FORM LINE OF BATTLE!

3. DECISION FOR SIR WILLIAM

Bolitho waited beneath the poop just long enough to accustom his eyes to the gloom and then strode out on to the quarterdeck. At first glance there was little to show that the dawn hovered just below the invisible horizon, but as he looked up through the dark tracery of rigging and beyond the ghostlike outlines of the sails he noticed that the stars were paler and the sky, instead of being like black velvet, now held that strange purple hue which never failed to. fill him with pleasure.

A shadow loomed from the quarterdeck rail and Quarme said, The dawn'll be up within thirty minutes, sir. I had the hands called an hour early as you ordered, and they have all been fed.'

Bolitho nodded. 'Very good.' His vision was improving, or was the light already strengthening? He heard the splash and sizzle of embers alongside and knew that the cooks were throwing the remains of the galley fire overboard, also in accordance with his instructions. He suddenly felt stiff and cramped, and wished he had taken the time for another mug of coffee.

With Vice-Admiral Moresby occupying his quarters Bolitho had been sleeping in a makeshift cot in the chartroom. Most captains would have taken over their first lieutenants' cabins under such circumstances, but Bolitho found the cramped privacy of the tiny chartroom more suitable for his present mood of uncertainty and doubt.

For nearly three days the Hyperion with two Spanish ships in company had headed for the island of Cozar. Days of irritations and maddening conferences between Moresby and the Spanish admiral, which had uncovered little but the intention of each man to have his own way. Now the two other ships were miles astern, having hove to for the night with the usual Spanish indifference for urgency and timing.

Bolitho said suddenly, 'Hands aloft, Mr. Quarme. Get the topgallants and courses in, if you please. Tops'ls and jib will suffice for our purposes.' He heard Quarme passing his orders and saw the immediate air of activity across the maindeck.

According to his careful calculations the island now lay some four miles off the starboard bow, and with the sun soon to rise astern of her, Hyperion would be less visible to a drowsy sentry if stripped down to minimum canvas. In the light airs the slower speed would be an additional advantage.

All- his inbuilt caution might be proved as empty as the Spanish admiral,had outspokenly declared on the previous afternoon when he and his two captains had been rowed across to the Hyperion for another long conference. Cozar might indeed- still be in Spanish hands, and his preparations, his stealthy approach under cover of night, might show as a waste of time. But Bolitho respected the French as much as he disliked them. They would be foolish to overlook the possibilities presented by such a formidable fortress.

The Spanish admiral, Don Francisco Anduaga, was a tall, disdainful autocrat who had made no bones right from the start about what he thought of serving under Moresby's overall command. Moresby was a thickset, aggressive little man who showed little interest in Anduaga's more sensitive feelings, and ploughed through the planned arrangements with the stubbornness of a bull terrier. And the arrangements about which they could agree were few indeed. An acceptance of British signals, a rough plan of approach, but little more beside.

But Anduaga had brought one useful addition on his last visit. A swarthy lieutenant who had actually served at Cozar Island when it was used as a penal settlement. His facts were impressive, but only to those who actually controlled the island from within.

Barely five miles from end to end, it sounded the most inhospitable place on earth. Surrounded by steep, dangerous cliffs and scattered rocks it was only accessible by way of the great natural harbour on its southern side, and then by one landing place below the battery of a strong hill fortress. There was a 'smaller hill at the other end of the island with an ancient Moorish castle and a lesser battery to forestall anyone foolhardy enough to attempt to storm the cliffs by day or night. And between the two hills was one central one which rose to over a thousand feet, and from which even a halfblind lookout could see an approaching ship before it topped the horizon.

The lieutenant had rolled his eyes sadly. 'It is a terrible place, Captain. Not fit for beasts.'

Bolitho had persisted, 'What about fresh water? Have they good supplies?

`Alas, no. They depend on a rainfall to fill a manmade reservoir. Apart, from that they bring it by sea.' He had dropped his eyes with sudden embarrassment. 'From the port of St. Clar, but of course that was when we were allied with France, you understand.'

Moresby had interrupted angrily, 'If you are thinking of cutting off the water supply, Bolitho, you can think again. We have no time for a blockade, and in any case we don't know what supplies they have at their disposal.'

Anduaga had watched them with obvious irritation. 'But why are you all so concerned? He. had a smooth, silky voice which matched his air of complete superiority over the rest of them. 'My eighty-gun Marte will pound them to fragments! But I can assure you that there will be no problems.' His eyes had become suddenly cruel. 'The Spanish garrison would have me to reckon with if they were foolish enough to surrender to a lot of peasant soldiers!'

A voice broke into Bolitho's brooding thoughts. 'Land! Land on the weather bow!'

He moved restlessly. 'Alter course a point to starboard, Mr. Gossett.' Then to Quarme he added, 'Clear for action, if you please, but do not have the guns loaded or run out.'

Again the pipes shrilled, and as the darkened decks filled and surged with running figures Quarme asked quietly, 'Will you tell the admiral, sir?'

Bolitho listened to the thuds and bangs below decks as the screens were hastily torn down and anything which might hamper the gunners was dragged below the waterline.

'I fancy Sir William will know already, Mr. Quarme, he replied dryly.

He had hardly finished speaking when a midshipman burst from the poop and gasped, 'The admiral's respects, and, and

He faltered, aware that the men around him were all listening.

Bolitho said abruptly, 'Well, what exactly did he say, boy?' The wretched midshipman stammered, 'He asked what the hell do you think you're playing at?'

Bolitho kept his voice even. 'My compliments to Sir William. Be so good as to inform him that we have just cleared, for action.' He looked across at Quarme and added coldly, 'But I see that it still took over ten minutes!'

He saw Quarme's tall frame stiffen, but continued, 'Give me my glass.' Then while the others stared after him he pulled himself on to the mizzen shrouds and began to climb. The coarse ratlines felt damp and unsteady beneath his shoes, and he found he was gripping them tighter than necessary as he made his way slowly aloft to the mizzen top. He hated heights, and had done so since he had first gone aloft as a twelve-year-old midshipman. He knew it was anger as well as pride which made him do this sort of thing, and the realisation made him even more irritated.

He threw his leg over the wooden barricade and opened his glass. As he glanced down at the pale deck far below he realised he could already pick out details more clearly. The black breeches of the guns below the gangways, Captain Ashby's square of marines formed up abaft the foremast, their scarlet uniforms appearing black in the strange light, and even aft by the taffrail he could see the faint glow of a lantern from the cabin skylight. Sir William was now fully awake. He would grumble and mutter about not being kept informed, but Bolitho knew already that Moresby would be much quicker to accuse him of negligence if he overlooked anything.

Bolitho forgot all of them as he trained his glass over the barricade, his feet taking and allowing for the ship's gentle roll and the steady shiver of the mast itself.

There it was right enough. They were approaching the island from the south-east, close-hauled on the larboard tack, so that the three hills overlapped against the dull-coloured sky to make what looked for all the world like a giant, battered cocked hat.

There was a clang of metal from the maindeck followed by a snarl of anger from an invisible petty officer. Bolitho closed his glass and climbed swiftly back to the quarterdeck. In his haste he even forgot his fear of heights.

'Keep those hands quiet, Mr. Quarme! We are less than three miles offshore. If they are still asleep over there I would like them to remain so!'

'They were my sentiments, Bolitho.'

He turned and saw Moresby's figure framed against the poop like a pale ghost. Then he realised that the admiral had thrown a coat over his white nightshirt, and on.his head he still wore a red sleeping cap like a candle-snuffer.

Bolitho kept his tone formal. 'I must beg your pardon, sir. But it seemed wiser to be prepared.'

The admiral glared at him. 'So you say!'

Gimlett appeared hovering nervously behind the admiral with a tray and two glasses. For Moresby this was a morning ritual. One glass contained a raw egg. The other was half filled with brandy.

Bolitho looked away, sickened, as the admiral gulped down his strange mixture.

Moresby smacked his lips and said dourly, 'Sky's brightening at last.' He swung round so that the tassel of his cap bounced in the breeze like a pendant. 'Where are those damn Dons?'

'It'll take 'em hours to catch up, sir.' Bolitho tried to hide his eagerness. 'Perhaps we should close the shore still further? The bottom shelves very steeply hereabouts to over eighty fathoms.'

The admiral grunted. 'It seems quiet enough. Maybe Don Anduaga was right, after all.' He scowled. 'I hope he is!'

Bolitho persisted, 'I have detailed a full landing party, sir. Ninety marines and one hundred picked seamen. We could drop the boats within a cable of the entrance before the garrison knew what was happening.'

Moresby sighed. 'Hold your horses, damn you! I dislike this business as much as you do, but Lord Hood's orders were explicit. We let the Dons go in first.' He walked back to" the poop. 'Anyway, you'd look a damn fool if the Spaniards arrived a day late and there was trouble. You heard what that lieutenant said about the defences. They'd massacre your men before they got out of the boats!'

Bolitho dropped his voice. 'But not this early, sir. Surprise is the thing. As soon as the fortress garrison has seen us we'll never get another chance.'

'I'm going to get dressed.' Moresby sounded dangerously calm. 'My. God, you frigate captains are all the same. No sense of responsibility or riskl' He stalked away with Gimlett trotting in his wake.

Bolitho walked twice up and down the quarterdeck to settle his mind. Moresby was old for his rank and was probably over-cautious.

Gossett intoned, ' Island 's abeam, sir.' He was squinting at the tightly braced yards.

Bolitho nodded. He had allowed his taut nerves to distract him. He had not really expected Moresby to fly in the face of Hood's orders, but he had still hoped. He said wearily, 'Very well. Wear ship and lay her on the opposite tack, Mr. Gossett.'

The Hyperion nudged steeply into the offshore swell and swung dutifully across the wind, her sails drawing immediately as the cool breeze sent a gentle ripple across the water alongside.

'Lay her on the starboard tack, Mr. Gossett.' Bolitho pictured the chart in his mind. `There is a long ridge of rock jutting out from the eastern end of the harbour entrance. There may be a sentry there.'

He thought of the men by the guns, of his officers waiting and wondering throughout the ship. They would be smiling now, he thought bitterly. Thinking that their new captain was more nervous than vigilant. All the drills and preparations would be wasted if his inbuilt caution had proved him wrong.

He looked up at the masthead pendant and saw that it was touched with pale gold like spun silk. And when he peered across the bows he realised that the horizon had appeared, a dark line between sky and sea. How quickly the dawn came up here, he thought. The realisation only depressed him further. With it would come the blazing heat, the air of motionless and helpless inactivity while the ship wallowed above her mirrored twin barely making headway.

'Deck there! Two ships on the lee bow!'

Quarme muttered, 'The Dons did not sleep long, after all, sir.'

'Maybe they mistrusted our admiral.' Bolitho stared at the glassy, undulating swell alongside. 'My respects to Sir William. Inform him of their approach.'

Quarme waited. 'Shall I fall out the men from quarters, sir?'

'Just do as you are told!' Bolitho regretted his outburst immediately, but made himself stay by the rail as Quarme hurried away with his message.

The sun, blood-red and angry, lifted above the sharp horizon to paint a widening path across the empty expanse of water. Then Bolitho saw the topsails of the two Spanish ships. In the strange light they too looked fiery and unreal.

He turned as Moresby reappeared on deck. He was fully dressed in his gold-laced coat and hat, and was wearing his best presentation sword as if for a review.

The admiral breathed in deeply. 'A fine day, Bolitho.' He snapped his fingers and took a glass from the signal midshipman and then trained it on the other ships for several minutes.

He sighed. `Make a signal to the Marte. Tell her to take station astern.' He blinked in the sunlight and added, `You will then wear ship and lead the line back across the southern approaches. If nothing happens we will enter harbour.' He tossed the glass to the midshipman. 'Don Anduaga can have this damn island with pleasure.' Then he walked aft and stood in silence watching the flags soaring up the Hyperion's yards.

As the sun climbed steadily above a glittering horizon the dawn opened up the sea in every direction, like a curtain being ripped from a window. Here there was no drowsy period of half-light, no chance to adjust. One minute it was night. And the next… Bolitho pulled his mind away from such meaningless comparisons and walked aft to watch the two Spanish ships. With the sunlight astern of them they made a splendid sight. Both had shortened sail, but their masts and yards were so decked with gay flags and resplendent banners it was impossible to determine whether they were making signals or merely preparing to celebrate a bloodless victory.

Anduaga's flagship, the Marte, was like something from a child's picture book. From tier garish figurehead to her tall, sloping poopdeck she was alive with colour and movement, and crammed in cheerful confusion on her upper deck Bolitho could see her cargo of Spanish soldiers who were to make up the largest proportion of the landing force.

He deliberately turned his back and moved his glass across to the island. In the bright sunlight it did not appear half so threatening. The hills which he had thought to be grey were covered with tiny, stunted bushes and sundried scrub, and only the wide round tower of the fortress remained to add a touch of uncertainty. There was no sign of life but for the line of writhing surf at the foot of the cliffs, and the natural harbour was still hidden in deep shadow so that not even the keen-eyed masthead lookouts could see any sort of activity within.

Moresby said flatly, 'Very well, Bolithb. Fire a gun. This is close enough.' His voice seemed loud in the tense silence. Bolitho waved one hand towards the maindeck and saw Pearse, the gunner, move aside as the forward twelve-pounder lurched back with a loud bang, the sound of the single detonation echoing and booming around the high cliff and sending the gulls screaming skyward in violent protest.

Bolitho kept his glass trained on the hairline above the fortress, and as he held his breath he saw a flag jerking hastily upward to the truck, and after a second's hesitation it broke out gaily in the offshore breeze. He lowered his glass and looked at the admiral. Moresby was smiling grimly. Even without a glass it was easy to see the flag. The bright red and yellow of Spain.

Moresby made up his mind. 'Signal the Marte. His ships will tack in succession and enter harbour.' He eyed Bolitho coldly. 'You will continue on this course and then tack to follow suit.'

Bolitho saw Midshipman Caswell scribbling hastily on his slate and then said, 'I think we should send a boat in first, sir. One of the cutters perhaps?'

Moresby watched the flags rise from the deck and then beckoned him across to the rail. 'I've wasted enough time, Bolitho! Do you think I want the Dons telling everyone that we are too frightened to believe our own eyes?' He stuck out his jaw. 'Remember that this is supposed to inspire confidence!'

Caswell bleated. 'Marte has acknowledged, I think, sir!'

The Spanish flagship was spreading out more sail, and as they watched they could see her shape lengthening as she heeled round towards the island.

The Princesa, a smaller vessel of sixty-four guns, dropped out of formation, her sails flapping in confusion as she endeavoured to tack round after her consort.

Gossett growled. 'Didn't see the signal, most like!' He watched the ships with obvious contempt. 'They'll all be drunk by nightfall!'

Moresby said, 'May I suggest you release your men from quarters, Bolitho. Secure guns and ports before you tack.' He seemed suddenly angry. 'There has been enough foolishness• for one day!'

Bolitho clenched his fists and crossed to the weather side. 'Did you hear that, Mr. Quarme?' He saw the first lieutenant nod, his face as immobile as before. 'Carry on then!'

'Deck there! I can see the topmasts of a ship well up th' harbour!'

Several people looked up at the lookout's tiny silhouette, but most were still staring glumly at the glittering Spanish ships astern.

Bolitho snatched the speaking trumpet from Quarme. `What is she, man?

'Nothin' much, sir!' The man seemed to realise he was speaking with his captain and added firmly, 'She be a sloop, sir!'

Bolitho walked to the rail and shouted at the men by the guns who were already replacing the extra lashing on the twelve-pounders and bolting the ports. 'Belay that order!'

He looked at Moresby and said, 'That sloop, sir. It might be the Fairfax which Lord Hood sent out for news from here.' He waited, gripping his hands behind him as he watched the uncertainty growing on the admiral's features. He added stubbornly, 'If it is our ship then…'

Moresby looked away. 'God, man! If you're right!' He made an effort to control his voice as he snapped, 'Make a signal to the Marie! Tell her to withdraw and take station astern. Then make the same signal to the Princesal"

But the Spanish flagship had completed her turn, and with the fresh morning breeze across her larboard bow was heading straight for the smooth waters of the harbour entrance.

Moresby said, 'Fire a gun, dammit! Make him see our signal!'

But the gun crews were still caught in the confusion of countermanded orders and it was a full three minutes before the forward gun boomed another blank charge.

Caswell said breathlessly, 'No acknowledgement, sir!'

Lieutenant Inch, who had taken no part in the general discussion said suddenly, 'I can see smoke, sir!'

Bilitho lifted his glass, seeing the rough grey- stone of the fortress suddenly stark in the harsh sunlight. As he steadied the telescope he saw the growing haze beyond the lower walls and heard Inch add doubtfully, 'Well, it wasn't gunfire.'

Bolitho looked at Moresby and saw the dismay on his face. The admiral said thickly, 'Furnace smokel They're heating shot, by God!'

Another cry from the masthead brought every glass round once more. In the twinkling of an eye the flag above the fortress had vanished. It was replaced instantly by a new one, and as it broke out to the sunlight Bolitho heard the admiral give a low murmur of disbelief, as if he had still been hanging on to some small hope, when there was none.

Bolitho closed his glass with a snap. The white flag with its new tricolour in one corner swept away all past uncertainty.

He looked at Gossett. `Wear ship, if you please. Steer east by north.' To Moresby he added quietly, `Well, sir?'

The admiral tore his eyes from the Marie. It was evident that Anduaga had seen the French flag, and it was equally obvious he could do nothing about it. The harbour entrance was less than a mile across, and the French commander had timed it so that the Marie's great shadow had passed between the fortress and the long headland on the opposite side before, he showed his true colours.

The Marie heeled slightly, her yards bracing round as she sailed closer to the fortress side. Anduaga probably hoped to go about inside the wider expanse of the harbour and sail straight out of the opening in one swift manoeuvre.

Even a fast frigate would have found it difficult. Marte's men were hampered by the packed soldiers, and order of any sort gave way to complete confusion as the first gun opened fire from the battery walls. In addition the Marie's captain had failed to allow for the sheltering wall of the headland. His sails flapped aimlessly, and for a few long minutes the ship was all aback.

Moresby said tightly, 'Close the harbour entrance, Bolitho! We must support Andtiaga!' He turned as the air trembled to a full salvo from the battery. Tall waterspouts were rising beyond the Spanish flagship, but. still Anduaga had not fired one shot in reply.

Bolitho said harshly, 'Alter course two points to larboard, Mr. Gossett.' He looked across at Quarme. 'Have the guns loaded and run out.' He was surprised that his voice remained so calm. Inwardly his whole being wanted to scream with desperation at Moresby's latest order. It was useless to follow the Marie. It had been pointless from the moment the flag had been hoisted. No ship was a match for a carefully sited shore battery. And heated shot into the bargain. Bolitho looked up bitterly at the Hyperion's yards as they squeaked round obediently to the braces. Every shroud and spar, every plank above her waterline was as dry as tinder.

He called, 'Bucket parties ready, Mr. Quarme! If one heated ball has more than a minute in the timbers you know what to expect!'

Moresby lowered his glass. 'Signal the Princesa to take station astem.' Across the water he could hear the beat of drums, and as he watched saw the sixty-four running out her

guns.

Bolitho could not contain himself. `Too late!'

The admiral did not face him. `The Marie might still be able to withdraw. If we give her full support…' He broke off and stared transfixed as a great tongue of flame soared up the flagship's side. It was so vast that it made the Marie seem tiny by comparison. She had at last run out her guns, but even as her upper battery exploded in a ragged salvo the searing wall of flames engulfed the whole larboard side, so that the flapping sails and cheerful banners vanished in seconds, like ashes in a strong wind.

A fog of brown smoke drifted from the stone walls above the cliff, and every few seconds one or more of the big guns added to the holocaust below.

Somehow the Marie's jib and foresail survived, so that the breeze swung her round, the lazy movement carrying the flames leaping across her upper deck. Within minutes she was ablaze from bow to quarterdeck, and from the crowded poop tiny, pitiful figures were dropping overboard to join the struggling bodies who already sought safety in the glittering water.

Bolitho made himself concentrate on the slanting hillside as it pointed down towards the Hyperion's bowsprit. 'Steady! Starboard a point!' He heard Caswell sucking breath between his teeth, and in the grim silence he could listen to the burning ship like a man in some sort of nightmare.

Closer and closer, until mercifully the overhanging headland had crept down to hide the dying Marie from sight. But above the hill he saw the pall of black smoke and the great drifting curtain of blown sparks as the battery hammered the stricken ship into blazing ruins.

His mouth was bone dry, but he must not think about it. The Marie had a company of seven hundred men. She had in addition upwards of two hundred soldiers aboard and a hundred terrified horses.

There was a direct orange flash from the hillside and then a loud slap overhead. Bolitho looked at the smoking hole in the mizzen topsail and then at the admiral.

Moresby gritted his teeth as he said, 'We must attack, Bolitho! What else can we do?'

Bolitho looked away as another ball screamed past the mainyard and ricocheted across the water like a crazed serpent.

He said, 'We must withdraw, sir. With all respect, this move is lost to us.' Again he was amazed at his own calmness. Yet every second carried his ship nearer and nearer to the entrance. Fifteen more minutes and he would have to tack. One way or the other. He added doggedly, 'The Frogs can pound us to fragments, sir. Even if we reach the other part of the harbour they'll be waiting for our boats to try and land.'

He saw Moresby's features twisting with doubts and fears he could only guess at. Whatever he did now he would see his future in ruins. An eighty-gun ship destroyed and her company burned or captured, and above all the French flag over Cozar, untouched and unreachable. Then he pushed the feelings of pity from his mind and said harshly, 'For God's sake, sir! We cannot fight those guns!'

Then Moresby looked up at his flag rippling from the foremast and said with his old abruptness, 'Handle your ship as you will, Bolitho! But we'll not give in to those treacherous dogs!' He glared. 'Not now! Not ever!'

Bolitho eyed him squarely and coldly, then walked to the rail. 'Larboard batteries to full elevation, Mr. Quarme! We will engage as we round the headland!' He glanced up quickly as a shoulder of hillside lifted to blind the enemy gunners. But respite was only temporary. Once round the point and at least seven big guns would bear on the Hyperion.

He listened to the bosun's mates piping his orders between decks and heard the scrape of metal as the double line of guns pointed their muzzles skyward.

Then as the ship threw her shadow almost to the foot of the cliffs a great silence fell over the decks, unbroken even by distant gunfire.

Ashby's marines had clumped aft and now lined the quarterdeck and poop nettings, their muskets loaded and ready. Lieutenant Shanks, Ashby's second-in-command, stood by the poop rail, his heavy curved hanger still in its scabbard, as if to condemn the hopelessness of muskets against stone and heated shot.

Caswell called, 'Sir! The Princesa's hauled off!'

It was true. Horrified or fearful at the sight of the Hyperion driving right inshore to the foot of the cliffs, the other Spanish captain had obviously decided to use his own discretion rather than obey Moresby's last desperate signal.

Moresby said thickly, 'That cowardly dog! I'll see him in chains for this!'

Bolitho ignored him. It was easy to do with death so close at hand. His usual fear of mutilation and agony under the surgeon's knife at the approach of battle gave way to a dull acceptance. It was strange that but for his own single mindedness he would still be in Kent. He thought of Moresby's determination and felt violently angry. To think that such eager men, and others swept up by an impartial Press, should trust their lives to men like him! When all else failed, when he was proved wrong, all he could think of was dying bravely! And when Hyperion's old timbers lay rotting beside those of the Spaniard's the French flag would still be there.

A shaft of sunlight lanced across the quarterdeck and with something like shock he realised that his ship was already moving into the calmer waters of the harbour approach. There across the bow was the far side of the opening, an unfinished stone jetty shining in the sun like giant's teeth. He could seethe small sloop anchored around a bend in the steep hills which surrounded the protected bay like a green wall. There were some tiny figures rowing a longboat across the sloop's bows, untroubled by the horror below the fortress.

They were so confident that as the Hyperion's bowsprit crossed the opening they ceased rowing, and one man even stood up to watch.

Bolitho grasped the quarterdeck rail, feeling his heart against his ribs like drum beats. 'Mr. Rooke!' He saw the lieutenant turn his face up from the maindeck, shading his eyes against the glare. 'You will control the firing! I want the guns fired in succession, two by two as they bear! Aim for the parapet and fire on the uproll!' He saw Rooke nod and then turn back to his crouching gunners.

Hyperion was cutting the entrance more finely than the carefree Marte had done, so the French battery would have to wait a moment longer. As the ship glided slowly past an outthrust spit of rocks Bolitho heard cries of shocked despair from the tops, and when he leaned over the nettings he saw what was left of Anduaga's flagship.

She was still burning fiercely, but some internal explosion must have blasted out her bottom, so that she lay like a flaming pyre across a ridge of hard sand, her masts all gone, her hull gutted almost to the lower gundeck. She was surrounded by a drifting carpet of ashes and charred woodwork, amongst which the wounded and flayed survivors jostled each other, splashing and screaming, clutching even at the many corpses which moved with them in a macabre dance.

Rooke's voice was crisp. 'Open fire!'

The broadside rippled unhurriedly down the Hyperion's side, each upper gun firing in unison with its larger consort on the lower deck.

Bolitho felt the ship quiver as if being shaken by a jagged reef. He watched narrowly as the balls struck the top of the stone walls below the smoking mil-les and saw a few chips fly in the air like pebbles. As if from far off he heard his gun captains yelling like madmen, `Reload! Run out!', and the trucks squealing again like pigs as they raced each other for the open ports.

Then the first two guns fired from the battery. One ball whipped overhead and crashed into the far side of the harbour. The second hit the ship hard below the quarterdeck, the shock vibrating up through the planking even as the men ran with their buckets to quench the eager twist of smoke from the embedded iron.

'Fire!' Again the guns lurched back on the tilting deck, their own smoke eddying back through the ports, acrid and blinding, as the gunners feverishly sponged out the hot muzzles and rammed home their charges.

They were past the entrance now. More guns joined in from the battery, and Bolitho's iced mind recorded at least two more hits below decks. Somewhere a man was screaming, the noise going on and on, so that some of the boys running from the magazine with powder seemed terrified by its persistent discord.

'Larboard a point, Mr. Gossett!' Bolitho watched the helm going over and saw the seaman nearest him gripping the' worn spokes with all his strength.

A solitary horseman cantered over the crest of the hill and paused to open his telescope. He seemed to stare down at the ship like a bored spectator, and Lieutenant Shanks snarled, 'A guinea for the first man to bring him down!' The marines responded eagerly, each man glad to be doing something at last, although everyone knew that the muskets would not reach half that distance. But the horse shied and the mounted soldier hurriedly withdrew. The marines cheered and grinned at each other through the smoke, as if they had vanquished an army.

Bolitho turned away as another ball screamed down from the battery and hammered into his ship. But this one passed through a gunport and clanged against the metal of a twentyfour-pounder before smashing into the press of men on the opposite side. He could hear the desperate shouts of the officers and the awful screams from the wounded, but when he looked at Moresby the latter was staring straight ahead, one hand resting on his sheathed sword, the other tapping a tattoo against his thigh.

'Fire on the lower gundeck, sir!' Midshipman Piper skidded to a halt, his monkey face black with smoke. 'Ten men wounded, too!' He swallowed hard. 'There's a bloody gruel down there, sir!'

Bolitho found time to marvel at the boy's calm. Later he would break. If he lived long enough.

'Detail more fire parties, Mr. Quarme!' He tore his eyes from the thin plume of smoke from the forehatch. 'Lively there!'

It was hopeless. As the ship moved further into the harbour so she made a better target. Bolitho could see the landing place now,-and that too was crammed with soldiers and the glint of weapons. Here and there a musket flashed, and he knew they were shooting at some of the Marte's men who had been strong enough to swim that far.

A kind of throbbing madness pulsed through Bolitho's head, so that he felt half dazed. He could stand no more of it. To throw his ship and his men away for nothing.

He swung round to face Moresby, but as he turned he felt something akin to a hot, sandy wind pass his face, and as he opened his mouth to cry a warning the ball struck the nearest gun and exploded in a screech of splinters. Three marines fell writhing from the nettings, and the helmsman whom Bolitho had noticed earlier dropped gasping to his – knees, his fingers tearing at his stomach as if to contain the entrails which spewed out on to the planking.

Quarme was yelling, 'The admiral is hit!' He ran from the rail and stooped down beside him calling, 'Fetch the surgeon! Hurry, man!'

Bolitho crossed the deck in two strides. 'Return to your station, Mr. Quarme!' From the corner of his eye he saw Gossett -pushing the agonised man from the wheel and guiding another through the smoke. He heard cries all around him, but as the smoke eddied and swirled over the bulwarks his world was momentarily contained on this small patch of sunlit quarterdeck. And all -the time Moresby was staring up at him, unable to speak, for a splinter had gouged into his throat, tearing it away like a blow from a great talon.

Midshipman Caswell faltered, swallowing hard to control his nausea, then forcing himself from the bulwark dropped down to support the admiral's head on his lap.

Still looking at Moresby's stricken face Bolitho rapped, 'Stand by to go about, Mr. Gossett!'

Some sort of understanding showed on Moresby's face, and he feebly tried to move, so that the blood poured from his wound and across his white waistcoat.

Bolitho shouted, 'Now! Helm alee!' Down in the smoke he could hear men cursing and struggling, and disembodied above the fog the yards began to swing round. The guns were still firing, and as a freak down-draught cleared the smoke from the bows Bolitho saw the fortress swinging across the forecastle as if on a pivot. He felt a sudden prick of pride for this tired old ship. She was answering well in spite of the fools who manned her.

He knelt at Moresby's side and saw the man's tongue bobbing as if to tear itself free. Over his head Caswell's face was torn with fear and pity as his tears ran unheeded, making pale lines through the grime of gunsmoke.

Moresby whispered, 'You were right, Bolitho, damn you!' He shook as a ball whimpered above the poor and severed a backstay like thread. 'I should have seen-should have realised…' He was choking in his own blood.

Bolitho said quietly, 'Rest easy, sir. I am taking the ship away from this.'

Moresby closed his eyes. 'Running from them!' He groaned. 'In all my years I've never run…'

Bolitho wanted to go back to his ship, but his sudden compassion for Moresby made him stay. He said, 'Not running, sir. We will come back and take that battery for you!'

A gunner's mate ran to the quarterdeck his eyes wild. 'Captain, sir!' He stopped. dead as he saw the admiral and then continued in a calmer voice, 'The fire's out, sir!'

Moresby seemed to hear him and muttered, 'Of course, you are a Cornishman, Bolitho. Never did like 'em. Too damn independent, too-too…' The blood gushed across his chest and neck and his head lolled against Caswell for the last time.

Bolitho stood up. 'Are we clear? He saw Gossett staring at him. 'Well?'

The master licked his lips and then nodded. 'Look, sir!'

The entrance was gliding past once more. Abeam lay the burning hulk of the Marte and her attendant corpses. Dead men and horses floated across the Hyperion's bows and unwillingly parted to let her through.

Only a few shots followed her out, for the gunsmoke and that of the burning flagship made a very effective screen. Or maybe the French gunners were too jubilant to care. As well they might be, Bolitho thought bitterly.

He said, `Wear ship, Mr. Gossett. Steer due east once you clear the approaches.' To the quarterdeck at large he added coldly, 'I told the admiral we will return.'

He caught sight of the unharmed Princesa still hove to and standing far out from the battery's reach. He heard himself say, `Signal the Princesa. I want her captain aboard within the hour.' He looked around the stained deck, at the protesting wounded who were being dragged below to meet the surgeon's knife. At the splintered deck where Moresby had fallen, and at the admiral himself. He said aloud, 'If the Spanish captain refuses to obey my orders I will open fire on him!'

Gossett saw his face and turned away. He knew Bolitho meant what he said. There was no relief on the captain's face as he might have expected. He had saved his ship and had shown honour in the face of stupidity. But in his eyes there was a wildness which Gossett in all his experience had not seen before. Like that in the eyes of an injured animal. In his heart he knew the look would stay there until Hyperion lay at anchor in the harbour and the battery's guns were made harmless.

Bolitho heard some of the men cheering and snapped, 'Secure the guns, Mr. Quarme, and report to me on all damage and casualties. There will be time for cheering later perhaps.' He stared astern towards the drifting bank of smoke which followed the- ship like a curtain. 'But now there is work to do.'

Quarme mopped his sweating face with the back of his sleeve. 'Will we be returning to the squadron, sir?' He faltered as Bolitho eyed him coldly then hurried on, 'I mean, sir, both admirals are dead and…'

Bolitho turned away. Then we will just have to manage on our own, won't we, Mr. Quarme?'