Command a King`s Ship

17. Close Action

Bolitho rested his hands on the quarterdeck rail and peered searchingly along his command. In the darkness the decks and gangways made a pale outline against the sea beyond the bows, and only the irregular drift of spray, the swirling white arrowhead from the stem gave any true hint of their progress.

He restrained himself from going aft again to examine his watch by the shaded compass light. Nothing had changed since his last inspection, and he was well aware of the danger of adding to the tension around him.

Three days since they had left the anchorage in Pendang Bay, making good speed with favourable winds for most of the time. They had stood well clear of the land, even the approaches to the little whale-shaped islet, in case Muljadi or Le Chaumareys had thought fit to place another craft there to warn of any unwelcome sail.

The previous evening, just before sunset, they had sighted Herrick's schooner, a tiny dark sliver on the copper-edged horizon, seemingly motionless as she idled to await Undine's arrival at the arranged point of rendezvous. A brief dipping signal from a lantern before both vessels had lost each other again in darkness.

Bolitho shivered, feeling the cool, clammy air exploring his face and throat. The middle watch had only just run its course, and there was still an hour or so before any lightening of the sky could be expected. But overnight, while all hands had worked to prepare the ship for action, the clouds had gathered and thickened, brushing out the stars so that Undine seemed to be sailing remorselessly into a void.

He heard Mudge moving restlessly below the hammock nettings, rubbing his palms together to keep warm. The sailing master seemed unusually preoccupied. Perhaps his rheumatism was troubling him, or like Bolitho, he was thinking of Herrick, somewhere out there on Undine's larboard bow.

Bolitho straightened his back and looked up at the blacker outlines of yards and rigging. The ship was sailing under topsails and jibs, and with only the great forecourse hiding the sea ahead of the bowsprit. It was strange to feel so chilled, when within hours the sun would be back to torment them, to add to whatever else, lay in store.

He asked, 'How is the wind, Mr. Mudge?'

Mudge was glad to break the silence. 'Still sou'-west, sir. By an' large.' He coughed noisily. 'Under most occasions I'd be grateful for that.'

'What are you thinking?'

'Not sure, sir.' Mudge moved away from the seamen waiting by the quarterdeck six-pounders. 'It's too uneven for. my tastes.'

Bolitho turned to peer forward again. The big forecourse seemed to echo Mudge's doubts. Undine was steering almost due north, and with the wind coming across her quarter she should have been making easy-going of it. But she was not. The forecourse would billow and harden, making the stars and shrouds hum and vibrate, holding the ship firm for several minutes. Then it would flap and bang in disorder before falling almost limp against the foremast for another frustrating period.

Mudge added doubtfully, 'You never knows in these waters. Not for sure.'

Bolitho looked at his untidy outline. If Mudge was worried, with all his experience, how much worse it would be for many of the others.

He called, 'Mr. Davy! I am going forrard directly.' He saw the lieutenant's shape detach itself from the rail. 'Tell Mr. Keen to keep me company.'

He slipped out of his tarpaulin coat and handed it to Allday. He had been so occupied with his own thoughts and doubts he had not fully realised how heavily these dragging hours must be affecting his company. He had ordered the ship to be prepared for action as soon as he was satisfied with the final leg of their course towards the Benua islands. Working in almost total darkness, the hands had completed the task almost as quickly as in broad daylight, so familiar had they become with their surroundings. Their home. It was a simple precaution. Sound travelled too easily at sea, and the clatter of screens being torn down, the scrape and squeak of nets being spread above the gun deck and chain slings being rigged to every yard seemed loud enough to wake the dead. But from then on they had nothing to do but wait. To fret on what daylight might bring, or take away.

Keen came out of the darkness, his shirt pale against a black six-pounder.

Bolitho asked, 'How is the wound?' 'Much better, thank you, sir.'

Bolitho smiled. He could almost feel the pain which was probably showing on Keen's face.

'Then take a stroll with me.'

Together they walked along the lee gangway, ducking below the taut nets which Shellabeer's men had rigged to catch falling cordage or worse, seeing the upturned faces of each gun crew, the restless shapes of the marine sentries at hatchways, or powder-monkeys huddled together while they waited to serve the silent cannon.

On to the forecastle, where the squat carronades pointed from either bow like tethered beasts, their crews shivering in the occasional dashes of spray.

Bolitho paused, one hand. gripping the nettings as Undine sidled unsteadily into a deep trough. Most of the seamen were stripped to the waist, their bodies shining faintly above the d rk water alongside.

'All ready, lads?'

He felt them crowd around him, their sudden interest at his arrival. Of necessity, the galley fire had been doused when the ship had gone to quarters. A hot drink now would be worth more than a dozen extra guns, he thought bitterly.

To Keen he said, 'Pass the word to Mr. Davy with my compliments. A double tot of rum for all hands.' He heard the instant response around him, the murmur of appreciation as it flowed aft along the gun deck. 'If the purser complains, tell him he'll have me to reckon with!'

'Thankee, sir! That was right thoughtful, sir!'

He strode to the ladder, turning away in case they could see his face through the darkness, or sense his mood. It was too easy to raise their spirits. So simple that it made him feel cheap, hypocritical. A double tot of rum. A few pence. Whereas within hours they might have given their lives, or their limbs.

Bolitho paced aft beside the main hatch, seeing Soames's great figure towering above that of Tapril, the gunner. He nodded to Fowlar nearby, and to the larboard crews of the twelve-pounders. All were his men, his responsibility.

He thought suddenly of Rear Admiral Sir John Winslade, all those weeks and months ago in his office at the Admiralty. He had needed a, frigate captain he could know and trust. One whose mind he could follow even though it was on the other side of the globe.

He thought, too, of the ragged soldiers below the Admiralty window, one blind, the other begging for the both of them.

All the brave schemes and plans, the lofty preparations for a new world. Yet when it was boiled down, nothing was changed. Undine and Argus were but two ships, and yet their presence and their needs made them no less important than opposing fleets.

And if Undine failed, what would they say in those fine residences in Whitehall and St. James's Square, and in the busy coffee houses where mere rumour grew into fact in minutes? Would they care that men had fought and died for them in the King's name?

Someone gave a hoarse cheer in the gloom, and he guessed the rum had arrived on deck.

He continued aft, hardly aware that he had stopped short in his tracks as his bitterness had given way to anger. How spacious the deck seemed without the boats lying one upon the other across their tier. All were now towing astern, awaiting the moment to be cast adrift, mute spectators of the battle which might come. Which had to come.

It was always a bad moment, he thought. Boats were frail things, but in battle they made an additional menace with their splinters flying like savage darts. Despite the danger, most men would wish them kept aboard. A link, a hope for survival if things went badly.

Keen came back panting hard. 'All done, sir. Mr. Triphook was a trifle perturbed at the extra issue!' His teeth shone in the darkness. 'Wouldyou care for a glass, sir?'

Bolitho disliked rum. But he saw the seamen and marines watching him and exclaimed, 'Indeed I would, Mr. Keen.'

He raised the glass to his mouth, the powerful stench of rum going straight to his empty stomach.

'To us, lads!'

He pictured Herrick and Puigserver aboard their floating

bomb. And to you, Thomas.

Then he was glad he had accepted the rum and added, 'I can noww understand what makes our jacks so fearsome!' It brought more laughs, as he knew it would.

He glanced at the sky. Still without light, or sign of a star.

He said, 'I'll go below.' He touched the midshipman's arm. 'You remain here by the hatch. Call, if I am needed.'

Bolitho climbed down into the darkness, his feet less certain here. Anyone could call him when required, but he must spare Keen an unnecessary visit to the surgeon's domain. It might come soon enough. He recalled the great pulsating wound, Allday's gentleness as he had searched out that bloody splinter.

Another ladder. He paused, feeling the ship groaning around him. Different smellsabounded on this deck. Tar and oakum, and that of tightly compressed humanity, even though the tiny messes were now deserted. And from forward the reek of the great anchor cables, of bilge water and damp clothing. Of a living, working ship.

A feeble lantern showed him the rest of the way to Whitmarsh's crude surgery. The sea-chests lashed together where terrified wounded would be saved or driven to despair. Leather straps to jam between teeth, dressings to contain the pain.

The surgeon's great shadow swayed across the tilting deck. Bolitho watched him narrowly. There was a stronger smell of brandy in the damp air. To quench pain, or to prepare Whitmarsh for his own private hell, he was not certain.

'All well, Mr. Whitmarsh?'

'Aye, sir.'

The surgeon lurched against the chests and braced his knee to the nearest one. He waved one hand around his silent assistants, the loblolly boys, the men who would hold their victims until the work was done. Brutalised by their trade. Without ears for the screams. Beyond pity.

'We are all awaiting whatyou send us, sir.'

Bolitho stared at him coldly. 'Will you never learn?'

The surgeon nodded heavily. 'I have learned well. Oh yes indeed, sir. As I have sawed away at a man's leg, or plugged carpenter's oakum into his empty eye-socket, with nothing to ease his torment but neat spirits, I have come closer to God than most!'

'If that be true, then I pray you get no closer.'

Bolitho nodded to the others and strode towards the ladder.

Whitmarsh called after him, 'Perhaps I shall be greeting you, sir!'

Bolitho did not reply. The surgeon was obviously going completely mad. His obsession with his brother's horrible death, his drinking, and the very way he earned his living were taking their toll. But he had to hang on to what remained of that other man. The one who had spoken of suffering with compassion, of serving others less fortunate.

He thought again of Herrick, and prayed he would get his boat away when the schooner was set upon her final course to destruction. Strange companions he had, too. Puigserver, and the frightened sailmaker from Bristol, finding courage from somewhere to sail back to that place which had broken his mind and body.

'Captain, sir!'

He quickened his pace as Keen's voice came down the next ladder.

'What is it?'

But as he gripped the ladder and turned his face towards the sky's faint rectangle he knew the answer. Slow, heavy drops of rain were falling across the hatchway, like small pebbles dropped from the yards as they tapped on planking or bounced across the gangways.

He dragged himself up the last few steps and hurried aft to the quarterdeck. He was within a few feet of it when the clouds opened and the rain came down in a great roaring, deafening torrent.

He yelled above the deluge, 'How is the wind now?'

Mudge was cringing by the binnacle, his hat awry in the fury of the downpour.

'Veerin', sir! Far as I can tell!'

Water hissed and gurgled down decks and scuppers, and the chilled gun crews pressed beneath the gangways and cowered behind the sealed ports to escape the torrential rain.

Bolitho felt Allday trying to throw the tarpaulin coat over his shoulders, but pushed him away. He was already soaked to the marrow, hair plastered over his forehead, his mind ringing to the din of rain and spray. Yet through it all he managed to keep contact with the ship and her affairs. The deck felt steady enough, despite the angry downpour, and above his head he managed to make out the maintopsail's shape flapping and shining wetly as the wind eased round still further.

He snapped, 'Hands to the braces, Mr. Davy! We will be full and bye directly!' He heard the men groping and cursing as they lurched to obey the orders, the protesting squeak of swollen cordage being hauled through blocks while yards were trimmed to hold the ship on her larboard tack. He called, 'Bring her up a point!'

Men slithered around the big double wheel, and he saw Carwithen punch one of the helmsmen as he bowed under the sheeting rain.

'Nor' by west, sir. Full an' bye she is!'

'Hold her so!'

Bolitho mopped his face with his sleeve:/The probing downpour helped to clear his aching mind, to make him accept what was happening. If the wind continued to veer, even if it stayed where it was, Herrick would be unable to place his schooner in position where he could destroy Muljadi's battery. The disastrous change of wind made the rain feel like tears. Tears for all their hopes, their pathetic determination, which minutes ago had made even the impossible seem undaunting.

He lurched to Mudge's side and shouted, 'How far now, d'you reckon?'

'Four or five mile, no more, sir.' Mudge was staring at the rain with dismay. 'This lot'll pass over quick enough. But then…' He shrugged.

Bolitho looked away. He knew well enough. A rising wind was most likely once the sun appeared. A wind which would do no service to Herrick, and keep Le Chaumareys in the safety of his anchorage. Undine would be helpless. She would be made to stay offshore until the enemy's double strength was prepared and ready to fight on their terms. Or they could turn and run for Pendang Bay with nothing to offer but a final warning.

Davy shouted, 'By God, life is hard!'

Mudge glared at him. 'Life's a bloody rear-guard action, Mr. Davy, from the day you're born!'

Bolitho swung round to silence both of them and then saw that the master's mate's face was clearer than before. He could even see Carwithen scowling at the same luckless helmsman. The dawn was forcing itself to be taken notice of.

He felt the blood racing in his head as he snapped, 'We will attack as before! Pass the word to all hands!'

Davy gaped at him. 'Without destroying the battery, sir?'

'It might not have worked anyway.' He tried to sound calm. 'The enemy will be listening to the rain and thanking God for being at anchor.' He added harshly, 'Are you deaf, man? Tell Mr. Soames to prepare for loading, once the rain is passed!'

Davy nodded jerkily and hurried to the rail.

Captain Bellairs strode to Bolitho's side and remarked coolly, 'Damn risky thing, sir, if you'll pardon my sayin' so.'

Bolitho felt his shoulders beginning to sag under the rain, the sudden spark deserting him.

'What wouldyou have me do?'

Bellairs turned up his collar and pouted, 'Oh,.I'd fight, sir, – no choice in the matter, what? Pity though, all the same. Waste. Damn bloody waste.'

Bolitho nodded heavily. 'No argument there.'

'Deck there! Land ho!'

Bolitho walked stiffly to the lee side, his shoes squeaking on the puddled deck. A darker blur, reaching out on either bow, deceptively gentle in the feeble light.

A voice said, 'Rain's goin'.' He sounded surprised.

As if to mark its passing, the dripping forecourse lifted and boomed dully to receive a fresher gust of wind. It made Bolitho shiver and grit his teeth.

'Tell Mr. Soames. Load, and prepare to run out when I pass the word.'

He looked around for Keen. 'Run up the Colours, if you please.'

Another voice muttered, 'No chance, mates. They'll do for the lot of us.'

Bolitho heard the halliards squeaking as the ensign dashed up to the peak and broke out to the wind, unseen as yet in the clinging darkness.

'As soon as it is light enough, Mr. Keen, have your party make a signal to the schooner. Discontinue the action. Mr. Herrick can stand off and retrieve our boats.'

Keen said, 'Aye, aye, sir, I'll see to it when-'

He turned angrily as a voice murmured from the shadows, 'Pick up our bloody corpses, more's the like!'

Keen shouted, 'Keep silence there! Master-at-arms, take that man's name!'

Bolitho said quietly, 'Easy. If it helps them to curse, then let it be so.'

Keen faced him, his fists doubled at his sides. 'But it's not fair, sir. It's not your doing.'

Bolitho smiled gravely. 'Thank you, Mr. Keen.'

He recalled with sudden clarity his lieutenant in his first command, the little sloop Sparrow. An American colonist, he had endured the worst of the war, serving his King, but fighting his own kind at the same time. What would he have replied? I ain't so sure. Bolitho could almost hear him, as if he was present at this very moment.

He turned quickly to starboard, seeing the glowing rim of sunlight as it probed above the bare horizon. Very soon now.

He discovered he was dreading the daylight, that which would lay them naked under the guns as they drove into the narrow channel where he had met Le Chaumareys.

Bolitho heard a step behind him and Aliday's voice. Firm, unruffled. 'Better go below and get out of those wet things, Captain.'

He swung towards him, his voice cracking with strain. 'Do you think I have nothing else to do?'

The coxswain regarded him stubbornly. 'Not just yet, you haven't.' He added in the same flat tone, 'You remember the Saintes, Captain?' He did not wait for an answer. 'It was a bad time. All those Frogs, the sea abounding with their damned ships until it was nigh on bursting. I recalls it well. I was right forrard on one of the carronades. The lads were all quaking with fright at what was to come. Then I looked aft and saw you pacing the quarterdeck, like you were going to church instead of to hell.'

Bolitho stared at him, his mind suddenly steady. 'I remember.'

Allday nodded slowly. 'Aye. You wore your best uniform.' Bolitho looked past him, recalling another voice. His coxswain who had died that day. They'll want to seeyou.

He replied quietly, 'Very well. But if I'm called…' Allday gave a slow smile. 'Immediately, Captain.'

Mudge said hoarsely, 'That was fool advice, man! The cap'n'll make a fine target for sharpshooters in 'is gold lace!' Allday eyed him angrily. 'I know. He does, too. He also knows we are depending on himtoday, andthatmeans seeinghim.' Mudge shook his head. 'Mad. You're all mad!'

'Deck there! Schooner fine on th' weather bow!' Keen called, 'Hoist the signal to recall her!'

Allday was standing with his arms folded, his eyes on the spreading carpet of early light as it reached towards the islands. 'Mr. Herrick won't see it.'

Davy glared at him. 'It will be light enough very soon now.' 'I know, sir.' Allday looked at him sadly. 'But he'll not see it.

Not Mr. Herrick.'

Without furniture or fittings the cabin felt strangely hostile, like an empty house which mourns a lost master and awaits another. Bolitho stoodbythe shuttered stern windows, his arms limp at his sides, while Noddall clucked around him and patted the heavy dress coat into position. Like the boat cloak, it had been made by a good London tailor with some of his prize-money.

Through the wide gap left by the screens, which had now been bolted to the deckhead, he could see straight out along the gun deck, the shapes and restless figures still only shadows in the frail light. Even here, in the cabin where he had found peace in solitude, or had sat with Viola Raymond, or shared a pipe with Herrick, there was no escape. The chintz covers had gone from the twelve-pounders and had followed the furniture to a safer stowage below the waterline, and by the guns on either beam the crews stood awkwardly, like unfinished statuary, conscious of his presence, wanting to watch him as he completed dressing, yet still held apart by the rigidity of their calling.

Bolitho cocked his head to listen to the rudder as it growled and pounded in response to the helm. The wind was fresher, heeling the ship over and holding it so. He saw the nearest gun captain checking his firing lanyard and noted how his body was angled to the deck.

Noddall was muttering, 'More like it, sir. Much more like it.' He said it fervently, as if repeating a prayer. 'Cap'n Stewart was always most particular, afore a fight.'

Bolitho wrenched his mind back from his doubts and misgivings. Stewart? Then he remembered. Undine's last captain. Had he felt the same, too, he wondered?

Feet stamped over the deck above, and he heard someone shouting.

He snapped, 'That will have to suffice.'

He snatched up his hat and sword and then paused to pat Noddall's bony shoulder. He looked so small, with his hands held in front of him like paws, that he felt sudden compassion for him.

'Take care, Noddall. Stay down when the iron begins to fly. You're no fighting man, eh?'

He was shocked to see Noddall bobbing his head and tears running down his face.

In a small, broken voice he said, 'Thankee, Cap'n!' He did not hide his gratitude. 'I couldn't face another battle. An' I'd not want to let you down, sir.'

Bolitho pushed past and hurried to the ladder. He had always taken him for granted. The little man who fussed over his table and darned his shirts. Content in his own small world. It had never occurred to him that he was terrified each time the ship cleared for action.

He ran up the last steps and saw Davy and Keen with telescopes trained towards the bows.

'What is the matter?'

Davy turned, and then stared at him. He swallowed hard, his eyes still on Bolitho's gold-laced coat.

'Schooner has not acknowledged, sir!'

Bolitho looked from him to the streaming flags, now bright against the dull topsails.

'Are you sure?'

Mudge growled, 'Yer cox'n seems to think she won't neither, sir.'

Bolitho ignored him, his eyes exploring the spread of land across the bows. Still lost in deep shadow, with only an occasional lip of light to betray the dawn. But the schooner was clear enough. Indirect line with Undine's plunging jib-boom, her canvas looked almost white against the cliffs and ragged hills.

Herrick must have seen the recall. He would have been anticipating it as soon as the wind veered. He peered up at the masthead pendant. God, how the wind had gone round. It must be west-south-west.

He shouted, 'Hands aloft, Mr. Davy! Get the t'gallants on her!'

He swung round, seeing them all. in those brief seconds. Mudge's doubts. Carwithen behind him, his lips compressed into a thin line. The helmsmen, the bare-backed gun crews, Keen with his signal party.

The calls shrilled, and shadows darted up the ratlines on either beam as the topmen hurried to set more canvas.

Davy shouted, 'Maybe Mr. Herrick intends to go ahead with the plan, sir!'

Bolitho looked at Allday, saw the way he was watching the schooner.

He said quietly, 'It would seem so, Mr. Davy.'

Under a heavier press of sail Undine thrust her shoulder into the creaming water with added urgency, the spray hurling itself above the forecastle and nettings in long spectres of foam. The hull shook and groaned to the pressure, and when he peered aloft Bolitho saw the upper yards bending forward to the wind. From the peak the ensign was clearly visible, like the marines' tunics as they stood in swaying lines by the hammock nettings, or knelt in the tops by their muskets and swivels. Like blood.

He heard himself say, 'Repeat the signal, Mr. Keen!' He barely recognised his own voice.

Soames stood on the breech of a twelve-pounder, gripping the gangway with both hands as he stared towards the land.

Then he looked aft at Bolitho and gave a brief shrug. In his mind, Herrick was already dead.

Keen said huskily, 'It will not work! The wind'll carry the schooner clear! At best she'll explode in the centre of the channel!'

Penn shrilled from the gun deck. 'I heard a trumpet!'

Bolitho wiped his eyes, feeling the salt, raw and smarting. A trumpet. Some sentry on the fortress had left the protection of the wall to look seaward. He would see the schooner immediately, and Undine within the next few minutes.

The sea noises seemed louder than ever, with every piece of rigging and canvas banging and vibrating in chorus as the ship drove headlong towards the land, and the pale arrowhead which marked the entrance to the channel.

A dull bang echoed across the water, and a man yelled, 'They've opened fire, sirl'

Bolitho reached out for a telescope, seeing the grim faces of the seamen by the nearest guns. Waiting, behind closed ports. Hoping. Dreading.

He trained the glass with difficulty, his legs well braced on the swaying, slippery planking. He saw the schooner's masts swim past the lens, the patch of scarlet which had not been there before. He felt himself smiling, although he wanted to weep, to plead unheard words across those two miles of tossing white-horses. Herrick had hoisted his own ensign. To him, the schooner was not merely a floating bomb, she was a ship, his ship. Or perhaps he was trying, with that one simple gesture, to explain to Bolitho, too. To show he understood.

Another bang, and this time he saw the smoke from the battery before it was whisked away. A feather of spray lifted well out beyond the schooner to mark where the massive ball had fallen.

He kept his glass on the schooner. He saw the way the deck was leaning over, showing the bilges above the leaping spray, and knew Herrick could not lash the tiller for the final, and most dangerous, part of the journey.

Davy yelled, 'That ball was over, sir!'

Bolitho lowered the glass, Davy's words reaching through his anxiety. The fortress lookout must have sighted Undine and not Herrick's little schooner. And by the time Muljadi's men had realised what was happening, Herrick had tacked too close inshore for the gunners to depress their muzzles sufficiently to hit him.

He looked again as a double explosion shuddered across the water. He saw the flashes only briefly, but watched the twin waterspouts burst skyward directly in line with the schooner, but on the seaward side of her.

Captain Bellairs forgot his usual calm and gripped the sergeant's arm and shouted, 'By God, Sar'nt Coaker, he's goin' to sail her aground himself!'

It took a few more seconds before the truth filtered the length and breadth of the frigate's decks.

Then, as the word moved gun by gun towards the bows, men stood and yelled like maniacs, waving their neckerchiefs, or capering on the sanded decks like children. From the tops and the forecastle others joined, and even Midshipman Armitage, who moments earlier had been gripping a belaying pin rack as if to stop himself from falling, waved his hat in the air and yelled, 'Go on! You'll show them!'

Bolitho cleared his throat. 'Ask the masthead. Can he see the frigates?'

He tried not to think of the schooner's crammed holds. The fuse, perhaps already hissing quietly in the peace of the lower hull.

'Aye, sir! He can see the yards of the first one around the point!' Even Davy was wild-eyed, indifferent to the fight still to come, overwhelmed by Herrick's sacrifice.

There was more cannon fire now, and he could see splashes all around the schooner's hull. Probably from the nearest anchored frigate, or some smaller pieces on the spit of land which guarded the entrance. Bolitho found he was gritting his jaw so hard it was hurting badly.

The French were at last aware that something was happening, but they would not have guessed the full extent of the danger.

There was a combined groan from the watching hands. Bolitho raised the glass and saw the schooner's maintopmast buckle and then plunge down in a flailing mass of canvas and rigging.

Half to himself he whispered, 'Fall back, Thomas! In God's name, come about!'

Allday said, 'She's hit again, Captain. Badly this time.'

Bolitho dragged his mind away, knowing he must not think of Herrick. Later. But in minutes those guns would be ranging on Undine as she made that last desperate dash into the channel.

He drew his sword and held it above his head.

'See yonder, lads!' He only vaguely saw their faces turn towards him. It was like looking through a mist. 'Mr. Herrick has shown us the way!'

'She's struck!' Davy was almost beside himself. 'Hard and fast!'

The schooner had hit, lifted and then plunged firmly across the litter of broken rocks and stones. Exactly as they had pictured it. Had planned it with Conway's silver inkwells.

Even without a glass it was possible to see some small boats moving from the fortress's pier towards the stranded hull which now lay totally dismasted, the spray leaping over it like some old hulk. Occasional stabs of fire showed where marksmen were firing into the wreckage, and Bolitho prayed that the fuse was still alight, that Herrick would not be captured alive.

The explosion when it came was so sudden, so violent in colour and magnitude that it was hard to face, harder still to gauge. A solid wall of orange flame exploded from the rocks and spread out on either hand like huge fiery wings, engulfing the circling boats, searing away men and weapons and reducing them into ashes.

And then the sound came. When it reached the frigate it was with a steadily mounting roar which went on and on, until men stood clutching their ears, or staring stupefied at the miniature tidal wave which rolled past the frigate's hull, lifting it easily before dissipating itself astern in the last departing shadows.

Then it died away, as did the fires, leaving only tiny, glowing pinpricks of red and orange, like slow-matches, to show where gorse and brush still smouldered on the hillside.

Once again, the sea and wind, the sounds of tackle and canvas returned, and Bolitho heard men talking, almost whispering, as if they had just witnessed an act of God.

He said harshly, 'Brail up the forecourse, Mr. Davy!' He walked to the rail, each step like physical pain. 'Mr. Shellabeer! Cast all but the quarter boat adrift!' He must keep talking. Get them moving again. Clear that dreadful pyre from his own brain.

He saw Soames watching him and shouted, 'Load and run out, if you please!'

His words were almost lost in the flap and thunder of rebellious canvas as the big forecourse was brailed up to its yard. Like a curtain, he thought dully. Pulled away for the final scene. So that nothing should be missed.

He heard the port lids squeaking in unison, and then, as Soames barked his command, the gun crews threw themselves on their tackles, and with increasing haste the black muzzles rumbled towards the daylight, thrusting out above the creaming water on either beam.

Davy touched his hat. 'All guns run out, sir!' He looked strained.

'Thank you.'

Bolitho kept his eyes on the dark hump astride the channel. No flashes from those great muzzles. It had worked. Even if the garrison managed to manhandle some of the guns from the far side of the fortress-it would be too late to fire on Undine as she surged into the drifting curtain of smoke.

He shaded his eyes and stared towards the spit of land, the dark lines which marked the masts and yards of the first anchored ship. Soon. Soon. He gripped the sword until his knuckles showed white. He could feel the hurt and the anger. The rising madness, which only revenge for Herrick would control.

And there was the sunlight, growing stronger every dragging minute. He climbed into the weather shrouds, heedless of the wind and leaping spray which dappled his coat like bright gems. Abeam he could see Undine's shadow reaching away across the broken water, his own blurred outline like part of the fabric itself.

He looked down at Mudge. 'Get ready to alter course once we are past that spit!'

He waited while those at the braces took the strain, each man an individual now as the sunlight found his naked back, or a tattoo, or some extra long pigtail to mark a seasoned sailor. He jumped down to the deck, tugging at his neckcloth, as if it were strangling him.

'Marines, stand to!' Bellairs had drawn his elegant hanger and was watching while his men nestled their long muskets on the closely packed hammock nettings.

At every open port a gun captain crouched with his lanyard almost taut as he watched for the first sign of a target.

The spit of land reached out as if to touch the bilges as the ship swept inshore, her bow wave causing a ripple amongst some jagged rocks which Bolitho remembered from his other visit.

'Braces there!'

Mudge shouted, 'Put the wheel to larboard! Lively now!'

Like a thoroughbred, Undine heeled round under pressure of canvas and rudder, the yards swinging together as she turned into the sunlight.

'Steer nor'-east by east!' Mudge heaved his ungainly bulk to assist the helmsmen. "Old 'er, you buggers!'

There were several muffled bangs, and a ball cracked through the foretopsail with the sound of a whiplash.

But Bolitho barely noticed it. He was staring at the anchored frigate, the scrambling activity along her yards and deck where her company prepared for sea.

Davy echoed his dismay. 'She's not the Argus, sir!'

Bolitho nodded. It was the other frigate. The one which had been abandoned by her crew. He screwed up his eyes, trying to watch every movement, still attempting to accept what had happened.

Le Chaumareys had gone. By chance? Or had he once again proved his superiority, a cunning which had never been outmatched?

Almost savagely he lifted the old blade over his head and yelled, 'Starboard battery! As you bear!' The sword caught the glare as it cut down. 'Fire!'

The broadside roared and flashed along Undine's starboard side, gun by gun, each captain taking his aim while Soames strode past every recoiling breech, yelling and peering towards the enemy. Bolitho watched the smoke spouting from the ports and rolling towards the other ship which seemed suspended in the fog, her hull lying almost diagonally across the starboard bow.

Here and there a gun flashed out in reply, and he felt the deck planking jerk under his feet as at least one ball smashed into the side.

The quarterdeck gun crews were all shouting and cursing as

they, too, joined in the battle. The stocky six-pounders hurled themselves inboard on the tackles, the wild-eyed seamen sponging out and ramming home fresh charges within seconds.

Overhead, and splashing violently into the channel on either beam, came a fusilade of smaller shot, from fortress or frigate Bolitho neither knew nor cared. As he paced briskly athwart the deck by the quarterdeck rail he saw nothing but the other ship's raked masts, the patch of colour from the prancing beast of her flag, the rising pall of smoke as again and again Undine's broadside thundered into her.

Once he chilled as he saw some charred flotsam bobbing past the quarter, a headless corpse pirouetting in Undine's crisp bow wave, tendrils of scarlet moving around it like obscene weed.

Herrick had known the Argus had gone. He must have seen the anchorage long before anyone in Undine. He would never have faltered. Bolitho felt his eyes stinging again, the hatred boiling inside him as the quarterdeck guns cracked out, their sharp detonations making his mind cringe even as their crews scrambled with handspikes to edge their weapons round for another salvo.

Herrick would have accepted it. As he had in the past. It was what he had lived for.

Bolitho shouted aloud, heedless of Mudge and Davy nearby. 'God damn them for their plans and their stupidity!'

Keen called, 'They've cut their cable, sir!'

Bolitho ran to the nettings, feeling a musket ball punch into the deck by his feet. It was true, Muljadi's frigate was yawing sluggishly in wind and current, her stern swinging like a gate across Undine's path. Someone must have lost his nerve, or perhaps in the confusion of the exploding schooner and Undine's savage attack an order had been misunderstood.

He yelled, 'We'll go alongside her! Stand by the tops'l halliards! Put the helm a'lee!'

As men dashed to the braces again, and topsails flapped and thundered wildly to their sudden freedom, Undine turned deliberately to larboard, her jib-boom sweeping round until it pointed to the distant pier and the litter of smouldering craft left by the explosion.

Soames bellowed, 'Point! Ready!' He was peering, red-eyed, along his panting gun crews, his sword held out like a staff. 'Drag that man away!' He ran forward to help pull a wounded seaman from a twelve-pounder. 'Now!' His sword flashed down. 'Broadside!'

This time, the whole battery exploded in a single wall of flames, the long tongues darting into the smoke, making it rise and twist, as if it, too, was dying in agony.

Someone gave a hoarse cheer. 'There goes th' bastard's fore!'

Bolitho ran to the gangway, marines and seamen pounding behind him.

High above the smoke the nimble topmen were already hurling their steel grapnels, jeering at one another as they raced even here to beat their opposite numbers on the other masts. Another cheer, as with a shuddering lurch Undine drove alongside the drifting frigate, her bowsprit rising above the poop. While the impetus carried them closer and closer together, the guns still bellowed, louder now as their fury matched across a bare thirty feet of tormented water.

'Boarders away!'

Bolitho waited, gripping the main shrouds, gauging the moment as Soames roared, 'Cease firing! At 'em, lads! Cut the bastards down!'

Then he was across, clinging to the enemy's boarding nets, which had been rent in great holes by the broadsides. Muljadi's own plans must have been ready, for there seemed to be hundreds of men surging to meet the cheering, cursing rush of boarders.

Muskets and pistols, while from somewhere overhead a swivel banged out, the packed canister tearing across the enemy's quarterdeck, hurling wood splinters and bodies in all directions.

A bearded face loomed out of the smoke, and Bolitho slashed at it, holding to the nets to keep from falling outboard and being crushed between the hulls. The man shrieked and dropped from view. A marine thrust Bolitho aside, screaming like a madman as he pinned a man with his bayonet before wrenching out the blade and ramming the musket's butt into a wounded pirate who was trying to crawl out of the fight.

Allday ducked under a cutlass and caught his attacker off balance. He even pushed the man away with his left fist, giving himself room for a proper stroke with his own blade. It sounded like an axe on wood.

Bellairs was striding in the centre of a squad of marines, snapping unheard commands, his elegant hanger darting in and out like a silver tongue as he forced his way aft towards the enemy's quarterdeck.

Another wave of insane cheering, and Bolitho saw Soames leading his own boarding party up and over the frigate's main shrouds, muskets barking point-blank into the press below him, his sword crossing with that of a tall, lank-haired officer whom Bolitho remembered as Le Chaumareys' first lieutenant.

Soames slipped and sprawled across an upended cannon, and the Frenchman drew back his arm for the fatal thrust. But a marine was nearby, the musket ball taking away most of the lieutenant's skull and hurling him from the deck like a rag doll.

Bolitho realised that Allday was shaking him by the arm, trying to make him understand something.

He yelled, 'The hold, Captain!' He jabbed at the wide hatchways with his cutlass. 'The bastards have set her afire!'

Bolitho stared at it, his brain and mind reeling from the screams and cheers, the grate of steel, the madness of close action. The smoke was already thicker. Perhaps Allday was right, or maybe a burning wad from one of Undine's guns had found its way into the hull when Soames had sent his last broadside crashing home. Either way, both ships would be destroyed unless he acted, and at once.

He yelled, 'Captain Bellairs! Fall back!'

He saw Bellairs gaping at him, blood dripping unheeded from a gash on his forehead.

Then he, too, seemed to get a grip on his own lust of battle and shouted, 'Sound the retreat!' He sought out his sergeant whose massive frame had somehow avoided both steel and musket ball. 'Coaker! Take that fool's name if he don't do as I ask!'

Coaker gripped a small marine drummer boy, but he was dead, his eyes glazed and unseeing as Coaker wrenched the trumpet from his hands and blew it with all his might.

It was almost harder to discontinue the battle thanto board the other frigate. Back and back, here and there a man' falling, or being hauled bodily across the gap between the hulls to avoid capture. The pirates had at last seen their own danger, and without the French lieutenant in command they seemed intent only on abandoning their ship as quickly as they could.

The first tongue of flame licked through a hatch, bringing a chorus of shrieks from the abandoned wounded, and within seconds the gratings and surrounding boat tier were well ablaze.

Bolitho gripped the ratlines and took a last look as his men threw themselves on to Undine's gangway. Forward, Shellabeer's men were already cutting the lashing which held the hulls together, and with the topsails once more braced round, and the helm over, Undine began to sidle clear, the wind holding the smoke and sparks away from her own canvas and vulnerable rigging.

Mudge panted, 'What now, sir?'

Bolitho watched the frigate slipping past, a few crazed men still firing across the widening gap.

He shouted, 'A final broadside, Mr. Soames!'

But it was already too late. A great sheet of flame burst upwards through the vessel's gun deck, setting the broken foremast and sails alight and leaping to the mainyards like part of a forest fire.

Bolitho heard himself reply, 'Get the forecourse on her, and smartly with it. We'll not be able to beat back the way we came. That ship's magazine will go at any moment, so we will try the eastern channel.'

Mudge said, 'May be too shallow, sir.' 'Would you burn, Mr. Mudge?'

He strode to the taffrail to watch the frigate as the blaze engulfed the poop. An English ship. It were better this way, he thought vaguely.

He turned and added harshly, 'Mr. Davy, I want a full report of damage.' He waited, seeing the wildness draining from his eyes. 'And the bill for all this.'

Bolitho saw the yards edging round, the sails, pockmarked and blackened by the fight, hardening to the wind. The channel seemed wide enough. About a cable to starboard, more on the other side. He had managed worse.

'Boat in the water, sir!' Keen was standing in the shrouds with his telescope. 'Just two men in it.'

Mudge called, 'I'll 'old 'er steady, sir. We're steerin' almost nor'-east again, but I dunno-'

The rest of his words were lost as Keen yelled, 'Sir! Sir!' He stared down at Bolitho, his face shining with disbelief.

Davy snapped, 'Keep your head, Mr. Keen!'

But Keen did not seem to hear. 'It's Mr. Herrick!'

Bolitho stared at him and then clambered up beside him. The boat was a wreck, and the scrawny figure who was now standing to wave a scrap of rag above his head, looked like a scarecrow. Lying in the bottom of the boat, half-covered with water, was Herrick.

As he held the telescope Bolitho could feel his hands shaking violently, and saw Herrick's face, ashen beneath a rough bandage. Then he saw his eyes open, imagined the other man shouting the news to him, his words as plain as if he could hear them himself.

He said, 'Pass the word to the bosun. I want that boat grappled alongside.' He gripped the midshipman's wrist. 'And tell him to be careful. There'll be no second chance.'

Allday had gone below for something. Now he was back, his eyes everywhere, until Bolitho said quietly, 'The first lieutenant is coming aboard. Go forrard and bid him welcome for me, eh?'

As the frigate slipped past another shelving hump of land the sun came down to greet them, to warm their aching limbs, to hold the shock of battle at arm's length a while longer. A deep explosion came from the main channel, and more smoke spouted high above the nearest land to show the wind which awaited them in open water, and to sound the other vessel's final destruction.

Muljadi may or may not have been aboard, and the real fight was still ahead.

Bolitho heard shouts from forward, and then a cheer as some seamen clambered into the sinking boat to pluck Herrick and his companion back on board.

But whatever was waiting beyond the green humps of land, no matter how hopeless their gesture might be, they would be together.