A Tradition of Victory

9. Price of Freedom

HERRICK clung to Benbow’s quarterdeck rail, his teeth bared as he peered into the stinging force of wind and spray. In spite of her bulk, the seventy-four was shipping water over the forecastle and weather gangway as if she was already on her way to the bottom. Even Herrick, with all his years of hard won experience, had lost count of time and the orders he had shouted above the gale’s onslaught.

He heard Wolfe staggering across the slippery planking, cursing horribly until he joined his captain by the rail.

“Should be damn soon, sir!” His harsh voice seemed puny against the din of wind and waves.

Herrick wiped his streaming face with his hand. His skin felt numb and raw, and he sensed an unusual anger rising to match the weather. Ever since he had left Plymouth with his small but valuable convoy he had been plagued with misfortune. The other seventy-four, Nicator, had lost two men overboard within a day of sailing, and despite his liking and respect for her captain, Valentine Keen, Herrick had nursed a few hard thoughts as he had endeavoured to keep his ships together. Five merchantmen, with two seventy-fours and a solitary frigate to protect them. Herrick knew that when light eventually cut across the horizon it was very likely there would be no more than two of the ships in sight. The gale had roared out of the eastern horizon like a hurricane, shutting out sea and sky in a crazed world of spray and spindrift, which had left the hands battered and dazed, until with reluctance Herrick had ordered the ships to lie to and ride it out as best they could.

He felt Benbow sway over again, her close-reefed mainsail cracking and booming in protest while she fought her own battle, served by men who whenever they were ordered aloft were convinced they would never return alive.

He wondered if Wolfe was critical of him for not appointing a flag-captain before weighing anchor. The captain in question had been delayed on the road by his carriage losing a wheel. A fast rider had carried the news on ahead to Plymouth, but Herrick had decided to sail without further delay. But why? Was it really because of the need to reach Gibraltar and rid himself of the convoy, or was it because he could not still accept his temporary appointment to commodore, or wished to delay its confirmation for some reason he still did not understand?

Herrick shouted, “According to the master we are some twenty-five miles off the French coast!” He ducked into the wind. “God knows how old Ben Grubb can be so damn sure!”

Wolfe gasped as a solid sheet of spray burst through the nettings and drenched the already sodden watchkeepers and lookouts.

“Don’t worry, sir! We’ll round up the others when the wind eases!”

Herrick pulled himself along the rail. If it eases. He had been given just one frigate, the Ganymede. It was all the admiral could spare. Herrick swore quietly. Same old story. A small twenty-sixgun vessel at that, and she had made a fine beginning by losing her main-topgallant mast within minutes of the gale raking the convoy like a giant’s broadside.

Herrick had signalled her to stand closer inshore. With the gale rising at the time she might find more shelter and be able to rig a jury-mast and avoid further storm damage.

Soon afterwards Herrick had been unable to make any more signals, the wind and then an early darkness had made certain of that.

Wolfe struggled along the rail to join him again.

“The master insists that the wind will back by the forenoon, sir!” He peered at Herrick’s sturdy outline, sensing his stubbornness. “Ganymede will have to beat clear if it backs further still!”

Herrick swung on him. “God damn it, Mr Wolfe, I know that!” He relented just as quickly. “The convoy’s scattered, but John Company’s Duchess of Cornwall is well able to fend for herself, she’s probably better manned than Benbow, and certainly as well armed.”

He thought of Belinda Laidlaw who was aboard the big Indiaman, as safe as anyone could be in a summer storm in the Bay with the enemy’s coast abeam.

Dulcie had made certain she had a good maid to take passage with her. She would be all right. But it troubled Herrick nonetheless. Women did not belong at sea, even as passengers.

He said, “If only I knew…” He broke off, despising himself for baring his uppermost worry. Richard Bolitho might still be alive and somewhere out there in the darkness in a filthy Frog prison. Or lying helpless and dying in some fisherman’s cottage.

In his heart Herrick knew that was one of his reasons for leaving Plymouth without waiting for his new flag-captain. To reach Gibraltar and return with a minimum of delay. There had been no news of Styx ’s loss, not even a rumour about her people. Maybe they were all dead after all.

Water thundered along the upper deck, cascading over each tethered eighteen-pounder as if breaking across a line of reefs.

Herrick pictured Bolitho, saw him clearly as if he and not Wolfe was his companion.

He said shortly, “I’m going aft, Mr Wolfe. Call me the instant you need me.”

Wolfe said, “Aye, sir.”

He watched Herrick lurch to the companion-way and then shook his head. If that was what friendship did to a man, you could keep it, he thought.

He saw the officer-of-the-watch reeling below the poop, floundering in receding spray like a drowning man, and yelled, “Mr Nash, sir! I’ll trouble you to attend your duties! God damn your eyes, sir! You are like a whore at a wedding, all aback!”

The wretched lieutenant disappeared beneath the poop to join the helmsmen and master’s mates by the big double wheel, more afraid of Wolfe than all the perils of seasickness and discomfort.

In the great cabin the sounds of wind and sea were muffled by the ship’s massive timbers. Herrick sank into a chair, a puddle spreading across the chequered canvas from his watchcoat and boots.

He heard his servant come to life in the pantry, and was suddenly reminded of his thirst and hunger. He had taken nothing since noon yesterday. Had wanted nothing.

But it was little Ozzard who brought the food and drink to Herrick’s table. He placed the tray carefully by his elbow, crouching like a small animal as he waited for the deck to fall and then steady itself again.

Herrick eyed him sadly. What was the point of trying to reassure Ozzard when he felt his own sense of loss like a wound?

Ozzard said timidly, “I shall be close by if you want anything more, sir.”

Herrick sipped a goblet of brandy and waited for its heat to drive out the damp and the rawness of salt spray.

The marine sentry interrupted his thoughts. “Midshipman o’ th’ watch, sir!”

Herrick turned wearily as the youth entered the cabin.

“Well, Mr Stirling?”

The midshipman was fourteen years old, and after the first few weeks of being appointed to Benbow, his first ship, was enjoying every minute. Protected by youth, and by the ability to thrive even on the ship’s stale and unimaginative food, he was untouched by the sheer drama in which he was now involved.

“First lieutenant’s respects, sir, and the horizon is lightening.”

His eyes moved quickly around the spacious cabin, a palace after the midshipman’s berth on the orlop. Something to write to his parents about, to tell his fellow “young gentlemen” during the watch below.

Herrick felt his head droop with fatigue and snapped, “The wind?”

The youth swallowed hard under the captain’s blue stare.

“Steady from the east’rd, sir. The master thinks it may be dropping.”

“Does he?” Herrick yawned and stretched. “He’s usually right.”

He realized that the midshipman was staring at the glittering presentation sword on the bulkhead.

He thought suddenly of Neale when he had been one of Phalarope’s midshipmen, of Adam Pascoe, who craved for a command of his own but was doubtless mourning the loss of his beloved uncle. Of all the other dozens, hundreds of midshipmen he had seen down the years. Some were captains, others had quit the sea to seek their fortunes elsewhere. And there were many who had not even reached young Stirling ’s tender years before death or injury had cut them down.

Herrick said quietly, “Take it down if you like, Mr Stirling.”

The midshipman, his blue coat smeared with salt and tar stains, crossed to the rack, watched by Herrick and the small, stooped Ozzard. He took down the sword and held it beneath a deckhead lantern, turning it slowly to catch the engraving, the arms and decorations.

He said in a hushed voice, “I never thought, sir, I-mean…” He turned, his eyes very bright. “He must have been a fine officer, sir.”

Herrick jerked upright in the chair. “Must have been!” He saw the youth recoil and added hastily, “Yes, Mr Stirling, he was. But better than that, boy, he was a man. The best.”

The midshipman replaced the sword very carefully and said, “I’m very sorry, sir. I meant no hurt.”

Herrick shook his head. “None taken, Mr Stirling. Because others hoped and believed, so too did I. I forgot that Lady Luck can only do so much, miracles are harder to come by.”

“I-I see, sir.”

Stirling backed to the door, his mind grappling with Herrick’s words, not wanting to forget a single second of what had occurred.

Herrick watched him leave. You don’t see at all. But one day, if you are one of the lucky ones, you will understand.

Minutes afterwards the goblet dropped from his fingers and broke in pieces on the deck.

Ozzard stared at the sleeping captain, his hands opening and shutting at his sides. He stooped to gather up the broken glass but then stood away again, his pinched features suddenly hostile.

The captain’s own servant could do it. Ozzard glanced at the pantry door and tried to shut Herrick’s words from his mind. He was wrong. They all were, damn them.

Ozzard went to the pantry and sat down in one corner while the ship shivered and groaned around him.

He was Rear-Admiral Bolitho’s servant, and would be here when he returned, and that was an end to it!

Herrick hurried across the quarterdeck, half blinded by spray as he looked for Wolfe’s tall shape by the nettings.

Wolfe shouted, “There, sir! Hear it?”

Herrick licked his lips and ignored the shadowy figures and staring faces. There it was again. No doubt about it.

He said hoarsely, “Gunfire.”

Wolfe nodded. “Light artillery, sir. Probably Ganymede and another craft of the same ilk.”

Herrick strode up the tilting deck, his eyes straining into the feeble grey light and the panorama of tossing wave crests.

“Well, Mr Grubb?”

The master pouted and then nodded his ruined face. “Right bearing, sir. Not likely to be any other King’s ship thereabouts.”

Herrick glared at the tossing sea like a trapped animal. “Any of our vessels in sight yet?”

Wolfe replied, “I’ve already warned the masthead lookouts, sir. But nothing reported so far.”

Herrick heard it again, rolling downwind like staccato thunder. Two ships right enough. Fighting in the gale. Probably stumbled on one another by accident.

Wolfe asked, “Orders, sir?”

“Until we sight Nicator we shall continue to hove to, Mr Wolfe.” He looked away. “Unless…”

Wolfe grimaced. “That’s a powerful big word, sir.”

Herrick squinted, as if by doing so he would see the lay of the French coast as he had so many times on Grubb’s charts. It would take an eternity to beat inshore against this easterly wind, but Ganymede might already be in desperate need of support. When full daylight broke, just the sight of Benbow’s canvas on the horizon would give them heart and throw uncertainty amongst her attackers.

Captain Keen would know what to do. As soon as he realized that the convoy was scattered he would set-to with his Nicator and chase them into formation again.

But suppose Keen could not collect all the ships and some arrived at Gibraltar unescorted? Herrick had no illusions as to what might happen. His time as commodore would be short-lived, and any sort of promotion would remain as one of Dulcie’s dreams.

And if peace was to be signed between the old enemies, for no matter how short a respite, Herrick knew that when the drums beat to quarters once again his services would be shunned. It had happened to far better men with the background and influence he had never known.

He glanced at Wolfe, at Grubb’s great lump of a figure in his shabby watchcoat, at the youthful Midshipman Stirling who had unknowingly touched his heart with his admiration for Bolitho, a man he had never met. His eyes moved on past them, unblinking despite the heavy droplets of spray, as he looked at his command, the Benbow and all her tightly-sealed world of people and memories. His ship. He would certainly lose her too.

Wolfe watched him, knowing it was important to all of them without understanding why.

Grubb, the sailing-master who had played the old Lysander into battle with his tin whistle while all hell had exploded around him, did understand.

He said gruffly, “If we brings ’er about now, sir, and lays ’er on th’ larboard tack…”

Herrick turned and faced him. Once the decision was made, the rest was simple.

“I agree.” He looked at his gangling first lieutenant. “Call all hands, Mr Wolfe. We shall make sail at once. Hands aloft, if you please, and loose tops’ls.” He stared abeam as more gunfire followed the wind. “We will go and see what Ganymede has uncovered, eh?”

Herrick walked aft to the poop as calls shrilled and seamen and marines bustled to obey the pipe.

He paused by the wheel as Grubb gestured with a great fist to his master’s mates to be ready to alter course. Young Midshipman Stirling was scribbling on a slate beside the chart table and waiting for a ship’s boy to swing the half-hour glass. He looked up from his writing as Herrick drew near, and could not restrain a smile.

Herrick eyed him with a calmness he did not feel. “What amuses you, Mr Stirling? May I share it?”

Stirling ’s smile faded as Grubb glared at him threateningly for disturbing the captain.

Then he said, “You spoke of Lady Luck, sir. Perhaps she is still with us after all?”

Herrick shrugged. “We shall see. In the meantime, take yourself to the foremast crosstrees and carry a glass with you. Let us see if your eyes are as sharp as your wits!”

Grubb watched the midshipman run for the weather gangway, a telescope bobbing across his shoulder like a quiver.

“Gawd, sir, I really don’t know! These young varmints ’ave got no respect, no understandin’ of facts an’ responsibilities.”

They faced each other gravely, and Herrick said softly, “Not like us, eh, Mr Grubb? Not like us at all.”

Grubb grinned broadly as Herrick moved away. Then he saw the nearest helmsman watching him and roared, “Stand by, you idle bugger! Or I’ll be about yew with a pike, so ’elp me Gawd!”

Moments later, with her yards braced almost fore and aft, her lee gunports awash as she tilted heavily to the wind, Benbow came slowly about.

Herrick smiled with quiet satisfaction as topmen dashed about the upper yards, whilst on the deck below others ran to assist, to throw their weight on braces and halliards to make their ship turn deliberately towards the land.

It would be a slow and wearing process, with miles of tacking this way and that to gain a cable’s advance.

But as Herrick watched his men, and studied the set of each sail, the strain of each piece of standing rigging, he was glad he had acted against his saner judgement.

“Full an’ bye’ sir!” A master’s mate shouted excitedly, as if he too was sharing Herrick’s mood. “South by east!”

Herrick looked across at Wolfe who was directing his men through his long speaking trumpet. With his wings of bright red hair poking beneath his salt-stained hat he looked more like a Viking warrior than a King’s officer, Herrick thought.

Perhaps it would be too late, or all a waste of time. But if they could capture a French ship, or even seize a few of her people, they might learn something of Styx’s survivors. Just a hint, the tiniest shred of information, would make it all worthwhile.

Wolfe lowered his speaking trumpet and called, “We’ll shake out another reef if the wind allows, sir.”

Herrick nodded. Wolfe understood now. “Aye. And to hell with the consequences.”

Wolfe raised his eyes to the men working high above him and glanced at the scarlet broad-pendant which streamed from the masthead.

The captain had spoken of consequences. And there was the biggest one of all.

Bolitho pressed his shoulders against the frigate’s timbers and winced as the ship yawed and plunged deeply into another trough. It was as if the hull would never rise again, and when the keel struck the side of the trough Bolitho felt the blow run through his body as if the vessel had driven hard aground.

He tried again and again to picture what was happening on deck and across the water where another ship was preparing to fight. The Ceres would have the wind-gage, but with such a deep swell running that could hinder as much as help. He heard distant shouts, the occasional rasp of spray-swollen rigging through blocks as the Ceres’ captain worked his ship with every skill he knew to discover some advantage.

Allday made his way to a water cask and took his time filling a mug for Neale. He darted a glance up the nearest ladder and tried to understand what the Frenchmen were saying. The preparations for battle he understood of old, the quick, stooping shadows of powder-monkeys, the squeak of gun tackles, and above all the drumming force of wind into the reefed canvas.

He waited for the deck to settle and then hurried towards the side again. As he clung to the cot and held the mug to Neale’s lips he said, “Still a big sea running, sir. I can hear the water swilling about the gun-deck.” He forced a grin. “Give the Frogs somethin’ to sweat on!”

Browne drew his knees up to his chin and examined his manacles with disgust.

“If only we could get away somehow.”

Bolitho lifted his eyes to the deckhead as more thuds and the clatter of handspikes told of the gun crews’ difficulties. The wind was driving them away from safety, and they would have to fight whether they wanted to or not.

He looked at the surgeon and his assistants. They were standing or squatting around their makeshift table like patient ghouls. It was a sight which never failed to unnerve him.

“Listen!”

They strained forward on their chains as a metallic voice penetrated the sounds of sea and wind like a trumpet.

“Rassemblez-vous a la batterie de tribord!”

Browne nodded jerkily. “They’re engaging to starboard first, sir!”

Allday gritted his teeth. “Here we go. Up she rises!”

The broadside was violent and unexpected in spite of the warning. Bolitho felt the hull buck like a wild thing, saw the deck planking shiver as the guns crashed out in unison, the yells of their crews lost in the squeal of trucks, the urgent commands from aft.

Again. The Ceres seemed to fall steeply to one side as the guns roared out, the sound magnified and compressed into the orlop until Bolitho thought his ears would burst. Dust spurted from the planking, and he saw smoke drifting down the companion ladders like a moorland fog.

Some of the surgeon’s men were flinching and staring at the smoke, others busied themselves with their instruments and buckets.

Browne said huskily, “Two broadsides, sir. Nothing in return.”

Bolitho shook his head, not wishing to comment in case he missed something. He recognized all the sounds as well as Allday, the rammers and sponges, the scampering feet of shot-carriers, disjointed yells from individual gun-captains as they laid on their target.

What sort of ship was she? Large or small?

Once more the broadside flung them about, the guns riding inboard on their tackles like maddened beasts as their crews fought to control them and reload. Firing to leeward would make it difficult in these seas, Bolitho thought. The ports would be almost awash, and it would be hard to obtain full elevation if the other ship kept her wits about her.

There was some haphazard cheering, and then a slower broadside, pairs of guns firing from bow to stern with seconds between each shot.

Allday muttered bitterly, “Our lads must be standing off, sir. Either that or the Frenchies have dismasted ’em.”

Bolitho watched the circle of lanterns around the table swing towards the deckhead and remain there as if held by invisible hands as the ship tilted over and then came slowly upright again. The captain had changed tack and was running more smoothly now with the wind under his coat-tails, Bolitho decided. He had found his confidence, and was using the full force of the gale to quit the shelter of the land and go for the enemy. Bolitho tried to hide his disappointment. That meant the other ship was crippled or that her captain had found himself outman?uvred and probably outgunned.

The crash and thunder of iron against the hull was like an avalanche.

Bolitho gasped with pain as he was flung to the full extent of his manacles and chains, his head swimming as the orlop exploded in smoke and noise.

He felt the deck shiver as rigging and spars fell from aloft, and a deeper thunder as if a gun had been overturned. Men were shouting in the din, and other voices screamed pitifully as a second broadside smashed into the hull within minutes of the first.

Partly hidden by smoke, figures slithered and groped down the ladders, and others were dragged bodily into the lanterns’ glow as the surgeon’s mates came to life, roused by the sight and smell of blood.

The deck was swaying over again, and the French crews were returning fire. Balls slammed into the lower hull, and Bolitho heard the clank of a pump as the other ship’s iron smashed home.

Above the table the surgeon’s shadow rose and fell, the lanterns glinting on a knife and then on a saw as he struck at the writhing, naked shape which his men were struggling to hold still.

Another man darted forward, and Bolitho saw the wounded sailor’s arm tossed aside like so much meat.

More sobbing, protesting men were dragged and carried down to the orlop. Time had lost all meaning, and even the early daylight was blanketed now by swirling smoke and the fog of battle.

The surgeon seemed to dominate the place with his merciless energy. Bodies came and went, the more fortunate already unconscious as he went to work while his assistants stripped the next victim for his butcher’s hands.

The gunfire was less controlled now, but louder, and Bolitho guessed that the other ship was very near, the roar of cannon trapped between the two antagonists, the pace so hot that the end must surely be soon.

Browne watched the surgeon, his eyes wide with fascinated horror. He was not a young man, but he moved with the speed of light. Fleshing, sawing, stitching and discarding each of the wounded without even pausing as more shots slammed into the hull and the sea alongside. His hands and apron were bright red. It was a scene from hell.

Browne said thickly, “If I die, please God let it be on deck, and spare me this murder!”

There were warning cries, a brief chilling silence and then a prolonged thunder as a mast carried away and plunged down to the deck. The hull shook as if trying to free herself from the great mesh of fallen rigging and wildly flapping canvas, and even as the ring of axes echoed through the smoke, Bolitho heard the sharper bangs of swivel guns and muskets and said quickly, “They’re almost up to us!”

Shouts and screams filtered through the sounds of battle, and more wreckage fell across the upper deck, the dragging clatter of broken shrouds reminding Bolitho of Styx’s last moments when she had been dismasted.

Neale struggled up in the cot, his eyes wild as he shouted, “To me, lads! Stand fast!” He tried to strike out at Allday but the blow was that of a child.

Allday said harshly, “I’m going to get you out, Cap’n Neale! So you behave yourself!”

He ducked into some shadows where two wounded seamen lay apparently overlooked by the surgeon’s mates. Allday rolled one of them on to his back. The Frenchman had a wood splinter the size of a dirk in his throat and was staring at Allday in agonized terror. Unable to speak, and barely capable of breathing, he watched Allday as he dragged a cutlass from his belt and thrust it through his own.

The second man was already dead and unarmed, so Allday made to move away. But something held him in spite of his anger and his hatred.

The eyes were staring at him, filling the man’s face, as all the while his life ebbed away. He seemed to be pleading, asking the unknown man with the cutlass to spare him the terrible agony of his wound.

Allday bent down, and after a further hesitation drove the guard of his cutlass into the Frenchman’s jaw.

“Die in peace, mounseer!”

He rejoined Bolitho and started to prise with the cutlass at the ring-bolt which secured his chain.

“I saw that.” Bolitho watched him, moved by Allday’s rough compassion in spite of the nearness of death for all of them.

Allday said between his teeth, “Might have been me, sir.”

Voices, confused and frightened, announced more arrivals on the orlop, but this time it was different. Bolitho saw an outflung arm, the spreading red stain on the man’s side where a heavy ball had smashed through his ribs, but more than that, he saw the captain’s gold epaulettes.

Two soldiers also came down the companion ladder. Bolitho recognized their uniforms as those of a maritime regiment.

They stood apart from all the rest, their hands gripping their bayoneted muskets as they looked at the shackled prisoners, their intentions obvious.

The surgeon cut open the French captain’s shirt and then gestured to his men.

“Il est mort.”

Stricken wounded men peered through the smoke, unable to accept what had happened.

Overhead there was less firing, as if everyone who had survived was still shocked by the loss of their commander.

Then came the slithering impact of the other ship grinding alongside.

The deck swayed steeply, and Bolitho guessed that the other captain had allowed the crippled Ceres to drift down to him, and now with rigging and spars entangled they were held firmly in a last embrace.

“Huzza! Huzza!”The shouts sounded wild and inhuman. “To me, Ganymedes!”

Then the awful clash of steel, the occasional bang of musket and pistol before feet trampled over them as they tried to reload.

To the soldiers it was like a signal. Bolitho saw the nearest one, a corporal, raise his musket, the bayonet glinting in the lanterns as he aimed it straight at Neale’s chest.

“Too late, matey!” Allday bounded up from the side, the big cutlass swinging and hacking the soldier across the mouth like an axe in a log. As the man fell writhing in his own blood, Allday turned towards the second one. The man had also raised his musket but was stricken like a rabbit confronted by a fox after seeing his companion fall.

Allday yelled, “Not so brave now, eh?”

Browne swallowed hard as the cutlass slashed the man’s crossbelt apart. The force of the blow made the soldier double over, his cries silenced as the cutlass hacked him across his exposed neck.

Above and seemingly all around the air was rent with shouts, curses and screams. Steel on steel, feet staggering and slipping in blood, bodies thrust and ducked to gain and hold an advantage.

Allday clung to the swaying cot with one hand and threatened any circling figure who came near. A musket ball slammed into the side within inches of Bolitho’s shoulder, and he heard Allday’s blade hiss over his head like a protective scythe.

A corpse fell headlong down the companion ladder, and someone gave a terrible cry before a blade silenced him instantly, as if a great door had been slammed shut.

Hatless, his white breeches smeared with blood, and his eyes blazing like fuses, a British marine stood on the ladder, his levelled bayonet shaking on the end of his musket.

He saw Allday with his bared cutlass and yelled, “Here, lads! There are more o’ the bastards!” Then he lunged.

Allday had fought alongside the marines in many a boarding party or skirmishes ashore, but never before had he seen the madness of battle from the other side.

The man was crazed with fighting, a kind of lust which had left him a survivor in the fierce struggle from ship to ship.

Allday knew it was pointless to fight the man off until he could explain. More figures were stumbling down the ladder, marines and seamen alike. He would be dead in seconds unless he acted.

“Stand still, you stupid bullock!” Allday’s bellow brought the marine skidding to a halt, “Cut these officers free or I’ll cleave your skull in!”

The marine gaped at him and then began to laugh. There was no sound, but his whole body shook uncontrollably, as if it would never stop.

Then a lieutenant appeared, a bloodied hanger in his hand as he peered around the orlop, sniffing for danger.

He pushed past the marine and stared at Neale and then at the others.

“In God’s name. Get these men on deck. Lively, the captain’s ordered our recall.”

A seaman brought a spike and levered the ring-bolt out of the timber, then hoisted Bolitho and Browne to their feet.

The lieutenant said sharply, “Come along now! No time to dawdle!”

Bolitho loosened the manacles on his wrist, and as two seamen prepared to lift Neale from his cot said quietly, “That is Captain John Neale of the frigate Styx.” He waited for the lieutenant to turn. “I’m afraid I did not catch your name Mr, er…?”

The first madness of battle was already passing, and several of the boarding party even managed to grin at their lieutenant’s discomfort.

The lieutenant snapped, “Nor I yours, sir! ”

Browne took a first careful step towards the waiting seamen. How he managed it he did not know, although Allday later swore he never even blinked.

Browne said coldly, “This is Rear-Admiral Richard Bolitho. Does that satisfy you, sir? Or is this the day for hurling insults at all your betters?”

The lieutenant sheathed his hanger and flushed. “I-I am indeed sorry, sir.”

Bolitho nodded and walked slowly to the foot of the companion ladder. High above him he could see the hatch which opened on to the gun-deck. It was unnaturally bright, and he guessed the ship had been completely dismasted.

He gripped the ladder hard to control his shaking hands.

To the lieutenant he said, “You did well. I heard you shout Ganymede.”

The lieutenant wiped his mouth with his sleeve. He was beginning to shiver. Now it was over, later would come the pain of what he had seen and done.

Discipline helped, and he was able to forget his humiliation when he had all but dragged Bolitho to his feet in his eagerness to get back to the ship.

He replied, “Aye, sir. We are part of an escort. Under the broad-pendant of Commodore Herrick.”

Bolitho looked at him for several seconds. It was impossible. He was as mad as the marine.

“Perhaps you know him, sir.” The lieutenant winced under Bolitho’s gaze.

“Very well.”

Bolitho climbed on deck, each step on the ladder standing out with unusual clarity, every sound distinct and extra loud.

He passed through stained and panting boarders, resting on their weapons, grinning and nodding to him as he passed.

Bolitho saw the other ship grappled alongside, a midshipman hurrying aft to inform the captain whom they had discovered in the Ceres before Bolitho arrived.

The captain strode to meet him, his pleasure clear in his voice as he exclaimed, “You are most welcome, sir, and I am grateful that my ship was of service.” He gestured ruefully to the damage to his rigging and decks. “I was outgunned, so I tempted him into a chase. After that…” He shrugged. “It was all a question of experience. The French have some fine ships. Fortunately, they do not have our Jacks to man them.”

Bolitho stood on the Ganymede’s deck and took a deep breath. In a moment he would awake in the carriage or the prison, and then…

The captain was saying, “We have sighted two enemy sail, but they are staying their distance. But I fear we must abandon our prize. The wind is shifting.”

“Deck there! Sail on th’ lee bow!”

The captain said sharply, “Recall the boarding party and cast that hulk adrift. She’ll not fight again.”

The masthead lookout yelled again, “Ship o’ th’ line, sir! ’Tis the Benbow! ”

Bolitho walked across the deck and knelt beside Neale who had been laid there to await the surgeon’s attention.

Neale stared up at the sky and whispered, “We did it, sir. Together.”

His hand lifted from his side and clasped Bolitho’s as firmly as he could.

“It was all I wanted, sir.”

Allday crouched on his other side to shield his eyes from the early sunlight. “Easy, Cap’n Neale. You’re going home now, you see.”

But Bolitho felt the hand go limp in his, and after a moment he bent over to close Neale’s eyes.

“He’s there, Allday. He’s gone home.”