Heart of Oak

17. In the King's Name

"Ship cleared for action, sir! "Vincent touched his hat. "Both cutters towing astern."

Adam walked forward to the quarterdeck rail and stared along the ship, seeing it as he had already pictured it in his mind from the moment he had abandoned all pretense of sleep. Onward's state of readiness recalled the regular drills, which he and the gunner had timed to the minute. And yet so different. Each eighteen-pounder with its full crew, their tools, rammers and sponges and handspikes, and slow-matches within reach if a flintlock misfired. He could feel the grit under his shoes and knew that the decks had been sanded, to prevent men from slipping if water was shipped once the ports were opened. Or in blood, if the worst happened.

He saw the burly shape of the boatswain leaning back as he checked the hastily rigged boarding nets. He had already heard him once before during their recent preparations. "Slacken ‘em off, lads! They'm supposed to catch the buggers in a net, not be used as a ladder to make ‘em welcome aboard! "There had been some laughs. Not this time.

Vincent said, "I've sent Tucker to the foremast, sir. Ready and eager. "He.gestured toward the two midshipmen waiting by the flag locker. "I thought Deacon might be more useful aloft with the signals telescope."

Adam lifted his own glass and trained it across the starboard bow. Slow and steady. As if he had stopped breathing. Blurred faces, taut rigging, sharp and black in the strengthening glare.

The curved edge of the forecourse. He watched the other ship move across the lens, then stand motionless, as if trapped.

On a converging tack, leaning slightly to beat to windward.

He lowered the glass and allowed his eye to recover. The rest would be guesswork. The pyramid of sails was reduced to a miniature, like the fin of a giant fish cutting the horizon.

Beyond, there seemed to be haze or mist. But he knew it was the land, reaching out like a great arm. Or a trap.

He recalled what Vincent had said.

"Good thinking, Mark. Tell Deacon to go now."

He saw a messenger run to the flag locker. When Onward had first arrived at Gibraltar, Deacon had been the only one to realize that the flagship had been flying a commodore's broad pendant, not an admiral's flag as listed. They had all made what was a common mistake among sailors, so long staring out to sea that they only saw what they expected to see.

He saw the midshipman striding forward, the telescope slung over his shoulder like a small cannon, and Lieutenant Monteith by one of the eighteen-pounders, watching him.

Perhaps remembering when he had been like Deacon, hanging on the threshold of promotion. And little Walker taking over the signals party. Thirteen years old today. He was not likely to forget it.

Adam moved to the compass box. The chief quartermaster was on the wheel, backed up by two helmsmen. He glanced at the compass, then up at the masthead pendant, and felt the sun on his face.

"Nor "east by north, sir. Steady as she goes!"

Adam smiled. "Thank you, Carter. So be it!"

A squad of Royal Marines was standing with their sergeant, ready to add their strength to the braces when needed. But their muskets were piled nearby. Like a warning.

He returned to the rail, unhurriedly, despite the instinct crying out to be in all places at once. Nobody looked at him directly, but he knew they were watching when he passed. Men waiting to go aloft, and claw out along the yards, to dangle over the sea or fall to certain death on the deck if they missed their footing.

The gun crews, along either side as before. But restless now.

Or was he imagining that? He wanted to lift his telescope again, but knew it was too soon. He had seen some of the men at the guns turn to stare aft. They will want to see you.

But not if he was showing himself to be a fool.

His coat felt heavy across his shoulders, and his shirt was clinging damply to his skin. Such a short while ago, below in the great cabin, when he had seen Jago's expression. His doubts.

Together, they had experienced and shared so much. Like the prayer book Jago had fetched from the cabin when they had buried the three sailors. They had both been remembering that other time, in Athena, when they had committed Catherine's body to the sea. Her roses would still be blooming in their garden beside the old grey house. He touched the lapel of his coat reminiscently.

"Deck there!"

It was Tucker. Cupping his strong hands, his voice clear and steady. "She wears French colours!"

Adam stared over the gun crews and across the glistening water until his eyes were blinded. Men were shouting with relief or derision, probably both.

Vincent had said something, but Adam heard only one voice. Through the brutal memories of death and its aftermath: Marchand, as they had parted. When next we meet, there will be no flags. It will be as friends! He would be the last to forget.

"Pass the word. All guns load, but do not run out."

Vincent licked his lips. "Do we fight, sir?"

Adam looked over at Jago, and nodded.

"And we shall win!"

Napier was careful to stand clear as the foremast gun on the starboard side was hauled inboard away from its port. Onward was leaning slightly downwind, so that the gun crews had to use all their strength to haul their massive weapons into position. Fourteen guns on either beam; at least it would be easier when the order came to run out. Napier had taken part in nearly all the drills. A few accidents or mishaps, and curses in plenty. He could feel the tightness in his stomach, something he had taught himself to overcome. But this was not a drill. Almost like Audacity that day, when the drums had called them to their quarters for action, and the ship's last fight.

He touched the dirk hanging against his hip. When Audacity had gone down and he had started to swim for the shore, this fine new dirk had still been on his belt. One of the marines who had helped carry him from the beach had told him that its extra weight could have cost him his life. He had not understood what it meant to him. Then… he touched it again… and today.

He heard Lieutenant Squire calling to one of the gun captains, making him grin as he took a ball from the shot garland, and seemed to fondle it in both hands.

Most gun captains were like that. The first broadside would be double-shotted, while there was still time to think. To react.

The charge was already loaded, with two sharp taps to bed it in place and wad to hold it steady. Then the balls, and a final wad rammed home.

Along each side the gun captains faced aft, fists raised. Only a minute or so between them.

"All guns loaded, sir!"

Napier exhaled slowly. The other guns, nine-pounders and the squat carronades, the "smashers', were close to follow.

There was a lull, and he heard a seaman at the nearest gun say, "It's real this time, Dick!"

The loader turned to look at him.

"Cap'n don't want us caught with our britches down, see?"

Napier saw Midshipman Huxley hurrying along the gangway, ducking to avoid the nets, doubtless taking a message from the quarterdeck. Across the long rank of eighteen pounders, they saw one another and waved.

He heard Squire say, "Walk, don't run. We're still afloat!"

But he was speaking to himself. Like some of the others nearby he was watching the boatswain and his men by the empty boat tier, preparing to hoist out the two remaining craft, gig and jolly-boat, to join the cutters already towing astern. A wise and necessary precaution: more casualties were caused by flying splinters than iron shot. They would be cast adrift if action was joined, and recovered afterwards. It sounded simple enough, but the landmen and less experienced hands might view the procedure with alarm.

Without realizing it, he had reached down to feel his leg, and the ugly scar.

You were lucky.

He recalled Murray the surgeon's comment.

"He did a good job on that, whoever he was!"

But suppose some one was seeing the scar for the first time? He thought of the letter which had never begun. He was stupid even to think of it…

There was a metallic clatter and he saw a young seaman stumble amongst a length of chain. They had been rigging slings to some of the upper yards, a protection should one or more of them fall to the deck. There was a dark stain across the sanded planking, where water had been tipped from the boats.

He must have slipped in it.

"You clumsy, useless scum! "It was Fowler, the boatswain's mate, almost spitting with anger as he lashed out with his starter and cracked it across the man's shoulders. "Listen to me, damn you!"

Another crack; there was blood this time.

But the young seaman seemed unable to get to his feet, or even shield himself from the blows. He was clutching at his foot or his ankle, badly twisted when he had fallen.

The starter was raised again. Napier pushed past some of the working party and tried to stop it, saw the crouching figure cringe as it slashed toward him.

He gasped, and cried out as the deflected blow caught his outthrust arm.

Fowler lost his balance and almost fell, his face torn between fury and surprise. He started to speak, perhaps to defend his actions. Napier could never afterwards remember.

Squire sounded very calm. Unemotional, as if they had never met before, and oblivious to the watching seamen. The deck might have been deserted.

"I have warned you about your behaviour, Fowler, and your readiness to administer punishment, above and beyond the line of duty!"

Fowler was glaring at him, his breathing regular again, recovering. He even managed a sarcastic grin.

"Speakin "up, are you, sir? Showin "a bit of authority at last? I was just doin "my rightful job with this clumsy waister!"

Squire smiled coldly. "We will all have to do our duty very shortly, I think. "He reached out and grasped Napier's sleeve.

"However, you just struck an officer, Fowler. Do you deny that?"

Fowler stared from one to the other.

"Not true! Weren't like that! It weren't meant…" He broke off as some one shouted, "I saw it, sir! Call me if you need a witness!"

There was something like a growl from the gun crews and the men waiting by the two boats.

Napier could feel it as if it were something physical. It was hate.

Squire said, "Report to the master-at-arms, Fowler. You are no stranger to threats, I think you'll agree. If you are disrated because of this, I feel sure you will hear more of them when you join the messdeck!"

Fowler exclaimed, "If I was to tell ‘em…" and stared around, the fight suddenly gone out of him.

A Royal Marine, who had been posted by one of the hatchways when the ship had been cleared for action, stepped smartly forward and rapped Fowler on the shoulder.

The surgeon had also appeared, and after a brief examination of the injured man, announced calmly, "Broken ankle. "He patted his arm. "You'll be taken to the orlop. Best place, if you ask me! "He nodded to Squire. "No peace for the wicked, I'm afraid."

Napier walked back to the first gun, feeling the stinging pain in his arm. It would be badly bruised tomorrow… Far worse for the injured seaman he had been trying to protect.

He turned quickly, but was too late to see who had touched his back, firmly and deliberately.

The gun captain was talking quietly with two of his crew, and another was loosening the breeching rope. Nothing left to chance.

He could still feel it, stronger and more eloquent than any spoken word of thanks. No one met his eye.

He saw Midshipman Deacon making his way aft, tar stains on his white breeches, about to report to the captain. Later the entire episode would find its place in his diary, if he lived.

He heard tackles taking the strain as the gig was hoisted in readiness for lowering. The seamen at the tackles were waiting for Jago, the captain's coxswain, to give the order, and he was standing by the gig, one hand on the gunwale.

But he was looking up, through the rigging, watching the flags as they ran up the halliard and broke to the wind.

Enemy in Sight! The pretense was over.

Adam felt the sun, a sudden hot bar across his shoulder, as the ship leaned more steeply from the wind. Only the shadows and the sea alongside were moving, and even the sounds of rope and canvas seemed subdued.

At the guns, the crews waited in silence like groups of statuary, with only an occasional movement as some one hurried with a message or climbed on the gangway to look for Nautilus.

She was almost directly ahead now, and had displayed her full broadside when she had changed tack, sails in confusion as she had clawed into the wind. If any doubts had remained, they had gone from that moment. Adam saw Midshipman Deacon standing by his flag locker, with little Walker beside him. He could still see his expression when he had come aft to report on the other frigate's course and bearing. He had described the moment when the French flag had been lowered. Cut down. The young face and voice so deeply serious as he had motioned with his hand.

"It fell, sir. Like a dying bird."

Vincent had said, "They're trying to beat to wind'rd, and take the advantage."

Adam moved slightly and saw a sliver of blue water open and widen through the shivering rigging. Almost bows-on again, sails filled and braced on her new tack, her shadow reaching over and ahead of the hull.

What kind of men were these? Rebels, renegades, maybe deserters from the old enemies, even from their own fleet. It was not unknown for men who had broken the yoke of one life of discipline and danger, only to find it was the only thing they knew and understood.

He looked away from the other ship. What will he do? What would I do?

He walked to the rail again and could feel the group around the wheel staring at his back.

They are all in my hands.

Nautilus would try and hold the wind-gage and remain on the same tack. Once abeam, she would open fire and attempt to dismast and cripple Onward, regardless of the range when they passed. He realized that he had punched one hand into the other. Then reload while she crosses our stern with another full broadside. The death of any ship which was cleared for action, decks open from bow to stern when the iron thundered through.

He said, "Cast off the breechings and open the ports. "He turned to look directly at Vincent. "Larboard side only!"

He saw him nod, and perhaps smile. "Warn the starboard crews to standby."

He saw Julyan turn aside from the quartermaster as if to confirm his own thoughts about a trick which could so easily turn into disaster. He had been looking up at the masthead pendant, feeling the wind like a true sailor.

Adam did not. Instead he looked along the deck, the gun captains signalling that they were prepared. Breeching ropes cast off, the ports along one side open, the sea sliding briskly beneath them.

But if the wind drops? He took the telescope and realized that Jago had joined him, grim-faced, watching the distant frigate. As for most fighting sailors, waiting was the worst part. Or so they told themselves.

But he said, "Ready to cast off the boats, Cap'n. Just give the word."

Adam opened the telescope. Another hour? Less, if the wind holds steady.

"Do it now, Luke. I'll lay odds that every available glass is trained on us at this very moment."

He looked at Vincent. "Run out!"

He could see it in his mind. All along one side, the black muzzles were poking into the sunlight. Like one of the drills, with extra hands from the starboard side to add their muscle and run the guns up the sloping deck.

Vincent said, "With permission, sir? "He did not finish it, but touched his hat formally before walking to the gangway.

Squire was already making his way aft to take his place.

Opposite ends of the ship… Like hearing a voice from the past.

Don't display all your eggs in the same basket.

He saw Lieutenant Gascoigne, his face almost as scarlet as his tunic, moving slowly along the front rank of his Royal Marines, eyes noting every detail, making a comment from time to time. As if they were mounting guard in the barracks ashore.

Napier had come aft with Squire, calm enough, but he glanced round, startled, as the two cutters were cast adrift and were soon falling astern.

Then he stopped by the companion and said deliberately, "I shall be here, sir. "He seemed to nod. "I'm not afraid. Not this time."

Adam held his arm, and thought he flinched.

"Keep on the move, David."

Napier bit his lip, feeling the bruise left by Fowler's starter, but no longer caring. This was the closest they had been; had been allowed to be.

"You, too. "Then he did smile. "Sir!"

Jago had returned, and Adam saw that he was wearing his broad-bladed dirk. Like Athena and Unrivalled.

He said only, "Gig's gone adrift, Cap'n."

Adam loosened his belt and moved the old sword into the glare. Jago gave a crooked grin.

"Now we'll have the bastards!"

There was a sudden explosion, a solitary gun, probably a ranging shot, the sound echoing and re-echoing across the water like something trapped in a tunnel or shaft.

Adam watched the sunlight touching the open port-lids of the oncoming frigate, then the line of guns. He thought he saw the flash of reflected sun: some one training a glass on Onward. Perhaps on me.

He dragged off his hat and waved it toward the men below him at the guns.

Too soon! Or too late? "Stand by to come about!"

Calls shrilled and men who had been crouching at braces and halliards shouted to one another as they ran to obey.

"Helm a-lee! Hard over!"

'open the ports! Run out!"

Some one even gave a wild cheer as the eighteen-pounders squealed against the side, the gun captains racing one another to sight and lay on the target even as Onward thrust into and across the wind, topsails flapping and booming while the yards braced round, as if responding to a single hand.

At that moment, Nautilus opened fire.

Only seconds, but it seemed forever: the intermittent flash of gunfire and the shuddering onslaught through canvas and rigging overhead, the shock of iron slamming into the hull.

Adam stood quite still, his eye fixed on the bowsprit and jib boom as it continued to swing, like a giant pointer, as if to reach out and touch the bulging canvas. Nautilus seemed to loom closer, as if she and not Onward was swinging to engage.

His muscles tensed as he felt the deck shake under his feet, expecting the sounds of broken spars, anticipating the agony that would end everything.

The ship was still answering the helm, while the headsail sheets were let go to allow her to swing unheeded through the wind.

He saw Nautilus, shrouded in her own gunsmoke, but no longer free to sail past and deliver another broadside. Onward's agility and sudden, seemingly reckless change of tack and direction had caught her gun crews unawares. Most of the shots had passed overhead.

Here and there small scenes leaped out at him. A seaman seizing one of his companions at the gun below the quarterdeck, and throwing him aside as a massive block, severed from the rigging high above, smashed down beside them. Shock, obscenities, then a grin. Midshipman Hotham, the clergyman's son, face screwed up in concentration as he loaded and examined a long pistol, flinching as more debris fell clattering nearby. Then he handed the pistol to Monteith, who took it with a curt nod.

And the men at the braces, stiff with crouching, waiting and willing the ship to complete her tack. And hit back. One of them, naked to the waist, was sharing his handhold with another, younger sailor, who was not even daring to open his eyes as the smoke billowed across the water. The scars of the cat were still livid on his back, as if the flogging had given Dimmock some kind of authority.

Adam thrust out his arm and heard Julyan yell, "Ready, sir!"

Perhaps he had not dared to look aft, in case the helm was shot away or manned only by the dead.

"Steady as you go! Meet her! "The spokes were turning, but Adam was staring up at the masthead pendant, stark and clear again above the thinning smoke. Broken cordage jerking in the wind, and a blackened hole in the topsail, where two shots had missed both mast and yard by a few inches. There was blood too, drying on the canvas. One of the topmen. A face he would have known.

"Let go and haul!"

"Heave, me lads! Heave! "Guthrie's voice, powerful, unhurried, ready to send or push more hands where they were needed.

Adam heard some one cry out in pain, but he kept his eyes on the yards, still swinging in response to the men at the braces.

He watched the big arrowhead of water changing shape, the Nautilus very bright now in the sun, her gunports empty and with every crew trying to reload and run out again, before…

He shut his mind to it, surprised that he felt neither doubt nor anger. Only hatred.

"Steady as she goes, sir!"

Adam did not hear. He had drawn his sword, and held it lightly across his right shoulder.

He saw a slight movement, sunlight disturbing the pattern as the first gun to reload thrust through its port.

Too late.

He brought the sword down to the rail, and thought he heard some one cheer.

"Fire!"

Every gun fired as one, recoiling from its port and brought under control before the full impact of their combined, doubleshotted broadside exploded against the enemy. They were already sponging out and reloading with fresh charges, shouting and cheering like madmen, and despite the neckerchiefs tied around their ears were too deaf to hear or share the excitement and relief after hours of waiting behind sealed ports while the larboard side had bared its teeth.

Adam covered his mouth and nose as the smoke billowed inboard in a solid cloud. The roar of the full broadside seemed to hang in the air, an echo perhaps of the double-shotted onslaught which had found its target.

Men were coughing and retching, but some were peering around in the smoke for friends. Gun crews were calling to each other, throwing their weight on tackles and handspikes, their world concentrated on the open ports before them.

Adam reached for his telescope, then waved it aside as a hand offered it through the thinning smoke.

He did not need it. The regular drills and the gun crews" patience and trust had done their work today.

Nautilus's proud beauty was broken, disfigured. Her foremast had gone completely, dragging over the forecastle and into the water alongside, the tangled mass of spars and severed rigging already dragging her round like a giant sea anchor. The main topmast was also shot away. He thought of Maddock the gunner, down below the waterline, sealed in his cavern of explosives and instant death. He must have heard it, felt the success of his training and hard work, and been proud.

Somebody exclaimed, "That'll make ‘em put their bloody heads together an' think again!"

Squire sounded wary, impatient. "They've got plenty of those, for God's sake!"

Adam walked aft to the wheel, men turning toward him, still too dazed and deafened to grasp the significance of the lieutenant's warning.

Nautilus was not responding to her rudder, and it seemed nothing was being done to cut away the burden of mast and sails which was dragging her further and further downwind.

Squire had seen it. The wind was no longer an ally.

He looked at the smoke, drifting just above the water. The wind was dropping, biding its time. The real enemy.

Napier was beside him, as if he had expected to be called.

"Ask the first lieutenant to lay aft. "He saw him touch his hat and hurry to the larboard gangway.

He heard musket shots, far-off and ineffectual. Some of the Royal Marines of the afterguard were listening, gripping their muskets, gauging the range.

They would not have long to wait.

The wind had almost dropped, but there was still enough to carry a new sound, more threatening than the infrequent report of a musket.

Voices, hundreds of them, joined together like a muffled roar.

Vincent had reached the quarterdeck, his eyes on the loosely flapping topsails, and then the men at the wheel.

"If the wind returns, I can bring our guns to bear."

Adam shook his head. "So might Nautilus. But she'll need a dockyard before she can fight and win under any flag."

He saw the familiar frown, the old challenge. Then he said quietly, "They'll try to board us, sir. Their only chance. Fight or die."

Adam turned the old sword over in his hands.

"And ours, Mark."

He stared along the upper deck, the men at their guns, others dragging away fallen rigging. There were two bodies lying by the empty boat-tier, already covered. Wasted.

"So be it. Close quarters!"

July an called, "She's swingin', sir!"

Adam laid the sword on the rail and took his telescope.

Onward was answering the helm again, the quartermaster peering at the compass as a gust of air lifted the big ensign above the poop defiantly, and another volley of musket fire made some of the seamen duck for cover.

Adam stood motionless, the telescope hot against his skin.

Nautilus was turning very slowly, the sun suddenly like a mirror across the quarter, and then more slowly still over the poop itself. He felt something crack against the deck and saw splinters blown aside. More shots, this time from the maintop, some of Gascoigne's marksmen returning fire.

Adam wiped his eye and steadied the glass again. Figures running along Nautilus's gangway, above the entry port, where Marchand had welcomed him aboard. More were already clambering around the cathead, trying to hack away the remaining shrouds which held the fallen mast alongside.

"As you bear! "He heard Napier, then another voice passing the order to the guns.

More shots, and a louder bang: a swivel gun, he thought. The glass remained steady, but he could feel sweat running down his spine like blood.

It was now. The crash of the first eighteen-pounder seemed sharper, louder, not double-shotted this time. The stern windows were blown aside, pieces of carved "gingerbread" splashing and resurfacing beneath the counter even as the next gun fired, blasting through Nautilus''?, stern.

Adam picked up the sword, the stench of smoke and charred timber searing his throat and eyes.

He saw a marine reloading his musket, and pausing to fix the bayonet, before running to join his section. He was shouting, but Adam could barely hear over the gunfire.

Julyan shouted, "You got your wish, sir! "and turned to say over his shoulder to the quartermaster, "Watch your helm, Carter! "Then he stepped over the man's body and added his own weight to the wheel. The quartermaster had been a trusted friend. But there was no time to think about him, even as he was trying to drag himself to his feet.

He shook his fist, swearing as more shots pounded the deck and clanged aside from one of the nine-pounders.

Adam saw the Nautilus looming over the side, and felt the two hulls shudder together. On deck, the gun crews were reloading, some falling, wounded or dying, as grapnels clattered on to the gangway above them.

"Repel boarders! At ‘em, lads! "The marines ran to obey, bayonets gleaming, as others fired down from the main and mizzen tops. A mob was clambering on to the gangway and reaching for shrouds and ratlines, only to be trapped by the loosely rigged boarding nets.

Blade against blade, teeth bared: almost inhuman as they tried to hack the stout netting aside. No time to reload; it was man to man. Some were through the defenses, to be met by cutlass and boarding axe, and sometimes fists, as they fought and struggled above the guns.

The boatswain was using a cutlass; it looked like a dirk in his massive fist.

"They'm runnin', th "bastards! "Then, like a great tree, he fell, his own men still cheering as they ran across him in pursuit.

Adam hurried to the midships part of the gangway, where the nettings had been hacked away completely. Men were shouting and cursing, some too exhausted even to cry out if they were cut down. There were bodies fallen and trapped between the two hulls, and Adam saw some of the attackers wilt and retreat in confusion as they were confronted by some marines and their cherished musketoon.

Wild cheers now: Vincent was running along Nautilus's, quarterdeck with some of his seamen, climbing back to Onward after pursuing the attackers.

Too late, he became aware of his own danger, and found himself face to face with a strongly built figure brandishing a double-bladed sword as if it were weightless. Perhaps he had seen the uniform, or maybe he was too crazed by the fighting and death all around him, that it was merely a final spur to his madness or his courage.

Their blades locked, and Adam thought he heard Squire yell, "No heroics! "then he drove his own sword into his ribs.

He staggered as his shoe slid on blood, and yelled to the gun crews below him.

The attackers had fallen back to Nautilus's deck, but they were rallying, being led or driven by the same relentless chanting.

"More men! "Adam waved his sword. Monteith should be ready with a party of seamen and the last loaded swivel gun on the opposite gangway.

But he was lying on the main deck, his uniform impeccably clean amidst the blood and filth of fighting.

He saw Napier coming to join him, a hanger drawn and ready, and shouted, "Fall back! Watch yourself, David!"

He pushed two struggling men aside, but another had climbed on to the gangway, a long knife clenched between his teeth.

Napier lost his balance, and the hanger slithered out of reach. His attacker leaped on to his shoulders, dragging him down, gripping the knife as two more of his companions hauled themselves on to the gangway.

Wo, you don't, you bastards! "Some one was running from the side, a boarding pike held like a lance as he charged across the deck.

The pike struck Napier's attacker in the back, with such force that Napier could see the bloodied tip protruding from his chest as he went down and over the side.

He staggered to his feet, staring with shock and dismay as his rescuer threw up both hands and fell after the man he had killed. He was bleeding badly, probably hit by a stray shot even as he watched the boarder fall from view between the hulls.

"Did you see thatT Adam grasped his shoulder, guiding and pushing him toward the quarterdeck. Just a brief glimpse, as he had tried to wrench the pike free of its victim. Mouth wide in a shout or a laugh of jubilation, even as he had been shot down. Jeff Lloyd, one of the sailmaker's crew, who had repaired his old uniform.

He shouted, "Stand by, on deck! "There was a gap now between the two ships, widening and gaining colour even as he watched. He could feel it on his face, and wanted to yell it aloud. The wind was returning, and not only in his mind. Or his prayers. Nautilus was already further away. He could see broken timber and corpses floating free.

More men running along Nautilus's deck, but confused now, perhaps leaderless.

Adam saw a gunner's mate peering up at him while Midshipman Simon Huxley continued to tie a bandage around his arm, taking his time.

"As you bear, lads! "He saw the gunner's mate acknowledge it."

Adam walked along the gangway and saw Jago coming to meet him. The crash of the first gun seemed to swamp everything as the two ships continued to edge apart, the water clearer, reflecting the smoke like harmless clouds. Nautilus was turning again, and would soon expose her side, ready to reopen fire.

There was more smoke swirling from her stern, from the great cabin itself. He saw the eighteen-pounder standing inboard, its crew sponging out and tamping home another charge, a fresh ball already held, ready to follow. The gun captain was gazing at Nautilus, and the smoke that marked his last shot. But there was no cheering this time.

Jago turned as Napier muttered to himself, "He saved my life, "and touched his sleeve, as he had seen his captain do many times.

'We needs you, for better days! "But the habitual wry grin had deserted him.

The gun was already being run up to its port, its captain staring over the breech. He did not even turn his head as the next gun crashed and recoiled, and was being sponged out before the smoke had cleared.

Adam glanced up at the topsails. They were still filled and steady. Onward could break off the fight and go with the wind.

Who would blame him? "Standing by, sir. "That was Squire, who was watching the gun crews impassively as they stared aft, waiting for his signal.

Adam was studying Nautilus's line of ports, still at an angle, but they would soon come to bear again. No jury-rig as yet, nor any attempt to hoist one. But the wreckage had been cut away.

Already drifting clear. He saw two boats close by, Onward's own cutters, unlikely witnesses to a necessary killing on both sides.

He walked to the rail and saw Monteith, sitting now on an upturned box, his head buried in his hands, a crude bandage beneath his fingers. He had apparently been knocked unconscious by a piece of falling timber.

A marine, leaning with his musket against the tightly packed hammock nettings, said, "Mister Monteith is goin "to be all right. "A pause. "Pity, ain't it? "But nobody laughed.

Adam clenched his fist and pressed it against his side. More of Nautilus's guns were visible now. A full broadside… he could wait no longer.

She was a much older ship than Onward. He thought of the empty and abandoned vessels that filled so many ports and inlets in England. Once proud, even famous names, waiting for the breakers "yards, or ignominy as hulks. But most of them would remain afloat. And still withstand a broadside if necessary.

He did not look along his ship again. She had been built for speed and agility. Endurance had outpriced itself, and stripped the forests.

"Full broadside!"

He knew that every fist would be raised, lanyards taut, ready to obey.

He reached out, not daring to take his eyes off the Nautilus.

It was a trick, to prolong the inevitable. The slaughter.

He gripped the telescope, still without turning his head, wasting seconds which could cost the lives of those who trusted him.

He saw part of Nautilus's upper deck, guns run out, the scars and broken timbers stark in the lens. Nothing moving except the shadows of torn and blackened canvas from her mainyard, which had somehow escaped destruction.

"Ready, sir! "Anxiety. Impatience.

Nautilus's deck was full of people. Not standing by the guns, or crouching along gangways waiting for another attempt to board this ship. There were so many of them, they would crush any resistance by sheer weight of numbers, heedless of the cost.

Some of them were moving now, faces toward Onward, but without authority or purpose. Held in check, waiting.

He wanted to look away; his eye was stinging with strain and concentration. But if he did, he would lose this fragile hope, and the world would explode into nightmare.

Some one said, "They're dropping weapons over the side!"

Then more loudly: "They are, for God's sake!"

Adam said, "Aft, by the mizzen. "He rubbed his eye with his wrist, and thrust the telescope at Jago. "Tell me, Luke, am I wrong?"

Jago took the telescope and lost precious seconds adjusting it. He would not be hurried. He knew, as did his captain.

A little cluster of figures beneath the mast, having climbed up from another deck, staring around now, as if half blinded by the daylight. Their progress had been slow, but the crowd around them had parted to allow them through without any attempt to prevent their passing. It was like a signal, when the swords and muskets had started to splash alongside.

Jago watched, not daring to breathe as one group lowered a tall ladder-backed chair and turned it toward Onward. It was a powerful telescope; no wonder Bolitho was so proud of it.

He wanted to clear his throat, but something stopped him.

He said, "It's the Frenchie, Cap'n. A bit knocked about, but still alive."

Adam could still see it. The tall figure he remembered, stooped over, and supported in a chair. The bandages and the blood on his torn uniform, like tar in the sunlight. He could have been dead. But one of his officers had taken his wrist and raised it carefully, and held the hand up almost in a salute.

And Marchand had smiled.

Adam had thought of Deacon's dying bird. When Marchand must have cut down his own flag.

Squire said, "They'll try to bargain, using him and his men."

Adam looked at Jago. "No bargains."

There was a sudden burst of cheering, which drowned out every other sound. Men stood away from their guns, and some embraced one another. Even Monteith lifted his face from his hands and stared around, startled, as if he could not recall what had happened.

Some one yelled from the forecastle and Adam saw the drifting cutter nudging against the hull.

A voice shouted orders, and a marine ran to pitch a grapnel and haul it alongside.

Adam stared at the stains and the scars of gunfire. It should have been Joshua Guthrie's leather-lunged voice, but it had been silenced forever. The boatswain had fought his last battle.

The cheering had died away, and he could hear the thud of hammers and the regular clank of a pump. Onward had been wounded. But she was the victor.

Julyan called, "We can't anchor here, sir! No bottom."

He thought he had heard the leadsman's chant even as they had approached Nautilus, feeling their way.

"No matter. We will take her in tow until we can make her fit for passage."

Jago said, "Cutter's made fast, Cap'n."

Adam walked to the larboard side, the wind at his back. Just in time. But too late for men who had deserved a longer span of life, to enjoy or to endure.

There was no land in sight, nor would there be until the Strait.

He saw young Walker by the flag locker, dabbing his eyes, which were red-rimmed with smoke or tears. Caught like that, he looked like a child in uniform.

Adam called, "A birthday we'll all remember, Mr. Walker!"

Some of the seamen laughed and raised a cheer, and one patted him on the back. His face would be remembered, too.

He tried to steady his thoughts, but they were swirling and disordered, as if they had been cut free.

He heard the cutter, manned and pulling away to recover another boat, maybe Jago's gig.

A boarding party to stand guard while a jury-rig was joisted over Nautilus. Wounded to be treated. He thought of the sailmaker who had saved David Napier's life. There would be more to bury in the next day or so, no matter what the surgeon and his assistants could do.

He saw Jago's eyes on his shoulder, and when he reached up his fingers encountered a jagged sliver of gold lace, severed only inches from his neck. He had not felt the ball rip past. The unknown marksman had observed him with care, but had waited too long.

He saw Vincent up forward, heard him calling names while Midshipman Huxley ticked them on a list.

He felt Deacon watching him, still smiling a little, no doubt because of his remark about his helper's birthday.

"Sir? "Alert and correct. A lieutenant's commission no longer only a dream.

"We will be making for Gibraltar. As we approach, we will be challenged, as you would expect."

He saw him frown as he pulled out his pad.

"A signal, sir?"

"It will be a long one. "He looked across at the other frigate, a prize now. More weapons were dropping over her side, and he thought he saw a uniform walking unchecked past the abandoned guns. One of Marchand's officers, surprised to be free and alive.

He shut his mind to it. A higher authority would sift and carry the burden.

The ship comes first.

"When challenged, you will make…"

He paused and looked out over the glistening water.

Ships were all different, with characters of their own. Any old sailor could name a dozen or more without stopping to think.

Maybe ships understood?

He spoke slowly, and knew that Jago was listening. Sharing the moment.

"'His Britannic Majesty's ship Nautilus is rejoining the Fleet. God Save the King."