A Tradition of Victory

13. No Fighting Sailor

LIEUTENANT Wolfe ducked his head beneath the deckhead beams and clumped noisily into the cabin. He waited while Bolitho and Herrick completed some calculations on a chart and then said, “Signal from Rapid, repeated by Phalarope. French boat captured. No alarm given.”

Bolitho glanced at Herrick. “That was good work. The brig is aptly named.” To Wolfe he said, “Signal Rapid to send her prize to the flagship. The fewer prying eyes to see her the better. And tell Commander Lapish, well done.”

Herrick rubbed his chin doubtfully. “No alarm roused, eh? Lapish must have taken full advantage of the foul weather yesterday, lucky young devil.”

“I expect so.” Bolitho kept his voice non-committal as he stooped over the chart once more.

There was no point in telling Herrick how he had lain awake worrying about his orders to Rapid. Even one man lost to no purpose was too many. He had felt this way ever since Styx had gone and Neale had died with so many of his company. He looked at Herrick’s homely face. No, there was no point in disturbing him also.

Instead he ran his finger along the great triangle on the chart. It stretched south-east from Belle Ile to the Ile d’Yeu, then seaward to a point some forty miles to the west. Then north once more to Belle Ile. His three frigates patrolled along the invisible thread nearest to the coast, while the ships of the line were made to endure the uncertainties of unsheltered waters where they could be directed to attack if the French attempted to break out.

Amongst and between Bolitho’s ships the little Rapid acted as messenger and spy. Lapish must have enjoyed his successful cutting-out raid, no matter how brief it had been. Action soon drove away the cobwebs, and his men would have the laugh on the companies of their heaviest consorts.

He said, “The French must be getting ready to move. We have to know what is happening closer inshore.” He looked up as Browne entered the cabin. “The captured fishing boat will be joining us directly. I want you to board her and make a full investigation.”

Herrick said, “I can send Mr Wolfe.”

Bolitho smiled. “I need something different from seamanship, Thomas. I think Mr Browne may see what others might miss.”

“Humph.” Herrick stared at the chart. “I wonder. Still, I suppose it may be worth a try.”

Browne said calmly, “May I suggest something, sir?”

“Of course.”

Browne walked to the cable. He had completely recovered from seasickness, and even the squall which had battered at the squadron throughout the night had left him untouched.

“I’ve heard that the fishermen have been gathering for weeks. It is customary so that they can work under the protection of the French guard-boats. If Rapid ’s commander is certain that nobody saw his men seize one of the boats, a picked prize crew could surely work inshore again and see what is happening?”

Herrick sighed deeply. “Well, naturally, man! It was what we intended! And I thought you had something new to offer!”

Browne gave a gentle smile. “With respect, sir, I meant that the boat could be sailed right amongst the others, for a time anyway.”

Herrick shook his head. “ Mad. Quite mad. They would be seen for what they were within an hour.”

Browne persisted. “If someone aboard spoke fluent French…”

Herrick looked despairingly at Bolitho. “And how many French scholars do we have aboard, sir?”

Browne coughed. “Me, sir, for one, and I have discovered that Mr Midshipman Stirling and Mr Midshipman Gaisford are passable.”

Herrick stared at him. “Well, I’ll be double damned!”

Bolitho said slowly, “Is there any alternative?”

Browne shrugged. “None, sir.”

Bolitho studied the chart, although in his mind he could see every sounding, shoal and distance.

It might work. The unlikely so often did. If it failed, Browne and his men would be taken. If they were wearing disguise when they were captured it would mean certain death. He thought of the little graves by the prison wall, the scars of musket balls where the victims had been shot down.

Browne was watching his uncertainty. He said, “I should like to try, sir. It would help in some way. For Captain Neale.”

From that other world beyond the cabin the marine sentry shouted, “Midshipman o’ th’ watch, sah!”

Midshipman Haines tiptoed nervously towards his betters and said in a whisper, “The first lieutenant’s respects, sir, and the French prize is in sight to the north-east’rd.”

Herrick glared at him. “Is that all, Mr Haines?”

“N-no, sir. Mr Wolfe said to tell you that there are three French soldiers on board.”

Unwittingly the boy had left the most vital part until the end.

Bolitho said, “Thank you, Mr Haines. My compliments to the first lieutenant, and ask him to keep me informed as she draws closer.”

It was all suddenly startlingly clear. He recalled the French soldiers aboard those other fishing boats on that terrible morning when Styx had foundered. Perhaps the local garrison always kept a few available for such duties. It was not unknown for fishermen and smugglers from either side to meet offshore and exchange news and contraband. Contre-Amiral Remond would not wish his squadron to be betrayed by some careless scrap of gossip.

Three enemy soldiers. In his mind’s eye he could already see Browne in one of the uniforms, and when he looked at the lieutenant he could tell he was thinking exactly that.

“Very well. Search the boat and report to me. After that…” His gaze fell on the chart. “I shall decide.”

Herrick asked, “You know the risks?”

Browne nodded. “Yes, sir.”

“And you still want to go?”

“Yes, sir.”

Herrick spread his hands. “As I thought, quite mad.”

Bolitho glanced from one to the other. Both so different, yet each so important to him.

He stood up. “I shall take a walk on deck, Thomas. I need to think.”

Herrick understood. “I shall see that you are not disturbed, sir.”

Later, as Bolitho paced back and forth on the quarterdeck, he tried to put himself in Remond’s place. He had met him for just that short while, and yet it made such a difference. Now the enemy had a face, a personality. Maybe it was better if the foe remained anonymous, he thought.

It was nearly dusk by the time the little fishing boat had man?uvred under Benbow’s lee and Browne had gone across to examine her.

While the ratlines and gangways were crammed with curious seamen, Bolitho stood aloof and watched the newcomer with no less interest. A dirty, hard-worked vessel with patched sails and a littered deck, she was not much bigger than Benbow’s barge. Her appearance was less than heroic and would turn the average naval boatswain grey with disgust.

Browne in his blue and white uniform made a stark contrast against the vessel’s squalor.

The jolly-boat returned with a young lieutenant whom Bolitho guessed to be the leader of the cutting-out party. As he climbed up Benbow’s tumblehome and touched his hat to the side party, Bolitho saw he was a mere youth, nineteen at the most.

Wolfe was about to take him aft to the captain’s quarters when Bolitho called impetuously, “Come here!”

Young and in awe of the flagship’s surroundings he might be, but the lieutenant had that certain panache as he hurried aft to the quarterdeck. The mark of a victor.

He touched his hat. “Lieutenant Peter Searle, sir, of the brig Rapid.”

“You took the prize, I believe, Mr Searle?”

The lieutenant turned and glanced across at the grubby fishing boat. He seemed to see her for the first time for what she really was.

He replied, “She was anchored apart from the others, sir. I put two men outboard, good swimmers, and sent them to cut the cable so that she could drift down on my own boat. There was half a gale blowing by that time and my boat was leaking badly.” He smiled as he remembered what it had been like, the lines of strain falling from his face. “I knew we had to take her right then or swim in search of Rapid! ”

“Was there a fight?”

“There were four soldiers aboard, sir, I’d been told nothing about them. They killed poor Miller and stunned Thompson before we could get to grips. It was quickly done.”

Bolitho said, “I’m proud of you.” It was strange how the unfortunate man named Miller had suddenly become so real even though he had never met him.

“And nobody raised the alarm?”

“No, sir. I’m certain of it.” As an afterthought Searle said, “I dropped the corpses over the side in the darkness, there were only three, including Miller. But I had them hurried down with some ballast around them. They’ll not be afloat anywhere to tell the tale.”

“Thank you, Mr Searle.”

The lieutenant added hesitantly, “I am told you intend to use the boat against the enemy, sir? If so, I’d like to volunteer my services.”

“Who told you that?”

The lieutenant flushed under Bolitho’s gaze. “I-I forget, sir.”

Bolitho smiled. “No matter, I think I can guess. I shall be glad to appoint you in charge of the prize. You are obviously a man of resourcefulness. With that and my flag-lieutenant’s uncanny habit of being right, you should be a great asset.”

They both turned as Herrick appeared on deck, and Bolitho said, “We will begin tonight. Tell Major Clinton I require four of his top marksmen to accompany the prize crew, and they’ll need a good master’s mate as well. And see he is the best Mr Grubb can offer, not the one least likely to be missed.”

Herrick looked as if he was going to protest but changed his mind.

Bolitho turned to the lieutenant again. “I shall give you your orders, but you must know that if you are captured there is little hope for you.”

“I understand, sir.” He smiled cheerfully. “All my party are volunteers.”

Bolitho looked at the fishing boat. Now he understood. He had been worried about risking lives, but this young lieutenant was actually grateful to him. For the chance, the rare, precious opportunity which every young officer prayed might come his way. To think that I was exactly like him.

He said, “Bring the prisoners over, and put some of our people aboard to aid Mr Browne.” He glanced at the gathering dusk, the last daylight which still clung to Nicator’s upper yards. “My God, Thomas, I am sick and tired of waiting for the enemy to shift himself. It is time we stirred them a little!”

He saw Allday on the larboard gangway. He too was staring over at the fishing boat, his thick body stiff and tense. At least Allday would be spared from this piece of reckless endeavour, Bolitho thought.

He waited on deck until the handful of prisoners were ferried across, the first being three French soldiers. They were followed by one of Clinton ’s marines who carried a bloodied uniform across his arm, his features screwed up with distaste. The uniform’s previous owner would have no further use of it.

Eventually, when it was almost dark and the ships were reefing down for the night, Browne returned on board.

“That boat stinks like a sewer, sir! As do those who man her!”

“Did you discover anything?”

Browne nodded. “She hails from Brest and is no local craft. We are in luck. I managed to convince her master that he would be freed later on if he told us the truth. Equally he would swing from the main-yard if he did not. He assured me that there is a large French squadron, which he believes to be under local control, for the sole purpose of guarding the invasion fleet. It certainly sounded as if Contre-Amiral Remond is in immediate command.” He saw the flicker of hurt in Bolitho’s eyes. “I knew we should meet him again, sir.”

“Yes. Are you still intent on this mission, Oliver? We are alone now, so speak as you will. You know me better than to blame you if you change your mind.”

“I want to go, sir. Now more than ever, for some reason. Perhaps because of Remond, of Styx, and for being able to help you, properly, instead of handing you despatches and writing signals.”

Bolitho touched his arm. “Thank you for that, Oliver. Now go and prepare yourself.”

Herrick walked across to rejoin him as Browne hurried away.

“He’s no fighting sailor, sir.”

Bolitho looked at his friend, both surprised and moved that Herrick could show such concern which until now he had done everything to hide.

“Perhaps, Thomas. But he has real courage, which he needs to use.”

Herrick frowned as Wolfe strode across the deck with a new list of names gripped in his hand.

“More questions to be answered, dammit!”

Bolitho smiled and walked aft to the poop. Almost too casually he said, “I have a signal to be sent to Phalarope. I will write it now so that it can be hoisted at first light.”

Wolfe waited, imperturbable as ever. “Trouble, sir?”

“I’m not sure.” Herrick could not conceal his uncertainty. “Give me the broadside and the din of war any time, Mr Wolfe! This cat and mouse game is not my plaything!”

Wolfe grinned. “Now about this list of promotions, sir…”

With her patched sails hard-bellied to the wind the fishing boat punched through the steep waves, her lee gunwale awash.

Lieutenant Searle who, like most of his prize crew, was dressed in fisherman’s smock and heavy boots, called sharply, “Hold her close to the wind!”

Beside him near the tiller Browne tried to stay on his feet as the boat plunged and reeled beneath him. In his soldier’s coat and white crossbelt it was all he could do to retain his dignity and keep his mind on the approaching danger.

It was almost dawn, but another cloudy one, and the sea appeared much wilder and more dangerous than from Benbow’s lofty quarterdeck.

They had worked through the night to make the boat as comfortable as possible, and had jettisoned much of the spare fishing gear. But the stench remained, and Browne found some comfort that he was at least on deck and not crammed in the hold with the rest of the party.

The master’s mate, who had taken the tiller himself, said, “Enemy coast ahead, sir.”

Browne swallowed hard. “Thank you, Mr Hoblin.”

He must take his word, for as Grubb, the master, had assured him before they had set sail, “Mr Hoblin’s got a nose for it, sir!”

Searle bared his teeth as cold spray dashed over the gunwale and soaked his head and shoulders.

He gasped, “I doubt if the French will have a guard-boat running this early. They’re not eager to get a wetting!”

Midshipman Stirling, piratical in his smock and a large red woollen hat, asked, “How close shall we go, sir?”

Browne glanced down at him. There was no fear in the boy’s voice. If anything, he sounded impatient for something to happen.

“As near as we dare.”

Searle said, “The wind’s steady enough. Nor’-east. If we can just slip amongst the others we should be safe enough. When they see you they’ll be in no mood for talk.” He grinned. “Fishermen the world over have no love for uniforms. Customs officers, the navy, even the honest trooper is an enemy to them.”

A seaman who lay prone in the bows called hoarsely, “Two boats, fine to starboard!”

Hoblin said, “Fishermen. Under way too.”

The seamen rushed to the halliards but slowed as Browne called, “Easy! This is a fisherman, not a King’s ship, so take your time!”

They grinned and nudged each other as if it was all a huge joke.

Searle said, “Bring her about. But hold to wind’rd of those two.” He twisted round as the sails shook noisily and then filled again. “Belle Ile must be to the north of us now.”

The master’s mate nodded and squinted at his boat’s compass. “No more’n two mile, I’d say, sir.” Nobody questioned his judgement and he was vaguely pleased. He was after all the oldest man in the boat by some ten years.

“Damn, here comes the rain.”

Browne nodded miserably and tried to draw his coarse uniform about his throat. The smell of stale sweat left by its owner was almost worse than the fish.

Great heavy drops of rain, sporadic at first and then hissing across the water like metal bars to hammer the boat and occupants without mercy.

Browne groaned. “I’ll never complain about fish again! The men who catch it earn every penny!”

Slowly and reluctantly the feeble daylight pushed through the clouds and heavy rain. More boats took shape and personality, and as one sighted another they fanned out into casual formations in readiness to begin their work.

Searle ordered, “Steer due east. Steady as you go.” To Browne he added, “That will give us the wind-gage. It will also take us nearer to the mainland.” He was staring at Browne through the rain. “Not far from where Ganymede found you.”

“Yes.”

Browne blinked the rain from his eyes. He still could not bring himself to talk about it, except to Bolitho. It was something terrible, and yet very special, between them.

He squinted up at the mainmast with its frayed rigging which looked as old as time itself.

“Feel like a climb, Mr Stirling?”

The midshipman tightened his belt. “Aye, sir. What am I to do?”

Searle leaned over and tapped Browne’s shoulder. “Good idea. Get aloft, my lad, and pretend to be doing some running repairs. Take a palm and needle with you, though I doubt if any of the Frenchies carries a telescope.”

Stirling swarmed up the quivering rigging like a monkey and was soon outwardly engrossed in his work.

Corporal Coote, one of the four marines who was enduring the stench and violent motion of the hold, raised his head above the coaming and surveyed the two lieutenants hopefully.

Browne asked, “Well, Corporal?”

“We just found some wine in an old box down ’ere, sir.” His face was a picture of innocence. “When we’m on these jobs our own officers usually let us take a wet when there’s some lying handy.”

Browne nodded. “I suppose that would be all right.”

The master’s mate’s voice exploded between them like a charge of canister. “How does it feel to be a damn liar, Coote? I see rightly enough how it looks!”

The corporal sank slowly from view as Hoblin muttered, “Bloody bullocks, beggin’ your pardon, gentlemen, but they’d take the wooden leg off a cripple to kindle a fire!”

Browne looked at Searle and grinned. “I could manage a drink myself!”

Searle turned aside. Browne was his superior, but obviously had not been trained in the ways of the lower deck, or the barracks either for that matter. He loosened his hanger at his side. It would certainly be a sharp end to their mission if they arrived amongst the enemy with half of the crew dead-drunk.

He said, “Bring her up another point.” He mopped his streaming face with his sleeve. “Sharp lookout, everyone!”

There were about thirty fishing vessels, as far as Browne could see. By skilful use of helm and wind, the master’s mate held the boat clear of the others, while on the cluttered deck the sailors dragged tackle and floats about as if they had been fishermen all their lives.

“Don’t see any soldiers. Not on deck anyway.” Searle banged his hands together. “If only I dared to use a glass on them!”

Above the deck, swinging from his shaking perch, Midshipman Stirling peered at the other vessels and allowed his legs to dangle in the rain. Like most fourteen-year-old midshipmen, Stirling was untroubled by heights. The fishing boat’s mainmast was like a pike after Benbow’s dizzy topgallant yards. What a story he would have to tell the others when he returned to Benbow. Like the moment when the commodore had allowed him to take down and hold Bolitho’s sword. Even if his fellow midshipmen had not altogether believed a word of it, it was still one of the greatest things which had happened in his young life.

He watched the rain passing away from the hull and across the nearest boat which was sailing a cable’s length to starboard. He continued with the pretence of stitching although he had lost the sailmaker’s needle within minutes of climbing from the deck.

Below him the boat yawed unsteadily in a trough, and Stirling heard the squeak of a block as he was swung against the mast like a bread sack.

And there they were, shining in the grey light, their rigging and crossed yards glistening from the downpour.

He called, “Larboard bow, sir! Five, no six sail of the line!” He was almost incoherent with excitement. “All at anchor!”

On deck the lieutenants and Hoblin exchanged questioning glances. The master’s mate said, “They wasn’t there two days back, sir! Must have slipped out of Lorient. They’d have been seen else.”

Browne looked up at the dangling figure. “Any more?”

“Can’t tell, sir. I think it’s raining again over there! But there are some small ships at anchor, I-I’m certain of it!”

Browne looked at Searle and exclaimed, “Remond’s flying squadron, it must be.” He clapped his new friend on the arm. “It’s strange. We came to discover something, but now that we’ve found it, the shock is almost greater.”

“What now?”

Browne stared across the spray. Stirling had good eyes, he thought. As far as he could see there was just the cruising ranks of white crests with a blurred image of land far beyond.

“We must rejoin the squadron. The French are out, and RearAdmiral Bolitho will need to know it.”

“Steady, sir!”

A seaman jabbed a tarred thumb towards the other boats. One which they had not previously noticed was on a converging tack, and as the rain moved clear Browne saw two uniforms, and worse, a swivel gun mounted above the stem.

Searle called hoarsely, “Pass the word! Take no notice!”

Browne saw the immediate change. Even Stirling had wrapped one arm around the mast as if to protect himself.

“Let her fall off two points.”

Hoblin murmured, “No use. The bugger’s seen us.”

“Damn!” Searle looked at Browne. “What do you want me to do?”

Hoblin said, “They can head us off. We’ve no chance.”

Browne stared at the other vessel. Two more uniforms had appeared. There had after all been four soldiers originally in this boat.

“No chance to run, but we can fight.”

Searle nodded. “If we board her and put her out of action before they range that swivel on us, we might be able to run for it.” He shivered. “Anyway, I’m not being taken prisoner like this!”

Hoblin grimaced as a beam of pale sunlight touched the sails as if to betray them to the enemy.

“When we need the sun we get rain! Now it’s t’other way round, blast it!”

Searle licked his lips. “They’ll be in hailing distance soon.” Without looking up he said, “Mr Stirling! When I give the word get down from there on the double! Corporal Coote! Marksmen ready!”

Boots scraped in the hold, and Browne heard the clatter of equipment as the marines prepared themselves. It was what they knew best, no matter what the odds might be.

Browne called, “You can have all the wine you can drink after this, Corporal!”

Somebody actually managed a laugh.

“They’re shortening sail, sir.”

Browne saw the men on the other boat taking in the sails, and one of the soldiers making his way forward to the gun. The soldier appeared quite relaxed, and one of his companions was smoking a pipe while he watched the fishermen fisting the rough canvas into submission.

“They’re calling us alongside!” Hoblin sounded as if he was speaking through his teeth. “Ready, sir?”

Searle glanced at Browne and then barked, “Stand by, lads!”

He watched the other boat’s shadow writhing across the crested water, the sudden uncertainty as they drew nearer and nearer, an arrowhead of water trapped between them like something solid.

“Now! Helm a-lee!”

The boat swayed over to the unexpected thrust, and even as the seamen ran to shorten sail the hulls collided, surged away and then struck again.

Midshipman Stirling slithered to the deck and almost pitched between the two boats as Hoblin swung the tiller bar and nursed the bows into the other vessel’s bulwark.

Corporal Coote yelled, “Ready! Take aim!” The four muskets poked over the hold’s coaming like lances. “Fire!”

On the opposite deck four men, including two soldiers, dropped where they stood. The swivel exploded with a deafening bang, but the man who held the firing lanyard was also dead, while the full charge of canister scythed harmlessly into the air.

Grapnels held the boats together, and yelling like madmen a handful of boarders leapt on to the Frenchman’s deck, boarding axes and cutlasses painting the scattered rigging and tackle with daubs of scarlet.

Searle shouted wildly, “Cut her adrift! Get back on board, lively, you mad bastards!”

He had seen Hoblin’s frantic signals, and now as the others turned away from the dead soldiers and cowering fishermen they saw the stiff pyramid of sails cleaving from the rain like some terrible dorsal fin.

“Cast off! Make sail! ”

Searle dragged a seaman headlong over the gunwale as the two hulls drifted apart.

Browne watched the desperate preparations, the previous excitement changing into something like panic. But for the unexpected meeting with the other boat and its soldiers they would have escaped undetected.

He turned and stared across the quarter as the boat plunged over the crests and pointed her bows seaward once more. It had all taken a few minutes. It would not take much longer to end it.

The pursuing ship was changing tack with neat precision, her yards swinging together as she headed towards her quarry.

Hoblin remarked, “French corvette. Seen plenty round here.” He spoke with nothing more than professional interest, as if he realized the hopelessness of it.

The other fishing boats had scattered in disorder, like spectators stampeding away from a mad bull.

Browne unfastened his borrowed coat and then threw it over the side. It would make no difference, but he felt better for it. He heard Stirling talking to himself, in prayer, or to hold up his pretence of courage, he did not know.

“How long?”

Searle looked at him calmly. “Thirty minutes. Her captain will try to work round astern of us. There are some shallows near his larboard side, and he’ll want all the sea-room he can get to perform his execution!” Even he spoke without anger or bitterness.

The French man-of-war was small and agile, and from the deck of the fishing boat looked as big as a frigate. She was carrying so much sail it made Browne feel that their own boat was unmoving, and as the distance fell away he thought of Bolitho, waiting for the news he could no longer give him.

He blinked and realized that a tongue of flame had flashed from the Frenchman’s forecastle. Then came the bang and a foreshortened whistle as a ball slapped down to starboard and ricocheted across the waves like a mad thing.

“Ranging shot, sir.”

Searle said sharply, “Alter course two points to starboard.”

The fishing boat responded slowly, and when the next ball sliced through the water it hurled a cascade of spray halfway across the deck.

Corporal Coote lay full length on the deck and tried to aim his musket at the pursuing ship.

Then disgustedly he said, “Can’t do it. I’ll wait a bit longer. Might take a couple with me.”

Midshipman Stirling jammed his knuckles in his mouth and bit on them as another ball punched through the mainsail and threw up a tall waterspout a full cable away.

Searle said, “Trying to dismast us. Wants us taken alive.” He drew his hanger. “Not me.”

The game could not be prolonged for ever. As the land and all the other boats dropped back astern the corvette’s commander must have realized it was taking too long.

He altered course several points to larboard to present three of his forward gunports. Before he resumed his original course each gun fired a carefully laid shot, one of which smashed through the fishing boar’s counter with the force of a reef.

Hoblin lurched back on his feet and gasped, “Helm’s still answering, sir!”

Browne heard water gurgling and sluicing through the hold. It was madness, pathetic and proud at the same time.

Searle nodded sharply, “Steady as you go then!”

Crash. The corvette’s bow-chaser struck home with devastating effect. A marine who had been hurrying to help the seamen with the foresail spun round like a top, one leg severed by the ball before it ploughed on to kill two of the sailors and smash them into a broken, bloody shambles. Wood splinters flew everywhere, and the hull was so deep in the water it was a wonder they were making headway.

Browne stared at the dying marine with dismay. They were all being killed like dumb animals. What was the point? What did it prove?

Another waterspout shot above the bulwark, and Midshipman Stirling spun round, his hand clutching his arm where a feather of jagged wood stood out like a quill.

He gasped, “I’m all right, sir!” Then he stared at the blood which ran through his fingers and fainted.

Browne looked at Searle. “I can’t let them die like this!”

Corporal Coote lurched aft to join them and pointed through the smoke from the last shot.

“Mebbee they won’t ’ave to, sir!”

Browne turned and stared, unable to accept it, or that the corvette was going about, still wreathed in her own gunsmoke.

“It’s Phalarope!”

Nobody spoke, and even the dying marine lay silent as he stared up at the sky and waited for the pain to end.

With her gilded figurehead shining in the weak sunlight, the old frigate was shortening sail, her topmen spread along her yards like birds on perches as they stood inshore towards the sinking hulk.

Then Hoblin exclaimed, “Gawd, she’s taking a chance! If the Frogs come out now…”

“Never mind.” Browne stooped down and lifted the midshipman to his feet. “Get ready to abandon. Help the wounded.” It could not be happening.

A voice echoed across the water. “We’re coming alongside!”

Browne watched the frigate’s yards swinging again, the way her deck lifted to the pressure of canvas as she was steered further and further into the wind.

There would not be much time.

Corporal Coote picked up a fallen musket and looked at the marine who had lost his leg.

“You won’t need this any more, mate.” He turned away from the dead marine, his eyes blank. “Be ready, lads!”

Phalarope towered above them, and faces bobbed on the gangways to reappear on the chains or at the gunports, anywhere a man could be hauled to safety.

The next moments were like the climax of the same nightmare. Startled cries, the splintering of wood and the clatter of falling spars as the frigate drove unerringly against the listing boat.

Browne felt Searle thrust him towards some waiting seamen, and to his astonishment saw that he was half laughing, half sobbing as he shouted, “I’m last off. Only command I’ve ever had, y’see?”

Then Browne felt himself being dragged over hard and unyielding objects before being laid face upwards on the deck.

A shadow covered his eyes and he saw Pascoe looking down at him.

Browne managed to gasp, “How did you manage to get here?”

Pascoe smiled sadly. “My uncle arranged it, Oliver.”

Browne let his head fall back to the deck and closed his eyes. “Madness.”

“Didn’t you know?” Pascoe beckoned to some seamen. “It runs in the family.”