the cables if you are attacked—use the boats if necessary.”

Then he was down in the guardboat and pressed between Jenour and the officer-of-the-guard.

As they pushed off from Black Prince’s massive, rounded hull someone thrust his head through an open gunport and yelled, “You get us out o’ this, eh, Our Dick?”

The officer snapped, “Damned impertinence!”

But Bolitho said nothing; he was too moved for words. It was like being pulled across liquid fire, with anonymous pieces of charred wood tapping against the hull, and falling ashes hissing into the water.

Admiral Gambier greeted him in his usual distant manner.

“Sorry to drag you over, Sir Richard. Your squadron may be sorely needed tomorrow.”

Bolitho’s hat was taken away and replaced by an ice-cold glass of hock.

Admiral Gambier glanced aft towards his quarters. All the screen doors were open to the warm air, and smoke drifted in and out of the gunports as if a fireship were already alongside.

The great cabin seemed to be packed with blue and scarlet coats, and Gambier said with obvious disapproval, “All congratulating themselves—before the Danes surrender!”

Bolitho kept his face impassive. The Danes again.

Gambier jerked his head. “We are using my captain’s quarters. Bit quieter.”

In the cabin, similar but older than Keen’s in the Black Prince, all but one lantern were extinguished. It made the stern windows burn and spark like the gateway to hell.

Gambier nodded to a midshipman and snapped, “Fetch him!” Then he said, “Damned glad of those vessels you managed to poach from Good Hope. The Captain of the Fleet never stops talking about it.”

There were footsteps on the outer deck and Gambier said quietly, “I must warn you, this officer’s face is most hideously wounded.”

Bolitho swung round. “James Tyacke!”

Gambier muttered, “Never mentioned that he knew you. Odd fellow.”

Tyacke came into the cabin, ducking beneath the deckhead beams until Bolitho gripped his hands warmly in his.

Gambier watched. If he were impressed he did not reveal it. He said, “Give Sir Richard your news, Commander.”

As Tyacke described his sighting of the French ships, and his later meeting with Herrick’s convoy, Bolitho felt the anger and dismay crowding in from the flashing panorama beyond the ship.

Gambier persisted, “You are certain, Commander?”

Tyacke turned from the shadows and momentarily displayed his ravaged face.

“A second-rate, possibly larger, and another sail of the line astern of her. There were others too. I had no opportunity to linger.”

Gambier said, “This is a small-ship war now that the army is ashore, Sir Richard. I did not anticipate that RearAdmiral Herrick would need further protection. It seems I was wrong, and should have left your squadron on its station until—”

Bolitho interrupted sharply, “Do you think they’ve found the convoy?”

Tyacke shrugged. “Doubt it. But they will, if they maintain their course and speed.”

Bolitho looked at the admiral. “I am asking you to allow me to order my squadron to sea, sir.”

Gambier eyed him severely. “Impossible. Out of the question. In any case, most of your ships are to the east’rd in the Baltic approaches. It would take two days, longer, to get them in pursuit.”

Tyacke said bluntly, “Then the convoy will perish, sir, as will its escorts.”

The admiral frowned as a gust of laughter came up from his quarters. “People are dying over there! Do they care for no damned thing!”

He seemed to make up his mind. “I will release your flagship. You can have one other—Nicator, as she is moored with you. Poor old girl will probably fall apart if she is called to battle!” Then he exclaimed, “But there is no one to guide you through the Sound.”

Bolitho said desperately, “I did it before, under Nelson’s flag, sir.”

Tyacke remarked calmly, “I’ll lead the way, Sir Richard. If you’ll have me.”

Gambier followed them to the side and said to his own captain, “Would you say I am an easy man to serve?”

The captain smiled. “Fair, sir.”

“Not the same.” He watched the guardboat speeding across the water, one minute in total darkness, the next illuminated so brightly in the falling Congreve rockets that he could see every detail.

Then he said, “Just now, in my own flagship, I felt that he was in command, not I.”

The flag captain followed him aft towards the din of voices. It was a moment he would savour all his life.

Back aboard Black Prince, Bolitho rapped off his orders as if they had been lurking there in his mind.

“Send a boat to your old ship, Val. She’s to weigh and follow without delay.” He gripped his arm. “I’ll not have any arguments. Larne will lead us out. I said this might happen, damn them!”

The great three-decker seemed to burst alive as calls trilled between decks and men ran to their stations for leaving harbour. Anything was better than waiting and not knowing. They would not care whatever the reason. They were leaving. Bolitho thought of the unknown wag who had called out in the darkness.

The capstan was clanking busily, and he knew that the kedge-anchor would soon be hoisted inboard.

A lantern moved across the water, and occasionally Bolitho saw the brig’s sturdy shadow as she made ready to take the lead.

Two great rockets fell together on the city, lighting up the sky and the ships in a withering fireball.

Bolitho had been about to call for Jenour when it happened. As the fire died away he took his hand from his injured eye. It was like looking through clouded water, or a misted glass. He lowered his head and murmured, “Not now. Not yet, dear God!”

“Cable’s hove short, sir!”

Keen’s voice was harsh in the speaking-trumpet. “How does the cable grow, Mr Sedgemore?” Then he paused until the next flash so that he could see the angle of the lieutenant’s arm. There was not much room, especially in the darkness. He needed to know how the ship, his ship, would perform when she tore free of the ground.

Cazalet bellowed, “Loose tops’ls!” A few paces aft. “Stand by, the Afterguard!”

Black Prince seemed to tilt her lower gunports close to the black water as the cry came drifting aft.

“Anchor’s aweigh, sir!”

Bolitho gripped the tarred nettings and tried to massage his eye.

Jenour asked in a whisper, “May I help, Sir Richard?”

He cringed as Bolitho swung on him, and waited for the stinging retort.

But Bolitho said only, “I am losing my sight, Stephen. Can you keep a secret so precious to me?”

Overcome, Jenour could barely answer, but nodded vigorously, and did not even notice a boat pulling frantically from under the black figurehead while the ship continued to swing round.

Bolitho said, “They must not know.” He gripped his arm until Jenour winced with the pain. “You are a dear friend, Stephen. Now there are other friends out there who need us.”

Keen strode towards them. “She answers well, sir!” He glanced from one to the other, and knew what had happened. “Shall I send for the surgeon?”

Bolitho shook his head. Maybe it would pass; perhaps when daylight found them, it would be clear again.

“No, Val … too many know already. Follow Larne’s stern-light and put your best leadsmen in the chains.”

Allday materialised from the darkness, holding out a cup. “Here, Sir Richard.”

Bolitho swallowed it and felt the black coffee, with a mixture of rum and something else, steady his insides so that he could think again.

“That was more than welcome, old friend.” He handed him the cup and thought of Inskip. “I am over it now.”

But when he looked at the burning city again, the mist was still there.