FORM LINE OF BATTLE!

11

Lieutenant Thomas Herrick hunched his shoulders into his heavy tarpaulin coat and leaned towards the wind. His eyes were raw with salt and flying spray, and as he peered towards the plunging forecastle he found it hard to believe that the last dog watch had only just commenced, for already it was as dark as night. Grimly he turned his shoulders against the howling wind and allowed it to push him aft towards the wheel where four sodden seamen wrestled with the spokes and stared anxiously at the sparse array of thundering sails as the ship crashed and rolled almost into the teeth of the gale. Even stripped down to close-reefed topsails the strain was obvious, and the sounds of the sea were lost to the great pandemonium of banging canvas, the demoniac whine of rigging and shrouds and a melancholy clank of pumps.

Herrick peered briefly at the swaying compass and saw that the Hyperion was still holding her course, almost due north, and wondered just how much longer the weather would stay against them. It was four days since the squadron had sailed from Cozar, yet it seemed like a month at least. The first two days had gone quite well with a lively north-westerly and clear sky, while in response to Pomfret's steady. stream of signals the ships had driven north-east deep into the Golfe du Lion so that any prowling French ship might think they were making to join Lord Hood at Toulon rather than heading for some project of their own. Then as the wind veered and mounted and the sky became hidden by low, black-bellied clouds, Pomfret's signals had become more irate and demanding as the deep-laden transports fought with diminishing success to remain on station, and the two sloops were thrown about like oared boats in the rising procession of angry rollers.

There was rain too, but so great was the sea that it was difficult to distinguish between it and the spray which lifted above the weather bulwarks and soaked the struggling seamen to the skin, or clawed at the feet of the men aloft as they fought to control the glistening sails before they tore themselves from the yards like so much paper.

On the third day Pomfret had come to a decision. While the squadron hauled off to the north-east of St. Clar and hove to until the storm had blown its course, Hyperion was to be detached and would drive southward to patrol the southern approaches of the small port until the moment of entry. Somewhere to the northern side of the inlet the solitary frigate Bat would even now be rolling madly in an effort to cover the opposite extremity.

Herrick cursed angrily as a sheet of spray sighed over the nettings and dashed him full in the face, running instantly down his stomach and legs like ice-rime. The more he allowed himself to think about Pomfret the angrier he became. It was difficult to think of him as he was now, and whenever Herrick tried to examine Pomfret's motives he seemed to see him as he had once been aboard the Phalarope. Moody, evasive, and given to sudden fits of blind, unreasoning rage. It was strange how you never seemed to be able to rid yourself of old enemies in the small, monastic world of the Navy, he thought. Yet friends came and went and their paths hardly ever crossed a second time.

On the previous night as the hands had swarmed aloft yet again to shorten sail, Herrick had confided his thoughts to Bolitho. But he had been unwilling to discuss either the admiral or his motives, and Herrick knew he had been unfair even to mention his own doubts. Bolitho was a true friend, and a man whom Herrick admired more than any other, but he was above all a captain. A man isolated by the weight of his command and unable to discuss either the prowess or the shortcomings of his superior, no matter what he might believe inwardly.

But Herrick firmly persisted in his own belief that Pomfret, whatever skill he might have attained over the years, was a man who never relinquished an old grudge. He was hard and he was ruthless, qualities common enough in the Service, but more than that he had the stubborn, pig-headed conviction that he could never be wrong.

On the voyage out from England Herrick had heard it said that Pomfret was being sent to New Holland more as a punishment than as any sort of reward. It certainly bore thinking about, for it was unlikely with England at war with an overwhelming enemy that anyone of Pomfret's rank and experience would be sent to control a convict settlement, unless it was to keep him out of trouble.

And his present mania for written orders, his signals which allowed little manoeuvre or initiative to his subordinates, all these things seemed to point to a man determined to make good once and for all.

He was certainly an excellent organiser, even Herrick had to give him credit for that. While Bolitho had lain racked with fever in his cabin and he had taken over as first lieutenant, he had seen the evidence on every side. The convicts had been set to work repairing the crumbling defences and building a new stone jetty. And the troops, sweating and red-faced, had been put through one drill after another in readiness for landing at St. Clar. He smiled wryly. Right now the soldiers would be too seasick to do anything, and that would certainly put an edge to Pomfret's temper. And tomorrow was the day. Allowing for the weather, the ships would enter the inlet and take possession of the town, and within a week the whole of Europe might know that the British had made one more prod at a powerful enemy and had actually landed on French soil.

There was a step on the wet planking behind him and he saw Bolitho peering towards the weather rail, his hair plastered to his forehead by the spray. It seemed as if he never slept for more than minutes, but Herrick knew him well enough not to take his constant appearances as a lack of trust in his own ability. It was the way he was. He could never change now.

Bolitho shouted above the wind, 'Any sight of land?'

Herrick shook his head. 'No, sir. I altered course as you ordered, but the visibility has fallen to a bare half-mile!

Bolitho nodded. 'Come to the chartroom.'

After the buffeting confusion of the open deck the small chartroom with its dark polished wood and spiralling lantern seemed quite remote, even peaceful, in spite of the canting beams and creaking furniture.

Bolitho's face was thoughtful as he leaned on his elbows and studied the chart. With the points of the brass dividers he tapped it in time with his words. 'Mr. Gossett is sure that the wind will ease off tomorrow, Thomas. He is rarely wrong.'

Herrick peered dubiously at the chart and the crisscross of pencilled lines and bearings which showed only too clearly the Hyperion's meandering efforts to patrol up and down the southern approaches to St. Clar.

The inlet where some enterprising fishermen had originally founded St. Clar was like a deep niche cut in the coastline, as if by a giant axe. Guarded to north and south by steep headlands the entrance was about a mile across and afforded a safe and sheltered anchorage to even the largest craft. But further inland it narrowed considerably, until at the innermost extent it petered out by the mouth of a small but powerful river from the hills, beyond. The river served little purpose but to cut the town in half, and traffic to north or south had to use a humped stone bridge at the far end of the harbour.

With unwelcoming cliffs and jagged rocks on either side of the headlands the port was the only safe place for a landing of any size, and if opposed it would take a force ten times that which Pomfret commanded, and even then the result might be failure and terrible loss of life.

Bolitho said slowly, 'It is a great pity we did not make this landing earlier, Thomas. It is a month since my parley with the mayor of St. Clar. The first ardour of conspiracy may, have dulled a little.'

Herrick grunted. 'Sir Edmund apparently made good sure that the Frogs are willing to help us.'

'Maybe. But the parley was arranged on their part so that we could help them, remember that. They will wish to be remembered as patriots and not traitors, no matter how insecure this plan may prove to be.'

Herrick watched him curiously. 'Do you not believe in it then, sir?'

'To help our cause I think it is as good a plan as we could hope for, Lord Hood could never have expected such additional help as this.' He touched the lock of hair with his fingers and frowned. 'But for the mayor and his friends I am afraid it may yet be a fate worse than any defeat.'

There was a clatter of feet in the passageway and Midshipman Piper called breathlessly, 'Captain, sir! Mr. Caswell's respects and we have just sighted a small boat!' He faltered under their combined gaze. 'At least we think it is, sir!'

Herrick said, 'More likely a floating log. There'll be no small craft at sea in this.'

Bolitho smiled briefly. 'It is Mr. Caswell's first sighting report as an acting lieutenant, Thomas. You must learn to be generous!'

Herrick grinned. 'If you say so, sir.'

The wind and rain roared to meet them, and Bolitho clutched at the nettings for support as Caswell shouted against the din and all the while pointed across the larboard bow where the white-toothed waves danced in a profusion of broken rollers as they cruised to meet the Hyperion's challenge.

Herrick called, 'By God, sir, he is right!' He was squinting against the wind, his face and chest streaming as if he had just been hauled from the water.

Bolitho waited for the ship to lift and plunge over the next line of rollers, and as the deck canted steeply beneath him he saw something black against the creaming wavecrests, and for a few moments longer the thrashing triangle of a tan-coloured sail.

Caswell yelled, 'Fishing-boat, sir! He'll capsize unless he beats back to shelter!'

Bolitho replied, 'It is four miles to the nearest land, Mr. Caswell. If he had wanted to find shelter he would not have strayed this far.'

'A light!' A lookout was pointing excitedly. 'He's showing a light!'

Bolitho steadied himself against a nine-pounder. 'Heave to, Mr. Herrick!' He saw the leiutenant's astonishment and added sharply, 'That craft is drifting with the wind and offshore current, and there is no hope of launching a boat in time to board her.' He stared up at the booming canvas. 'We will let her drift down to us. Detail a party of men to grapple her alongside. It will be a matter of minutes, so get the people from that boat and then cast off!'

Herrick opened his mouth and then closed it. 'Aye, aye, sir.' He pulled himself to the quarterdeck rail yelling, 'Mr. Tomlia, stand by to take that boat alongside!' His voice was almost lost to the hiss of spray and the persistent clatter of blocks and halyards. 'Stand by to heave to! Main tops'! braces there!'

There was a sound like tearing silk as the fore topsail parted down its belly and exploded into wildly flapping streamers. But rising and falling with ponderous indignation the Hyperion edged round into the wind, the sudden change of direction bringing more noise and the instant chorus of orders from petty officers and master's mates.

The small boat was almost finished, and as she idled clumsily towards the ship's side Bolitho could see the water cascading across her narrow hull and churning unchecked around the crouching figures by the tiller.

The Hyperion hardly quivered – as the boat crashed alongside. Men were cursing and yelling against the wind as 'with a second shudder the boat's mast snapped like a carrot and the sodden sail was torn free to float across the Hyperion's upper deck like a released spectre.

Herrick yelled, 'Lively, men! We'll be all aback in a moment!'

Two pigtailed sailors were already over the side, swinging painfully on lines like bundles of fruit as they struggled down on to the boat. It was breaking up fast, and as Bolitho watched from the quarterdeck he saw the bows begin to push beneath the Hyperion's rounded hull, so that it took some fifty hands at the grapnels to hold her alongside.

Lieutenant Inch staggered to the foot of the ladder and cupped his hands. 'Sir! They've got 'em off! A man and a boyl' He reeled and fell heavily as the ship yawed through a sudden arc, the masts and spars shaking at their stays as if to rear free from the deck.

Bolitho waved his hand. 'Cast off! Bring her back on course, Mr. Herrick!' He blinked the spray from his eyes as the foretopmen swarmed up the shrouds to secure the remains of the sail. The thought of being up there with them made his head swim.

There was a bang like a pistol-shot from forward as one of the grapnel lines parted under the strain, throwing the hauling seamen back into an untidy heap of thrashing limbs. But the boatswain managed to free the second grapnel, and with a groan like a cry of pain the fishing-boat rolled her gunwale under the eager water and disappeared in the foam.

Against the rising and falling backdrop of sea and cloud Bolitho could see his men clutching the two survivors. One was quite limp and the smaller appeared to be struggling.

He called sharply, 'Bring those men aft, Mr. Tomlin!'

At his back he heard the wheel squeaking and grinding against the weight of the helmsmen's combined strength, and then Gossett's voice calling, 'On course, sir! Nor' by westl Full an' bye!'

Herrick sounded out of breath. 'That was close, sir!' He shook the water from his coat like a dog. 'I never thought I'd see a ship of the line behaving like a jolly boat!'

Bolitho did not answer. He was watching the limp figure carried by Ton-din's seamen, and even in the dull light it was possible to see the heavy boots, the sodden uniform and the man's moustache plastered across his face as if it had no right to be there.

Herrick saw him start and asked, 'Who is it, sir?'

Bolitho answered quietly, 'Lieutenant Charlois. The man who arranged the parley.' He called, 'Get the surgeon- and take this man to my cabin at once!'

As the seamen gathered up their limp bundle he turned and stared at the boy. He was about Seton's age, but squareshouldered. and with hair as black as his own. He asked, 'What happened? Do you speak English, boy?'

The boy muttered under his breath and then spat on the quarterdeck.

Tomlin said calmly, 'That won't do at all, lad.' He cuffed him swiftly across the ear and then stared with horror as the boy collapsed sobbing on the deck at his feet. 'Gawd Almighty!'

Bolitho said, 'Take him below, Bosun. Keep him dry and warm. I will speak withh him later. Now I must see Charlois.'

Inch walked straddle-legged up the tilting deck and watched the surgeon hurrying after Bolitho. He said, `Upon my word, Mr. Herrick! If it's not one thing it's another!'

Herrick bit his lip and watched the sails as the ship swooped dizzily into another wide trough. 'One thing is sure, Mr. Inch. Whatever it is which has brought that man out here, it cannot be good!'

Bolitho stood in the doorway of his sleeping cabin and watched as Rowistone clung to the swaying cot and completed his examination of the unconscious Charlois while one of his mates and Allday held extra lanterns above his head.

The surgeon straightened his narrow shoulders and said at length, 'I am sorry, sir.' He shrugged. 'There is a ball lodged beneath his left lung. I do not think I can help him.'

Bolitho moved closer, and stared down at the Frenchman's heavy features and the shallow, painful movements of his chest.

Rowistone added meaningly, 'Had it been earlier, sir, I might have saved him. But this man was shot some while ago. Maybe three days. See that black stain around the wound? It is very bad.'

Bolitho did not have to look close. He could smell it. He asked quietly, 'Gangrene?'

Rowistone nodded. 'How he has lived this long I cannot imagine.'

'Well, see that be is made as comfortable as possible.' Bolitho half-turned and then looked down again as Charlois' lids flickered and then opened. For several seconds the eyes merely stared, unfocused and without comprehension, as if they did not belong in the man's face, which in the lamplight gleamed like tallow.

'Is it you, Captain?' The salt-dried lips moved very slowly, and Bolitho had to stoop to hear the words, his stomach rebelling against the foul stench of the wound.

Charlois closed his eyes again. 'God be praised!'

Bolitho asked, 'I am here. Why did you leave St. Clar? He hated to see the man struggling against his agony to assemble his thoughts, but he had to know.

Charlois said weakly, 'My son? Is he safe?'

Bolitho nodded. 'Safe and well. He was a brave boy to stay alone at the tiller in this storm.'

'A brave son.' Charlois tried to nod. 'But he hates me now. He despises me as a traitor to France!' A tear ran from the comer of his eye but he struggled on, 'He only came with me as a duty to his father, a duty, nothing more!'

The effort. of speaking was taking its toll and Rowistone eyed Bolitho with unspoken warning.

Gently Bolitho persisted, 'But why come out here?'

"I gave you my word, Captain. We made a bargain, you and I. I thought that it would all be over quickly, but your admiral believed otherwise.' He breathed out very slowly. 'Now it is too late. I had to warn you. It was my duty.'

Bolitho said, 'How long have you been at sea?'

Charlois sighed. 'Two, three days, I do not remember. When the ship came to St. Clar I knew it was finished, so I tried to find you. But the boat was fired on. I was hit by some

.' He rolled his head against the rough pillow, his face contorted with pain. 'It is over for us, Captain!'.

'What ship?' Bolitho touched Charlois' shoulder, feeling the clamminess of the flesh. 'Try and speak, man!'

Charlois muttered brokenly, 'She was running from the storm after being damaged in a fight with one of your ships. -She is called Saphir.'

Bolitho watched him sadly. It was ironic that the ship which had unexpectedly arrived at St. Clar was the one which Hyperion had vanquished in battle.

Charlois' voice seemed suddenly stronger. 'Her captain is a little upstart! He owes his command to the blood of his betters that something was wrong. He sent horsemen to Toulouse. There are many soldiers there.' His voice was fainter once who died by order of the Revolution! He was quick to guess more and his breathing short, and in the seated cabin very loud. 'It is over. You must tell your admiral.'

Bolitho looked away, seeing in his mind's eye the great wilderness of tossing water, the enclosing darkness around his ship. Somewhere, far off to the north-east, Pomfret's squadron was riding out the storm, It would take all night to find him. It could take longer. By that time it would be too late. Pomfret would sail into the inlet to be met by the concencrated fire of a moored eighty-gun ship. Probably the coastal battery would fire on the squadron also, for they would see no point in doing otherwise with their cause already lost.

And Pomfret would go on with the attack. Losing ships and men which he could ill' afford. His strength was for holding the town, and not taking it against a hostile force who would be expecting reinforcements at any moment from Toulouse. He tried to picture the chart in his mind. It was all of one hundred and twenty miles inland to Toulouse. Horsemen could be there in a day, or allowing for the roads and heavy rain, a day and night, riding hard. And they would ride very hard, he decided grimly. The garrison at Toulouse were professional, fully trained troops, sent there to control the hills and all the roads to the Spanish border. How long would it take them to march on St. Clar? Three days? He thought of French troops landing at Falmouth. How long would it take English soldieis to march against an invader? Very little time at all.

Gossett had assured him that the gale would drop tomorrow. So there would be nothing to stop Pomfret or give him time to find him.

Charlois said, 'They have put a boom across the harbour, Believe me, Captain, they are ready for anything!'

'Thank you, Lieutenant. Rest assured that what you have done will be remembered.'

'I think not.' Charlios was dying even as they watched. 'It might have succeeded if only you had got there in time! But there were doubters and those who were afraid. They needed a gesture, you understand? Just a gesture of` faith!'

Bolitho stood back. 'Fetch his son. He is going fast:

As soon as the shivering youth was brought to the cabin Bolitho walked out on to the quarterdeck. The boy hated the English, not his father. It was right that they should be together now, he thought.

Herrick asked, 'Is it true about the attack, sir?'

Bolitho watched the leaping spray and listened to the whine 176 of wind through the rigging. 'It is half-true, Thomas,' he answered quietly. 'The Saphir is at St. Clar. If our people try and storm the harbour there will be a massacre.'

Herrick said at length, 'Then we must cruise off the inlet, sir. That way we can meet the squadron and prevent this attack from starting.'

Bolitho seemed to be speaking his thoughts aloud. 'A gesture. That is what they want. A gesture of faith.'

Then he swung round and grasped Herrick's arm, his face -close and determined. 'They shall have one! That Saphir has escaped me once, Thomas, I'll not let her spoil anything more for us!'

Herrick did not understand. 'Do you mean to attack, sir?'

He nodded firmly. 'I do. Under cover of darkness and as soon as possible!'

He broke off as the French boy walked slowly past, Allday's arm around his shoulders. It was over for Charlois.

Bolitho continued harshly, 'There was a brave man, Thomas. I have no time for one who dies for ambition. But a man who dies for a cause, no matter how unlikely, is a man to be remembered!' He gripped his hands behind him and stared at the dark sky. 'Now bring her around two points to larboard and lay a fresh course for the southern headland. We will be more sheltered there, and safe enough in this visibility to remain unseen.'

Herrick said, 'It will go against the admiral's orders, sir.'

Bolitho eyed him for several seconds, as if his mind was only half on what he was saying. Then he replied tersely, 'I am going to walk for a bit, Thomas. Do not disturb me until we are with a mile offshore.'

As the rain and spray lashed the decks and the Hyperion clawed her way closer to the hidden land, Bolitho strode restlessly up and down the weather side, his chin sunk in his neckcloth. his hands clasped behind him. He was hatless, yet seemed oblivious to the wind and spray, and conscious of nothing but his thoughts,

Herrick watched him and found time to wonder that he was still able to be surprised by anything Bolitho could do.

The Hyperion's wardroom felt damp and stuffy, and the air around the gyrating lanterns was encircled with thick blue smoke from several pipes as the assembled officers listened in silence to their captain's steady voice. Outside the pitching hull and beyond the shuttered stem windows the sea noises seemed muted, but it was also true that the ship's movements were less violent now that she was closer inshore and the headland was taking the worst of the wind's force.

Bolitho leaned on the spread chart and looked around at the intent faces. The expressions which met his gaze were as mixed as their owners. Some were obviously nervous, others showed an unthinking excitement. There were some like Herrick who were openly dismayed at the prospect of being left out of the actual operation until its final stage.

He said slowly, 'This' is a boat action, gentlemen. It has to be if we are to have any chance of a surprise attack.' He glanced down at the chart, not seeing any of the scribbled details, but in order to search his mind's fullest extent to find if he had forgotten, or worse, failed to explain what he expected of each of these men.

He said briskly, 'We will take the launch, the two cutters, gig and jolly boat. All told we will muster a force of ninety officers and men. Cutlasses and pistols, but make sure the latter are only issued to senior hands. I don't want some eager fellow letting off his weapon too soon and giving the game away!'

Gossett said gruffly, 'You say there's a beacon on the northern 'eadland, sir?' He leaned forward and tapped the chart with his long-stemmed pipe. 'According to the chart it's not been lit since war was declared.'

'Quite so.' Bolitho felt his limbs beginning to tremble with suppressed excitement. 'As we know, it was not alight during our other visit. The French take the view that by night nobody would be fool enough to try and sail into the anchorage without it. That, of course, does not apply to us!'

Several smiled, and he marvelled that such reckless comment could be greeted with anything but doubt. The whole scheme might be killed within minutes of starting if they were sighted by a sentry or stumbled on a patrol.

He hurried on, shutting out the picture of these same attentive officers lying dead or wounded under the angry sky. 'Mr. Herrick, you know what to do. You will cruise off the inlet and await the signal. When the beacon is lit you will enter harbour.' He fixed Herrick's grave eyes across the heads of the others, shutting them out from his words. 'If the signal does not appear you will under no circumstances try to force an entrance. You will seek out the squadron and endeavour to persuade Sir Edmund to stay clear.' He looked around their faces again. 'For if there is no signal, gentlemen, we will have failed!'

Rooke said, 'There will be the devil to pay if that happens, sirl'

Bolitho smiled quietly. `And maybe if we succeed, too.' He straightened his back, his expression final. 'Any more comments?'

There were none. They were committed, and Bolitho guessed that like himself most of them wanted to get it over with, one way or the other.

As they moved out to the upper deck Herrick paused and said softly, 'I wish I were going, sir.'

'I know.' Bolitho'watched the groups of motionless seamen being checked and rechecked by their petty officers, while others under the charge of Mr. Tomlin busied themselves around the tiered boats in readiness for lowering. He said, 'But this ship needs a good master, Thomas. If I fell in action afloat she would be in your hands.' He shrugged. 'If I die tonight the same applies.'

Herrick persisted stubbornly, 'All the same, sir, I would feel better being with you.'

Bolitho touched his sleeve. `All the same, you will stay. here and carry out my orders, eh?'

The boatswain crossed the crowded deck and touched his forehead. 'All ready, sir!'

– 'Very good, Mr. Tomlin. Man your boats!'

Seconds later at a whispered command from the quarterdeck the ship wallowed round towards the shore and hove to. The noise of yards and canvas, the creak and clatter of tackles and blocks as the boats were swung high above the larboard gangway seemed indescribably loud, yet Bolitho knew that from the land with the encroaching sounds of wind and sea they would not be noticed, with any luck at all.

He said. 'When we have left you will clear for action. You are short of officers now, but still have plenty of hands.'

Herrick tried to grin. 'I have the master and Mr. Caswell. The oldest and the youngest, and of course the bullocks, sir.'

Bolitho held up his arms as Allday buckled the swordbelt around his waist. For a moment longer he touched the worn hilt at his side and then said, 'Me ship is yours; Thomas.

Take good care of her.' Then he climbed up the gangway and peered down at the boats tethered alongside. They were filling with men, and even in the darkness he could see the checked shirts of the seamen, the gleam of weapons, the occasional darker shape of an officer.

He called, 'Very well, Mr. Rocket Carry on, if you please!'

He watched intently as the big launch and the first cutter cast off, and with their oars already dropping into the rowlocks idled clear of the side. Rooke and a midshipman were in charge, and within seconds both boats were swallowed up in the gloom. Next Inch in the second cutter cast off, and with rather more noise than necessary pulled lustily around the ship's bows. That only left the gig and little jolly boat, in the charge of Fowler, the third lieutenant, and Midshipman Piper.

Bolitho took a deep breath and glanced quickly around the upper deck. He could see Herrick and Gossett watching from the quarterdeck, and Captain Ashby further aft by the poop ladder, the latter no doubt still brooding because his marines were excluded from the raid.

Allday said, 'Ready when you are, Captain!' In the darkness his teeth were very white.

Bolitho nodded and swung himself out and down the main chains, waiting until the jolly boat lifted momentarily in a wavecrest before leaping down beside the others.

He leaned over the gunwale and waved to the gig. 'Mr. Flower, keep close astern of mel' To Midshipman Piper who squatted beside him he added, 'Cast off. There's a long pull ahead.'

The jolly boat lolled clear of the Hyperion's shining side, and as the oars bit into the tossing water turned and headed towards the shore. It was a small boat, and with ten seamen in addition to her crew, as well as Allday and the officers, would make heavy going of it.

Bolitho saw Seton- crouching by his knees and wondered what he was thinking about. It would be different from his last visit. he thought grimly.

When he looked astern he could hardly see his ship, and apart from a white cream of surf under her beakhead she was already 'merged with the dark sky.

The gig was pulling strongly in their wake, the oars rising and falling as one, the black heads of the seamen moving like part of a machine. Of the other boats there was no sign, and he found himself willing them to be heading for their proper objectives, with neither panic nor uncertainty to drive them ashore under some French guard post.

He heard Allday bark. 'Get bailing there! She'll ship more water than you've ever sailed on otherwise!' Then to Bolitho he added, 'It will take the best part of two hours to get into positon, Captain.'

'It will.' Bolitho sat forward and swayed loosely with the pitching boat. 'If what Mr. Inch says is correct, we shall be hearing the church clock chiming as soon as we round the headland.' He lifted his voice so that the oarsmen could hear. 'It will keep us company all the way up the harbour, lads. If you were in England you'd not be out of your beds as late as this.'

He turned away to study the darker shadow of land as some of the men chuckled at his remark. Please God they live to hear that clock in the morning, he thought.

Below his knees he heard Seton retching uncontrollably. He at least bad something worse than fear to contend with…