7. ACTION THIS DAY

Bolitho closed the chartroom door and walked swiftly on to the quarterdeck, pausing only beside the dimly lit compass to see that the ship's head was still pointing almost due north. For most of the night the preparations for battle had gone on without a let up, until as satisfied as he could be Bolitho had called a halt, and the hands, tense but exhausted, had curled up beside their guns for a few hours' rest.

As he crossed the quarterdeck Bolitho felt the light breeze cold and clammy through his open shirt, and wondered how long it would hold when the sun lifted above the horizon once more.

Inch said, "Good morning, sir."

Bolitho stared at his pale shape and nodded. "You may load and run out now, but pass the word for as little noise as possible."

As Inch craned over the rail to pass his orders he looked up towards the sky. It was much lighter than when he had been on deck half an hour earlier. Now he could see the tightly spread nets which Tomlin and his men had hauled above the decks during the night to protect the gunners from falling spars, when before they had been merged with the sky. Towards the eastern horizon the last stars had vanished, and some small, isolated clouds had their bellies touched with the colour of salmon-pink.

He took several deep breaths and tried to ignore the squeak of trucks and the dull thuds of guns being hauled up to the open ports. Unlike his men, he had not slept, and even during the last half hour he had filled in his time by making himself shave by the light of a small lantern. He had twice cut himself, so great was his inner tension, but he had known that if he did not occupy himself fully his nerves would be in an even worse state. It was always the same. The doubts and anxieties, the fear of failure and the dread of mutilation with its attendant horrors under the -surgeon's knife, all these things lurked at the back of his mind like spectres, so that as he shaved he had needed all his strength to hold the razor steady.

Now the waiting was almost done. There, black across.the bows and stretching away on either hand was the island, and he no longer needed a glass to see the faint necklace of white feathers which marked the sea's breaking over the reefs.

Hyperion was close hauled on the starboard tack with her topsails and topgallants braced hard round to take maximum advantage of the low wind. All the courses were clewed up, for these large sails were always a fire risk once the fighting started.

Inch straightened his back as a voice called up from the main deck.

"All run out, sir."

Like Bolitho and the other officers he was stripped to shirt and trousers, and there was a slight tremor in his voice which could have been either excitement or because of the chill air.

"Very well. Send a midshipman to inform the commodore."

Several times while he had been shaving Bolitho had paused to listen through the partition. But for once he had heard no gentle snores. Pelham-Martin must have lying in his cot fretting and pondering, without even the ship's affairs to occupy his mind.

Gossett blew his nose into a large red handkerchief, the noise shattering the silence like a musket shot. He muttered humbly, "Pardon, sir."

Bolitho smiled. "We may need all your wind for the sails later on."

Some of the marines at the nettings chuckled, and Bolitho was glad they could not yet see his face.

Inch said, "What are the Frogs up to, I wonder?"

"They are quiet enough at present." Bolitho watched the small, white-crested waves cruising slowly down on the ship's weather beam. He could see them stretching away much further now, and when he shifted his eyes forward he saw that the land had taken on a harder outline, so that it appeared to be right on top of the bows. It was a normal illusion at first light, but nevertheless they should sight something soon. Hyperion was driving as close to the reefs as she dare to give maximum advantage when the time came to turn and head either across or into the bay itself.

A lot depended on the island's defences. No ship was a match for a well-sighted shore battery, but you could never be sure. Bolitho recalled how he and Tomlin had been the first men up the cliff when he had successfully overpowered the French battery at Cozar in the Mediterranean. It could be done with enough determination.

Inch called, "Good morning, sir!"

The commodore walked stiffly to the rail and sniffed the air. Bolitho studied him in the strange half-light. He was wearing a long blue watch coat which came almost to his ankles, and was without a hat or mark of rank of any sort.

He would be sweating hard when the sun reached him, he thought. He felt a touch of compassion when he considered the reason for this strange garb. PeihamMartin was a very large man, a big enough target for some French marksmen without drawing attention to himself by showing his proper uniform.

He said quietly, "Soon now, sir. The wind is steady from the nor'-east, and until we close right inshore we shall have enough power in our sails."

Pelham-Martin sank his small head firmly into' his collar. "Maybe. I don't know, I'm sure." He moved slightly to one side and lapsed once more into silence.

Bolitho was about to speak to Inch when he saw the lieutenant's eyes light up like twin furnaces. Even as he swung round he heard a violent explosion rumble across the open water and saw a tall column of flames leaping skyward, the sparks breaking away and rising hundreds of feet in the air.

Inch gasped, "A ship! She's afire!"

Bolitho narrowed his eyes, picturing for the hundredth time the bay as he had expected it would look. The ship which was now burning so fiercely above her fiery reflection was a small one, and somewhere on the Hyperion's starboard bow.

There were shots, too, puny and sporadic, and he guessed the enemy were using boats to slip closer inshore under cover of the remaining darkness. Maybe the ship had been fired by accident, or perhaps the raiders just wanted to inflict as much damage as they could before hauling off again.

Another explosion roared dully over the water, but this time there was no flash, nor any indication of bearing or distance.

"Ah, 'ere she comes!" Gossett lifted his arm as the sun raised itself slowly above the sea's edge, thrusting shadows aside and painting the endless patterns of wave crests with pale gold.

"Deck therel Two ships on th' lee bow!" A startled cry and then, "Belay that! Thar's another close inshore, sirl"

But Bolitho could see them well enough now. In the Carribbean there was little break between night and day, and already the sunlight had changed the island's rough outline into purple and green, with a sliver of gold to mark the crest of the nearest hilltop at the far side of the bay.

The first two were ships of the line, sailing slowly on the opposite tack, almost at right angles to his own course and barely two miles clear. The third looked like a frigate, and a quick glance at her sails told him she was anchored close under the western headland.

Anchored? His mind brushed away doubts and apprehension as the realisation came to him. The enemy must have fired the anchored ship inside the bay as a diversion.

On the opposite side of the protected anchorage where the main shore battery was said to be sited the attackers had launched a full-scale assault, the defenders momentarily distracted and off guard. In the early hours it would not be too difficult, he thought grimly. It was human enough for men to find comfort from others' misfortunes, even their own comrades', if it meant being spared from attack.

And while the awakened gunners watched from their battery walls, the raiders would have landed stealthily from boats and scaled the headland from the other side.

Pelham-Martin said in a tight voice, "They have sighted us!"

The leading French ship was already signalling her consort but as the frail sunlight lifted over the sheltered water of the bay and across the white painted houses at the far end, neither vessel showed any sign of altering direction or purpose. The first shock of seeing the Hyperion's topsails emerging from the half light must have been eased when the enemy realised she was accompanied by a solitary frigate.

Bolitho felt the sun's weak rays touching his cheek. He could continue across the enemy's bows and into the bay, but if the French seized the battery their own ships could sail after him with impunity. Yet if he stayed clear, they would withdraw into the bay anyway and prevent even a large force from following.

He glanced at the commodore, but he was still staring at the French ships, his face a mask of indecision.

Inch murmured, "Two seventy-fours, sir." He, too, glanced at Pelham-Martin before adding, "If they reach the other side of the bay they'll have the advantage, sir."

Bolitho saw some of the seamen by the braces craning to stare at the French ships. They looked perfect and unmarked by the island's gunners, and seemed all the more menacing because of their slow approach. Sunlight glanced on levelled telescopes from the leading ship's poop, and here and there a figure moved or a pendant whipped out from a masthead as if lifted by some force of its own.

But otherwise the ships glided across the small whitecapped waves slowly and unhurriedly, until it seemed as if Hyperion's jib boom would lock into the leading Frenchman's like two mammoths offering their tusks for combat.

On the main deck the tension was almost a physical thing. At every open port the men crouched at the guns, their naked backs shining with sweat while they waited for the first hardening line as a target crossed their sights. Each hatch was guarded by a marine, and aloft in the tops the marksmen and swivel gunners licked their lips and screwed up their eyes as they sought out their opposite numbers across the shortening range.

Pelham-Martin cleared his throat. "What do you intend?"

Bolitho relaxed slightly. He could feel the sweat running down his chest and the heart's steady beat against his ribs. The question was like the opening of a dam. The removal of a great weight. For one moment he had feared Pelham-Martin's nerve had failed and that he would order an immediate withdrawal. Or worse, that he would drive at full speed into the bay, where the ship could be pounded to fragments at the enemy's leisure.

"We will cross the enemy's bows, sir." He kept his eye on the leading ship. The first sign of extra sail and the Hyperion would never be in time. It would mean either a collision or he would have to wear ship and present an unprotected stern to a full French broadside.

Pelham-Martin nodded. "And into the bay?"

"No, sir." He swung round sharply. "Starboard a point Mr. Gossett!" In a quieter tone he continued, "We will wear ship once we pass her and engage her larboard side." He watched his words playing havoc on the commodore's face. "With luck we can then cross her stem and pass between both ships. It will mean losing the wind-gage, but we can give both of them a good raking as we come through." He grinned, and could feel his lips drying with the effort. But Pelham-Martin had to understand. If he tried to change the manoeuvre halfway through it would be disastrous.

He looked again at the French ships. Half a mile at the most now separated the leading one from his guns. It would be disastrous anyway if the enemy dismasted him at the first encounter.

The French frigate was still anchored, and by using a glass Bolitho could see her boats plying backand forth to the headland, and when he saw the smoke rising from the top of the slope he knew that the loud explosion must have been some sort of bomb to breach_ the battery wall or ignite a magazine.

He felt Pelham-Martin's hand on his arm. "Sir?"

The commodore said, "Signal Abdiel to engage the frigate!" He wriggled his shoulder beneath the heavy coat. "Well?"

"I suggest she stays to windward, sir. Until we start our attack. If they suspect for one moment we are not trying to seek the protection of the harbour, I fear we may be out-manoeuvred."

"Yes." Pelham-Martin stared fixedly at some point above the headland. "Quite so."

Bolitho tore his eyes away and hurried to the opposite side to watch the leading ship. He thought suddenly of something Winstanley had said when he had first gone aboard Indomitable to meet the commodore. He'll need you before we're done. As his senior captain Winstanley must have known Pelham-Martin's weaknesses better than anyone. The commodore surely owed his rank to influence, or perhaps he had just been unfortunate at being available for the appointment when he had not the experience to back up his authority.

A dull bang echoed across the water and Bolitho looked up as around hole appeared suddenly in the fore topsail. The Frenchman had used a bowchaser for a ranging shot. He turned to watch as a thin feather of spray lifted above the sea far out on the weather beam.

He said, "Pass the word to the lower gundeck of my intention, Mr. Inch." As a midshipman darted to the ladder he snapped, "Walk, Mr. Penrose!" The boy turned and blushed. "There may be a French telescope watching your feet, so take your timel"

There was another bang, and this time the ball slammed hard alongside the larboard bow, throwing spray high above the nettings and making some of the men at the headsail sheets duck down with alarm.

Bolitho called, "Keep those hands out of sight on the main deck, Mr. Stepkyne! We will wear ship in a moment, but I don't want a single man to lay his hand on anything until I give the order!"

He saw Stepkyne nod and turn back to watch the enemy. He wondered what Pascoe was doing at his station on the lower gundeck, and was torn between wanting him within reach and leaving him below behind the additional thickness of the hull.

Strangely, it was usually the older men who took the waiting badly, he thought. The youngsters and the untried were too awed or too frightened to think clearly about anything. Only when it was all over and the sounds and sights were branded into their memories did they start to think about the next action, and the one after- that.

The next ball from the Frenchman's bowchaser smashed into the boat tier, lifting the launch bodily from its chocks and filling the air with wood splinters. Three men at the starboard bulwark fell kicking and whimpering, one almost transfixed by a jagged spear of planking.

Bolitho called, "Send some more hands to the weather forebrace, Mr. Stepkyne!" He saw the lieutenant open his mouth as if to shout back at him and then turn away to pass the order, his face angry and resentful.

As yet another shot crashed into the ship's side Bolitho

found time to sympathise with Stepkyne's feelings. To keep taking these carefully aimed shots without firing back was almost more than anyone could stand. But if he allowed any sort of reprisal the French commander might immediately guess his true intention while there was still time to alter course.

Gossett murmured, "The Frogs are sailin' as close to the wind as they can, sir.' He cursed as a ball shrieked over the nettings and ricocheted across the wave crests far abeam. "If he tries to tack 'e'll be in irons!"

Bolitho saw the wounded seamen being dragged towards the main hatch, their blood marking every foot of the journey, while some of the gunners turned to stare, their faces stiff and unreal.

Closer and closer, until the leading enemy ship was a mere cable's length off the larboard bow.

Bolitho gripped his hands behind him until the pain steadied his racing thoughts. He could wait no longer. At any second now a well-aimed ball, or even a random one might bring down a vital spar or cripple his ship before he could make his tun.

Without looking at Gossett he snapped, "Starboard your helml" As the spokes began to squeak over he cupped his hands and yelled, "Wear ship! Hands to the braces!"

He saw the sails' long shadows sweeping above the crouching gunners, heard the whine of blocks and the frantic stamp of bare feet as the waiting men threw themselves back on the braces, and then, slowly at first, the ship began to swing round towards the Frenchman.

For a second or two longer he thought he had acted too soon, that both ships would meet head on, but as the yards steadied and the canvas bucked and filled overhead he saw the other two-decker drifting across the larboard bow, her mastss almost in line as she drove towards him on the opposite tack.

As Gossett had observed, the enemy could not regain the advantage without turning directly upwind, nor could she swing away unless her captain was prepared to receive Hyperion's broadside through her stern.

Bolitho shouted, "Full broadside, Mr. Stepkyne!"

He saw the gun captains crouching back from their breeches, the trigger lines bar taut as they squinted through the open port and their crews waited with handspikes to traverse or elevate as required.

A ball smashed through the larboard gangway and a man screamed like a tortured animal. But Bolitho did not even hear it. He was -watching the oncoming ship through narrowed eyes, the men around him and the commodore excluded from his thoughts as he saw the Hyperion's topgallants cast a distorted pattern of shadows across the Frenchman's bows.

He raised his hand. "On the uproll!" He paused, feeling the dryness in his throat like sand. "Fire!"

The crash of the Hyperion's broadside was like a hundred thunderstorms, and while the whole ship staggered as if driving ashore, the enemy's hull was completely blotted out in a billowing wall of smoke.

Across some fifty yards of water the effect of the.broadside must have been like an avalanche, Bolitho thought wildly. He could see men's mouths opening and yelling, but as yet could hear nothing. The sharper, earprobing cracks of the quarterdeck nine-pounders had rendered thought and hearing almost too painful to bear. Then above the mounting bank of drifting smoke he saw,the Frenchman's yards edging round and then halting as the topsails quivered and shook in the face of the wind.

As his hearing returned he heard his gun captains shouting from every side, and saw Dawson's marines stepping up to the nettings, their muskets lifting to their shoulders as if on parade. Then as Dawson dropped his sword the muskets fired as one, the shots going somewhere beyond the smoke to add to the confusion.

Stepkyne was striding aft along the maindeck guns, his hands chopping the air as if to restrain his men. "Stop your vents! Sponge out!" He paused to knock down a man's arm. "Sponge out, I said, damn you!" He seized the dazed seaman by the wrist. "Do you want the gun to explode in your bloody face?" Then he strode on. "Jump to itl Load and run outl"

At each gun the men worked as if in a trance, conscious only of the drill they had learned under their captain's watchful eye and of the towering pyramid of sails which now rose high above, the larboard gangway; and the flapping Tricolour whih seemed barely yards-,away.

Bolitho shouted, "Fire as you bear!" He stepped back choking as the guns roared out again, the smoke and flames darting from the ship's side and making the water between the two vessels as dark as night.

Then the French ship fired, her full broadside rippling down her side from bow to stern in a double line of darting orange tongues.

Bolitho felt the shrieking balls scything through shrouds and sails, and the harder, jarring thuds as some struck deep into the hull itself.

A seaman, apparently unmarked, fell through the smoke from the maintop and bounced twice on the taut nets before rolling lifelessly over. the edge and into the sea alongside.

A gun captain behind him- was bellowing above the crash of cannon fire and the sporadic bark of muskets, his eyes white in his powder-stained face as he coaxed and pushed his men to the tackle falls.

"Run out, you idle buggers! Us'll give they sods a quiltin'!"

Then he jerked his trigger line and the nine-pounder hurled itself inboard again, the black muzzle streaming smoke even as the men threw themselves forward to the task of sponging and reloading.

Through the drifting curtain of smoke the powder monkeys ran like dazed puppets, dropping their cartridges and scampering back to the hatchways with hardly a glance to left or right.

Pelham-Martin was still by the rail, his heavy coat speckled with powder ash and splintered paintwork. He was staring at the French ship's masts, seemingly mesmerised by the nearness of death as musket balls hammered the deck around him and a seaman was hurled down the poop ladder, blood gushing from his mouth and choking his screams as he fell.

Inch shouted, "We'll be past her soon, sir!" His eyes were streaming as he peered through the smoke to seek out the next French ship. Then he pointed wildly, his teeth shining in his grimy face. "Her mizzen's going!" He waved his arms in the air and turned to see if Gossett had heard. "There it goes!"

The Frenchman's mizzen was indeed falling. A lucky shat must have struck it solidly within some ten feet of the deck, for as Bolitho clung to the nettings to see better he saw stays and shrouds parting like cotton while the whole mast, spars and wildly flapping canvas staggered, swung momentarily enmeshed in the tangle of rigging, before pitching down into the smoke.

But the enemy was still firing, and when Bolitho strained his eyes aloft he saw that the Hyperion's topsails were little more than remnants. Even as he watched the main royal stay parted with the sound of a pistol shot, and when men swarmed aloft to splice another in its place others were falling, dead or wounded, on to the nets below as the hidden French marksmen kept up a murderous fire across the smoke.

The severed mizzen must have fallen close alongside the enemy's quarter, for as more long orange tongues darted through the smoke and one of the twelve-pounders lifted drunkenly before smashing down across two of its crew, the French ship's blurred outline shortened, and slowly and inexorably she began to turn away.

Gossett was yelling hoarsely, "The mizzen must be actin' as a sea anchor!" He was pounding the shoulder of one of the helmsmen. "By God, there's hope yet!

Bolitho knew what he meant. As he ran to the rail seeking out the scarlet shape of Lieutenant Hicks on the forecastle he knew that once the enemy had cut loose the trailing mass of wreckage he would still be ready enough to give battle.

He snatched Inch's speaking trumpet and yelled, "The larboard carronade! Fire as you bear!"

He imagined that the marine lieutenant was waving his hat, but at that instant the enemy fired another ragged broadside, some of the balls smashing through open ports, others hammering the hull or whipping like shrieking demons overhead.

But through the pall of smoke he heard one resonant explosion, and felt it transmit itself from bow to poop as the fat, crouching carronade hurled its giant sixty-eight pound ball towards the enemy's stem.

As a freak down-eddy pushed the fog aside Bolitho saw the massive ball explode. Hicks had been too eager or too excited,, and instead of passing through the enemy's stem windows and along the full length of her lower gundeck it had struck just below her quarterdeck nettings. There was a bright flash, and as the ball exploded and released its closely packed charge of grape he heard screams and terrified cries as a complete section of bulwark collapsed like so much boxwood.

Gossett roared, "That showed 'eml The old Smasher's taken the wind out o' their guts!"

Bolitho said, "Her steering seems to be damaged, or else that shot cut down most of her officers." He felt a musket ball pluck at his shirt with no more insistence than the touch of a child's fingers, and behind him a seaman screamed in agony and rolled away from his gun, his hands clawing into his stomach as the blood spattered across the planking and the men around him.

The whole ship seemed to be in the grip of fighting madness. Men worked at their guns, wild-eyed and so dazed by the din of battle and the awful cries of the wounded that most of them had lost all sense of time or reason. Some gun captains had to use their fists to drive their men through the changeless pattern of loading, running out and firing, otherwise they would have fired at empty sea or hauled a gun back to its port still unloaded.

"Cease firing!" Bolitho gripped the rail and waited as the last few shots roared from the lower battery. The French ship had all but vanished down wind, only her topgallants showing above the attendant curtain of smoke.

Inch said between his teeth, "The second one's going about, sir!"

Bolitho nodded, watching the two-decker's yards swinging round as she turned lazily to starboard. The Hyperion had already started her second turn, but now instead of passing between the two ships she would-if the Frenchman intended to maintain his new course-be running parallel with the enemy. Above his head the torn sails lifted and cracked in a sudden gust as with tired dignity the Hyperion tilted to the wind and then settled on her course away from the land.

Bolitho shouted, "Starboard battery ready!" He saw Stepkyne signalling sharply to some of the men from the other side and ordering them to the starboard guns.

Pelham-Martin lifted one hand to his face and then stared at his fingers as if surprised he was still alive. To Bolitho he muttered tightly, "This one'll not be so slow in returning fire!"

Bolitho looked at him steadily. "We shall see, sir."

Then he jerked round as more gunfire rolled through the haze of smoke, and he guessed that the Abdiel was closing with the enemy frigate.

Inch called, "We're overhauling him, sir!"

In spite of her torn canvas the old Hyperion was doing just that. Maybe the French captain had waited too long to tack or perhaps he had been unable to accept that the solitary two-decker would stand and fight after the first savage encounter. The jib boom was already passing the Frenchman's larboard quarter with less than thirty yards between them. Above the familiar horseshoe shaped stern with its gilded scrollwork and the name Emeraude Bolitho could see the flash of sunlight on levelled weapons and the occasional stab of musket fire.

But there was a growing froth beneath her counter, and even as he watched he saw her lean slightly away, gathering wind to.her straining sails as she started to pull ahead with increasing power.

Inch muttered, "We'll not catch her, sir. If she can retake the wind-gage she can come at us again and cover her consort until she is ready to fight tool"

Bolitho ignored him. "Mr. Gossett! Helm a'lee!" He held up his hand. "Easy now! Steady!" He saw the Hyperion's bowsprit swing very slightly to windward, so that for a few moments she exposed her full broadside to the French ship's quarter.

"As you bear, Mr. Stepkyne!" He sliced downwards with his hand. "Now!"

Stepkyne ran down the length of the main deck, pausing by each gun captain just long enough to watch the enemy through the port.

And down the Hyperion's side the guns fired, two by two, the balls smashing into the enemy's quarter and waterline in an unhurried and merciless bombardment.

Someone aboard the Emeraude was keeping his head, for she was already turning, pivoting round to keep station on her attacker, so that once more they were drawing parallel.

Then she fired, and along the Hyperion's starboard side the mass of iron smashed and thundered into the stout timbers or screamed through gunports to cause havoc and murder amongst the press of men within.

Through the unending haze Bolitho could see the first ship's topmasts, the bright whip of her masthead pendant as she tacked round and headed back towards the fray, her bowchasers already barking viciously, although whether the shots were hitting or passing overhead and hitting her own consort it was impossible to determine.

Pelham-Martin shouted, "If she gets to grips with us they'll smash us from either beam!" He swung round, his eyes wild. "In the name of God, why did I listen to you?"

Bolitho caught a seaman as he slumped back from the nettings, blood already pumping from his chest. To a white-faced midshipman he snapped, "Here, Mr. Penrose! Help this fellow to the main deck!"

Inch was by his side again. "This one'll stand off until his friend arrives." He winced as a ball ploughed a deep furrow along the starboard gangway and hurled a corpse aside in two halves.

"If we let him, Mr. Inch!" Bolitho pointed at the other ship's bows. "Larboard your helm! We'll force him to close with us."

Very slowly, for her sails were almost in shreds, the Hyperion responded to the rudder's thrust. Further and further until the bowsprit seemed to be rising high above the enemy's deck as if to drive straight through her foremast shrouds.

Inch watched in silence as again the main deck guns hurled themselves inboard on their tackles, the figures around them darting through the funnelled smoke, their naked bodies black with powder and shining with sweat as they struggled to obey their officers.

But the salvos were more ragged and less well aimed, and the delay between each shot was growing longer. By comparison the enemy seemed to be firing rapidly and with greater accuracy, and the spread nets above the gunners were jumping madly with severed cordage and ripped sailcloth. And there were more than a dozen bodies across the nets, too. Some limp and jerking to the vibrating crash of gunfire, others twisting and crying out

like trapped birds in a snare while they struggled and died unheard and unheeded.

Captain Dawson was waving his sword and yelling to his men in the tops. The marines were shooting as rapidly as before, and here and there a man would drop from the enemy's rigging as proof of their accuracy. Even when a marine fell dead or wounded another would step up to fill his place, while Munro, the huge sergeant, would call out the timing for loading and aiming, beating the air with his half-pike as Bolitho had seen him do at the daily drills since leaving Plymouth.

The French captain was not it seemed prepared to accept the new challenge, but with yards swinging round he steered his ship away yet again, until he had the wind immediately under his stem.

Hicks had fired his other carronade, but again it was a poor shot. It struck the enemy's side and burst below the main deck gunports to leave a ragged gash in the shape of a giant star.

Bolitho looked down at his own men and bit his lip until the skin almost broke. The heart was going out of them. They had acted and fought better than -he had dared hope, but it could not go on like this.

A great chorus of voices made him look up, and with sick horror he saw the main topgallant and royal mast stagger and then bow drunkenly to larboard before ripping through sails and men alike on its way to the deck.

He heard Tomlin's voice bellowing above the din, saw axes flashing in the sunlight, and as if in a dream watched a wild-eyed seaman, naked but for a strip of canvas around his loins, run to the main shrouds and swarm up the ratlines like a monkey, Pelham-Martin's pendant trailing behind him as he scampered aloft to replace it.

The commodore murmured thickly, "My God! Oh, my merciful God!"

Reluctantly the broken spar slithered free from the gangway and bobbed down the ship's side, a dead topman still tangled in the rigging, his mouth wide in a last cry of damnation or protest.

Midshipman Gascoigne was tying a piece of rag around his wrist, his face pale but determined as he watched the blood seeping over his fingers. Amidst the smoke and death, the great patches of blood and whimpering wounded, only Pelham-Martin seemed unharmed and immovable. In his heavy coat he looked more like a big rock than a mere human, and his face was a mask which betrayed little of the man within. Perhaps he was beyond fear or resignation, Bolitho thought dully. Unable to move, he was just standing there waiting to see the end of his hopes, the destruction of himself and all about him.

Bolitho stood stockstill as a figure emerged from the aft hatchway and stepped over the spread-eagled marine. It was Midshipman Pascoe, his shirt open to the waist, his hair plastered across his forehead as he glanced round, stunned perhaps by the carnage and confusion on every hand. Then• he lifted his chin and walked aft to the quarterdeck ladder.

Inch saw him and yelled, "What is it?"

Pascoe replied, "Mr. Beauclerk's respects, sir, and he wishes you to know that Mr. Lang has been wounded."

Beauclerk was the fifth and junior lieutenant. It was too much of a task to control, those thirty twenty-four pounders singlehanded.

Bolitho shouted, "Mr. Roth! Go and take charge below!"

As the lieutenant ran for the ladder he beckoned to the boy. "Are you all right, lad?"

Pascoe looked at him vaguely and then pushed the hair from his eyes. "Aye, sir." He shuddered, as if suddenly ice

cold. "I think so."

A musket ball, almost spent, struck the deck at his feet, and he Wuld have fallen but for Bolitho's hand.

"Stay with me, lad." Bolitho held on to his arm, feeling its thinness and the cold clamminess of fear.

The boy looked round, -.Is eyes very bright. "Is it nearly over, sir?"

Overhead another halyard snapped and a heavy block clanged across a gun breech so that a seaman yelled up at the smoke, cursing and mouthing meaningless words, until the gun fired and he became part of the panorama again.

Bolitho pulled him towards the hammock nettings. "Not yet, my lad! Not yet!" He showed his teeth to hide his own despair. In a moment they would be at close quarters again with two ships. No matter how much damage they inflicted on them, the end would be certain.

"Captain, sir!" Inch came striding through the smoke. "The enemy's hauling off!" He pointed wildly. "Look, sir! They're both making more sail!"

Bolitho climbed into the mizzen shrouds, his limbs feeling like lead. But it was true. Both ships were turning away, and with the wind astern were already drawing steadily clear, the smoke swirling behind them like anattendant sea mist.

And as a shaft of sunlight cut across the water he saw the frigate, too, was under way, her yards braced round, her sails pockmarked and blackened to show Abdiel's efforts to defeat her.

He snatched a glass and trained it across the quarterdeck as the Abdiel emerged hesitantly through the billowing curtain of smoke. All her masts were intact, but the hull was scarred in several places as she idled into the pale sunshine.

Bolitho was already peering past the little frigate, and as the glass steadied beyond a curving green headland he thought for a moment he had taken leave of his reason.

There was another ship rounding the spur of land, her sails shining and very white in the morning sun, her tall side throwing back the sea's dancing reflections as she tacked ponderously across the wind before heading towards the Hyperion.

Pelham-Martin's voice sounded shaky. "What is she?"

Already the Hyperion's seamen were leaving their overheated guns to stand on the gangways and stare at the stately newcomer. Then as the Abdiel's people began to cheer, so too it was carried on by the Hyperion, until even the cries of the wounded were lost in the wild chorus of relief and excitement.

Bolitho watched the other ship without lowering his glass. He could see the long tricolour flag at her peak, the orange gilt-encrusted carving around her poop, and knew that if the Hyperion was old, then this one was the most ancient vessel he had yet clapped eyes on.

He replied slowly. "She's Dutch." He lowered the glass and added, "What are your orders, sir?"

Pelham-Martin stared at the Dutch ship as she tacked once more to sail easily under the Hyperion's lee quarter.

"Orders?" He seemed to get a grip on himself, "Enter harbour."

Bolitho said slowly, "Signal Abdiel and inform her we will anchor without delay, Mr. Gascoigne." He walked to the opposite side, his head ringing with the cheers, his mind dazed from the closeness of death and defeat.

Inch looked down at Midshipman Pascoe and shook his head. "Take good heed of this morning. Whatever you do or amount to in later years, you'll never see his like again!" Then he strode to the rail and began to rally the remnants of his topmen.

Bolitho did not hear Inch's words, nor did he see the look in the boy's eyes. He was watching the strange, outdated ship of the line turning once more to lead them into the bay. But for her arrival… he paused and pulled out his watch. For a moment he thought it had stopped, but after another glance he returned it to his pocket. One hour. That was all it had taken. Yet it had seemed ten times that long.

He made himself look down at the main deck as the surgeon and his bloodstained assistants emerged to collect the rest of the wounded. So what must it seem like to his men?

With a sigh he pushed his weary body away from the rail and turned towards the poop. He saw the boy watching him, his dark eyes filled with something like wonder.

"See, Mr. Pascoe, you can never be sure, can you?" He smiled and walked aft to consult with the commodore.

As he passed the nine-pounders along the weather side some of the gunners stood back to grin and wave to him. He could feel his own lips fixed in a smile, and listened to his voice as he answered their excited greetings, like someone on the outside of himself. An onlooker.

But when he reached the poop and looked again at the full length of his command he sensed something else. Scarred and bloodied she might be, but she was still unbroken. In spite of everything, the damage and mutilation, the terrible sounds and nerve-searing bombardment, something had happened.

She was no longer a ship which contained a mixed collection of human beings. For good or bad, she was one with the men who served her, as if the short, fierce fight had welded them all together into an entity of purpose and survival.

He saw the surgeon hurrying towards him and steeled himself for what lay ahead. Men had died in the morning sunlight. How many he did not yet know.

As he looked up at the pitted sails and splintered mast he felt strangely grateful to those unknown dead. It was up to him to ensure their sacrifices were not wasted.

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