Success to the Brave

17 Fair Warning

Bolitho stepped over some trailing lines and walked to the weather-side of the quarterdeck. The French frigate was much nearer but had shortened sail as if uncertain what to do next. He estimated that she was about half a mile from Achates' starboard quarter.

He heard men crawling about the deck behind him, as if the best part of the ship's company had suddenly become cripples.

It was essential that the ship should be cleared for action without all the obvious bustle and movement which the French lookouts would immediately recognize.

Keen was saying to the boatswain, 'You shall send your people aloft to rig chain-slings only when we begin to engage.'

Big Harry Rooke rumbled something in reply and Keen rapped, 'They've no choice, man. One stupid move now and we'll be feeding the fish before dusk!'

He turned and saw Bolitho watching him.

'Mr Quantock is sorely ashamed of his record, sir. Twenty minutes to clear for action!' His attempt to joke seemed to steady him and he added, 'What are your orders for this memorable day, sir?'

Bolitho pointed. 'In a moment we will alter course three points to lee'rd. It is my guess that the frigate will close the range to take station on our quarter again. But he'll be much nearer."

If only his heart would settle. The tension might so easily reveal itself in his voice.

Keen looked past him at the frigate's shortened pyramid of canvas. 'She's new, like the third-rate. Probably to impress the Americans.' He did not conceal the bitterness. 'Whereas our masters thought fit to send the oldest sixty-four still in service!'

Bolitho walked to the rail and glanced along the gun-deck and the black eighteen-pounders. Their crews were stripped for battle and were concealed beneath the gangways or huddled against their guns with their tools and weapons.

'It will have to be quickly done, Val. The French seventy-four is well astern of us now. But it will take time. They'll be ready for us after we show our intentions.'

Keen nodded, his mind working on the next manoeuvre and the one after it. 'The third French vessel is smaller. Mr Mountsteven thinks she is a twenty-six-gun frigate. As I recall, she will be the Diane, a real veteran by comparison.'

Knocker turned the half-hour glass by the binnacle and said, 'Ready, sir.'

'Pass the word to the lower gun-deck.'

Keen looked round as Allday appeared from the poop. He was carrying Bolitho's old sword and his features were stiff as if to conceal the pain of his wound.

Bolitho held up his arms so that he could clip the sword into place.

Allday muttered, 'You should not be wearin' them epaulettes today, sir.' He shrugged and gave a brief grin. 'But I've sailed with you often enough to know better'n to argue, I suppose.'

Bolitho looked at the Frenchman's sails. He saw sunlight lance from a levelled telescope in her foretop. At any second they might see something suspicious and beat to quarters.

But he said, 'Take care of yourself, Allday. No risks today.'

He touched his arm, and two of the quarterdeck powder-monkeys nudged each other, the enemy forgotten as they shared something private.

Allday eyed him bleakly. 'Don't insult me, sir. If them buggers come at us, they'll find me ready enough, an' that's no error!'

Bolitho smiled. 'I also know better than to argue, old friend.'

He swung away as Keen said, 'They've made a signal to the Argonaute, sir!'

Midshipman Ferrier lowered his big signals telescope and said, 'It's code, sir.'

Bolitho said, 'Alter course.'

Ready and waiting, the helmsmen put the wheel over, and while others ran to trim the yards. Knocker reported, 'Three points it is, sir! Nor'-east by north!'

Bolitho could feel the difference as the wind thrust more forcefully into Achates' canvas.

Keen said, 'Recall Mr Mountsteven from aloft. I had all but forgotten him again.'

'The Frenchie's changin' tack, sir.'

Bolitho held his breath as the powerful frigate turned a point or so towards Achates and at the same time spread her main-course and driver.

Keen slammed a fist into his palm and exclaimed, 'He's overhauling us, sir.'

A marine dropped something on the poop as he crawled closer to the hammocks and Sergeant Saxton snarled, 'I'll skin you alive if you make another move!'

Bolitho watched the frigate and saw the clear spray bursting over her beak-head and bowsprit. If she continued to overhaul them she would pass down the starboard side at less than half a cable's distance.

He raised the telescope and saw intent faces staring across the lively water, strangely alien after the familiar ones he met every day.

'Stand by on the gun-deck!'

Keen folded his arms and stared at the enemy. As soon as Achates changed tack again she would be laid hard over to leeward by the wind. But her sudden manoeuvre would carry her across the frigate's bows. It was now or never, for in a matter of minutes both vessels would collide once Achates began to turn. 'Man the braces!'

Bolitho gripped the old sword and pressed it against his leg.

‘Now!'

The big wheel squeaked violently as the helmsmen threw their weight on the spokes, and as the yards began to shift with the wind two more ensigns were run up to the main and mizzen trucks.

'Open the ports! Lively there! Run out!'

Bolitho watched the frigate and could not take his eyes from the towering mass of sails and rigging as she swept towards Achates' side.

He heard a trumpet and pictured the wild confusion aboard as the vessel they had been stalking suddenly turned like a lion at bay, her guns bared, each one double-shotted, every captain seeking his own target.

Keen yelled, 'As you bear!' His arm flashed down. 'Fire!'

For an instant Bolitho thought he had left it too long. That he should not have wasted valuable time by hoisting his battle ensigns. If their roles had been reversed . . .

His mind cringed as the eighteen-pounders of the upper battery hurled themselves inboard, while from the lower gun-deck the heavier roar of the twenty-four-pounders shook the ship from truck to keel.

Men stumbled about in the choking smoke as it was swept through the open ports and above the gangway while Achates exposed her broadside to the wind.

At such a close range the effect was immediate and terrible.

The frigate's foremast and main-topmast staggered under the onslaught of the double-shotted guns. Then spars, sails and rigging joined together in one great avalanche of destruction which thundered over the bows and sides, hurling spray into the air and dragging the hull round.

'Sponge out! Reload!'

Keen shouted, 'Stand by to come about, Mr Quantock.' He did not need telling the need for haste.

As the helm went down again and Achates surged round into the wind, Bolitho was grateful that they had not made more sail. In such a stiff wind the ship might have been in irons, or worse, dismasted.

Gun by gun along the starboard side the captains were holding up their hands as each barrel poked its muzzle through a port.

The frigate was still floundering down-wind under the dragging weight of fallen spars and sails, but Bolitho was not deceived and knew what could happen once that wreckage was hacked away.

'Main-tops'l braces there! Heave! Put your backs into it!'

Achates continued to turn, the frigate suddenly appeared above her starboard bow as if she and not the little two-decker was moving.

To any inexperienced eye it would look like chaos. The boatswain and his party swarming out on the topsail yards to rig the chain-slings, while below them their ship pirouetted around her masts to cross the enemy's stern.

'Starboard battery! Ready!'

Keen had his hand in the air and did not even blink as here and there along the enemy's side a gun fired in defiance. But for her it was already too late, and as Achates crossed the frigate's starboard quarter even those guns fell silent, unable to traverse enough to find a target.

Bolitho saw a ripple of musket fire from the poop and mizzen-top and instant response from Dewar's sharpshooters.

He felt something like sickness in his stomach as Achates' jib-boom passed the frigate's stern. He saw her glittering cabin windows, her name, La Capricieuse, in gold letters across her counter.

Then Achates' starboard carronade belched fire from the forecastle and the enemy's stern and poop appeared to open like an obscene cave. When the carronade's massive ball burst within the crowded hull its packed charge of grape would transform the gun-deck into a slaughter-house.

Men, weapons, the rudder, everything would be blasted aside and incapable of movement for many hours.

Keen cupped his hands. 'Get the royals on her, Mr Quantock!'

He had no time to wait and worry about the carronade's harvest. The frigate was out of the fight.

Once again Achates clawed her way round to hold the wind on her quarter. It was as if nothing had changed. Not a man lost, not a scratch on wood or canvas.

Bolitho climbed the poop ladder and levelled his glass to seek the French seventy-four. Even in distance she looked fierce and enraged, he thought. She was spreading more sails, and had hoisted a signal to her yards for the benefit of her remaining companion.

He heard Knocker shout, 'East-nor'-east, sir!'

The Frenchman was steering north-east. Again they were on a converging tack. But the Argonaute held the wind-gage and would probably try to cripple her enemy by dismasting or by tearing down her rigging with chain-shot while keeping at a safe distance.

Bolitho trained the glass on the dismasted frigate. It must have been a terrible shock. Bolitho remembered his time as a prisoner of war in France. Never again, he had vowed then.

Keen touched his hat. 'All guns loaded and ready, sir.' He glanced aloft. 'Mr Rooke has even managed to rig his nets and slings.'

Bolitho smiled. 'I know it was a risk, Val.'

Keen looked away. 'You gave them fair warning. They'll not need it this time.'

He stared hard at the French seventy-four. Just over a mile distant, while the little frigate was standing away from her heavy consort and tacking down-wind to be ready to dash down and harry Achates from another angle. After seeing the fate of La Capricieuse it was unlikely she would force home an attack yet.

Bolitho also watched the French flagship and felt the nearness of their contest like claws in his loins. She was new, big and better armed. But Achates was more agile, and had proved her worth a hundred times over.

Keen was thinking aloud. 'If he holds the wind we cannot reach him, sir. Whereas he can move in when he pleases or chance some long shots which might score a serious hit.'

'I agree.' Bolitho climbed up to the nettings and peered over them. 'The other frigate, the Diane, she's steering for the west'rd, next she'll come about after us.' He shot him a grim smile. 'To snap at our heels!'

Keen nodded. 'She could do some damage if we were already engaged with the Argonaute, sit.'

Bolitho stepped down. 'Tell me what you think. Shall we use the Diane as bait?'

Keen's eyes lit up. 'Go for the frigate, sir?'

Bolitho nodded. 'Contre-Amiral Jobert is, I believe, an honourable sailor. I cannot see him standing by while his remaining frigate is attacked by a ship of the line!'

Bolitho looked at the sun. Only an hour since the carronade, the Smasher as it was termed, had blasted away the other frigate's resistance.

He said, 'You have a gun captain named Crocker. I met him at the fortress. A fearsome fellow but, I understand, the finest of his trade.'

Keen said, 'Lower gun-deck, sir. I'll send for him.'

Crocker came aft, his good eye shielded from the sun. After the cool gloom of the lower gun-deck he was finding it irksome. He knuckled his forehead and gazed at Bolitho, his deformed figure at odds with the scarlet-coated marines nearby.

Bolitho said, 'I want you to take charge of the two stern-chasers. We shall have company there directly, and when I give the word I want you to damage her badly enough to cause concern to her admiral.'

Crocker twisted his head further as if to fix his good eye on him.

Sir?'

Keen said wearily, 'Just do it, Crocker. The French seventy-four will close the range when her admiral sees what is happening.'

'Oh, I see, sir!'

'Pick all the men you want, but I need that frigate winged.'

Crocker showed his uneven teeth. "Bless you, sir, I thought you was makin' do with the little 'un!'

He loped away with his strange swinging gait, and Keen said, 'If we let the Frogs get alongside, old Crocker will frighten them to death!'

Bolitho loosened his neckcloth and looked at the sky. Sea-birds floated high above the embattled ships, indifferent, and coldly watching for the gruesome scraps which would soon be theirs.

He thought of Belinda, the green slope below Pendennis Castle where she could watch and wait for the ships to pass.

He heard Adam say, 'It won't be long.'

Bolitho looked at him. Was he afraid? Resentful that he might die so young?

But the lieutenant saw his glance and said, 'I'm all right, sir. I shall be ready.'

Bolitho smiled. 'I never doubted that. Come, Adam, let us take a walk together. It will pass the time.'

The swivel-gun crews and marine marksmen in the tops peered down as the vice-admiral and his youthful aide walked up and down the quarterdeck, their shadows passing over the naked backs of the seamen at their tackles with their rammers and charges.

Midshipman Ferrier lowered his glass for the hundredth time, his eye sore from staring at the oncoming seventy-four. It seemed such a short while ago that he had been thinking of home, of the chance to take his lieutenant's examination. In that towering pyramid of sails and the double line of guns which glinted in the sunlight like black teeth, he saw his hopes already gone. Now the thing which worried him most was whether or not he could stand up to what lay ahead.

He saw Bolitho pass by, speaking with his nephew, the way the flag-lieutenant was smiling at something he said. When he raised his telescope again his fear had gone.

On the lower gun-deck Midshipman Owen Evans peered through the gloom until he found Lieutenant Hallowes who was in charge of the twenty-six cannons here and ran to pass a message from the captain.

Hallowes listened to what the midshipman reported and remarked laconically, "Pon my soul, Walter, we're goin' for the frigate first!'

His assistant, the fifth lieutenant, laughed as if it was the greatest joke he had ever heard.

Evans paused at the foot of a ladder, his eyes taking in the red-painted sides, the shining skins of the men by the open ports, the air of watchful tension. Every man had his ears covered by his neckerchief. In this confined space the roar of the twenty-four pounders could deafen anyone in minutes.

Evans stared at his hand on the scrubbed woodwork. It was shaking uncontrollably, as if it had a will all of its own.

The shock made him look round at the gun-deck again. It was unlike the other times when he had been on deck near the vice-admiral when the Spanish ship had burst into flames after that fierce battle. Or even when he had taken command of Sparrowhawk's boat. It was nothing like it at all.

Scenes flashed before his eyes. His pride and excitement at being accepted as midshipman in a fine frigate like Sparrow-hawk. His first uniform made with loving care by his own father. Evans came of a large family, but he was the only one who had chosen the sea rather than tailoring.

Foord, the fifth lieutenant, saw the boy hesitating by the ladder and snapped, 'Move your feet, lad. There'll be messages aplenty in a moment or two!' Foord had once been a midshipman in this very ship and was only nineteen himself. He added in a gentler tone, 'What is it, Mr Evans?'

Evans stared up at him. 'Nothing, sir.' But his mind was screaming instead, I’m going to be killed. I'm going to die.

Foord watched him run up the ladder and sighed. Probably still thinking about Captain Duncan's death, he thought.

On the orlop deck beneath Foord's feet, Tuson, the surgeon, walked slowly round his makeshift table, his eyes taking in the array of glittering saws and probes, the empty 'wings and limbs' tubs, the leather strap to wedge between a man's teeth. The great jar of rum to ease the agony. Away from the slowly spiralling lanterns his mates and loblolly boys stood like ghouls, their hands tucked in their clean aprons while they too waited.

Tuson entered his small sick-bay and stared unseeingly at the cots, at the cupboard which contained more rum and brandy. He found that he was clenching his fists, his mouth like parchment as he imagined what that first drink would be like.

He heard footsteps outside and saw Corporal Dobbs with his musket and fixed bayonet peering at him uncertainly. Dobbs had the additional duty of ship's corporal in which he assisted the master-at-arms. But now he was a proper Royal Marine again and was needed at his station on deck.

Tuson saw that Sir Humphrey Rivers was also standing by the door, his head bowed between the great deckhead beams.

Dobbs said uncomfortably, 'Couldn't very well put a gentleman like 'im in the cells, sir.'

Tuson nodded. In case the ship went down under them, he thought.

Dobbs continued, 'An' it didn't seem proper to leave 'im with the Froggies we picked up from the wreck.'

Tuson looked at Rivers. 'If you stay here, Sir Humphrey, it may not be pleasant either.'

Rivers looked at the swaying shadows, the sense of doom which seemed to lurk here.

'It will be better than being alone.' He nodded curtly. 'I appreciate it.'

His face filled with relief that he had rid himself of his burden, the corporal all but ran to the ladder.

Bottles and jars clinked on the shelves as a gun banged out from aft.

Tuson exclaimed, 'What are they doing?'

Rivers smiled coldly. 'Stern-chaser.'

Tuson massaged his fingers. 'You've not forgotten then?'

Rivers hung his richly embroidered coat on a hook. 'That's one thing you never forget.'

Deep in the ship's fat hull, in his own private store-room, Tom Ozzard, the vice-admiral's servant, folded his arms and rocked back and forth as if he was in pain.

By the light of a single lantern he could see all of Bolitho's possessions stacked around him. It seemed wrong to leave them in such careless disarray, Ozzard thought. The fine table and chairs, the splendid wine-cooler, the desk and the cot, like everything else above the orlop deck which had been removed and torn down when the ship had been cleared for action. Now on both gun-decks Achates lay open from bow to stern, the crews unimpeded, the way clear for the young powder-monkeys to run with fresh charges and shot.

Ozzard had heard the boats being swung out and lowered for towing astern. Once action was joined the boats would be cut free, to be recovered by the victor, whoever it was. But tiered boats on deck were an additional source of deadly, crippling splinters when an enemy's iron crashed inboard.

Ozzard looked at the bolted door and shivered. It was cold down here where he kept his wine, and in times like these took refuge.

Like Allday, he was privileged to come and go as he pleased, and was grateful for the profession Bolitho had given him. Now in his store, in the lowest portion of Achates' hull, he was afraid. But it did not trouble him. He had accepted it long ago.

When he had carried the fresh chicken to the cabin for Bolitho, he had found time to glance at the master's chart below the poop.

Ozzard held his arms across his narrow chest even more tightly. Below where he sat was the keel, and beyond it there was nothing but a bottomless ocean.

He winced as another gun made the deck quiver. But it seemed far away and without danger. Later he might venture up on deck. There was another muffled bang and he decided to wait.

Isolated from the enclosed world between decks, Bolitho climbed to the poop and looked at the French seventy-four. She had spread more canvas, but although she had closed the distance between them she had not yet fired a shot. He estimated that she had changed tack slightly and was now steering along an almost parallel course. By contrast, the little frigate had run with the wind before coming about to take station on Achates' lee quarter.

He said, 'Open fire.' He heard his order being passed to the quarterdeck, felt the response as the helm went over and the ship came reluctantly as close to the wind as she could manage.

He watched as the frigate appeared to move over until she lay directly astern. Then, as the word reached him far below, old Crocker jerked his trigger-line and the starboard stern-chaser recoiled with a sharp bang. Bolitho did not blink, and thought he saw the dark blur of the ball as it reached the apex of its flight before it splashed down almost alongside, the tall waterspout falling and scattering in the wind.

Bolitho heard the marines at the netting whispering and probably making bets on the next shot.

Old Crocker was good all right. He had almost winged the frigate with his first ball.

Now he had the range, and the 'feel' of it, as every gun captain should. Furthermore, the Diane's captain would know it.

The frigate fired one of her bow-chasers, and its thin spout of water well astern of Achates brought a roar of derision from the marines.

Their lieutenant snapped, 'Sar'nt Saxton, you will oblige me by keeping those ruffians quiet and in good order!' But he was grinning as he spoke and the reprimand was more for Bolitho's benefit than anything.

Adam climbed to the poop with a telescope and looked astern as another gun fired from below the counter.

This time there was no splash to betray the fall of shot. Instead a great streamer of torn topsail broke free and curled from its yard like a pale banner.

Bolitho heard the muffled cheers from below. They had hit her. If one of Crocker's eighteen-pound balls struck the Diane's slender hull it could be serious.

Adam exclaimed, 'Look, sir! Argonaute's setting her main-course!'

The seventy-four seemed to puff herself up as with sail upon sail she leaned over to the wind, her lower gun-ports almost awash as she changed tack towards Achates.

Bolitho heard Keen shout, 'Let her fall off three points again, Mr Knocker! Steer nor'-east by north!'

Even as the hands hauled at the braces and Knocker stood over the binnacle like a watchful hawk, Crocker fired yet again, and this time one of the frigate's jib sails was cut away to join its ragged companion.

Quantock was yelling, 'Mr Mountsteven! Another pull at the weather-forebrace there! Now belay, dammit, sir!'

Men bustled about at the braces and halliards, while only the crews of the starboard guns, which pointed towards the enemy, remained at their stations.

Bolitho gripped the nettings as the deck tilted to the thrust of the canvas overhead.

The French captain would have to close the range whether he wanted to or not. Unless he ordered his frigate to stand away, in which case Achates would be able to meet his challenge gun to gun. Bolitho smiled. Well . . . almost.

One of the marines who was leaning against the hammocks, his musket already cradled against his cheek, saw Bolitho's smile and dared to say, 'Us'Il teach them Frogs a lesson, sir!'

He seemed to realize he had spoken to a vice-admiral uninvited and lapsed into confused silence.

Bolitho glanced at him. He did not even know his name.

In a while they would be fighting for their very lives. The heaviest casualties were usually aft on the unprotected poop and quarterdeck. This marine might be one of them.

He said, 'I am relying on it.' He looked at their expectant faces, hating his own words. 'So give your best, lads.'

There was a jarring crash as Crocker laid and fired another gun. The frigate had changed tack very slightly, but it had not passed unnoticed by the grotesque gun captain. As her shape lengthened momentarily Crocker pulled his trigger-line and the ball smashed through the enemy's larboard gangway, hurling planks and splintered wood high into the air.

There were more cheers, and Bolitho held his breath as the frigate paid off down-wind, her torn canvas still whipping above the deck as she opened the range between them.

Then he ran down the poop ladder and strode to the rail above the gun-deck.

It would be very soon. He glanced quickly abeam and saw the seventy-four's bows edging into view, her canvas bulging to the wind as she changed tack still further towards the Achates.

'Stand by!'

The cheering ceased instantly and gun crews crouched beside their eighteen-pounders, staring through the ports. 'As you bear!'

The French ship had the wind-gauge, but so strong was the pressure in Achates' sails that her gun muzzles were elevated to maximum advantage by the slanting decks.

‘Fire!'

Deck by deck, gun by gun, the carefully aimed broadside flashed along Achates' side from stern to forecastle. Some of the forward guns were traversed to full extent, their crews leaning on their handspikes until they too could train on the enemy.

Bolitho watched intently as the Argonaute's topsails danced wildly, the wind ready and eager to explore the holes punched by the double-shotted guns.

Along and beyond her hull he saw the sea alive with flung spray as more balls slammed down with terrible impact.

It was impossible to determine if they had hit anything vital. But the range was still closing, the French captain just as aware as Keen of the danger of a lucky shot. One ship knocked out of the fight, another driven off by Crocker's two stern-chasers, the French captain would feel the humiliation too with his admiral breathing down his neck.

Bolitho saw the flashing line of bright tongues from the seventy-four's side, tensed for the sickening shriek of iron, the crash of shots slamming into timber. Instead he heard the insane whine of chain-shot and saw long streamers of broken rigging floating from the upper yards, the forward topgallant sail ripped apart like a handkerchief in the invisible onslaught.

'Ready!' Keen had his hand up high. 'Fire!'

Again the guns recoiled madly on their tackles, their crews leaping forward to sponge out and ram in fresh charges while the muzzles were still spewing smoke.

'Ready!' Keen wiped his streaming face with his forearm. 'Fire!'

The gunnery was superb. All the drills, the demanding discipline, were paying off now. Two broadsides to Argonaute's one.

They were hitting her too. Her mizzen-topmast was dangling like a fallen bridge, and her sails were pock-marked by shot and flying splinters.

Bolitho held his breath again as the guns flashed along the enemy's side.

He felt the jarring thud of balls hitting the hull, and saw the fore-course punctured in several places at once. The wind did the rest, and soon the fore-course was little more than rags.

‘Fire!'

The pace was slower, the response more irregular, as the gun captains jerked their lines and jumped clear as each great breech charged inboard again.

There was a great crack and then amidst a writhing tangle of stays and rigging Achates' main-topgallant mast thundered down. It ploughed into the larboard gangway like a battering ram, tearing aside the protective nets as if they were cobwebs before toppling overboard.

Rooke and his men were there in an instant, axes flashing as they cut the wreckage away. Two seamen were down too. Dead or knocked unconscious by falling rigging, Bolitho did not know.

The guns roared out once more, the din scraping at his mind, as fallen cordage and great strips of canvas fell over the sweating gun crews while they reloaded and then fired again.

Keen shouted, 'Argonaute's coming at us, sir!'

He looked wild-eyed, his hat knocked from his head in the turmoil which surged around him.

Bolitho wiped his eyes and looked at the enemy. The trick had worked. The Argonaute was charging down-wind with every available sail set, her forward guns firing haphazardly, some hitting, but others, because of the fine angle of approach, ripping through wave-crests far astern.

The little frigate had made no attempt to press home her attack, and was probably grateful to be a mere spectator. She was too far away now to be of any use. It was already too late for last-minute strategy.

Bolitho heard himself shout above the crash and recoil of the guns, 'It's men not ships, Val! They're what count in the end!'

Smoke belched over the gangway and a marine fell from the main-top, his scream lost in the bombardment. One of the forward eighteen-pounders was on its side, two men down and bleeding badly beside it, another writhing and screaming, pinned to the deck by its overheated muzzle.

Men from the disengaged side ran to replace the dead and injured, others obeyed Quantock's speaking-trumpet and hurried to splice hasty repairs and set the big main-course. It was too close to the fighting, too great a risk if fire should spread from sparks or a burning wad from a gun.

Bolitho gauged the distance. The French ship was a cable away, her guns firing intermittently, but at this range she was hitting Achates again and again.

Keen was right to set the bigger sails. If Achates lost steerage-way now through lack of canvas, she would fall down-wind and present her unprotected stern to the Frenchman's heavy guns and suffer the same fate as the frigate. If the enemy got the chance to fire through Achates full length, both decks would suffer crushing losses.

Bolitho raised his smarting eyes to the foremast and saw his flag flying above the smoke and destruction. As the French admiral would see it. The additional spur to drive him on, to bring both ships together regardless of consequences.

'Fire!' Keen paused only until the guns roared out towards the enemy. 'Mr Trevenen! Take charge there!'

Bolitho saw that Mountsteven was lying near one of his guns. He had lost an arm, and part of his face had been scorched like burned canvas.

The lower gun-deck was firing without respite, and Bolitho could picture it as if he were there. It had once been his station as a midshipman, a thousand years ago. The red-painted sides to hide the blood of battle, the leaping, grotesque shadows of the gun crews as they pranced and struggled around their weapons, and all the while the low confines of the deck filled with smoke, like a scene from Dante's inferno.

A ball came through an open gun-port, and Bolitho could follow its progress as men were hurled aside, some painted in blood as one of their companions was almost cut in halves before it eventually crashed into the opposite side. Men fell and rolled in torment, and Bolitho saw Tyrrell striding among the debris and patterns of blood, his wooden stump adding to his fierce and wild appearance.

Another ball slammed through the quarterdeck nettings and flung hammocks across the deck like torn dolls. Two helmsmen dropped, and one of the master's mates fell screaming, a foot-long wood splinter in his stomach like a barbed arrow.

Bolitho looked round frantically but saw Adam pulling himself to his feet. Through the smoke, his voice lost in noise and deafness of battle, he smiled before turning away to assist the after-guard.

'By God, sir, this is too damn hot for my taste!'

Bolitho looked at Allday. He was obviously in pain, but was gripping his cutlass with both hands like a broadsword.

Bolitho felt his hat plucked from his head and knew that they were close enough for the marksmen to test their skills.

'Walk about, Allday, or go below.' He tried to grin but his face felt stiff, like leather.

A midshipman darted forward and retrieved his hat. There was a neat hole just below the binding.

Bolitho made himself smile. 'Why, thank you, Mr — '

But the youth merely stared at him, the life dying in his eyes, like a candle being snuffed out. Then he fell, blood flooding from his mouth.

Bolitho replaced his hat and stared at the enemy. He had not even remembered the boy's name.

A great shadow swept across the deck, followed by a chorus of shouts and screams. The fore-topmast, complete with topgallant mast and spars, had been shot away as cleanly as a carrot. It thundered over the side, taking rigging, men and pieces of men in its wake.

He heard Allday gasp, 'Th' flag, sir! They've shot your flag away!'

Even in the midst of disaster and death Bolitho could feel his outrage and bewilderment.

Bolitho drew the old sword and carefully laid the scabbard on the deck without really knowing what he had done.

The enemy was almost alongside, the guns still firing, the air filled with flying, whining fragments.

So this was where it was to be. Destiny had always known. Men merely deluded themselves.

He saw some sailors below the quarterdeck cringing as more falling wreckage bounced on the nets or splashed into the sea alongside.

They had given everything. Far more than should be expected of them.

He flung his hat down on the nearest gun and yelled, 'Come on, my lads! One last broadside!'

A gold epaulette was cut from his shoulder by a musket ball and a marine scooped it up and hid it in his tunic.

Dazed, bloody and filthy with powder smoke, the seamen returned to their guns, their rammers moving like extensions of themselves, their eyes blind to everything but the bright tricolour above the smoke.

Bolitho shouted, 'One more broadside, then she'll be into us, Val!'

Then he realized that Keen was clutching his side and there was blood on his fingers and white breeches. He saw Bolitho's concern and shook his head.

Between his teeth he gasped, 'Not yet, the people must not see me fall!'

Quantock saw what had happened and waved his hat. 'Fire!'

The guns roared out at point-blank range, the balls passing through a return of fire from the enemy. Splinters burst from the deck, men reeled about gasping, others yelled orders to those who had already fallen.

Quantock was aware mainly of a feeling of triumph. At the very moment when they were to engage at close quarters, when hard discipline and not softness would win through, he and not Keen had been the one to take command.

But something was wrong. He was slipping and then falling. But it was all right. Someone would help him. By the time he realized that the blood was his own, his eyes, like the midshipman who had retrieved Bolitho's hat, were dead.