A Tradition of Victory

16. Flotsam of a Dream

LIEUTENANT Searle stood at the top of a straight ladder and peered at the complicated array of tackles and blocks which hung from the roof. They were obviously connected to the semaphore structure on the tower.

He said, “No wonder they need sailors for this work, Oliver. No landsman would ever be able to untangle it.” He touched the damp stone wall and grimaced. “We’ll need a big charge to blow down the whole tower.”

Browne stared up at him. “The whole tower?”

Searle was already beckoning to one of his gunner’s mates. “Up here, Jones! Move yourself, man!” To Browne he added, “This place is built like a fortress. How long do you imagine it would take the Frenchies to mount another semaphore on the top of the tower, eh?”

Searle turned to the gunner’s mate. “Pack the charges tight beneath the stairway under the outer wall. That should do it.” When the man remained silent he snapped, “Well, man?”

Jones rubbed his jaw and looked up the ladder to the square trap-door at the top.

“I reckon, sir.”

He clambered down again and could be heard talking with his companion.

“Bloody fools!” Searle pushed upwards at the trap-door. “All of a quiver because it’s a church! You’d think they were a bunch of saints!”

As Searle vanished through the trap-door, Browne followed him, chilled instantly by the breeze across the headland.

Searle was still fuming. “More sins have been committed by the church than any seaman, I shouldn’t wonder!”

“You’re very cynical for one so young.”

Browne walked to the parapet and stared towards the sea. As yet it was still too dark to see it. But for the tang of salt, and the liberal coating of gull droppings on the tower, they could have been anywhere.

Searle chuckled. “My father is a clergyman. I should know.”

Browne heard the thump of a body being hauled from the stairs and recalled that the French seaman had not even bothered to carry a weapon when Cooper, the cut-throat from Lime House, had killed him. He remembered the curious stares of the French people who had seen them marched along the road as prisoners. Why should they be on their guard? It was unlikely anyone in the north or west of England would anticipate being confronted by a Frenchman.

“Sir!”

“Not so loud!” Searle threw himself down on to the ladder. “What is it now?”

“Someone comin’!”

Browne hurried to the other parapet and peered down to where the entrance should be. There was a path of sorts, made of small pale stones from a nearby beach. As he watched he saw a shadow move over it, and seconds later heard a metallic clang at the door.

“Hell’s teeth!” Searle struggled down to the stairs. “Earlier than I thought!”

Browne followed and heard Searle say, “Shuffle your feet, Moubray! You, be ready to open the door!”

Browne clung to the ladder, barely able to breathe. After the total darkness of the roof, the little drama below seemed suddenly clear and stark. Searle, his breeches very white against the old stone wall, the seaman Moubray, shifting his feet as he pretended to walk towards the door. The key squeaked noisily and the door swung inwards, the man outside calling something as he hurried out of the chill air.

It all happened in a second, and yet to Browne it seemed as if the moment was frozen for a much longer time. The newcomer, another French sailor, standing mouth agape as he saw the half circle of crouching figures. Searle, his hanger drawn, while Jones, the gunner’s mate, held a musket above his head like a club.

The picture broke up in short, frantic scenes. The Frenchman yelled and turned back towards the entrance, while Jones struck at him with the musket. But in the sudden tension they had all forgotten about the pool of blood which had run down the stairs when the first man had died. Jones gave a cry of alarm as his foot slipped from under him, the musket flew from his hands and exploded, the sound deafening in the confined space.

Browne heard the ball crack against the stone wall, but not before it had hit Jones in the face.

Searle yelled, “Get that man, you fool!”

Cooper, small and deadly, threw himself down the steps, and seconds later they heard a terrible scream which was choked off instantly.

Cooper came back, breathing fast, his dirk bloody in his fist.

He gasped, “More o’ the buggers comin’, sir!”

Jones was rolling on the floor, his blood mingling with that of the French sailor.

Browne said sharply, “Take care of him!” To Searle he added rightly, “We shall have to shift ourselves now!”

Searle had recovered his outward calm. “Harding, carry on with the fuses.”

The second gunner’s mate darted a look at his friend and said harshly, “Not right, sir. In a church an’ all.”

Searle plunged a hand into his coat and pulled out one of his pistols, and said coldly, “Don’t you talk to me like that, you superstitious oaf. I’ll see you receive a checkered shirt at the gangway when we rejoin the ship, you’ve my word on that!”

Fists and boots hammered at the door, and Browne said, “Keep away, lads.” He winced as a shot cracked into the stout door and more voices echoed around the building as if the dead had risen from their graves to seek revenge.

Cooper said, “There’s another door at the far end, sir. Very small. I think it’s for fuel.”

Searle snapped, “I’ll look at it. Cooper, come with me.” He glanced meaningly at Browne. “Watch ’em, Oliver. They’ll cut and run if they think they’re done for.”

He strode off between the worn pillars of a doorway, his feet clicking on the flagstones as if he were on parade.

Outside the church it was very quiet and still, whereas Browne was conscious of Harding’s irregular breathing as he cut his fuses, the occasional shuffle of feet on the ladder above the stairs as another seaman rammed home some of the charges.

Harding whispered, “What you reckon they’m doin’, sir?” He did not look up, and his thick, scarred fingers were as gentle as a child’s as he worked to complete what his friend had begun.

Browne guessed that some of the French seamen or prison guards had hurried away to tell the dragoons. It would not take long for them to reach here. He thought of the black horsehair plumes and long sabres, the air of menace which even at a distance the dragoons had roused.

But he replied, “Waiting to see what we intend. They don’t know where we’re from or who we are, remember that.”

Jones gave an agonized moan and Browne knelt over him. The musket ball had taken out one eye and a splinter of bone as large as a man’s thumb. The seaman named Nicholl held a piece of rag over the terrible wound, and even in the feeble lantern light Browne could see the gunner’s mate’s life ebbing away.

Jones whispered, “Done for, look you. Stupid thing to do, isn’t it?”

“Rest easy, Jones. You’ll be all right soon.”

Jones gave a terrible cry and gasped, “Oh God, help me!”

Cooper returned and stared at him savagely. “If it worn’t for you droppin’ th’ musket, this wouldn’t ’ave ’appened, you Welsh bastard!”

Searle appeared at that moment, his knees and chest covered in dirt.

“There is a way out. Very small and not used for months, I’d say. Not since the navy commandeered this church, by the look of it.” He glanced at Harding. “How long?”

“I’ve given it half an hour, sir.”

Searle turned to Browne and sighed. “You see? Hopeless.” In a sharper tone he added, “Make it ten minutes, no more.”

Then he looked thoughtfully at Browne. “After that, I’m not sure, Oliver.”

Browne examined his pistols to give himself time. Searle was right in setting a short fuse. They had come to destroy the semaphore, to break the chain, and he guessed that most of them had not even expected to reach this far. But he wondered if he could have given the order with such cool authority.

“We’ll leave.” As two of the men bent to pick up the groaning Jones, he added, “He’ll not get far.”

Searle said, “A good gunner’s mate, but put him ashore…” He did not finish it.

Carrying and dragging the luckless Jones they groped their way to the tiny door. When it was forced open Browne expected a fusilade of shots, and as Cooper thrust his thin body through it he had to clench his teeth as he waited for a blade to take him across the neck.

But nothing happened, and Searle muttered, “The Frenchies are no better than Jones, it seems.”

“Wait here.” Browne looked back at the curved doorway where Harding waited beside his fuses. “I’ll do it. Then we’ll make for the beach. You never know.”

As Searle wriggled through the tiny door Browne felt suddenly alone and ill at ease.

His shoes sounded like drumbeats as he joined Harding and asked, “Are you ready?”

“Aye, sir.” Harding opened the lantern’s shutter and lit a slowmatch which he had carried in his jacket. “You can’t trust ’em, sir. Not this short.” He stared into the shadows and added bitterly, “But some’ll not be told.”

Browne watched fascinated as the gunner’s mate swung the slow-match around until the end shone like a glowworm.

Then he said, “Now.”

The fuses began to hiss loudly, and the sparks seemed to be moving at a terrible speed.

Harding grasped his sleeve. “Come on, sir! No time to dally!”

They ran through the empty church, heedless of the noise or their dignity. Hands dragged them out into the cold air, and Browne found time to notice that there were a few pale stars right overhead.

Searle said, “We heard horses!”

Browne stood up, it was too late for stealth. “Follow me, lads!” Then they were stooping and running, with Jones dangling between them like a corpse.

Browne stared ahead and saw the prison wall. He veered away from it, and heard the others stumbling and cursing behind him. They were making a lot of noise, but it was just as well, he thought, as it helped to drown the sounds of pounding hoofs which were drawing rapidly closer.

He managed to gasp, “They’ll make for the church first!”

Searle replied jerkily, “I hope it blows them to hell!”

Browne almost fell on wet grass as he ran towards the lip of the hill. The beach would be empty, but at least it was the sea.

He heard the louder clatter of horses and guessed they had at last reached the road.

Someone called, “Got to stop, sir! Poor Jones is dyin’!”

They paused, gasping and wheezing like old men.

Browne said, “We must keep on the move, it’s our only chance!”

The gunner’s mate Harding shook his head. “S’no use. I’m stayin’ with me mate. They’ll catch us anyway.”

Browne stared wildly at him. “They’ll cut you down! Don’t you see that?”

Harding stood firm. “I wear the King’s coat, sir. I’ve done nowt but obey orders.”

Browne tried to clear his mind, to remember how long they had been running since they had fired the fuses.

He turned away. “Come along, the rest of you.”

They reached the top of the path and heard the familiar hiss and gurgle of surf.

As they plunged down the narrow path Browne thought he heard a shout, but it was lost immediately in a thunder of hoofs, and he knew the dragoons had found Harding and his dying friend.

Seconds later came the explosion, deafening and terrible, like Harding’s revenge on his murderers. The whole hillside seemed to shake, and small stones rattled down the slope like musket balls.

Searle said, “Get on ahead, Cooper.” He clutched at Browne for support. “No quarter if we’re taken. I hope it was worth it.”

Above them the light died as suddenly as it had exploded, and Browne caught the stench of burned powder drifting with the wind.

Cooper came back within minutes. “I found a boat, sir. No more’n a skiff, but better than nothin’.”

Searle smiled in the darkness. “I’d swim rather than die here.”

Cooper and Nicholl vanished into the gloom to find the boat, and Browne said, “I think some of the dragoons are still up there.”

The explosion would have killed anybody within twenty yards of the church, he thought. But at dawn there would be soldiers by the hundred searching every cove and patch of cover.

He wondered if any of the squadron were near enough to hear the explosion.

Searle said, “I’ve got my breath, Oliver. Lead on.”

They tramped past the camel-shaped rock and down towards the rocks where someone had beached a small boat. Smuggler or fisherman, Browne did not care. It was unlikely they would ever reach safety, but anything was better than waiting to be slaughtered.

“Halte-la!”

The voice cracked out of the darkness like a shot.

Browne dragged Searle down beside him and pointed. “Up to the left!”

It came again. “Qui va la?” But this time there was also a click of metal.

Searle let out a sob of despair and anger. “Damn their bloody eyes!”

Feet slipped and thudded over the rocks, and Browne heard one of the seamen yell, “Take that, you bugger!”

He saw Nicholl shine suddenly in the blast of a musket fired at point-blank range, saw him drop his cutlass and fall dead.

But in the flash Browne had seen three, perhaps four, French soldiers.

“Ready?” He barely recognized his own voice. “Them or us!”

Searle nodded violently, and together the two lieutenants rose to their feet, and with pistols drawn and cocked ran the last few yards along the beach.

There were more shouts, which changed to screams as the pistols flashed across wet sand and brought two of the soldiers kicking amongst the rocks.

Cooper’s wiry shape darted forward, and a choking cry announced another victim to his dirk.

The remaining soldier threw down his musket and yelled at the top of his voice. That too was cut short with the suddenness of deafness, and the seaman named Moubray joined his lieutenants and cleaned his cutlass in the sand.

“That were for Bill ’Arding, sir.”

Browne tried to reload his pistols, but his hands were shaking so badly he had to give up.

“Launch the boat, lads.”

He saw Cooper stooping over a sprawled body, doubtless stealing something, he thought wearily.

Then he grasped Cooper’s shoulder and pushed him roughly aside. “Help the others. It’ll be light very soon.”

He dropped on one knee and peered at the corpse. It was the little commandant who had bade them farewell on this same beach. Well, they had met once again after all.

Searle called, “What is it?”

Browne stood up shakily. “Nothing.”

Searle completed reloading his pistols without any difficulty.

“You really are a marvel, Oliver.”

Am I? Is that what you think?

Browne followed him down to the small boat, but paused long enough to stare back at the dark shape which was already being lapped by the tide.

For a moment longer Browne felt cheated and unclean. It was like leaving a friend, not an enemy.

Then he said, “Pull hard, lads. We’ve a whole ocean to choose from.”

“North-west by north, sir! Full and bye!”

Bolitho glanced up as the maintopsail shook violently in protest. Odin was sailing closer to the wind than he had imagined possible. A heavier ship like Benbow would have been in real difficulties by now, he thought.

Inch said, “I’ve put my best lookouts aloft, sir.”

Bolitho watched the water creaming away from the lee side as the sixty-four heeled over to the strengthening breeze. He could see the white patterns reaching out across the surface, when only a short while ago there had been darkness. Faces stood out too, and the uniforms of the marines looked scarlet and not black as they had appeared in the night.

“Deep nine!” The leadsman’s chant floated aft.

Bolitho glanced briefly at M’Ewan, the master. He appeared calm enough, although nine fathoms was no great depth beneath Odin’s keel.

He saw the land for the first time, a ragged shadow to starboard which marked the entrance of the bay.

Inch observed, “Wind’s steady, sir.” He was thinking of his ship’s safety this close inshore.

Bolitho watched Stirling and the ship’s signal midshipman with their assistants, surrounded by flags to suit every demand.

Without turning his head, Bolitho knew Allday was standing just a few paces away, arms folded as he stared fixedly ahead beyond the gilded figurehead and bowsprit as the ship thrust towards the top of the bay.

“By the mark seven!”

Inch stirred uneasily. “Mr Graham! We will alter course two points. Steer nor’-west by west!”

Graham raised his speaking trumpet. There was no need for silence any more. Either the invasion craft were here or they were not.

“Hands to the braces, Mr Finucane!”

Inch walked aft and consulted the binnacle as the ship paid off and then steadied on her new course. It was a small alteration but would keep the keel out of danger. Above the decks the sails hardened and filled as they too responded to the change.

“By the mark ten!”

The midshipman-of-the-watch coughed into his hand to hide his relief, and several of the marine marksmen glanced at each other and grinned.

“Deck there! Anchor lights fine on th’ weather bow!”

Bolitho followed Inch and his first lieutenant to the starboard side.

Dawn was minutes away. If they had kept to their original plan of attack they would be miles away, with every French ship and coastguard on full alert.

He tried not to think of Browne and what must have happened, but concentrated everything on the paler shadows and winking lights which must be the anchorage.

A distant boom echoed and re-echoed around the bay, and Bolitho knew the sound was being thrown back by the land.

A signal gun, a warning which was already too late, and had been from the moment they had slipped past Remond’s sleeping ships.

With the wind thrusting almost directly at the starboard side, and the ship tilting over to a steep angle, the guns would have all the help they required for the first broadsides.

Already the gun captains were waving their fists and their crews were working feverishly with tackles and handspikes.

Inch called, “On the uproll, Mr Graham, when I give the word!”

“Take in the mains’l!”

As the great sail was brought up to its yard Bolitho was reminded of a curtain being raised. There was sunlight too, probing out from the land where night mist and wood smoke drifted above the water like low cloud.

And there lay the anchored vessels of the invasion fleet.

For a moment Bolitho imagined the frail light was playing tricks, or that his eyes were deceiving him. He had expected a hundred such craft, but there must have been three times that number, anchored in twos and threes and filling the elbow of the bay like a floating town.

There was a medium sized man-of-war anchored nearby, a cut-down ship of the line, Bolitho thought, as he peered through his telescope until his eye throbbed.

The crowded vessels looked at peace through the silent lens, but he could picture the pandemonium and panic there must be as Odin sailed purposefully towards them. It was impossible, but an enemy ship was right amongst them, or soon would be.

Inch said, “Phalarope’s on station, sir.”

Bolitho trained his glass towards the frigate and saw her exposed carronades, blunt-muzzled and ugly, run out in a long black line. He thought he could see Pascoe too, but was not certain.

“Signal Phalarope. Take station astern of the Flag.”

He ignored the bright flags darting up to the yards and turned his attention back to the enemy.

He heard a trumpet, far-off and mournful, and moments later saw the guard-ship running out her guns, although as yet she had not made any attempt to up-anchor or set sail.

In his excitement Inch took Bolitho’s arm and pointed towards the shore.

“Look, sir! The tower!”

Bolitho trained his telescope and saw a tower above the headland like a sentinel. At the top a set of jerking semaphore arms told their story better than shouted words.

But if Browne had destroyed the semaphore station on the church, there would be no one to see and relay the message to Remond’s squadron. And even if the same message was passed in the other direction, all the way to Lorient, it was too late to save this packed assembly.

Odin’s jib-boom had passed the end of the anchored vessels now, which presented an unbroken barrier some half a mile away.

Smoke swirled above the guard-ship, and the rolling cash of gunfire showed that the French were now wide awake.

A few balls hurled spray into the air close abeam and brought cries of derision from Odin’s gun crews.

Graham watched as Inch slowly raised his sword above his head.

“On the uproll! Steady, my lads!”

A stronger gust of wind sighed into Odin’s topsails so that she heeled over and showed her copper in the pale sunlight. It was all Inch needed. The sword slashed down.

A midshipman who had been clinging to an open hatchway above the lower gun-deck yelled, “Fire!”

But his shrill voice was lost in the devastating roar of the upper battery’s eighteen-pounders.

Bolitho watched the waterspouts lifting amongst and beyond the anchored craft. The spray was still falling as the lower battery’s thirty-two-pounders added their weight of iron to the destruction. Bolitho saw fractured planking and whole areas of decking flung into the air, and when the smoke cleared he realized that several of the smaller craft were already heeling over. In the telescope’s lens he could see a few boats pulling clear, but in some cases the crews on the landward side of the anchorage had at last cut their cables and were trying to work clear.

“Run out!”

Again the trucks creaked and squealed up the slanting deck and the muzzles thrust through their ports.

“Stand by! As you bear!”

The sword came down again. “Fire!”

Slower this time, as each gun captain waited and took more careful aim before jerking at his trigger line.

The French guard-ship was loosening her topsails, but had fouled two of the drifting invasion craft. She fired nevertheless, and two balls hit Odin just above the waterline.

Bolitho saw smoke around the guard-ship, and realized one of the other craft had caught fire. It might even have been caused by a blazing wad from one of the guard-ship’s own guns. He could see the running figures, tiny and futile in distance, as they hurled water from the beakhead and tried to free their ship from the flames. But the entanglement of rigging and the persistent strength of the offshore wind were too much for them, and Bolitho saw flames leaping from hull to hull and eventually setting light to the guard-ship’s jibsails.

On their converging approach they were now within a cable of the nearest craft, and from the bows Odin’s leadsman yelled, “Deep six!”

Inch looked anxiously at Bolitho. “Far enough, sir?”

Bolitho nodded. “Bring her about.”

“Stand by to come about!”

All available hands sprang to braces and halliards, some still gasping and rubbing their streaming eyes from the gun smoke.

“Ready ho!”

“Put the wheel down!”

The spokes glittered in the sunshine as the helm was put hard over, and then M’Ewan shouted, “Helm’s a-lee, sir!”

Bolitho watched the panorama of drifting and shattered vessels as they began to swing slowly across Odin’s bows until it appeared as if the jib-boom was right above them. The sails flapped and thundered, while petty officers added their own weight to the braces to haul the yards round and lay the ship on the opposite tack.

Inch shouted, “Stand by on the larboard battery! On the uproll, Mr Graham!”

“Steady as you go!”

M’Ewan waited until the last sail was brought under control, hard-bellied in the wind.

“Sou’-east by east, sir!”

“Fire!”

The larboard guns hurled themselves inboard for the first time, the smoke funnelling back through the ports as the whole broadside crashed and blasted amongst the invasion craft with terrible effect.

Bolitho watched Phalarope’s shape lengthening, her sails in confusion as she followed the flagship’s example and tacked across the wind. She was even closer to the enemy, and Bolitho could imagine the terror those carronades would create.

The guard-ship was no longer under control and from her mainmast to forecastle was ablaze, the flames leaping up the sails and changing them to ashes in seconds.

Bolitho saw her shake and a topgallant mast fall like a lance into the smoke. She must have run aground, and several figures were floundering in the water, while others were swimming towards some rocks.

“Cease firing!”

A silence fell over the ship, and even the men who were still sponging out the guns from the last broadside stood up to the gangways to watch Phalarope’s slow and graceful approach.

Allday said thickly, “Look at her. Moving closer. I could almost feel sorry for the mounseers.”

Emes was taking no chances, either with his aim or with the effect on his ship’s timbers. From bow to stern the carronades fired one by one. Not the echoing crash of a long gun, but each shot was hard and flat, like a great hammer on an anvil.

The carronades were hidden from view, but Bolitho saw the shots slamming home amongst the remaining invasion craft like a great gale of wind. Except that this wind was tightly packed grape contained in one huge ball which burst on contact.

If one ball from a “smasher” exploded in the confines of a gun-deck, it could turn it into a slaughterhouse. The effect on the smaller, thinly-planked invasion craft would be horrific.

Emes took his time, reefing all but his topsails to give his carronade crews an opportunity to reload and fire one last broadside.

When the echoes faded, and the smoke eventually eddied clear, there were barely a dozen craft still afloat, and it seemed unlikely that they had escaped some casualties and damage.

Bolitho shut the telescope and handed it to a midshipman. He saw Inch slapping his first lieutenant on the shoulder and beaming all over his long face.

Poor Inch. He looked up as the masthead lookout yelled, “Deck there!”

“Sail on the lee bow!”

A dozen telescopes rose together, and something like a sigh transmitted itself along the upper deck.

Allday stood at Bolitho’s shoulder and whispered, “He’s too bloody late, sir!” But there was no pleasure in his voice.

Bolitho moved his glass very carefully across the glittering wave crests. Three ships of the line, bunched together by the distance, their pendants and ensigns making bright patches of colour against the sky. Another vessel, probably a frigate, was just showing herself around the headland.

He heard the marines shuffling their boots and standing up to the hammock nettings again as they realized their work had not even begun.

Allday had understood from the beginning. Inch too in all probability, but he had been so engrossed in his ship’s behaviour that he had put it from his mind.

He saw Midshipman Stirling shading his eyes to peer ahead towards the pale array of sails. He turned and saw Bolitho watching him, his eyes no longer confident but those of a confused boy.

“Come here, Mr Stirling.” Bolitho pointed to the distant ships. “Remond’s flying squadron. We’ll have given him a rude awakening this morning.”

Stirling asked, “Will we stand and fight, sir?”

Bolitho looked down at him and smiled gravely. “You are a King’s officer, Mr Stirling, no less than Captain Inch or myself. What would you have me do?”

Stirling tried to see how he would describe this to his mother. But nothing formed in his mind, and he was suddenly afraid.

“Fight, sir!”

“Attend the signals party, Mr Stirling.” To Allday he added softly, “If he can say that when he is terrified, there is hope for us all.”

Allday eyed him curiously, “If you say so, sir.”

“Deck there! Two more sail of the line roundin’ the point!”

Bolitho clasped his hands behind him. Five to one. He looked at Inch’s despair.

There was no point in fighting and dying for nothing. A brutal human sacrifice. They had done what many had thought impossible. Neale, Browne and all the others would not have died in vain.

But to order Inch to strike his colours would be almost as hard as dying.

“Deck there!”

Bolitho stared up at the lookout in the mizzen crosstrees. He must have been so dazed by the sight of the oncoming squadron he had failed to watch his own sector.

“Glass!”

Bolitho almost snatched it from the midshipman’s hand, and ignoring the startled glances ran to the shrouds and climbed swiftly until he was well clear of the deck.

“Three sail of the line on the lee quarter!”

Bolitho watched the newcomers and felt a lump rise in his throat. Somehow or other, adverse winds or not, Herrick had managed it. He wiped his eye with his sleeve and steadied the glass for another look.

Benbow in the lead. He would know her fat hull and thrusting figurehead anywhere. He saw Herrick’s broad-pendant writhing uncomfortably as ship by ship the remainder of the squadron tacked for what must be the hundredth time as they struggled to beat upwind and join their admiral.

He lowered himself to the quarterdeck and saw the others watching him like strangers.

Then Inch asked quietly, “Orders, sir?”

Bolitho glanced at Stirling and his colourful litter of flags.

“General signal, if you please, Mr Stirling. Form line of battle.”

Allday looked up as the flags broke stiffly to the wind. “I’ll lay odds mounseer never expected that! ”

Bolitho smiled. They were still outnumbered, but he had known worse odds. So had Herrick.

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He looked at Stirling. “You see, I took your advice!”

Allday shook his head. How did he do it? In an hour, maybe less, they would be fighting for their very breath.

Bolitho glanced up at the masthead pendant and formed a picture of the battle in his mind. If the wind held they might fight ship to ship. That would offer Remond the advantage. Better to allow his captains to act individually after they had broken the enemy’s line.

He looked along the deck, at the bare-backed gun crews and the boatswain’s party who were preparing to hoist out the boats and drop them astern. A tier of boats only added to the splinter wounds, and these were not low-hulled invasion craft they were preparing to fight.

He saw some of the new hands murmuring to one another, their first taste of victory soured by the arrival of the powerful French squadron.

“Captain Inch! Have your marine fifers play us into battle. It will help to ease their minds.”

Inch followed his glance, and then bobbed and said, “Sometimes I forget, sir, the war has gone on for so long I think everyone must have fought in a real sea battle!”

And so the little sixty-four with the rear-admiral’s flag at her mizzen sailed to meet the enemy in the bright sunlight, while her marine fifers and drummers marched and counter-marched on a space no bigger than a carpet.

Many of the seamen who had been staring at the enemy ships turned inboard to watch and to tap their feet to the lively jig, The Post Captain.

Astern of Odin and her attendant frigate, the bay was filled with drifting smoke and the scattered flotsam of a dream.