FORM LINE OF BATTLE!

9. LIKE A FRIGATE!

Midshipman Piper peered into the chartroom, pausing only to recover his breath. 'Mr. Rooke's respects, sir, and the enemy is now in sight!'

Bolitho deliberately lifted his cup and sipped at his coffee. It was, of course, stone cold.

He asked quietly, 'Well, Mr. Piper? Is there nothing more?'

The boy gulped and tore his eyes from watching his captain's apparent indifference to the sudden proximity of danger.

He said, 'Three sail, sir. Two frigates and one larger ship.'

'I will come up directly.' Bolitho waited until the boy had hurried away and then swept the untouched food from the table. As he peered searchingly at the chart he was again reminded of his complete isolation. If Snipe far ahead of the convoy had sighted the ships in any other position there might have been cause for some small optimism. As it was the enemy were well to windward and approaching his ill-assorted convoy on a converging course. They could take their time, choose their moment to sweep in close to attack.

He picked up his hat and walked swiftly to the quarterdeck. The breeze was still fresh, but already the air was much hotter. He made himself walk to the rail and stare down at the upper deck while every nerve in his body seemed to cry out for him to snatch a glass and search out the enemy.

Below the gangways each crew waited silently beside its gun. The decks around them were sanded to give the seamen maximum grip when once action was joined, and beside every twelve-pounder stood a freshly filled water-bucket for the swabs or any sudden fire in the tinder-dry woodwork and cordage.

At each hatch was a marine sentry, bayonet fixed, legs braced to the steady roll of the ship, his duty to prevent any frightened seaman from running below if the pace became too hot. He took a telescope and lifted it over the nettings. The wallowing convict ship swam hugely across the lens, and then it reached out and steadied on a point below the horizon, far away on the leading ship's larboard bow.

Without turning his head he knew that those around him were watching his face. They had already seen the approaching vessels. Now they wanted to see his reactions and thereby gain comfort or find fresh doubt. He clamped his jaws together and tried to keep his face impassive.

As he edged the glass gently back and forth in time with Hyperion's movements he saw the two frigates. They were so close together and pointing almost directly towards his glass that they looked for all the world like one giant, illdesigned ship. One was slightly ahead of the other, and he could see that she was making more sail and spreading her topgallants even as he watched. Thirty-six guns at least, and a second frigate only slightly smaller.

But further astern, and close hauled on the starboard tack, was a ship of the line. Like the frigates she wore no colours, but there was no mistaking that beakhead, the graceful rake of her masts. Probably a French two-decker which had broken out from one of the Mediterranean ports to try and test the pressure of Hood's blockade. He lowered his glass and glanced at the transports. They would make a good start, he thought grimly.

He said, 'We will retain this course, Mr. Rooke. There is no point in trying to run south. The enemy has the advantage if he keeps to windward, and there is nothing to the south'rd',

He smiled briefly, 'but Africa.'

Rooke nodded. 'Aye, sir. D'you think they'll try and engage?'

'Within the hour, M'r. Rooke. The wind might drop. I would certainly attack were I in his shoes!'

He pictured the French two-decker as he had seen her in the glass. She was slightly bigger than Hyperion, but more to the point would be much faster, having been snug in harbour and able to receive the full attention of dockyard and riggers.

He made up his mind. 'Alter course two points to larboard. We will lay the ship on the convoy's quarter. Signal Harvester to take up station to windward of the leading ship immediately.'

'And Snipe, sir?' Rooke sounded tense.

'She can retain her present position, I think.' He imagined the havoc and complete destruction which a frigate's broadside could make of the sloop's frail timbers. `The next move will be made by the enemy very soon now.'

With her yards braced round the Hyperion edged slowly across the wake of the other ships in the convoy, while the Harvester, her topgallants and royals ballooning with sudden eagerness, sped recklessly past the Justice's stem and then tacked with equal dash towards the leading transport Erebus.

Lieutenant Dalby called, 'The frigates have gone about, sir!'

Bolitho shaded his eyes and watched the two ships swinging round and heeling sharply to the wind. When they had completed their manoeuvre they would be running parallel with the convoy, some five miles clear. Even without his glass Bolitho could see that their gunports were still closed, each captain no doubt concentrating on laying himself in the most advantageous position.

The two-decker sailed majestically on her original course as if to pass astern of the convoy and ignore it completely. Bolitho bit his lip. Her captain was doing exactly as he would have done. The two frigates would swoop down on the convoy and attack either the Harvester or the leading ship, or both together. If Hyperion closed to support the Harvester it would take some time to beat back and protect the rear of the convoy, and by then the enemy two-decker would have pounced. It was the oldest lesson of war. Divide and conquer.

Gossett intoned, 'Course nor' by east, sir, full an' bye.'

'Very well.' He stared up at the masthead pendant. 'Signal the convoy to make all available sail.' To Rooke he added sharply, 'Get the royals on her again, I want to see what the two-decker intends to do then!'

With all sail set the Hyperion gathered way in time with the transports, and the effect on the French ships was instantaneous. The senior captain had no doubt expected Bolitho to close up his convoy and protect them as best he could from a two-pronged attack. Running away was as unlikely as it was impracticable. But with the ships already drawing away from his guns the Frenchman had no alternaive but to give chase.

Captain Ashby breathed out slowly. 'There he goes, by God!'

The tall two-decker was already tacking, her topsails flapping wildly as she swung across the wind. So quick was her response to Bolitho's tactics that she seemed to lean right down into the white-capped water until her mainyard appeared to slash at the wavecrests, her lower gunports completely hidden- beneath the cream and surge of her own efforts.

Her sail drill was less efficient than Hyperion's, and that was probably because she had spent more time at anchor than at sea, but within fifteen minutes she too had spread her royals and topgallants in one giant pyramid of gleaming canvas.

Rooke said flatly, `She's overhauling us, sir. She'll be up to us in thirty minutes.'

But Bolitho was staring ahead watching the Justice. She was less than a mile away now, and like the other transports was finding the pace too demanding. The two enemy frigates were standing in closer to the lead ships, and as he strained his eyes through the crisscross of rigging he saw a puff of smoke from the leading one and a ripple of bright flashes.

It seemed an age before the dull rumble of gunfire reached back to him, then he said, 'You may load now, Mr. Rooke. See that the first broadside is double-spotted with a measure of grape for good fortune!' The first aimed salvo was usually the last to be fired with time to spare. After that men fired more from familiarity than anything else. And down on the lower gundeck it would be even worse. With hardly enough room to stand upright, the crews would fight their guns in a crazed world of dense, choking smoke, or semi-darkness and horror which was better unseen.

'Harvester has returned fire, sirl'

Bolitho nodded, half-watching the gunners as they cradled

!, the gleaming balls from the racks and rammed them down the gaping muzzles. The more practised gun-captains checked each ball with something like loving care before loading. Some were better rounded than others. They would go with that first order to fire.

'Make a signal to Harvester. "You are at liberty to engage the enemy."' He almost smiled at the empty words. 'Not that he has any choice.'

Rooke asked, 'Shall we run out, sir?' He was staring across the larboard quarter watching the French ship cutting away the distance as she drove effortlessly towards the convoy. Her captain was level-headed enough to stay just that much upwind of the slower Hyperion. If Bolitho turned away he would present his ship's stern to the French broadside. At close range that would be enough to reduce the between-decks to a slaughterhouse, and probably dismast her into the bargain. If he held his present course it would be a gun-for-gun battle, with the Frenchman holding his advantage and Hyperion unable to tack in either directon without receiving crippling damage.

`Not yet, Mr. Rooke.' His voice was quite controlled, but as he watched the other ship's shadow rising and falling across the glittering water he guessed that Rooke probably imagined he was running away, either from fear or from a complete inability to think of a plan to avoid destruction.

He glanced quickly at the masthead again. He hardly dared to look for fear his eye had deceived him. But the pendant was at a different angle. Only very slight, but it was all he had.

To Gossett he said evenly, `The wind has veered a point, I believe?'

The master stared at him. 'Well, yes, sir. Just a mite.' He sounded surprised that it should matter.

Bolitho controlled the rising tension in his thoughts. He had to use all his will to shut out the distant crash of gunfire as the frigates engaged the solitary Harvester, even to crush the lurking fear that he had already misjudged the situation around him.

'Very well, Mr. Rooke. Shorten sail. Get the royals and 'gallants off her.' He gripped his hands behind him as the topmen swarmed along the yards. 'Now you may run out the larboard battery.'

The Hyperion seemed to sink forward into a trough as the power died in her extra sails. The weeds on her bottom acted as a brake, and Bolitho could see the mizzen topgallant shivering like a tree in a wind and felt the vibration transmitting itself through the planks under his shoes.

Then he walked to the larboard side of the quarterdeck and leaned out to watch as the double line of gunports swung upwards, and seconds later he heard the squeal of trucks as the sweating seamen threw themselves against the tackles and hauled their heavy weapons up the canting deck. A shaft of sunlight touched the black muzzles as they poked from the open ports and Rooke called, 'Run out, sir!'

He gave a slight shiver and turned to watch the Frenchman. She was barely a cable's length astern now, and even though she too was shortening sail, would be alongside in minutes. To the French captain it would look as if Bolitho had tried to drive his convoy to safety under full sail but had failed and was now falling back to accept full payment for his folly.

Bolitho licked his lips. They felt like dust. To Gossett he said slowly, `Stand by to wear ship, Mr. Gossett. In two minutes I intend to go about across his bows!' He did not see the stunned look on Gossett's face. He was looking at the other two-decker. She had run out her starboard battery, and on her gangways he could see clumps of figures and the gleam of sunlight on levelled muskets and cutlasses.

`Aye, aye, sir!' Gossett had recovered his voice again.

To Rooke Bolitho added sharply, 'We will sail back on the same course and engage his other side!' He felt a grin spreading on his face and sensed that same madness he had forcibly controlled at Cozar.

Rooke nodded and raised his speaking trumpet. He looked pale beneath his tan, but somehow he got the words out. `Stand by to go about! Ready ho!V

'Helm alee!' Gossett threw his own weight to help the straining helmsmen.

For a few seconds the ship seemed to go mad, and as the men in the bows let go the headsail sheets and the hull began to answer the savage demands of the rudder, even the distant gunfire was drowned by the thunder of canvas and the agonised whine of stays and rigging.

'Off tacks and sheets!' Rooke was dancing with impatience and despair. 'Mainsail haul!'

What the Hyperion's desperate manoeuvre looked like to the Frenchman Bolitho could not imagine, but as he stared fixedly at the other two-decker he felt the sweat like ice across his forehead. Perhaps he had after all left it too late. The other ship seemed to tower across the Hyperion's quarter like a great cliff, so that as the old hull staggered round it seemed as if nothing would prevent the Frenchman from smashing headlong into her larboard side.

'Let go and haul, you bastards!' Rooke was hoarse and al

most screaming. But the men at the braces were almost horizontal with the deck as they dug in their toes and tugged like madmen, their ears and minds blank to everything and their eyes filled with the tall, onrushing sails which loomed high above them blotting out all else.

But she was answering, as with a mighty roar of canvas the Yards went round, the sails ballooning and cracking with effort while the deck tilted further and still further towards the Frenchman's onrushing bowsprit.

Bolitho gripped the rail and shouted, 'Stand to! Guncaptains fire as you bearl Pass the word to the lower battery!'

He was almost blinded with sweat and was shaking with wild excitement. Somehow the Hyperion had answered his impossible demands and had turned into the wind right across the other ship's course. Now as she heeled on an opposite tack she was already charging down the Frenchman's side, a side lined with sealed ports and as yet undefended. He could see the surging chaos on the ship's maindeck as men from the opposite battery ran across to open the ports, probably stunned by the sudden change of roles.

The Hyperion's heeling bows passed the Frenchman's forecastle, her shadow across the struggling seamen like a cloud of doom.

Inch was running along the guns, and as he dropped his arm the first pair of guns roared out together. Both ships were passing one another so rapidly that the attack was almost a full broadside, rippling down the Hyperion's hull in a double line of darting red flashes.

Bolitho almost fell as the quarterdeck nine-pounders joined in the battle, while around and above him he could hear Ashby's marines yelling and cursing with excitement as they fired their muskets into the mounting wall of smoke which billowed up and across the Frenchman's side hiding the carnage and damage as they passed within twenty yards of those sealed ports.

Bolitho yelled, `Stop that cheering! Reload and run out!' He had his sword in his hand although he did not recall drawing it. `Larboard cat ronade stand by!' He saw the gunners on the forecastle staring back at him from beside the snub-nosed carronade. They were hemmed in by smoke and seemed to be suspended in space. He turned to Gossett. 'Stand by to go about again! We will cross his stem now that we have taken the weather-gage!'

`Look, sir! Her foretopmast's falling!'

Bolitho rubbed his streaming eyes and turned to watch as with something like tired dignity the Frenchman's topmast staggered and then began to topple. He could see small figures clinging to the severed yards, and then being shaken off like dead fruit as with a splintering crash the whole spar, complete with rigging and lacerated sails, pitched forward and down into the smoke alongside.

But the Hyperion was already reeling round, the men at the braces and sheets coughing and choking as the guns fired yet again, their minds dulled by the din of noise and the blinding fog of battle.

Bolitho hurried across the deck, his eyes on the smokeshrouded topsails, pockmarked and ragged from his ship's attack, as once more the Hyperion went about to cross the enemy's stem. A gust of wind cleared a patch of water, so that he saw the other ship's counter within fifty feet of the bows. He could see the tall windows, the familiar horseshoeshaped stem so beloved by French designers, and the small figures clustered above her name, Saphir. They were firing muskets, and as he watched he saw some of the forecastle hands falling and kicking in the smoke, their cries lost in the bombardment.

But then, as the Hyperion's bowsprit cast a black shadow across the open patch of water the carronade fired. For a brief instant before the smoke eddied across the water once more he saw the whole section of stern windows fly open as if in some maniac wind, and in his mind's eye he pictured the carnage in the Saphir's crowded lower gundeck as the packed charge smashed through the ship from end to end. On Cozar's pier it had been terrible enough. In a confined space filled with dazed seamen who were already unnerved by the Hyperion's swift vengeance it would br like a scene from hell.

He forcibly thrust the picture from his mind and concentrated instead on the Hyperion's upper deck. As the ship tacked heavily around the Frenchman's stern the larboard battery were only getting off half the shots which they had achieved in the first assault. All the grating apprehension which had gripped the men earlier while the French ships had approached with such confidence had been replaced by a kind of delirious excitement, and as he peered down through the billowing smoke Bolitho saw more than one gunner capering with wild delight. intent on watching the havoc across the narrow strip of water rather than attending to his own duties.

Bolitho cupped his hands and shouted, `Mr. Inch! Double up the gun crews from the starboard side, and pass the word.too the lower deck to do the same!!' He saw Inch nodding violently, his hat awry, his long face blackened by the powder smoke.

The Saphir had stewed slightly to larboard, the fallen topmast acting as a great sea anchor, so that it took more precious minutes to sail around bet counter. Although Hyperion was now technically downwind of her adversary once more the earlier advantage had been rendered useless by the damage to the Saphir's spars and sails. As the bowsprit edged purposefully past the Frenchman's high poop and the forward guns belched out with renewed anger, Bolitho saw great fragments of splintered timber flying up from the bulwarks and the flare of sparks as one of the enemy's guns was hurled bodily sideways on to its crew, the screams only urging the British gunners to greater efforts.

Then as both ships ploughed abeam through the smoke the French upper battery fired back for the first time. It was a ragged salvo, the tongues of flame lancing through the drifting fog, the crashing detonations mingling with the Hyperion's broadside as the distance slowly lessened until both ships were less than thirty feet apart.

The Saphir's gunners had fired on the downroll, and Bolitho felt the deck shake under him as ball after ball smashed into his ship's stout hull or shrieked towards the unseen world beyond the smoke. Men were shooting down from the French tops, and he caught a brief glimpse of an officer waving his sword and then pointing at him as if to will the marksmen to bring him down. Musket-balls slapped into the hammock nettings at his side, and he saw a seaman staring aghast at his hand where a ricocheting ball had clipped away a finger with the neatness of an axe.

Ashby's marines were yelling insults as they returned the fire, and more than one man hung lifeless on the French tops as silent witness to their accuracy.

Again a ragged salvo ripped along the Saphir's upper ports, but still the Hyperion's masts were unscathed. Her sails were well pitted with holes, but only a few severed blocks and halyards bounced unheeled on the nets which he had ordered to be strung across the upper deck to protect the sweating gunners.

He saw a small ship's boy scurrying across the deck bowed down with powder from the magazine. A man was hurled from one of the twelve-pounders to lie writhing and almost disembowelled at the boy's feet. He hesitated, then blindly ran on towards his own gun, too dazed to care for the thing which turned the planking into a scarlet pattern with each agonised convulsion.

Up through the smoke Bolitho saw the French ensign rising at last to the gaff. The white flag with its bright tricolour looked strangely clean and detached from the bedlam beneath, and he found time to wonder who had bothered to take the trouble to hoist it.

Gossett yelled hoarsely, "Er main tops'l 'as carried away, sir!' He was shaking one of the helmsmen in time with his words. 'By God, look at the bugger now!'

Ashby strode across the quarterdeck, his white 'breeches splashed with blood and his sword dangling from his wrist on a gold cord. He touched his hat, ignoring the whining musketballs and the screams and cries which came now from both ships.

'If you give the word, sir, we can board her! One good rush and we can knock the backbones out of 'em!' He was actually grinning.

A marine fell back from the nettings clawing at his face and then dropped motionless to the deck. A musket-ball had smashed his skull almost in two, so that his brains spewed across the planking like porridge.

Bolitho looked away. 'No, Captain. I am afraid that much as-I would like to take her as a prize I must think first of the convoy.' He saw a tall French seaman standing up on the settings a musket trained at him with fierce concentration. He was outlined against the smoke and oblivious of everything but the need to hit and kill the British captain.

It was strange that he could stand and watch, like an onlooker, as the musket flashed brightly, the sound of the shot swallowed by the heavy guns as the Hyperion rocked wildly to another broadside. He felt the ball pluck at his sleeve with no more insistence than a man's fingers. He heard a shrill scream at his back and knew without looking that the ball had claimed one victim. But his gaze was held by that unknown marksman. He must be a brave man, or one so crazed with anger by what had happened to his own ship that he no longer cared for his own safety. He was still standing on his precarious perch when a nine-pound shot from the Hyperion's quarterdeck battery smashed him apart, so that as his trunk and flailing arms pitched down into the churning water alongside, his legs still stayed resolute and firm for another few seconds.

The French ship was in bad shape. Her sails were little more than blackened streamers, with only a jib and mizzen course still fully intact. Thin red ribbons of blood trailed from her scuppers and ran unheeded down her battered side, and Bolitho could only guess at the extent of her casualties. It was significant that the enemy's lower gundeck with its big twenty-four-pounders remained silent and impotent, and it was a marvel that the whole ship had not burst into flames.

But he knew from hard experience that such appearances were deceptive. She could still put up a good fight, and one well-aimed salvo could cripple the Hyperion long enough to pare away their hard-won advantage.

He shouted, 'Mr. Rookel T'gallants and royals, if you please!' He saw the seamen below him gaping as if they could not believe that he was going to give up the stricken twodecker. `Then have the starboard guns run out!'

To Gossett he added firmly, `Lay a course for the convoy! We will beat to windward and see what there is to be done.'

Petty officers were already driving the battle-drained men to the braces, and even as he looked round he saw that the Frenchman was drifting astern in the smoke. Almost jauntily the Hyperion gathered the wind into her pockmarked sails and pushed after the other vessels.

A naked gun-captain, his muscular torso black and shining like a Negro's, leapt on to his carriage and yelled wildly, 'A cheer for th' cap'n, lads!' He was almost beside himself as the men joined in an uncontrolled wave of yelling and cheering. One gunner even left his station on the quarterdeck and danced up and down, his bare feet flapping on the stained deck, his pigtail bobbing crarily in time with his ecstasy.

Ashby grinned. `Can't blame 'em, sir!' He waved down at the cheering men as if to make up for Bolitho's grim features. 'That was a wonderful thing back there! My God, you handled her like a frigate! Never believed it possible…

,Bolitho eyed him gravely. 'At any other time I would be gratified to hear it, Captain Ashby. Now for God's sake get those men to work!' He walked quickly across to the weather side, his shoes slipping in a shining crescent of blood as he lifted his glass to look for the convoy.

As the Hyperion thrust herself clear of the smoke he saw the Justice. She was well astern of the other ships and the tumult of battle which surrounded them in another great bank of writhing smoke. Above the smoke he could see the Harvester's topgallants still standing, although how that could be was hard to understand. Most of her sails were gone, and the masts of a French frigate appeared to be almost alongside, yardarm to yardarm.

Sickened he saw a growing bank of flame beyond the two frigates, and as a short gust parted the smoke like a curtain he saw the little sloop Snipe burning like a torch as she drifted helplessly downwind. She was completely dismasted and already listing badly, but he could see the savage scars along her flush deck, the lolling corpses by her smashed and upended guns, and knew she had after all chosen not to remain an onlooker to the battle.

The transports appeared to be intact and still protected by the embattled Harvester, but as the smoke eddied once more the second French frigate thrust her bows clear and tacked purposefully towards the Vanessa. The frigate had lost her mizzen topmast, but was more than a match for the heavy merchantman. From her forecastle her two bowchasers had already opened fire, and Bolitho watched coldly as pieces of woodwork flew skyward from the Vanessa's ornate stern as if plucked away by the wind.

He said harshly, 'Starboard a point!' He watched the Hyperion's bowsprit edge across the distant ships like a relentless pointer and wondered why her disengagement from the Saphir had passed imnoticed.

It was only when the frigate had drawn almost across the transport's stem that some sort of alarm became visible. Then it was already too late. She could not withdraw because of the helpless Vanessa, and she could not swing around because of the wind. Desperately she spread her courses and with her yards braced almost fore and aft heeled to the fresh breeze, until the watchers on the Hyperion's decks could see the copper on her bottom gleaming like gold in the hazed sunlight.

Straight ahead, with her hard-eyed Titan below the bowsprit staring at the smoke-shrouded transport, the Hyperion drove purposefully past the Vanessa's counter.

Bolitho lifted his sword, his voice stilling an eager guncaptain who even now was tugging at his trigger line.

'On the downroll!' The sword gleamed in the sunlight, and to some aboard the struggling frigate it was probably the last sight on earth. 'Now!' The sword flashed down, and as the Hyperion eased herself heavily into a trough and the double line of miles tilted towards the sea the air split apart in one -savage broadside. It was the first time the starboard battery had fired, and the full fury of the double-shotted charges smashed the frigate's unprotected bilge with the force and devastation of an avalanche.

The enemy ship seemed to lift and then stagger upright, her fore and mainmastss falling as one in a thrashing tangle of rigging and brightly splintered spars.

There were just a few minutes before the Hyperion was hidden from the frigate by the Vanessa, but the gunners needed no more urging. As the bowsprit and flapping headsails passed the transport's mauled stem the whole starboard battery fired again, the hail of balls ripping down the remaining mast and turning the low hull into a floating ruin.

The men were cheering again, and it was taken up by the men on the Vanessa's poop. The latter had fallen back when the last broadside had swept past them, and some must have thought that the Hyperion's rage was so great she could no longer distinguish between friend and foe.

By now her seamen were climbing into the weather rigging to wave and cheer as the old two-decker loomed abeam, and more than one wept uncontrollably as her seamen cheered them back.

Bolitho gripped his fingers behind him to stop them shaking. `Signal the Justice to make more sail and resume proper station!'

Caswell was nodding dazedly, but in spite of his shocked senses was still able to call his men to the halyards.

`Deck there! T'other frigate is haulin' off, sirl' The masthead lookout sounded as wild as the rest of them.

Caswell lowered his glass and confirmed the news. `Harvester has just signalled, sir. She cannot give chase. Too much damage aloft.'

Bolitho nodded. It was no wonder. Harvester's captain had given battle to two frigates at once, aided only by the tiny Snipe. He was lucky to be alive.

He said, 'Signal the Harvester, Mr. Caswell.' He frowned with effort to clear his mind and concentrate on what was needed. It must not sound trite and meaningless. Harvester's people had shown what they could do. Nothing he could say would ever match their value. He said slowly, 'Make, "Yours was a fine harvest today. Well done." '

Caswell was scribbling frantically on his slate as he added, 'And I don't care if you have to spell out every single word!'

Tie shaded his eyes as with a sullen hiss the sloop rolled over to her beam ends, the water around her pockmarked with flotsam and burned woodwork.

Gossett said gruffly, 'The Erebus 'as lowered boats to look for survivors, sir.'

Bolitho did not answer. Not many seamen ever bothered to learn how to swim. There would be few to recall the sloop's last and greatest fight.

Heavily he said, 'I want a full report of our damage and casualties, Mr. Rooke.'

Rooke was still staring at the enemy, ships. The dismasted frigate was yawing uncontrollably, beam on to the steep troughs, and it would be some time before she could be taken in tow. It was more likely she would sink as she lay. The other frigate was closing the battered two-decker, and above the drifting smoke the signal flags were bright and busy.

Bolitho said, 'We must attend to our convoy. Those two will have to wait another day for final reckoning.' He spoke aloud, but it was almost as if he was speaking with his ship.

Caswell shouted, `Justice has acknowledged, sir!' He grinned. 'So has Harvester.' He looked around at the other strained and grimy faces. 'She says, "Have discontinued the action!" '

Bolitho felt his lips cracking with a smile. The formality of Leach's reply spoke volumes for the man's tenacity. 'Acknowledge.'

He saw one of the surgeon's mates standing below the ladder, his arms bloody to the elbows. He felt the same pang of despair he had known so often in the past. The suffering and the mutilation which made victory so bitter.

'What is it?'

The man looked vague jy around the deck as if surprised it was still intact. Below the waterline, with the ship wilting and shuddering to the broadsides, it was no easy task to deal with screaming wounded.

'Surgeon's respects, zur. Mr. Dalby 'as bin 'it, zur, an' wishes to speak with you.'

Bolitho shook himself. Dalby? The lieutenant's face floated before his eyes as he had last seen it. Then he said, 'How bad is he?

The man shook his head. 'Matter o' minutes, zur!'

'Take over the deck, Mr. Rooke. Signal the convoy to resume previous order once Erebus has recovered her boats.'

Rooke touched his hat as he passed. 'Aye, aye, sir.'

Bolitho climbed down the ladder, suddenly aware of the stiffness in his limbs, the aching tension in his jaw. Beside their smoking guns his men watched him pass. Here and there a braver soul than the rest reached out to touch his coat, and one even called, 'God bless you, Cap'n!'

Bolitho saw and heard none of it. It was taking all his strength to move between them, and he was conscious only of one thing. They had fought and won. It should be left at that. But as always he knew the cost was yet to be measured.

Bolitho ducked his head beneath the low beams and groped his way through the semi-darkness of the orlop deck. By comparison the air and light of the quarterdeck even at the height of the battle was fresh and clear, for down here deep in the Hyperion's hull there was little ventilation, and his stomach rebelled against the mingled stenches of bilge and tar, of neat rum and the more sickly smell of blood.

Rowistone, the surgeon, had soon found that his tiny sick bay was quite inadequate for the casualties sent down from the decks above, and as Bolitho stepped into a circle of swaying lanterns he saw that the whole area forward of the mainmast's massive trunk was filled with wounded men. Hyperion was plunging heavily in a lively quarter sea, so that the lanterns kept up a crazy haphazard motion and threw weird dancing shadows against the curved sides, or picked out small tableaux for just a few seconds at a time like sections of an old and faded painting.

Above the sounds of groaning timbers and the muffled pounding of water against the hull Bolitho heard the confused murmur of voices, mingled with sobbing and an occasional sharp cry of agony. For the most part the wounded lay still, only their eyes moving in the gyrating lanterns as they stared dully at the little group around the heavy scrubbed table, where Rowistone, his suety face screwed up with concentration, worked on a seaman who was being held down by two of his loblolly boys. Like any badly wounded man the sailor had been well dosed with rum, and as Rowlstone's saw moved relentlessly across his leg he lolled his head from side to side, his cries muffed by the leather strap between his teeth, his frantic protests drowned by both rum and vomit.

Rowistone worked busily, his fingers as bloody as the heavy apron which covered him from chin to toe. Then he gestured to his assistants and unceremoniously the seaman was hauled from the table and carried into the merciful darkness beyond the lanterns.

The surgeon looked up and saw Bolitho. Surrounded by wounded and mutt' -Ated men he seemed suddenly frail and vulnerable.

Bolitho asked quietly, 'How many?’

'fen dead, sir.' The surgeon wiped his forehead with his arm; leaving a red smear above his right eye. 'So far.' He glanced round as two of his assistants half-carried another man towards the table. Like so many wounded in a sea action he had been hit by wood splinters, and as the surgeon's mates tore off his stained trousers Bolitho could see the great jagged tooth of wood where it jutted from below his stomach. Rowlstone stared unwinkingly at the man for several seconds. Then he said flatly, 'Some thirty wounded, sir. Half of them might live through it.'

Another man was slopping rum into the wounded seaman's open mouth. He did not seem to be able to drink the neat spirit fast enough, and all the time his eyes were fixed on Rowlstone's hands with the fascination of hope and terror combined.

The surgeon groped for his knife and gestured towards the side. 'Mr. Dalby's over there.' He eyed the man on the table with something like despair and added, 'Like most of the men he got his wound on the lower gundeck.'

Bolitho turned towards the side as the surgeon bent forward across the naked body on the table. The wounded man had gone immediately rigid, and Bolitho could almost feel the first pressure of that knife in his own body.

Dalby was propped in a sitting position with his shoulders against one of the ship's massive ribs. He was naked but for a wide, sodden bandage around his stomach, and with each painful breath the blood was spreading unchecked even by the thick dressing. As officer in charge of the lower battery he had been cut down by the first French broadside, yet in spite of his wound his face seemed almost relaxed as he opened his eyes` and stared up at his captain.

Bolitho dropped on his knees. 'Is there anything I can do?'

Dalby swallowed hard, and a few droplets of blood glistened on his lips. 'Wanted to see you, sir!' He gripped the mattress at his sides and held his breath. 'Had to tell you…'

'Don't talk, Mr. Dalby.' Bolitho looked round for a clean dressing, but finding none dabbed the lieutenant's mouth with his handkerchief.

But Dalby tried to struggle forward, his eyes suddenly bright. 'It has been driving me mad, sir! That money… I took it.' He fell back against the timbers, his mouth slack. 'Quarme had nothing to do with it. I had to have it, d'you see? Had to!'

Bolitho watched him sadly. It did not really matter any more who had taken the money. Quarme was dead, and Dalby should by rights have followed him already.

'It is all right, Mr. Dalby. It is over now.'

Dalby shuddered, his chest and arms suddenly running with sweat. Yet when Bolitho touched him his skin was cold and clammy like that of a corpse.

Then he muttered thickly, 'I owed money. Gambled everything.' He stared at Bolitho, but his eyes no longer held a proper focus. 'I would have told him, but…'

Behind Bolitho a man screamed. The sound seemed to scrape at the walls of his mind, but he leaned forward trying to hear what Dalby was saying. The blood was running more freely from his mouth, and with sudden despair Bolitho turned and peered beyond the nearest lantern to where a midshipman was stooping over another stripped and bandaged seaman. 'You, lad, bring me a dressing!'

The midshipman turned and -hurried towards him, a clean bandage held out ready.

But Bolitho stared up in shocked surprise. 'In the name of God, Miss Seton, what are you doing here?'

The girl did not answer immediately, but dropped beside Dalby and began to dab the blood and spittle from his face and chest. Even in the lantern's yellow glare Bolitho's mistake was not very obvious. In the midshipman's coat and white breeches, and with her thick auburn hair pulled back to the nape of her neck she passed easily as a young boy.

Dalby stared at her and tried to smile. He said, 'Never a boat, miss! We call her a ship in th'…'His head lolled to one side and he was dead.

Bolitho said, 'I ordered that you should stay in the midshipmen's berth until I said otherwsie!' His sick despair. was giving way to something akin to anger. 'This is no place at all for you!' He could see the bloodstains on her coat and across the front of her open-necked shirt.

She faced him gravely, her eyes studying him with sudden concern. 'You do not have to worry on my account. I saw enough of death in Jamaica.' She pushed a strand of hair from her eyes. `When the guns started to fire I wanted to help.' She looked down at Dalby. 'I needed to help.' When she raised her eyes again they were almost pleading. 'Don't you see that?' She reached out and gripped his sleeve. 'Please do not be angry!'

Bolitho looked slowly around the littered deck. The naked bodies, dead and wounded alike, lay like macabre statuary, and at his table Rowlstone worked on as if nothing else mattered beyond the swaying circle of lanterns.

Then he replied quietly, 'I am not angry. I suppose. I was afraid for you. Now I feel ashamed.' He wanted to get to his feet but was unable to move.

She said, 'I listened to the noise and felt the ship shaking about me as if it would tear apart. And all the time I thought of you, out in the open. Unprotected'

Bolitho did not speak but watched the quick movements of her hands, the rise and fall of her breasts as she relived each terrible moment.

She continued, 'Then I came here to help these men. I thought they would curse me, or abuse me for being alive and unmarked.' She dropped her eyes and Bolitho saw her mouth tremble. 'They cursed and swore well enough, but they never complained, not once!' She met his eyes again, her expression almost proud. 'And when they heard you were coming down they actually tried to cheer!'

Bolitho stood up and helped the girl to her feet. She was crying now, but without tears, and she did not resist as he piloted her through the lanterns towards the companionway.

On deck it seemed unfair that the sun was still so bright, that the ships sailed on without a thought for what lay astern or those whom they carried. Across the quarterdeck with its great red stains and splintered planks. Past the helmsmen who watched the swinging compass and stared up at the set of each pockmarked sail.

At the cabin door Bolitho said quietly, 'Promise me you will lie down.'

She turned and looked up at him her eyes searching. 'Must you go now? Then she gave a small shrug, or it may have been a shudder. 'That was a foolish thing to say! I know what you must do. It is all out there waiting for you.' The swing of her hand seemed to indicate the whole ship and every man aboard. She touched his arm unsurely and added, 'I saw the look in your eyes and I think I understand you better now.'

A voice called urgently, 'Captain, sir! Harvester requests permission to heave to and carry out burials!'

'Very well.' Bolitho still looked down at the girl's face, his mind rebelling against the thousand and one things which awaited his attention.

He said at length, 'You did well today. I will not forget.'

As he turned towards the sunlight he heard her reply softly, 'And neither will I, Captain!'