Cross of St George

16. Lee Shore

LIEUTENANT George Avery gripped the weather shrouds and then paused to stare up at the foremast. Like most of the ship’s company, he had been on deck for over an hour, and yet his eyes were still not accustomed to the enfolding darkness. He could see the pale outline of the hard-braced topsail, but beyond it nothing save an occasional star as it flitted through long banners of cloud. He shivered; it was cold, and his clothing felt damp and clinging, and there was something else also, a kind of light-headedness, a sense of elation, which he thought had gone forever. Those days when he had been in the small schooner Jolie, cutting out equally small prizes from the French coast, sometimes under the noses of a shore battery… Wild, reckless times. He almost laughed into the damp air. It was madness, as it had been madness then.

He swung himself out and wedged his foot onto the first ratline, then, slowly and carefully, he began to climb, the big signals telescope hanging across his shoulder like a poacher’s gun. Up and up, the shrouds vibrating beneath his grip, the tarred cordage as sharp and cold as ice. He was not afraid of heights, but he respected them: it was one of the first things he could remember when he had been appointed midshipman under his uncle’s sponsorship. The seamen, who had been rough and independent although they had shown him kindness, would rush up the ratlines barefooted, the skin so calloused and hardened that they scorned the wearing of shoes, which they would keep for special occasions.

He stopped to regain his breath, and felt his body being pressed against the quivering rigging while the invisible ship beneath him leaned over to a sudden gust of wind. Like cold hands, holding him.

Even though he could see nothing below him but the unchanging outline of the upper deck, sharpened occasionally when a burst of spray cascaded over the gangways or through the beakhead, he could imagine the others standing as he had left them. So different from the usual nerve-wrenching thrill when the drums rattled and beat the hands to quarters, the orderly chaos when a ship was cleared for action from bow to stern: screens torn down, tiny hutches of cabins where the officers found their only privacy transformed into just another part of a gun deck, furniture, personal items and sea-chests dragged or winched into the lower hull, below the waterline, where the surgeon and his assistants would be preparing, remaining separate from the noise before battle: their work would come to them. On this occasion clearing for action had been an almost leisurely affair, men moving amongst familiar tackle and rigging as if it were broad daylight.

As ordered, the hands had been given a hot meal in separate watches, and only then was the galley fire doused, the last measure of rum drained.

Tyacke had remained by the quarterdeck rail, while officers and messengers had flowed around him, like extensions of the man himself. York with his master’s mates, Daubeny, the first lieutenant, with a junior midshipman always trotting at his heels like a pet dog. And right aft by the companion-way where he had walked with Sir Richard, Avery could see that in his mind also. Where the command of any ship or squadron began or ended. He smiled as he recalled what Allday had said of it. “Aft, the most honour. Forward, the better man!” Bolitho had been holding his watch closely against the compass light, and had said, “Go aloft, George. Take a good glass with you. I need to know instantly. You will be my eyes today.”

It still saddened him. Did those words, too, have a hidden meaning?

And Allday again, taking his hat and sword from him. “They’ll be here when you needs ’em, Mr Avery. Don’t want our flag lieutenant gettin’ all tangled up in the futtock shrouds, now, do we?”

He had written the letter Allday had requested. Like the man, it had been warmly affectionate, and yet, after all he had seen and suffered, so simple and unworldly. Avery had almost been able to see Unis opening and reading it, calling her ex-soldier brother to tell him about it. Holding it up to the child.

He shook his head, thrusting the thoughts aside, and started to climb again. Long before any of their letters reached England, they might all be dead.

The foremast’s fighting-top loomed above him, reminding him of Allday’s joke about the futtock shrouds. Nimble-footed topmen could scramble out and around the top without interruption, those on the leeward side hanging out, suspended, with nothing but the sea beneath them. The fighting-top was a square platform protected by a low barricade, behind which marksmen could take aim at targets on an enemy’s deck. It matched the tops on the other masts, above which the shrouds and stays reached up to the next of the upper yards, and beyond.

The foremast was perhaps the most important and complicated in the ship. It carried not only the bigger course and topsails, but was connected and rigged to the bowsprit, and the smaller, vital jib and staysails. Each time a ship attempted to come about and turn across the eye of the wind, the small jibsails would act like a spur or brake to prevent her floundering to a standstill, taken all aback with her sails flattened uselessly against the masts, unable to pay off in either direction. At the height of close action, the inability to manoeuvre could mean the death of the ship.

He thought of York and men like him, the true professionals. How many people ashore would ever understand the strength and prowess of such fine sailors, when they saw a King’s ship beating down-Channel under a full press of sail?

He dragged himself between the shrouds and took the easier way into the foretop by way of a small opening, the “lubber’s hole,” as the old Jacks derisively termed it.

There were four Royal Marines here, their white crossbelts and the corporal’s chevrons on one man’s sleeve visible against the outer darkness.

“Mornin’, sir! Fine day for a stroll!”

Avery unslung the telescope and smiled. That was another thing about being a flag lieutenant, neither fish nor fowl, like an outsider who had come amongst them: he was not an officer in charge of a mast or a division of guns, nor a symbol of discipline or punishment. So he was accepted. Tolerated.

He said, “Do you think it will be light soon?”

The corporal leaned against a mounted swivel-gun. It was already depressed, and covered with a piece of canvas to protect the priming from the damp air. Ready for instant use.

He replied, “’Alf hour, sir. Near as a priest’s promise!”

They all laughed, as if this were only another, normal day.

Avery stared at the flapping jib and imagined the crouching lion beneath it. What if the sea was empty when daylight came? He searched his feelings. Would he be relieved, grateful?

He thought of the intensity in Bolitho’s voice, the way he and Tyacke had conferred and planned. He shivered suddenly. No, the sea would not be empty of ships. How can I be certain? Then he thought, Because of what we are, what he has made us.

He tried to focus his thoughts on England. London, that busy street with its bright carriages and haughty footmen, and one carriage in particular… She was lovely. She would not wait, and waste her life.

And yet, they had shared something deeper, however briefly. Surely there was a chance, a hope beyond this cold dawn?

The corporal said carefully, “I sometimes wonders what he’s like, sir. The admiral, I mean.” He faltered, thinking he had gone too far. “It’s just that we sees him an’ you walkin’ the deck sometimes, and then there was the day when ’is lady come aboard at Falmouth.” He put his hand on his companion’s shoulder. “Me an’ Ted was there. I’d never ’ave believed it, see?”

Avery did see. Replacing Catherine’s shoes and remarking on the tar on her stocking after her climb up this ship’s side. The flag breaking out, and then the cheers. Work them, drive them, break them; but these same men had seen, and remembered.

He said, “He is that man, Corporal. Just as she is that lady.” He could almost hear Tyacke’s words. I would serve no other.

One of the other marines, encouraged by his corporal, asked, “What will us do when th’ war’s over an’ done with?”

Avery stared up at the great rectangle of sail, and felt the raw salt on his mouth.

“I pray to God that I shall be able to choose something for myself.”

The corporal grunted. “I’ll get me other stripe an’ stay in the Royals. Good victuals an’ plenty of rum, an’ a hard fight when you’re needed! It’ll do me!”

A voice echoed down from the crosstrees. “First light a-comin’, sir!”

The corporal grinned. “Old Jacob up there, he’s a wild one, sir!”

Avery thought of Tyacke’s description of the seaman named Jacob, the best lookout in the squadron. Once a saddle-maker, a highly skilled trade, he had found his wife in the arms of another man, and had killed both of them. The Assizes had offered him the choice of the gibbet or the navy. He had outlived many others with no such notoriety.

Avery withdrew the big telescope from its case, while the marines made a space for him and even found him something to kneel on.

One of them put his hand on the swivel-gun and chuckled. “Don’t you go bumpin’ into old Betsy ’ere, sir. You might set ’er off by accident, an’ blow the ’ead off our poor sergeant. That’d be a true shame, wouldn’t it, lads?” They all laughed. Four marines on a windswept perch in the middle of nowhere. They had probably no idea where they were, or where bound tomorrow.

Avery knelt, and felt the low barricade shivering under the great weight of spars and canvas, and all the miles of rigging that ruled the lives of such men as these. Of one company.

He held his breath and trained the glass with great care, but saw only cloud and darkness. Old Jacob on his lofty lookout would see it first.

He was shivering again, unable to stop.

“’Ere, sir.” A hand reached out from somewhere. “Nelson’s blood!”

Avery took it gratefully. It was against all regulations: they knew it, and so did he.

The corporal murmured, “To wish us luck, eh, lads?”

Avery swallowed, and felt the rum driving out the cold. The fear. He stared out again. You will be my eyes today. As if he were right beside him.

And suddenly, there they were. The enemy.

Captain James Tyacke watched the shadowy figures of Hockenhull, the boatswain, and a party of seamen as they hauled on lines and secured them to bollards. Every one of Indomitable’s boats was in the water, towing astern like a single unwieldy sea anchor, and although he could scarcely see them, he knew that the nets were already spread across the gun deck. The scene was set.

Tyacke searched his feelings for doubt. Had there been any? But if so, they were gone as soon as the old lookout’s doleful voice had called down from the foremast crosstrees. Avery would be peering through his glass, searching for details, numbers, the strength of the enemy.

York remarked, “Wind’s falling away, sir. Steady enough, though.”

Tyacke glanced over at Bolitho’s tall figure framed against the pale barrier of packed hammocks, and saw him nod. It was time: it had to be. But the wind was everything.

He said sharply, “Shake out the second reef, Mr Daubeny! Set fores’l and driver!” To himself he added, where are our damned ships? They might have become scattered during the breezy night; better that than risk a collision, now of all times. He heard the first lieutenant’s tame midshipman repeating his instructions in a shrill voice, edged with uncertainty at the prospect of something unknown to him.

He considered his other lieutenants, and frowned. Boys in the King’s uniform. Even Daubeny was young for his responsibilities. The words repeated themselves in his mind. If I fall… It would be Daubeny’s skill, or lack of it, that would determine their success or failure.

He heard Allday murmur something and Bolitho’s quick laugh, and was surprised that it could still move him. Steady him, like the iron hoops around each great mast, holding them together.

The marines had laid down their weapons, and had manned the mizzen braces as the driver filled and cracked to the wind.

He knew that Isaac York was hovering nearby, wanting to speak to him, to pass the time as friends usually did before an action. Just in case. But he could not waste time in conversation now. He needed to be alive and alert to everything, from the men at the big double-wheel to the ship’s youngest midshipman, who was about to turn the half-hour glass beside the compass box.

He saw his own coxswain, Fairbrother, peering down at the boats under tow.

“Worried, Eli?” He saw him grin. He was no Allday, but he was doing his best.

“They’ll all need a lick o’ paint when we picks ’em up, sir.”

But Tyacke had turned away, his eyes assessing the nearest guns, the crews, some bare-backed despite the cold wind, standing around them, waiting for the first orders. Decks sanded to prevent men slipping, in spray or perhaps in blood. Rammers, sponges, and worms, the tools of their trade, close to hand.

Lieutenant Laroche drawled, “Here comes the flag lieutenant.”

Avery climbed the ladder to the quarterdeck, and Allday handed him his hat and sword.

He said, “Six sail right enough, Sir Richard. I think the tide’s on the ebb.”

York muttered, “It would be.”

“I think one of the frigates is towing all the boats, sir. It’s too far and too dark to be sure.”

Tyacke said, “Makes sense. It would hold them all together. Keep ’em fresh and ready for landing.”

Bolitho said, “We can’t wait. Alter course now.” He looked at Tyacke, and afterwards he imagined he had seen him smile, even though his features were in shadow. “As soon as we sight our ships, signal them to attack at will. This is no time for a line of battle!”

Avery recalled the consternation at the Admiralty when Bolitho had voiced his opinions on the fleet’s future.

Tyacke called, “Alter course two points. Steer north-east by north!” He knew what Bolitho had seen in his mind, how they had discussed it, even with nothing more to go on than Captain Lloyd’s sighting report and his own interpretation of the extra boats carried by the enemy. Tyacke gave a crooked grin. Slavers, indeed.

Men were already hauling at the braces, their bodies angled almost to the deck while they heaved the great yards round, muscle and bone striving against wind and rudder.

Tyacke saw Daubeny urging a few spare hands to add their weight to the braces. But even with the Nova Scotian volunteers, they were still short-handed, a legacy of Indomitable’s savage fight against Beer’s Unity. Tyacke straightened his hat. It was unnerving when he considered that that was a year ago.

Bolitho joined him by the rail. “The enemy have the numbers and the superior artillery, and will readily use both.” He folded his arms, and could have been discussing the weather. “But he is on a lee shore and knows it. Being a sailor, I am sure he was never consulted about the choice of landing places!” He laughed, and added, “So we must be sharp about it.”

Tyacke leaned over to consult the compass as the helmsman called, “Nor’-east by north, sir! Full an’ bye!”

Tyacke peered up at each sail, watchful and critical as his ship leaned over comfortably on the starboard tack. Then he cupped his hands and shouted, “Check the forebrace, Mr Protheroe! Now belay!” He said almost to himself, “He’s only a boy, dammit!”

But Bolitho had heard him. “We were all that, James. Young lions!”

“Chivalrous is in sight, sir! Larboard quarter!”

Just an array of pale canvas riding high into the dull clouds. How did he know? But Tyacke did not question the lookout: he knew, and that was all there was to it. The others would be in sight soon. He saw the first feeble light exploring the shrouds and shaking topsails. So would the enemy.

The wind was still fresh, strong enough, for the moment anyway. There would be no land in sight until the sun came out, and even then… But you could feel it all the same. Like a presence, a barrier reaching out to rid the approaches of all ships, no matter what flag they paraded.

Tyacke touched his face, and did not notice Bolitho turn his head towards him. So different now, out in the open, to see and to be seen. Not like the choking confines of the lower gun deck on that day at the Nile, when he had almost died, and afterwards had wanted to die.

He thought of the letter in his strongbox, and the one he had written in reply. Why had he done it? After all the pain and the despair, the brutal realization that the one being he had ever cared for had rejected him, why? Against that, it was still hard to believe that she had written to him. He remembered the hospital at Haslar in Hampshire, full of officers, survivors from one battle or another. Everyone else who had worked there had pretended to be so normal, so calm, so unmoved by the pervasive suffering. It had almost driven him crazy. That had been the last time he had seen her. She had visited the hospital, and he now realized that she must have been sickened by some of the sights she had seen. Hopeful, anxious faces, the disfigured, the burned, the limbless, and others who had been blinded. It must have been a nightmare for her, although all he had felt at the time had been pity. For himself.

She had been his only hope, all he had clung to after the battle, when he had been so savagely wounded in the old Majestic. Old, he thought bitterly: she had been almost new. He touched the worn rail, laid his hand on it, and again was unaware of Bolitho’s concern. Not like this old lady. Her captain had died there at the Nile, and Majestic’s first lieutenant had taken over the ship, and the fight. A young man. He touched his face again. Like Daubeny.

She had been so young… He almost spoke her name aloud. Marion. Eventually she had married a man much older than herself, a safe, kindly auctioneer who had given her a nice house by Portsdown Hill, from where you could sometimes see the Solent, and the sails on the horizon. He had tortured himself with it many times. The house was not very far from Portsmouth, and the hospital where he had wanted to die.

They had had two children, a boy and a girl. They should have been mine. And now her husband was dead, and she had written to him after reading something about the squadron in the newssheet, and the fact that he was now Sir Richard Bolitho’s flag captain.

It had been a letter written with great care, and without excuse or compromise: a mature letter. She had asked for his understanding, not for his forgiveness. She would value a letter from him, very much. Marion. He thought, as he had thought so often, of the gown he had bought for her before Nelson had led them to the Nile, and the way that Sir Richard’s lovely Catherine had given the same gown grace and meaning after they had lifted her from that sun-blistered boat. Had she perhaps given him back the hope that had been crushed by hatred and bitterness?

“Deck there! Sail in sight to the nor’-east!”

Tyacke snatched a glass from the rack and strode up to the weather side, training it across the deck and through the taut rigging. A glimpse of sunshine, without warmth. Waters blue and grey… He held his breath, able to ignore the marines and seamen who were watching him. One, two, three ships, sails filling and then flapping in an attempt to contain the wind. The other ships were not yet visible.

We have the advantage this time. But with the wind as it was, their roles could quite easily change.

He lowered the glass and looked at Bolitho. “I think we should hold our course, Sir Richard.”

Just a nod. Like a handshake. “I agree. Signal Chivalrous to close on Flag.” He smiled unexpectedly, his teeth white in his tanned face. “Then hoist the one for Close Action.” The smile seemed to evade him. “And keep it flying!”

Tyacke saw his quick glance at Allday. Something else they shared. A lifeline.

“Chivalrous has acknowledged, sir.”

“Very good.”

Bolitho joined him again. “We will engage the towing vessel first.” He looked past Tyacke at the other frigate’s misty sails, so clean in the first frail light. “Load when you are ready, James.” The grey eyes rested on his face. “Those soldiers must not be allowed to land.”

“I’ll pass the word. Double-shotted, and grape for good measure.” He spoke without emotion. “But when we come about we shall have to face the others, unless our ships give us support.”

Bolitho touched his arm and said, “They will come, James. I am certain of it.”

He turned as Ozzard, half-crouching as if he had expected to find an enemy engaged alongside, stepped from the companionway. He was carrying the admiral’s gold-laced hat, holding it out as if it were something precious.

Tyacke said urgently, “Is this wise, Sir Richard? Those Yankee sharpshooters will be all about today!”

Bolitho handed his plain sea-going hat to Ozzard, and after the slightest hesitation pulled the new one onto his spray-damp hair.

“Go below, Ozzard. And thank you.” He saw the little man bob gratefully, with no words to make his true feelings known. Then Bolitho said calmly, “It is probably madness, but that is the way of it. Sane endeavour is not for us today, James.” He touched his eye and stared at the reflected glare. “But a victory it must be!”

The rest was drowned out by the shrill of whistles and the squeak of blocks, as the great guns were cast off from their breechings and their crews prepared to load.

He knew that some of the afterguard had seen him put on his new hat, the one he and Catherine had bought together in St James’s Street: he had forgotten to tell her of his promotion, and she had loved him for it. A few of the seamen raised a cheer, and he touched his hat to them. But Tyacke had seen the anguish on Allday’s rugged face, and knew what the gesture had cost him.

Tyacke walked away, watching the familiar preparations without truly seeing them. Aloud he said, “And a victory you shall have, no matter what!”

Bolitho walked to the taffrail where Allday was shading his eyes to peer astern.

Like feathers on the shimmering horizon, two more ships of the squadron had appeared, their captains no doubt relieved that the dawn had brought them together again. The smaller of the two frigates would be Wildfire, of twenty-eight guns. Bolitho imagined her captain, a dark-featured man, bellowing orders to his topmen to make more sail, as much as she could carry. Morgan Price, as craggy and as Welsh as his name, had never needed a speaking-trumpet, even in the middle of a gale.

Allday said, “That’s more like it, Sir Richard.”

Bolitho glanced at him. Allday had not been concerned about the other ships. Like some of the others on the quarterdeck, he had been watching the cluster of boats falling further and further astern, drifting to a canvas sea anchor, to be recovered after the action. It was a necessary precaution before fighting, to avoid the risk of additional wounds being caused by splinters. But to Allday, like all sailors, the boats represented a final chance of survival if the worst happened. Just as their presence on deck would tempt terrified men to forget both loyalty and discipline, and use them as an escape.

Bolitho said, “Fetch me a glass, will you?”

When Allday had gone to select a suitable telescope, he stared at the distant frigate. Then he covered his undamaged eye, and waited for the pale topsails to mist over or fade away altogether. They did not. The drops the surgeon had provided were doing some good, even if they had a sting like a nettle when first applied. Brightess, colour; even the sea’s face had displayed its individual crests and troughs.

Allday was waiting with the telescope. “Set bravely, Sir Richard?”

Bolitho said gently, “You worry too much.”

Allday laughed, relieved, satisfied.

“Over here, Mr Essex!”

Bolitho waited for the midshipman to reach him, and said, “Now we shall see!”

He rested the heavy glass on the youth’s shoulder and carefully trained it across the starboard bow. A fine clear morning had emerged from the cloud and chilling wind: winter would come early here. He felt the young midshipman’s shoulder shiver slightly. Cold; excitement; it was certainly not fear. Not yet. He was a lively, intelligent youth, and even he would be thinking of the day when he would be ready for examination and promotion. Another boy in an officer’s uniform.

Three ships at least, the rest not yet in sight. Almost bowson, their sails angled over as they tacked steeply across the wind. Far beyond them was a purple blur, like a fallen cloud. He pictured York ’s chart, his round handwriting in the log. Grand Manan Island, the guardian at the entrance to the Bay. The American would be doubly aware of the dangers here: being on a lee shore, with shallows as an extra menace once the tide was on the turn.

He stiffened and waited for the midshipman’s breathing to steady; or perhaps he was holding his breath, very aware of his special responsibility.

A fourth ship, a shaft of new sunlight separating her from the others, bringing her starkly to life in the powerful lens.

He knew Tyacke and York were watching, weighing the odds.

Bolitho said, “The fourth ship has the boats under tow. The flag lieutenant was not mistaken.”

He heard Avery laugh as Tyacke remarked, “That makes a fair change, sir!”

Bolitho closed the glass with a snap and looked down at the midshipman. He had freckles, as Bethune had once had. He thought of Herrick’s assessment. The upstart.

“Thank you, Mr Essex.” He walked to the rail again. “Bring her up closer to the wind, James. I intend to attack the towing ship before she can slip the boats. Filled or empty, it makes no difference now. We can stop them landing, and within the hour it will be too late.”

Tyacke beckoned to the first lieutenant. “Stand by to alter course.” A questioning glance at the sailing-master. “What say you, Isaac?”

York squinted his eyes to stare up at the driver and the mizzen topsail beyond it. “Nor’-east by east.” He shook his head as the driver’s peak with the great White Ensign streaming from it almost abeam flapped noisily. “No, sir. Nor’-east is all she’ll hold, I’m thinking.”

Bolitho listened, touched by the intimacy between these men. Tyacke’s command of small ships had left its mark, or maybe it had always been there.

He shaded his eyes with his hand to observe the ship’s slow response, the long jib-boom moving like a pointer until the enemy ships appeared to slide slightly from bow to bow.

“Steady she goes, sir! Course nor’-east!”

Bolitho watched the sails buck and shiver, uncomfortable this close to the wind. It was the only way. Only Indomitable had the firepower to do it in one attack. Chivalrous was too small, the rest too far away. Their chances would come soon enough.

Avery folded his arms close to his body, trying not to shiver. The air was still keen, making a lie of the strengthening sunlight that painted the broken wavelets a dirty gold.

He saw Allday staring around, his eyes searching: a man who had seen it many times before. He was studying the open quarterdeck, the scarlet-coated marines with their officer, David Merrick. The gun crews and the helmsmen, four of the latter now, with a master’s mate close beside them. Tyacke standing apart from the rest, his hands beneath his coat-tails, and the admiral, who was explaining something to the midshipman, Essex. Something he would remember, if he lived.

Avery swallowed hard, knowing what he had seen. Allday, probably more experienced than any other man aboard, was seeking out the weaknesses and the danger points. Past the tightly-packed hammock nettings and up to the maintop, where more scarlet coats showed above the barricade. Where an enemy’s fighting-top might be if they were close enough. Thinking of the sharpshooters, said to be backwoodsmen for the most part, who lived by their skills with a musket. Avery was chilled by the thought. Except that these marksmen would be armed with the new and more accurate rifles.

Was that the source of Allday’s worry, then? Because of Bolitho’s gesture, the hat with the bright gold lace, and all that it meant, and could mean, at the moment of truth. It was said that Nelson had refused to remove his decorations before his last battle, and had ordered that they should be covered before he was carried below, his backbone shot through, his life already slipping away. Another brave, sad gesture. So that his men should not know their admiral had fallen, had left them before the fight had been decided.

It was plain on Allday’s homely features, and when their eyes met across the spray-patterned deck, no words were needed by either man.

“Deck there! The boats is bein’ warped alongside!”

Bolitho clenched his fists, his face suddenly unable to conceal his anxiety.

Avery knew, had guessed even from the moment Bolitho had mentioned the primary importance of the boats. Despite the risks and the stark possibility of failure, he had been thinking of the alternative, that Indomitable would be forced to fire on boats packed with helpless men, unable to raise a finger to defend themselves. Was this part of the difference in this war? Or was it only one man’s humanity?

Tyacke shouted, “Something’s wrong, sir!”

York had a telescope. “The Yankee’s run aground, sir!” He sounded astonished, as if he were over there, sharing the disaster.

Bolitho watched the sunlight catch the reflected glare from falling sails and a complete section of the vessel’s mainmast. In the silence and intimacy of the strong lens, he almost imagined he could hear it. A big frigate, gun for gun a match for Indomitable, but helpless against the sea and this relentless destruction above and below. The boats were already filled or half-filled with blue uniforms, their weapons and equipment in total disarray as the truth became known to them.

Bolitho said, “Prepare to engage to starboard, Captain Tyacke.” He barely recognized his own voice. Flat, hard, and unemotional. Somebody else.

Daubeny shouted, “Starboard battery! Run out! ”

The long twenty-four-pounders rumbled up to and through their ports, their captains making hand signals only to avoid confusion. Like a drill, one of so many. A handspike here, or men straining on tackles to train a muzzle a few more inches.

The other ship had slewed around slightly, wreckage trailing alongside as the tide continued to drop, to beach her like a wounded whale.

The wheel went over again, while York turned to watch the land, the set of the current, feeling if not seeing the danger to this ship.

“Course nor’ by east, sir!”

Bolitho said, “One chance, Captain Tyacke. Two broadsides, three if you can manage it.” Their eyes met. Time and distance.

Midshipman Essex jerked round as if he had been hit, and then shouted, “Our ships are here, sir!” He waved his hat as distant gunfire rolled across the sea like muffled thunder. Then he realized that he had just shouted at his admiral, and dropped his eyes and flushed.

“On the uproll!”

Bolitho looked along the starboard side, the gun captains with their taut trigger-lines, the emergency slow-matches streaming to the wind like incense in a temple.

Daubeny by the mainmast, his sword across one shoulder, Philip Protheroe, the fourth lieutenant, up forward with the first division of guns. And here on the quarterdeck, the newest lieutenant, Blythe, staring at each crouching seaman as if he was expecting a mutiny. The stranded ship was drawing slowly abeam, the floundering boats suddenly stilled as the reluctant sunlight threw Indomitable’s sails across the water in patches of living shadow.

Daubeny raised his sword. “As you bear!”

Lieutenant Protheroe glanced aft and then yelled, “Fire!”

Division by division, the guns roared out across the water, each twenty-four-pounder hurling itself inboard to be seized and manhandled like a wild beast.

Bolitho thought he saw the shockwave of the broadside rip across the water, carving a passage like some scythe from hell. Even as the first double-shotted charges and their extra packing of grape smashed into the boats and exploded into the helpless ship, Protheroe’s men were already sponging out their guns, probing for burning remnants with their worms before ramming home fresh charges and balls.

The quarterdeck guns were the last to fire, and Blythe’s voice almost broke in a scream as he yelled. “A guinea for the first gun, I say! A guinea!”

Bolitho watched it all with a strange numbness. Even his heart seemed to have stopped. Tyacke had trained them well; three rounds every two minutes. There would be time for the third broadside before they came about, to avoid running aground like the stricken American.

Tyacke was also watching, remembering. Point! Ready! Fire! The drill, always the drill. Slaves to the guns which were now repaying his hard work.

A whistle shrilled. “Ready, sir!”

“Fire!”

Boats and fragments of boats, uniformed soldiers thrashing in the water, their screams engulfed as their weapons and packs carried them down into bitter cold. Others who had been able to reach the ship’s side were dragging themselves back to a security they could recognize, only to be torn down by the next controlled broadside. The American was burned and scarred by the weight of iron, but mostly it was the blood that was remarkable. On the hull, and down the side, where even the water shone pink in the sunlight.

In a brief lull, Bolitho heard Allday say, “If they’d been first, sir, they’d have given no quarter to us.” He was speaking to Avery, but any reply was lost in the next roar of cannon fire.

Outside this pitiless arena of death, another struggle was taking place. Ship to ship, or two to one, if the odds were overwhelming. No line of battle, only ship to ship. Man to man.

York said hoarsely, “White flag, sir! They’re finished!”

True or not, they would never know, for at that moment the third and last broadside smashed into the other ship, shattering forever the scattered remnants of a plan that might have been successful.

As men staggered from Indomitable’s guns and ran to the braces and halliards in response to shouted commands to bring the ship about and into the wind, Bolitho took a final glance at the enemy. But even the white flag had vanished into the smoke.

Daubeny sheathed his sword, his eyes red-rimmed and bright.

“Chivalrous has signalled, sir. The enemy has broken off the action.” He looked at his hand, as if to see if it were shaking. “They did what they came to do.”

Tyacke tore his eyes from the flapping sails as his ship turned sedately across the wind, the masthead pendant rivalling Bolitho’s Cross of St George as they streamed across the opposite side.

He said harshly, “And so, Mr Daubeny, did we!”

Bolitho handed the telescope to Essex. “Thank you.” Then to Tyacke, “General signal, if you please. Discontinue the action. Report losses and damage.” He looked across at the tall signals midshipman. “And, Mr Carleton, mark this well and spell it out in full. Yours is the gift of courage.”

Avery hurried across to assist the signals party, but once with them he paused, afraid to miss anything, his head still reeling from the roar of the guns and the immediate silence which had followed.

Bolitho was saying to Tyacke, “Taciturn will take command and lead our ships to Halifax. I fear we have lost some good men today.”

He heard Tyacke reply quietly, “We could have lost far more, Sir Richard.” He tried to lighten his tone. “At least that damned renegade in his Retribution failed to appear.”

Bolitho said nothing. He was staring across the quarter to the distant smoke, like a stain on a painting.

Avery turned away. The gift of courage. Our Nel would have appreciated that. He took the slate and pencil from Carleton’s unsteady hands.

“Let me.”

Tyacke said, “May I change tack and recover the boats, Sir Richard?”

“Not yet, James.” His eyes were bleak. Cold, as that dawn sky had been. He gazed up at the signal for Close Action. “We are not yet done, I fear.”