A Tradition of Victory

17. Blade to Blade

BOLITHO was in Odin’s chartroom when Inch reported that the masthead had sighted the brig Rapid closing slowly from the south-west.

Bolitho threw the dividers on the chart and walked out into the sunlight. Commander Lapish obviously hoped to add his small ship to the squadron, odds or no odds.

He said, “Signal Rapid as soon as you can. Tell her to find Ganymede and harass the enemy’s rear.” It might prevent the only French frigate at present in sight from outman?uvring the heavier ships, at least until Duncan’s Sparrowhawk joined them from the northern sector.

Inch watched the flags darting aloft and asked, “Shall we wait for the commodore to join us, sir?”

Bolitho shook his head. The French squadron had formed into an untidy but formidable line, the second ship wearing the flag of a rear-admiral. Remond. It had to be.

“I think not. Given more time I would not hesitate. But time will also aid the enemy to stand into the bay and take the windgage while the rest of our squadron is floundering into the face of it.”

He raised his glass again and studied the leading ship. A twodecker, with her guns already run out, although she was still three miles distant. A powerful ship, probably of eighty guns. On the face of it she should be more than a match for the smaller Odin.

But this was where the months and years of relentless blockade and patrols in all weathers added their weight to the odds. The French, on the other hand, spent more time bottled up in harbour than exercising at sea. It was most likely why Remond had placed another ship than his own to point the attack, to watch and prepare his squadron in good time.

He said suddenly, “See how the French flagship stands a little to windward of the leader.”

Inch nodded, his face totally blank. “Sir?”

“If we attack without waiting for our other ships to join us, I think the French admiral intends to separate, then engage us on either beam.”

Inch licked his lips. “While the last three in his line stand off and wait.”

Stirling called, “Rapid ’s acknowledged, sir.”

Allday climbed on to the poop ladder and peered astern. How far away Benbow now seemed. Quite rightly Herrick was clawing his way into the bay so that he could eventually come about and hold the wind in his favour. But it took time, a lot of it.

There was a dull bang, and a ball skipped across the sea a good mile away. The leading French captain was exercising his bow-chasers, probably to break the tension of waiting as much as possible.

It would not help him to have his admiral treading on his coat-tails, Allday thought, and watching every move he made.

He turned and looked along Odin’s crowded deck. There would not be many left standing if she got trapped between two of the Frenchmen without support. Was that what Bolitho meant to do? To damage the enemy so much that the remainder would be left to fight Herrick on equal terms?

He spoke aloud. “Gawd Almighty!”

The marine colour-sergeant who was standing on the right of the nearest line of marksmen grinned at him.

“Nervous, matey?”

Allday grimaced. “Hell, not likely. I’m just looking for a place to take a nap!”

He stiffened as he heard Inch say to the master, “Mr M’Ewan, the rear-admiral intends to luff when we are within half a cable. We shall then wear and attack the second ship in the French line.”

Allday saw the sailing-master’s head nodding jerkily as if it was only held to his shoulders by a cord.

The colour-sergeant hissed, “Wot’s that then?”

Allday folded his arms and allowed his mind to settle. Odin would luff, and by the time she had turned into the wind would be all but under the other ship’s bowsprit. Then she would wear and turn round to thrust between the leading vessels. If she was allowed. It was hazardous, and could render Odin a bloody shambles in a few minutes. But anything was better than being raked from either beam at the same time.

He replied calmly, “It means, my scarlet friend, that you an’ your lot are going to be very busy!”

Bolitho watched the oncoming formation, looking for a sign, some quick hoist of flags which might betray Remond’s suspicion. He would be expecting something surely? One small sixty-four against five ships of the line.

He recalled Remond’s swarthy features, his dark, intelligent eyes.

He said, “Captain Inch, tell your lower battery to load with double-shot. The eighteen-pounders of the upper battery will load with langridge, if you please.” He held Inch’s gaze. “I want that leading ship dismasted when we luff.”

Bolitho looked up at the masthead pendant. Wind still holding as strong as ever. He almost looked astern but stopped himself in time. The officers and men nearby would see it as uncertainty, their admiral looking for support. It was best to forget about Herrick. He was doing all he could.

Graham, the first lieutenant, touched his hat to Inch. “Permission to fall out the drummers and fifers, sir?”

Bolitho looked quickly at the minute figures in scarlet. He had been so wrapped in his thoughts he had barely heard a note.

Gratefully, the panting fifers hurried below to a chorus of ironic cheers.

Bolitho touched the unfamiliar hilt of his sword. They could still cheer.

Another bang from the leader, and the ball ploughed up a furrow of spray some three cables abeam. The French captain must be on edge. He’s probably watching me now. Bolitho walked away from the mizzen bitts so that the sunshine would play on his bright epaulettes. At least he would know his enemy, he thought grimly.

He turned to watch a cluster of screaming gulls below the quarterdeck rail. They were unimpressed and quite used to a daily fight for survival.

Inch said, “The French admiral’s reset his t’gan’s’ls, sir.”

Bolitho watched the weather bow of the enemy flagship show itself around the leader’s quarter. He had guessed Remond’s intention. Now it all depended on the men around him.

“Captain Inch, this needs to be carefully done.” He touched his arm and smiled. “Though I need not tell you how to handle her, eh?”

Inch beamed with obvious pleasure. “Thank you kindly, sir!” He turned away, the captain again. “Mr Graham! Pipe the hands to the braces!” His arm shot out and pointed at a lieutenant on the gun-deck. “Mr Synge! Have both batteries been reloaded as ordered?”

The lieutenant squinted up at the quarterdeck rail and replied nervously, “Aye, sir! I-I forgot to report it.”

Inch glared at the luckless lieutenant. “I am glad to hear it, Mr Synge, for an instant I imagined you thought I was a mindreader!”

Several of the gun crews chuckled and lapsed into silence as the flushed-faced lieutenant turned towards them.

Bolitho watched the French ships and found he could do it without emotion. He was committed. Right or wrong, there was no chance to break off the action, even if he wanted to.

“Ready ho!”

The men at the braces and halliards crouched and flexed their muscles as if they were about to enter a contest.

M’Ewan watched the shake of the topsails, the angle of the masthead pendant. Nearby his helmsmen gripped the spokes and waited like crude statuary.

“Helm a-lee!”

“Let go and haul!”

The ship seemed to stagger at the rough handling, then after what felt like an eternity she began to swing readily into the wind.

Graham’s voice was everywhere at once. “Haul over the boom! Let go the t’gallant bowlines!”

At each port the gun captains watched the empty sea and ignored the commotion of thrashing canvas, the squeal of running rigging and the slap of bare feet on the planking.

Bolitho concentrated on the leading Frenchman, feeling a cold satisfaction as she continued on the same tack, although her officers must have wondered what Inch was doing. They might have expected his nerve to break, for him to tack to leeward with the wind from aft. Then the leading enemy ships would have raked Odin’s stern before grappling and smashing down her resistance at point-blank range.

But now Odin was answering, and heading into the wind with her sails billowing in disorder as her yards were hauled round. To any landsmen she would appear to be all aback and unable to proceed, but as she continued to flounder into the wind she slowly and surely presented her starboard side to the oncoming ship’s bows.

Graham yelled through his trumpet, “As you bear!”

Inch’s sword hissed down, and deck by deck Odin’s guns crashed out, the upper battery with its screaming langridge matched by the lower one’s double-charged guns.

Bolitho held his breath as the forward guns found their targets. The French ship seemed to quiver, as if, like the guard-ship, she had run aground. The bombardment continued, with the lieutenants striding behind each gun as its trigger line was jerked taut. On the deck below the picture would be the same but more terrible as the naked bodies toiled around the guns as each one thundered back on its tackles to be instantly sponged out and reloaded.

The langridge or chain-shot was easier to determine, and Bolitho saw all the enemy’s headsails and rigging hacked aside in a tangle, while most of the fore-topmast plunged over the side in a great welter of spray. As it crashed down the weight took immediate effect like an immense sea-anchor, so that even as he watched Bolitho could see the enemy’s beakhead begin to swing awkwardly into the wind.

“As you bear, lads! Fire! ”

The double-shotted charges smashed into the disabled ship to upend guns and rip through the lower deck with murderous impact. Overhead, rigging was scythed away, and as more and more sail area was exposed it too was punched through with holes and long streaming remnants.

Inch shouted, “Stand by on the fo’c’s’le!”

The starboard carronade belched fire and smoke, but the aim was too high and the great ball exploded on the enemy’s gangway. It hit nothing vital, but the outward effect was horrific. Some twenty men had been working to cut free the dragging weight of spars and cordage, and when the ball exploded near them it painted the ship’s tumblehome scarlet from deck to waterline.

It was as if the ship herself was mortally wounded and bleeding to death.

“Stand by to alter course to starboard!”

“Brace up your head yards!”

A few shots pattered against the hull and brought an instant retort from Odin’s marines who were yelling and cheering as they fired through the thickening smoke.

Bolitho felt the wind on his cheek and heard the sails filling untidily as Odin turned her stern towards the wind. She was no frigate, but Inch handled her like one.

A strong down-gust carried the smoke away, and he saw the French flagship riding on the starboard cathead as if she were caught there. In fact she was a good cable clear, but close enough to see her tricolour and command flag, the frantic activity as her captain changed tack to avoid colliding with the stricken leader.

Bolitho took a glass and steadied it while he waited for the guns to fire another broadside into the helpless Frenchman. He felt the planks buck beneath his shoes, saw the wildness in the eyes of the nearest crew as they hurled themselves on the tackles to restrain the smoking eighteen-pounder.

When he looked again he saw the flagship’s tall stern and gilded quarter-gallery, and on her counter her name, La Sultane, as if he could reach out and touch it.

He moved the glass upwards slightly and saw some of her officers, one gesticulating up at the yards, another mopping his face as if he had been in a tropical downpour.

Just for a brief moment before the guns crashed out again he saw the rear-admiral’s cocked hat, then as he walked briskly to the poop, the man’s face.

Bolitho lowered the glass and allowed the small pictures to fall away with it. No mistake. Contre-Amiral Jean Remond, he would never forget him.

Allday saw the expression on Bolitho’s face and understood.

Many senior officers would have taken the Frenchman’s offer of a safe, comfortable house with servants and the best of everything, with nothing to do but wait for an exchange. It showed Remond did not, nor would he ever, understand a man like Bolitho who had waited only for the chance to hit back.

It was all part of the madness, of course, Allday decided philosophically, yet despite that he felt less afraid of what might happen.

Unaware of Allday’s scrutiny, Bolitho kept his eyes on the disabled French ship. She was badly mauled by the constant battering, and thin red lines ran from her scuppers and down her smashed side to show how her people had died for their over-confidence.

But there was still time for Remond to stand off and fight his way back to the Loire Estuary and the safety of the coastal batteries. He might think that Odin’s impudence was backed up by a knowledge that more support was on the way.

Bolitho looked towards Phalarope. Herrick would be remembering that other time when she had been made to take her place in the line of battle, to fight and face the broadsides of the giants. That had been at the Saintes, and she had been paying for that cruel damage ever since.

Inch said, “They’re re-forming, sir.”

Bolitho nodded as he saw the flags break out above La Sultane. Four to one. It was nothing to feel pleased about.

Inch exclaimed, “Converging tack, but we’ll still hold the wind-gage!”

Bolitho watched narrowly as the French flagship’s side shone in the smoky sunlight. Eighty guns, larger even than Benbow. He saw all her artillery run out and poking blindly towards the shore, her yards alive with seamen as they prepared to close with their enemy.

Bolitho asked softly, “Where is our squadron, Mr Stirling?”

The boy leapt into the shrouds, then hurried back and said, “They are fast overhauling us, sir!” He too had lost his fear, and his eyes were dancing with feverish excitement.

“Stay by me, Mr Stirling.” He glanced meaningly at Allday. The midshipman had lost his fear at the wrong moment. It could have been his only protection.

“Let her fall off a point, Captain Inch.”

“Steer sou’-east!”

He heard the rasp of steel as Allday drew the cutlass from his belt, saw the way the men on the starboard side were standing to their guns again.

At least we shall give Remond something to remember after this day.

Bolitho drew his sword and tossed the scabbard to the foot of the mizzen-mast.

One thing was certain, Odin’s challenge would slow the French down, and Herrick would be amongst them like a lion.

Bolitho smiled gravely. A Kentish lion.

Inch and the first lieutenant saw him smile then looked at each other for what might be the last time.

“Marines! Face your front!” Odin’s marine captain walked stiffly behind his men, his eyes everywhere but on the enemy.

Allday brushed against the midshipman and felt him flinch. And no wonder.

Allday watched the towering criss-cross of shrouds and rigging, braced yards and canvas as it rose higher and higher above Odin’s starboard bow until there was no sky left. He tugged at his neckerchief to loosen it. No air either.

Stirling pulled out his midshipman’s dirk and then thrust it back again.

Against that awesome panorama of sails and flags it was like taking a belaying pin to fight an army.

He heard Allday say between his teeth, “Keep with me.” The cutlass hovered in the air. “It’ll be hot work, I shouldn’t wonder.”

“Alter course two points to wind’rd!”

Odin steered slowly away from the enemy, so that La Sultane seemed to loom even larger than before.

“As you bear!”

Inch peered across the narrowing arrowhead of water between his ship and the big two-decker. Just for a moment they had moved away to present their guns.

“Fire!”

Even as the ship jerked to the irregular crash of cannon fire Inch yelled, “Bring her back on course, Mr M’Ewan!”

Bolitho saw the seamen on the forecastle crouching down as the French flagship’s tapering jib-boom, with some dangling rigging trailing from their brief encounter, probed past and above them.

Musket balls whined through the air, and several slapped into the packed hammocks or clanged against the guns.

Inch said fiercely, “Here we go!” He straightened his hat and yelled, “At ’em, my Odins!”

Then the whole world seemed to explode in one great shuddering upheaval.

It was impossible to determine the number of times Odin had fired her broadside into the enemy or to measure the damage wrought by the French guns in return. The world was lost in choking smoke, lit from within by terrible orange tongues as the gun crews fired and reloaded like men driven from their reason.

Bolitho thought he heard the sharper notes of smaller cannon in the far distance whenever there was a brief pause in the bombardment, and guessed that Ganymede and Rapid were waging their own war against Remond’s frigate.

The smoke was dense and rose so high between the two ships that all else was hidden. The other French ships, Herrick and the squadron could have been alongside or a mile away, shut from the tumult by the roar of gunfire.

Overhead the nets bounced to falling rigging and blocks, and then together, as if holding hands, three marines were hurled from the maintop by a blast of canister, their screams lost in the din.

A ball smashed through the quarterdeck rail and ploughed across to the opposite side. Bolitho saw the deck, and even the foot of the driver boom, splashed in blood as the ball cut amongst some marines like a giant’s cleaver.

Inch was yelling, “Bring her up a point, Mr M’Ewan!”

But the master lay dead with two of his men, the planking around them dappled scarlet where they had fallen.

A master’s mate, his face as white as death, took charge of the wheel, and slowly the ship responded.

More marines were climbing the ratlines to the fighting-tops, and soon their muskets were joining in the battle as they tried to mark down the enemy’s officers.

Bolitho gritted his teeth as two seamen were flung from their gun below the quarterdeck, one headless, the other shrieking in terror as he tried to drag wood splinters from his face and neck.

“Fire!”

Small pictures of courage and suffering stood out through gaps in the swirling smoke. Powder-monkeys, mere boys, running with backs bent under the weight of their charges while they hurried from gun to gun. A seaman working with a handspike to move his eighteen-pounder while his captain yelled instructions at him over the smoke-hazed breech. A midshipman, younger than Stirling, knuckling his eyes to hold back the tears in front of his division as his friend, another midshipman, was dragged away, his body shot through by canister.

“And again, lads! Fire! ”

Allday crowded against Bolitho as musket fire hissed and whined past. Men were falling and dying, others were screaming their hatred into the smoke as they fired, reloaded and fired again.

“Look up, sir!”

Bolitho raised his eyes and saw something coming through the smoke high overhead, like some strange battering-ram.

La Sultane may have intended to sail past on the opposite tack and smash Odin into surrender by sheer weight of artillery. Maybe her captain had changed his mind or, like M’Ewan who lay dead with his men, had been shot down before he could execute a man?uvre.

But the oncoming tusk was La Sultane ’s jib-boom, and as more trapped smoke lifted and surged beneath the hulls, Bolitho saw the hazy outline of the Frenchman’s figurehead, like some terrible phantom with staring eyes and a bright crimson mouth.

The jib-boom crashed through Odin’s mizzen shrouds, and there was a loud, lingering clatter as the other ship’s dolphinstriker tore adrift and trailing rigging flew in the wind like creeper.

“Repel boarders!”

Bolitho felt the hull jerk and knew it had been badly hit by the last broadside. He could not see through the burning smoke but heard warning shouts and then cries as the foremast thundered down. The sound seemed to deaden even the guns, and Bolitho almost fell as the ship rocked to the great weight of mast and rigging.

The master’s mate yelled, “She don’t answer th’ helm, sir!”

Bright stabbing flashes spat through the smoke from overhead, and Bolitho saw scrambling figures climbing along the enemy’s bowsprit and spritsail yard as they tried to reach Odin’s deck.

But they were delayed by the spread nets, and, as a wild-eyed marine corporal threw himself to one of the poop swivels and jerked its lanyard, the determined group of boarders were flung aside like butchers’ rags.

Inch strode through the smoke, his hat gone, one arm hanging at his side.

He said through clenched teeth, “Must free ourselves, sir!”

Bolitho saw the first lieutenant waving his sword and urging more men aft to fight off the next wave of boarders. How the gun crews could keep firing with half of their number already smashed into silence was a miracle. On the deck below it would be far worse.

Bolitho stared round at the scene of destruction and carnage. The two ships were killing each other, all thought of victory lost in the madness and hatred of battle.

He saw Allday watching him, Stirling close at his side, his face pinched against the sights and sounds around him.

He saw the smoke quiver as new cannon fire rumbled across the water like a volcano. Herrick was here and at grips with the rest of the French squadron.

It was then that it hit Bolitho like a fist or a sharp cry in his ear. It was no longer a matter of pride or the need to destroy Odin’s flag.

“Remond wants me.” He realized he had spoken aloud, saw the understanding on Inch’s face, the sudden tightening of Allday’s jaw.

They would never fight free of La Sultane in time. Either Odin would be totally swamped by her heavier artillery or both ships would be fought to a senseless slaughter.

Bolitho tried to contain the sudden madness, but could do nothing.

He leapt on to the starboard gangway and shouted above the crash and thunder of firing, “Boarders away, lads! To me, Odins!” He blinked as muskets flashed from unseen marksmen. It is what Neale would have said.

Seamen cut away the boarding nets, and as others snatched up axes and cutlasses Bolitho’s wildness seemed to inflame the upper deck like a terrible weapon.

Graham, the first lieutenant, jumped out and down, his sword shining dully in the smoke. From somewhere a boarding pike stabbed outboard like a cruel tongue, and without even a cry Graham fell between the two hulls. Bolitho glanced down at him only briefly, saw his eyes staring up before the two great hulls were thrust together yet again and he was ground between them.

Then he was slipping and stumbling from handhold to handhold, until he found himself on the enemy’s forecastle. He was almost knocked aside as more of Odin’s boarders charged past him, yelling like fiends as they hacked aside all opposition until they had reached the starboard gangway.

Startled faces peered up from the guns which were still firing into Odin, even though the muzzles were almost overlapping above the slit of trapped water as La Sultane swung heavily alongside.

A French midshipman darted from the shrouds and was hit between the shoulder-blades by a boarding axe as he ran.

Gun by gun the enemy’s broadside fell silent as men took up their pikes and cutlasses to defend their ship against this unexpected attack.

Bolitho found himself being carried along the narrow gangway, his sword-arm trapped at his side by the yelling, cheering seamen and marines.

Shots banged and whimpered from every angle and men were falling and dying, unable to find safety as they were forced along in the crush.

A lieutenant stood astride the gangway and saw Bolitho as he broke free from the men around him. Some of the boarders had dropped to the gun-deck below, and small tight groups of men hacked and slashed at each other, gasping for breath, while they sought to kill their enemies.

Bolitho held his sword level with his belt and watched the lieutenant’s uncertainty.

The blades circled and hissed together, and Bolitho saw the other man’s first surprise give way to concentrated determination. But Bolitho held fast to a stanchion and wedged his hilt hard against his adversary’s. The lieutenant lost his balance, and for an instant their faces almost touched. There was fear now, but Bolitho saw his enemy only as a hindrance for what he must do.

A twist and a thrust to push the man off balance. The blade was unfamiliar but straight, and Bolitho felt it grate on bone before it slid beneath the lieutenant’s armpit.

He jerked it free and ran on towards the quarterdeck. Vaguely through the smoke he saw Odin’s misty outline, festooned with tattered canvas and severed rigging. Upended guns and motionless figures which told the story of every sea-fight.

Bolitho’s sudden anger seemed to carry him faster towards the battling figures which surged back and forth across the quarterdeck while the air rang with steel and the occasional crack of a pistol.

A seaman swung at a French quartermaster and cut his arm, and yelling with fear the man ran the wrong way and was quickly impaled on a marine’s bayonet.

Two of Inch’s seamen, one badly wounded, were hurling fire buckets from the quarterdeck on to the heads of the Frenchmen below. Filled with sand, each bucket was like a rock.

A figure lunged through the smoke, but his blade glanced off Bolitho’s left epaulette. But for it, the blade might have sliced into his shoulder like a wire through cheese.

Bolitho staggered aside as the French officer tried to recover his guard.

“Not now, mounseer!”

Allday’s big cutlass made a blur across Bolitho’s vision and sounded as if it was hitting solid wood.

Where was Remond? Bolitho peered round, his sword-arm aching as he tried to gauge the progress of the battle. There were more marines aboard now, and he saw Allday’s new friend, the colour-sergeant, striding between a line of his men, his handpike taking a terrible toll as they stabbed and hacked their way aft.

By the larboard poop ladder, protected by some of his lieutenants, stood Remond. He saw Bolitho at the same moment, and for what seemed like minutes they stared at each other.

Remond shouted, “Strike! Without your flag, your ships will soon be gone!”

His voice brought a baying response from the British sailors and marines who had managed to fight their way the full length of the ship.

But Bolitho held out his sword and snapped, “I am waiting, Contre-Amiral!”

He could feel his heart thumping wildly, knowing that he was exposing his back to any marksman who might still have the will to take aim.

Remond threw his hat aside and answered, “I am ready enough, m’sieu!”

Allday said fiercely, “Jesus, sir, he’s got the sword! ”

“I know.”

Bolitho stepped away from his men, sensing their wildness giving way to something like savage curiosity.

Just to see the old sword in Remond’s hand was all the spur he required.

They met on a small, shot-scarred place below the poop, hemmed in by seamen and marines who for just a few moments were spectators.

The blades touched and veered away again. Bolitho trod carefully, feeling the stab of pain in his thigh which might betray him to the enemy.

The sword blades darted closer, and Bolitho felt the power of the man, the strength of his broad, muscular body.

Despite the danger and the closeness of death, Bolitho was very aware of Allday nearby. Held back because of his need to face Remond alone, but not for long, any more than this fight would end a battle. Even now La Sultane ’s lower gun-deck would have realized what was happening, and officers would be mustering their hands to repel the boarders.

Clang, clang, the swords shivered together, and Bolitho recalled with sudden clarity his father using that same old blade to teach him how to defend himself.

He could feel Remond’s nearness, even smell him as they pressed together and locked hilts before fighting clear again.

He heard someone sobbing uncontrollably and knew it was Stirling. He must have climbed after the boarders in spite of his orders and the risk of being hacked down.

They think I am going to be killed.

Like the sight of the old sword in his enemy’s grasp, the thought made a chill of fury run through him. As their blades clashed and parried, and each man circled round to find an advantage, Bolitho could feel the strength going from his arm.

In one corner of his eye something moved very slowly, and for an instant he imagined that another of the French ships was going to take Odin from the other beam as first intended.

His breath seemed to stop. She was no ship of the line. She could only be Phalarope. As Odin had lain against her powerful adversary, and Herrick’s ships had closed with their French counterparts, Phalarope had fought her way through the line to support him.

He gasped as Remond drove the knuckle-bow into his shoulder and punched him away. Perhaps for that second’s hesitation Remond had seen Bolitho’s surprise as defeat.

Bolitho fell back against the hammock nettings, his sword clattering across the deck. He saw Remond’s dark eyes, merciless and unwinking, he seemed to be staring straight along the edge of the blade to its very point which was aimed at his heart.

The deafening roar of carronades was terrifying and broke the spellbound watchers into confusion. Phalarope had crossed the French flagship’s stern and was firing through the windows and along the lower gun-deck from transom to bows.

The ship felt as if it were falling apart, and Bolitho saw splinters and fragments of grape bursting up through the deck itself or ricocheting over the sea like disturbed hornets. One such fragment hit Remond before he could make that final thrust.

He realized that Allday was helping to get him to his feet, that Remond had fallen on his side, a hole the size of a fist punched through his stomach. Behind him a British seaman came out of his daze, and seeing the dying admiral, lifted his cutlass to end it.

Allday saw Bolitho’s face and said to the man, “Easy, mate! Enough’s enough.” Almost gently he prised the old sword from Remond’s fingers and added, “It don’t serve two masters, mounseer.” But Remond’s stare had become fixed and without understanding.

Bolitho gripped the sword in both hands and turned it over very slowly. Around him his men were cheering and hugging each other, while Allday stood grim-faced and watchful until the last Frenchman had thrown down his weapons.

Bolitho looked at Stirling who was staring at him and shivering uncontrollably.

“We won, Mr Stirling.”

The boy nodded, his eyes too misty to record this great moment for his mother.

A young lieutenant, whose face was vaguely familiar, pushed through the cheering seamen and marines.

He saw Bolitho and touched his hat.

“Thank God you are safe, sir!”

Bolitho studied him gravely. “Thank you, but is that what you came to say?”

The lieutenant stared around at the dead and wounded, the scars and bloody patterns of battle.

“I have to tell you, sir, that the enemy have struck to us. All but one, which is running for the Loire with Nicator in full pursuit.”

Bolitho looked away. A complete victory. More than even Beauchamp could have expected.

He swung towards the lieutenant. He must think me mad.

“What ship?”

“Phalarope, sir. I am Fearn, acting-first lieutenant.”

Bolitho stared at him. “Acting-first lieutenant?” He saw the man recoil but could only think of his nephew. “Is Lieutenant Pascoe…?” He could not say the word.

The lieutenant breathed out noisily, glad he was not in the wrong after all.

“Oh no, sir! Lieutenant Adam Pascoe is in temporary command!” He looked down at the deck as if the realization he had survived was only just reaching him. “I fear Captain Emes fell as we broke through the French line.”

Bolitho gripped his hand. “Return to your ship and give my thanks to the people.”

He followed the lieutenant along the gangway until he saw a boat hooked alongside.

Phalarope was lying hove to close by, her sails punctured, but every carronade still run out and ready to fire.

He remembered what he had said to Herrick after the Saintes, when he had spoken of others’ ships.

Bolitho had replied then, “Not like this one. Not like the Phalarope.”

There would be no need to tell Adam that. For like Emes before him, he would have discovered it for himself.

He saw Allday rolling up the captured French flag which had outlived its admiral.

Bolitho took it and handed it to the lieutenant.

“My compliments to your commanding officer, Mr Fearn. Give him this.” He looked at his old sword and added quietly, “We can all honour this day.”