FORM LINE OF BATTLE!

17. 'THE FRENCH ARE OUT!'

As eight bells chimed out to announce the beginning of yet another forenoon watch Bolitho walked from beneath the poop and took his usual position on the weather side of the quarterdeck. The sky was overcast with low, fast-moving clouds, and the wind which came almost directly towards the larboard beam was heavy with a promise of rain.

He wriggled his shoulders inside his coat and turned to study the Tenacious. During the night she had shortened sail to avoid running down on her slower consort, and now lay some two miles clear on the starboard quarter. There was no horizon, and against the dull clouds and lead-coloured sea the big three-decker seemed to shine as if held in some unearthly light.

Bolitho gripped the nettings and turned his head once more into the wind. There was Cozar Island about six miles off the larboard beam, its grim outline shrouded in cloud and spray. While he had sat restlessly toying with his breakfast Bolitho had imagined how it would look, had pondered over the hopes and follies the island's name had come to represent to him.

For three days after leaving the smoking ruins of St. Clar he had gone over each detail again and again, trying to see thee short campaign with impartial eyes, to assemble the facts as they. would be viewed by an historian.

He bit his lip as he stared unwaveringly at the humped outline. Occupied and reoccupied a hundred times. Fought over and discarded, the island lay waiting for the next assault on its isolation. Now it was abandoned and derelict, with only the many dead to guard its barren heritage.

Herrick had joined him at the nettings. He said carefully, 'I wonder if we'll ever see it again, sir?'

Bolitho did not speak. He was watching the sloop Chanticleer, her sails and yards clearly etched against the dull cliffs as she drove close inshore. Bellamy must be thinking of his part in the capture of Cozar. The reckless excitement, the very impudence of their attack might seem mockeries to him now.

He realised that Herrick had said,something and asked, `Did you wish to speak about the routine?'

Herrick's face softened slightly. 'Well, sir, as a matter of fact…’

'Go ahead, Thomas.' Bolitho turned away from the island. 'I have been poor company of late. You must forgive me.' He had in fact hardly spoken to Herrick since leaving St. Clar. His officers must have respected his wishes to be left alone with his brooding, for on his rare walks on the quarterdeck they had been careful to leave the weather side vacant and undisturbed.

Herrick cleared his throat noisily. 'Have you spoken with the admiral this morning, sir?'

Bolitho smiled. The words had come blurting out, and he guessed that Herrick had been planning this interview for days.

'Mr. Rowistone is with him now, Thomas. Sir Edmund is very ill, that is all I can tell you at the moment.'

Poor Rowlstone, he thought. He was as much out of his depth with Pomfret as any unskilled seaman. The admiral certainly looked a bit better, but where his body was trying to rally, his mind seemed to stay unmoving and remote, blocked off by the shock and realisation which it still refused to accept.

Pomfret was like a living corpse. He allowed Gimlett to shave him and keep him clean. He opened his mouth to receive soup, or carefully cut meat like a child with no understanding, and he never said a word.

Herrick persisted, 'Look, sir, I must speak my mind! In my opinion you owe nothing to Sir Edmund, quite the reverse!' He gestured towards the Tenacious. 'Why not shift this responsibility to Captain Dash before we sight the fleet? He is the senior officer, it is unfair that you should have to carry him!'

Bolitho sighed. 'You have seen Sir Edmund, have you not?' Herrick nodded as he continued evenly, 'Would you take his last shred of honour and self-respect and stamp on it?' He shook his head. 'When we rejoin the fleet Sir Edmund will at least be under the protection of his flag and not carried to the reckoning like a trussed chicken for the pot!' He gripped his hands behind him. 'No, Thomas, IT have none of that!'

Herrick had his mouth open to argue, but closed it with a click as Bolitho swung towards the bows, his head on one side like a dog at a scent.

'Listen!' Bolitho seized the quarterdeck rail and leaned forward. 'It was more of a feeling, and yet…' He watched Herrick's face until it too showed understanding.

Herrick murmured, 'Thunder?' Their eyes met. 'Or gunfire?'

Bolitho cupped his hands. 'Mr. Inch! Get the royals on her!' He crossed to the binnacle even as the pipes shrilled to break the silence. 'Bring her up a point!' He waited, biting his lip, until the helmsman intoned, 'Course nor' by east, son!'

Bolitho said aloud, 'Where is the Harvester, for God's sake?'

Herrick was watching the startled seamen scrambling aloft in answer to the call. He said„'She's away up there on the larboard now, somewhere!'

Bolitho made himself walk slowly to Herrick's side. 'Well, it was no frigate, Thomas. That was heavier metal on the wind!'

When he peered over the quarter he noticed that the Tenacious was still on the same bearing, in spite of his own ship's extra canvas. He pounded the rail in time with his thoughts. If only they could get the filth and weed off her bottom the old Hyperion would soon show them something!

Herrick said suddenly, 'Could be a blockade runner, sir.'

'Unlikely.' Bolitho was staring at the dull streak where the horizon should have been. 'Lord Hood will have too much on his hands with his own evacuation to care much for enforcing a blockade elsewhere. It will be St. Clar multiplied ten thousand times over, Thomas.'

'Deck there! Sail fine on th' weather bow, sir!'

They stared up at the swaying masthead. Then Bolitho said

,quietly, 'We shall soon know now. Get up there, Thomas, and

report the moment you recognise the facts for me.' Midshipman Piper appeared as if by magic. 'Sir!

Harvester's signalling!'

Bolitho took a glass from its rack and peered along Piper's outstretched arm. The frigate was well out on the larboard bow, suddenly clear and sharp in the lens as some freak wind brushed away the wet haze like smoke.

Piper was shouting, 'Ships in sight to the nor'-east!' He paused and flipped through the pages of his book. 'Estimate six sail of the line!'

Bolitho looked aloft and abeam, his mind busy as it digested the frigate's information and slotted it into his own knowledge. The ships, whatever they were, were almost directly ahead of his own. They could not possibly be slower than Hyperion, so therefore it seemed most likely they were on the opposite tack and heading straight for him. -

Herrick called hoarsely, 'Deck there! It's a stem-chase, sir! Maybe five or six. sail of the line after one another!'

Bolitho glanced briefly at the Tenacious. 'Come down, Mr. Herrick!' He caught Inch's eye and snapped, 'General signal to our ships, Mr. Inch. "Prepare for battle!"

As the flags soared up the Hyperion's yards Herrick arrived with a thud beside him, by way of a backstay.

Bolitho looked at him gravely. 'Beat to quarters, and clear for action!'

Herrick touched his hat. 'Aye, aye, sir!' Then he grinned: 'Do you think we can snatch a prize from right under the noses of those other ships, sir?'

Bolitho did not smile. 'I think you will discover that the ship being chased is one of ours, Mr. Herrick!' Across the water he heard the mounting rattle of drums as the Tenacious beat to quarters. Dash' probably thought he was mad, and like Herrick imagined it impossible for the enemy to be at large already and in such strength.

The Hyperion's drummers took up the call, and as men poured from the hatchways and petty officers hurried to their stations yelling names' as they ran, Bolitho looked once more at Pomfret's flag as it flapped briskly from the mizzen.

When the clamour and noise died away Herrick hurried once more to the quarterdeck and reported, 'Cleared for action, sir!'

Bolitho was still looking at the masthead, his eyes thoughtful. Then he said, 'Hyperion has been on the fringe of things for too long, Thomas. That flag will ensure our proper place in affairs this morning!' He met Herrick's anxious stare and added, 'So you see, I could not transfer Sir Edmund to Tenacious even if I wanted tol'

Piper had climbed up to the maintop to get a better view. 'Deck there! The leading ship is wearing our colours, sir!'

Bolitho banged his palms together. 'Did I not say so, Thomas?' He was trembling inwardly with excitement. 'Have chain slings rigged to the yards immediately, and lower all boats for towing astern! We want no additional woodwork about our ears this day, Thomas!'

Herrick passed his order and stood aside as Tomlin's spare hands dashed aft to secure. the towing lines. A ball striking a boat while it lay inboard could fill the air with murderous splinters. But, nevertheless, he felt vaguely uneasy as first one and then the rest of the boats were swung outboard and dropped alongside. It was like casting off the last chance of safety, he thought.

Bolitho said distantly, 'Signal Chanticleer to take station to lee'rd. I do not want her to follow Snipe's fate.' He too was watching the boats being passed aft until they bobbed astern at the full extent of their lines. 'The sloop can watch the battle and give us some encouragement!'

Herrick stared at him. How could he do it? To be so calm, so utterly indifferent to the approaching danger.

Bolitho did not see Herrick's expression. He was looking along the full length and breadth of his command. Each detail must be checked. Soon there would be no more time.

Every gun was manned, and each captain was busily looking over his crew and equipment, while back and forth to the magazine hatch the little powder monkeys ran with their shot carriers and charges, their faces engrossed and concentrated on their tasks, their only purpose in life to keep those muzzles supplied when the moment came.

The marines lined the nettings, bayonets fixed and muskets at the ready. And forward by the carronades he could see Lieutenant Shanks with his own, detachment, his back to the enemy as he stared aft to the quarterdeck.

Rooke and young Gordon were pacing together between their lines of guns, and Bolitho wondered momentarily what they were finding to discuss.

He glanced round the quarterdeck. The nerve centre which could decide the fate of every single life aboard. Caswell was by the nine-pounders, but his eyes were on Piper and Seton at the 'signal halyards. He was remembering his own past, Bolitho decided. It would be better if he thought of his future.

Bolitho could not bear the waiting. He said, 'I am going below, Mr. Herrick. Then I will see the admiral.' He glanced up at the masthead pendant. 'It will be an hour before we close with them.' He listened to the intermittent boom of gunfire. It was indeed like thunder.

Then he turned and climbed down the larboard ladder. The overall picture of preparation seemed to break up as he approached and individual faces stood out to bring back some past event or memory.

A grizzled gun-captain touched his forehead and said, 'Us'll show 'em today, sir!' He laid a horny hand on the breech of his twelve-pounder. 'Old Maggie 'ere is just bidin' 'er time!' The men around him grinned and nodded.

Bolitho paused and looked at them gravely. 'Do your best, lads.' He shook himself to drive away the realisation that before many hours some of these faces would be dead, and others praying for death to receive them. He said abruptly, 'Make sure they have their scarves around their ears. When we reach England I want them to hear the welcome they'll get!' It was terrible the way they laughed and cheered as he passed.

Almost blindly he ran down another ladder and stood for a few moments to allow his eyes to recover. On the lower gundeck it seemed like night after the grey light above. But soon now those ports would fly open and the guns would make this low-beamed place shudder with the hammers of hell.

Inch was now at his station with the big twenty-fourpounders, and was actually grinning as he strode to meet his captain.

Bolitho said, 'Do not lose contact with the upper battery. And try to prevent your gunners from getting too excited. We are depending on you today!'

Inch nodded. 'Midshipman Lory is with me, sir. He can keep me informed.'

Bolitho saw the double line of guns, the eyes of their crews glittering in the gloom as they peered towards him.

He called briefly, 'Good luck, lads!'

He glanced at the red-painted sides and decks. They might help to hide the blood, but the sights would be bad enough. He saw the midshipman watching him and recalled his own terrible experience in his first ship. Almost thirteen years old, and he had been serving on the lower gundeck of a similar ship to Hyperion. Perhaps the very horror had been too unreal to unhinge him, he thought vaguely. There could be no other reason.

Bolitho was grateful to return to the daylight and the damp air. But as he walked aft into his cabin he wondered what he should do with Pomfret. What might it do to his mind if he was shut below in the orlop?

Rowlstone stood by the windows, staring listlessly at the Tenacious. He asked, 'Shall I go to my station, sir?'

Bolitho did not answer immediately. He walked to the open door of his sleeping cabin and stared past Fanshawe's drooping figure beside the cot. Pomfret was propped almost to a sitting position, his chest bared in the stuffy air, his eyes moving back and forth in time with a deckhead lantern.

Bolitho spoke very quietly, 'We are about to engage the enemy, sir. Do you have any orders at present?'

The pale eyes stopped and settled on his face.

Fanshawe said helplessly, 'I don't think he understands, sir.'

Bolitho said slowly, 'Sir Edmund, the French are out!' But Pomfret's eyes did not even blink.

From behind him he heard Rowlstone say, 'I'll have him carried to the sickbay, sir. I can keep an eye on him there.'

Bolitho caught his arm. 'A moment!' He was watching Pomfret's hands. Like two claws they had fastened to the sides of the cot, the knuckles bone-white with strain. Then his mouth opened very slightly, but no words came from it.

Bolitho looked straight into Pomfret's eyes, holding them, willing him to speak. For just an instant he saw a small understanding, a kind of defiance, like that of a trapped animal facing an enemy.

He said quietly, 'You stay with him here, Mr. Fsnshawe.' Pomfret's fingers relaxed slightly, and he added, 'I will keep the admiral informed whenever I can.' Then he turned on his heel and walked back to the quarterdeck.'

The distant firing had stopped, and as he levelled his glass he saw that the ships were clearly visible now. The one being pursued was a seventy-four, like Hyperion, and as she tacked slightly to windward he saw that her outline was marred by the loss of her mizzen. But she had managed to rig a crude jurymast, and her ensign was streaming bravely above the pockmarked sails as more flags broke from her yards.

Piper shrilled, 'She's the Zenith, seventy-four, Cap'n Stewart, sir!'

Bolitho nodded, but kept his glass trained beyond the battle-scarred ship towards the jumbled mass of white topsails. He counted six enemy vessels before he had to lower the glass to rest his eye. They were in a ragged line, and were already tacking slowly to windward, their hulls leaning over in the pressure.

Herrick lowered his glass and said, 'They have the windgage, sir. There's no doubt about it.'

Bolitho looked round the quarterdeck. 'General signal. "Form line of battle ahead and astern of the admiral!" '

He ignored the burst of feverish activity at the halyards. He knew Stewart vaguely. He was a good captain, and was already tacking his ship to face the enemy. Astern, Dash was acknowledging the signal, and in minutes Bolitho saw the yards begin to swing as the Tenacious manoeuvred comfortably astern of the flagship.

He tried not even to think the word. Flagship. Pomfret was incapable of speaking, let alone directing a battle. And it was eleven years since Bolitho had been in a real sea-fight. At the Saintes he had commanded a small frigate, and that great battle had been fought and won against an enemy equal both in strength and experience. He made himself look towards the enemy. Two to one. Even Rooke might consider the odds unfavourable.

Herrick said, 'We will pass larboard to larboard, sir. We cannot hope to tack across their course now.'

Bolitho nodded. To windward lay Cozar, it seemed as if they were doomed by that place, no matter what they did. Now it acted as a barrier to cut their chances of tacking to windward. If they continued as they were the French ships would pass down their larboard side, would pound them to submission before they could turn and fight again.

He snapped, 'General signal. "Shorten sail!" ' The Zenith had completed her tack and was now leading. the line… Through his glass he could see the mauling the enemy bowchasers had given her, the great scars across her poop. He said calmly, 'We will cut the enemy line in half, gentlemen! That way we will take the weather-gage, and give him a moment of alarm!'

He saw Herrick and Ashby exchanging anxious glances and added, 'It will mean facing three broadsides instead of six.'

Bolitho turned as Allday padded from the poop carrying his best coat and hat. The men around the quarterdeck were all watching in silence as he threw his old seagoing coat aside and slipped his arms into the other one. It was something he had always done before a fight. Madness or conceit? He could not be sure. Perhaps, unlike his predecessor in Hyperion, he did not wish to leave anything worthwhile behind should he die today. The stupidity of his racing thoughts helped to steady him, and the watching seamen and marines saw him give a small smile.

Allday held. out the sword and asked quietly, 'Must I stay with the admiral, Captain?' He looked wretchedly at the crouching gunners. 'My place is here.'

'Your place is where I choose, Allday!' Then Bolitho nodded. 'I will know where you are if I need you, never fret!' 'Both ships have acknowledged, sir!' Piper was shouting, his voice very loud in the silence.

'Good. Now bend on another signal, Mr. Piper, but do not

hoist it, "Take in succession and re-form line of battle!" ' He withdrew his sword and turned it over in his hands. The steel felt like ice. To the deck at large he added, 'There will be one final signal. You will keep it flying until I order otherwise.'

Piper peered up from his slate, his face pinched with strain and concentration. 'I'm ready, sir!'

Bolitho looked evenly towards the approaching ships. Not long now.

He said, 'When we break their line you will hoist "Engage the enemy closer!"'

Then he returned the sword to its scabbard with a snap.

'And now, Mr. Herrick, you may give the order to load and run out.' For a moment longer he held Herrick's gaze. He wanted to grip his hand. To say something personal or trivial. But the moment was already past.

Herrick touched his hat and then raised his speaking trumpet. He had seen the pain in Bolitho's eyes. He did not have to be told anything.

As he shouted his order the deck seemed to come alive. Ports were hauled open, and as one captain after another raised his hand.Rooke roared, 'Run out!' Then he too turned aft and looked towards Bolitho.

A ragged thunder of cannon-fire echoed across the water, and through the taut rigging Herrick saw the spreading wall of gunsmoke drifting down to enfold the Zenith like a cloud.

He heard Gossett mutter, 'Make a note in the log. At two bells of th' Forenoon action was joined.' He cleared his throat. 'And God preserve us!'

Waiting for the final clash seemed endless. Bolitho made himself stand motionless by the rail while he watched the battered Zenith receiving the full brunt of the enemy broadsides. Barely seventy yards separated the two-decker as she edged past the leading French ship, but as a down-draught of wind cut through the billowing smoke Bolitho saw with cold relief that her masts were still standing and her guns were running out again as she sailed to meet the next adversary. The second ship in the enemy line was a three-decker, and as he watched Bolitho saw her foremost guns belch fire and smoke, the thundering crash of the detonations making him wince. Above the growing bank of smoke he saw the bright flash of colour at the enemy's topmast, the command flag of an admiral.

He shouted, `Stand by!' He shut the picture of the flashing guns from his mind and concentrated on the leading ship, as like two wooden juggernauts she and Hyperion crossed bowsprits, and the men at the foremost guns stared through their ports and saw the hardening line of the enemy's bows.

Rooke yelled, 'Fire as you bear!'

Hyperion staggered drunkenly as the broadside rippled along her side in a double-edged line, the guns hurling themselves inboard against the tackles, their crews choking and cursing as the great fog of acrid smoke funnelled back through the ports, blinding them as they reeled and groped for the next charges.

Bolitho shaded his streaming eyes and stared up at the enemy's foremast as slowly and relentlessly it carved above the smoke until it hung directly above him. Then the French= man fired, the gun-flashes stabbing through the dense smoke and painting it with red and orange, so that it seemed to come alive. He felt the balls crashing into the hull, the splintering thunder jarring the planks beneath his straddled legs as if to burst up through the deck itself.

He yelled, 'Again, lads! Hit 'em again!'

His brain cringed as the nine-pounders at his back joined in the savage onslaught, and through the deafening gunfire he heard muffled cries and shouted orders as the marines opened fire with their muskets, shooting blindly into the allenveloping smoke.

Something slammed into the rail by his hand, and when he looked down he saw a wood splinter standing on end like a quill pen.

Ashby bellowed, 'The tops! Shoot down those marksmen, you bastards!'

A marine corporal pulled the lanyard of a swivel gun, and before the dense brown smoke blew back across the quarterdeck Bolitho saw some half-dozen men plucked from the enemy's maintop by the scything burst of canister and swept away like so much rubbish.

Rooke dropped his sword. 'Run out! Fire!' Again the extended thunder of the two batteries and the answering crash of iron against timber as the full weight of Hyperion's broadside smashed home.

Bolitho wiped his face with his sleeve. The other ship was already past, yet in spite of the hammering he could see little damage around him. He tried to stop the grin from spreading over his face. The Tenacious would soon finish off the leading ship, he thought wildly.

He cupped his hands. `Easy, lads! The next one is the admiral's ship.' He heard the derisive yells from the smokeshrouded gunners. `Give him a proper salute!'

Then he ran across to the other side of the deck, straining his eyes to find the Zenith. He saw her maintop mast and commission pendant isolated above the smoke and already level with the third enemy ship. Her foremast had gone, but her guns were still firing, and between the savage broadsides he could hear cheering, like men driven beyond caution or sanity.

He shouted, 'Mr. Piper! Hoist that signal!'

He watched the flags jerking up to the yards and then stared anxiously towards the battered Zenith. With only one mast in view it was hard to judge her exact position or bearing.

But Piper was ready. 'She's acknowledged, sir!' He was clinging' to the shrouds, oblivious of the oncoming threedecker as he peered at the signal.

Bolitho watched, hardly daring to breathe as Captain Stewart tacked his ship round and headed straight towards the enemy. He could see the Zenith's topmast outlined against the braced yards of the fourth ship in the French line… She was already heading into the wind, and Bolitho had to grip the rail to prevent himself from running along the deck to watch as she swung still further, her bows pushing resolutely across the enemy's course, her guns firing from either beam as she struggled to obey Bolitho's last signal.

Herrick yelled, 'She's through! By God, she's cut the line!'

Men were cheering in the smoke, some hardly aware of the reason, but desperately eager to break their own dazed uncertainty.

Bolitho shouted, "Stand by, Mr. Rooke!' He ran back to the nettings as the French flagship rose above the fog like a cliff, her forecastle rippling with musket-fire, her bow guns already shooting out their long red tongues as the range fell away to fifty yards.

Rooke yelled, 'Fire as you bear!' He was running down the upper deck, stopping for just a few seconds by each gun as captain after captain pulled his lanyard to add to the deafening bombardment.

From astern Bolitho heard the Tenacious adding her massive weight to the engagement, but forgot her completely as the deck bucked wildly beneath him and some twenty feet of the larboard gangway careened into the air, hurling men and splintered timbers back into the smoke.

He saw the nets across the upper deck jumping with severed blocks and pieces of rippled sailcloth, but when he stared aft he could still see every mast and yard intact.

Bolitho shouted, 'On the uproll, Mr. Rooke!' He peered towards the Frenchman's braced yards, the sudden flurry of colour as a signal broke to the wind. Their admiral obviously intended to try and stop the British attempt to cut the line, he thought wildly. He pulled out his sword and held it above his head. `When I give the signal, Mr. Rooke!' His throat was raw with shouting and coughing. 'I want that rigging down!'

Another ragged broadside cut through the trapped smoke alongside, and two twelve-pounders were hurled away from the bulwark as if they were scraps of paper. Bolitho tore his eyes from the men trapped beneath the heavy guns and shut their agonised screams from his mind. Those muzzles must be almost red-hot, he thought vaguely.

He dropped his sword. 'Fire!'

Hyperion was rolling heavily with the wind, and the force of a full broadside threw her even further over as both gundecks roared out together.

With something like sad dignity, the Frenchman's foremast began to totter, the stays and shrouds holding it just long enough to give those trapped in the top and along the yards a few seconds of hope. Then with a great sigh the whole mass of rigging and spars pitched forward through the smoke, cleaving into the forecastle gunners before plunging down towards the shrouded water below.

Bolitho groped his way towards the poop until he found Gossett's massive shape beside the wheel. 'Stand by to wear ship!' Bolitho felt a musket-ball whip past his head and hamer into the poop ladder. 'We will turn across the enemy's line when you are ready!'

He did not wait for an answer but hurried back to the quarterdeck rail. The other ship was wallowing downwind, the trailing mass of spars acting like a giant sea-anchor. But over and beyond her snared bows Bolitho could already see the towering sails of the Tenacious, and before he wrenched his eyes back to the next ship in the line he saw the three-decker's broadside smashing into the French flagship, bringing down her main topgallant to add to the confusion below.

'Nowl' Bolitho had to call twice because of the ninepounders' vicious barking behind him. 'Now, Mr. Gossett!'

He watched narrowly as the big double wheel began to go over, the helmsmen stepping over two dead comrades as they fought to control the spokes.

At the quarterdeck rail Herrick was roaring at the top of his voice, 'Braces there! Let go and haul!'

Through the smoke the third ship was already firing across the narrowing strip of water. Shots hammered into the Hyperion's hull, and others slapped through topsails and spanker, severing halyards and shrouds and hurling pieces of splintered wood high in the air.

But the old ship was answering. As she swung slowly across the enemy's quarter Bolitho saw some French seamen running aft as if to repel boarders, and then as the Hyperion's intention became clear they opened fire with muskets and pistols, urged on by their officers and the fury of battle.

Across the disengaged side Bolitho saw another ship loom through the fog like some phantom vessel, and with something like disbelief he realised that Hyperion was cutting the line, her tapered bowsprit and flapping jib already clear of smoke and reaching out beyond the enemy's weather side.

He shouted, 'Stand by to starboard! It's your turn now, lads!'

A man fell back from a' nine-pounder, his face smashed to a bloody pulp, and he saw young Caswell, white but determined, waving another to take his place.

The gunners of the starboard battery waited their moment. The smoke hid the bulk of that fourth ship, but the black bowsprit and gleaming figurehead acted better than any aiming mark.

Rooke bellowed, 'Fire as you bear!'

Hyperion was responding to wind and rudder, and as she edged purposefully around the third ship's counter the starboard battery opened fire on her helpless consort. Two by two the guns bellowed and lurched inboard, their whooping crews already sponging and reloading before the broadside had reached as far aft as the quarterdeck.

Pieces of bulwark flew skyward above the haze of smoke, and the luckless ship's sails streamed from her yards like so much shredded waste.

Bolitho watched until the Tenacious's topmasts crept' into line. Dash was following, and above the crashing roar of Hyperion's artillery he could hear the deeper thunder of the three-decker's thirty-two-pounders as they continued to hammer the enemy.

When the Hyperion's bow swung gratefully across the wind the smoke cleared from her decks as if drawn away by a giant hand. All at once her scars were laid bare, and Bolitho felt suddenly stunned by the completeness of her misery.

Dead and wounded lay everywhere on the upper deck. The rest, their naked. bodies shining with sweat and blackened by powder, worked at their guns with the wild desperation of souls in hell.

The great net above the littered deck was covered with torn canvas and wood splinters, and here and there a wounded man writhed broken and whimpering- in the mesh after being shot down from aloft, like dying insects in a web.

The marines kept up a rapid fire from the nettings, hurling insults as they reloaded, and yelling encouragement to their comrades high in the swaying tops.

The larboard battery fired yet again, the balls ripping a bare twenty yards to blast through the enemy's poop and turn her quarterdeck into a bloody shambles.

Bolitho pounded the rail, silently urging his ship to complete her turn. But it could not last like this. Soon the other French ships would recover and fight back to rejoin their line. Before that happened they must settle with the enemy flagship and smash these three leading vessels into submission.

He swung round as Piper yelled, 'Signal from Zenith, sir! "Require assistance!"'

Bolitho had already seen the leading two-decker. She was completely dismasted, but for a stump of her main, and had drifted downwind across the French flagship's bows. Where the two vessels embraced men were already locked in hand-tohand combat, while in the trapped arrowhead of water between them the guns still kept up their relentless bombardment, their blackened muzzles barely feet apart.

He shook his head. `Make "Inability", Mr. Piper!' He watched the flags soaring aloft and added, 'Now that other signal, Mr. Piper, lively there!'

Bolitho ignored the rippling flashes as his guns bellowed defiance at the nearest ship. The enemy was hardly firing a shot in return, but aboard her battered decks he could see something like panic as the Tenacious followed ponderously through the gap in the line, her triple rows of guns gaping straight at the Frenchman's unprotected stem.

He gripped Herrick's shoulder, feeling him jump with shock at the sudden contact. Like himself he was probably expecting a musket-ball, he thought grimly.

`Zenith is all but done for, Thomas.' He broke off as a ball ploughed through the quarterdeck ladder and smashed into a file of crouching marines. Sickened, he saw the blood spreading away like paint, until it seemed it would never stop. Amidst the litter of smashed limbs and screaming men he saw a marine's head rolling across the deck, the eyes still open and staring.

He swallowed hard to control the nausea. 'We must take the enemy flagship, Thomas!' He saw understanding flooding across Herrick's begrimed features. 'It is our only chance!'

He looked round abruptly as someone started to cheer. He saw young Caswell waving his hat like a madman and pointing at the last signal.

'Engage the enemy closer!'

Through the swirling smoke another set of red tongues licked across the water and Caswell was dead. He had had one hand across his chest and the ball smashed it through his body, cutting off his cry with the sharpness of a knife.

Bolitho turned towards the towering three-decker. All the anger and hate, the despair and bitterness seemed to overpower him like a frenzy. The sword was in his hand, and as he waved it he felt his hat plucked away by another musketball, so that the rebellious lock of hair fell across his eye, shutting out Caswell's broken body and his staring look of disbelief.

'Starboard gunners take station for boarding!' He was almost screaming. 'Come on, lads! England wants a victory, so what do you say?'

He did not hear the answering cheers and yells, but was already running along the larboard gangway. He leapt across the shattered bulwark and above the naked gunners, the sword in his hand and his eyes fastened on that one patch of colour which still flew from the enemy's topmast.