Honour This Day

7. Perhaps The Greatest Victory

Bolitho held up the folded chart and strained his eyes in the faint sunlight. He would have wished to take more time to study it in the security of the schooner's tiny cabin, but every second was precious. It was all happening so swiftly, and when he glanced up again from the tilting compass-box he saw the grand roadstead opening up like some vast amphitheatre. More anchored shipping, the distance making them appear to be huddled together near the central fortress, then the coast itself, with white houses and the beginning of the twisting road which eventually led inland. Each mountain was brushed with sunshine, their blue-grey masses overlapping and reaching away, until they faded into mist and merged with the sky.

He stared for several seconds at the big Spanish ship. In size she matched Hyperion. It must have taken a month or more to load her with the gold and silver which had been brought overland on pack-mules and in wagons, guarded every mile of the way by soldiers.

At any minute now Lieutenant Dalmaine would open fire on the battery, before the sunlight reached out and betrayed Thor at her anchorage.

He tore his eyes away to look along the schooner's deck. Most of the Spica's crew were sitting with their backs against the weather bulwark, their eyes fixed on the British seamen. No wonder they had offered no resistance. By contrast with the neat shirts of the Swedes, Hyperion's men looked like pirates. He saw Dacie the boatswain's mate, his head twisted at an angle so that he could watch his men and the Spica's master at the same time. Dacie wore an eye patch to cover an empty socket; it gave him a villainous appearance. Parris had every right to have such confidence in him. Near the helm, Skilton, one of Hyperion's master's mates, in his familiar coat with the white piping, was the only one who showed any sort of uniformity.

Even Jenour had followed his admiral's example and had discarded his hat and coat. He was carrying a sword which his parents had given him, with a fine blue blade of German steel.

Bolitho tried to relax as he studied the big Spanish ship. It was a far cry from that quiet room at the Admiralty when this plan had been discussed with all the delicacy of a conference at Lloyds.

He looked at Parris, his shirt open to the waist, his dark hair streaming above his eyes in the lively offshore breeze. Was Haven right to suspect him, he wondered? It certainly made sense that any woman might prefer him to his colourless captain.

A gull dived above the topsail yard, its mewing cry merging with the far-off blare of a trumpet. Ashore or at anchor, men were stirring, cooks groping for their pots and pans.

Parris stared at him across the deck and grinned. 'Rude awakening, Sir Richard!'

The crash when it came was still a surprise. It was like a double thunderclap which echoed across the water and then rolled back from the land like a returned salute.

Bolitho caught a sudden picture of Francis Inch when he had been given his first command of a bomb like Imrie's. He could almost hear his voice, as with his horse-face set in a frown of concentration he had walked past his mortars, gauging the bearing and each fall of shot.

'R«w the mortar up! Muzzle to the right! Prime! Fire!'

As if responding to the memory both mortars fired again. But it was not Inch. He was gone, with so many others.

The double explosions sighed against the hull, and Bolitho tightened his grip on the hanger as flags broke from the big Spaniard's yards. They were awake now, right enough.

'Make the recognition signal, Mr Hazlewood!'

The two flags soared aloft and broke stiffly to the wind. All they needed now was for it to drop and leave them helpless and becalmed.

Parris yelled, 'Jump about, you laggards! Wave your arms and point astern, damn your eyes!' He laughed wildly as some of the seamen capered around the deck.

Bolitho waved. 'Good work! We are supposed to be running from the din of war, eh?'

He snatched up a glass and levelled it towards the anchored ship. Beyond her, about half a cable distant, was a second vessel. Smaller than the one named Ciudad de Sevilla but probably carrying enough booty to finance an army for months.

Parris called, 'She's got boarding nets rigged, Sir Richard!'

He nodded. 'Alter course to cross her bows!' It would appear that they were heading towards the nearest fortress for protection.

'Helm a-lee, sir!'

'Steady as she goes, Nor' east by east!'

Bolitho gripped a stay and watched the sails flapping and banging as the schooner lurched close to the wind; but she answered well. He winced as the mortars fired yet again, and still the shore battery remained silent. It seemed likely that the first shots had done their work, the massive balls falling to explode in a lethal flail of iron fragments and grape.

Astern there was a lot of smoke, haze too, so that the shallows where they had felt their way into the anchorage had completely vanished. It might delay Thor's entrance, but at least she would be safe from the battery.

He said, 'Keep those other hands out of sight, Mr Parris!'

He saw Jenour watching him, remembering everything and perhaps feeling fear for the first time.

A man yelled, 'Guardboat, starboard bow, sir!'

Bolitho trained his glass and watched the dark shape thrusting around the counter of an anchored merchantman.

Just minutes earlier each man would have been thinking of his bed. Then some wine perhaps in the sunshine before the heat drove them all to their siesta.

He saw the oars, painted bright red, pulling and backing to bring the long hull round in a tight turn.

And far beyond he could make out the shape of a Spanish frigate, her masts like bare poles while she completed a refit, or like the Obdurate, repairs after a violent Caribbean storm.

Two points to starboard, Mr Parris!' Bolitho tried to steady the glass as the deck tilted yet again. He could hear more trumpet calls, most likely from the new fortress, and could imagine the startled artillerymen running to their stations, still unaware of what was happening.

Explosions maybe, but there was nothing untoward immediately obvious, except for the appearance of the Swedish schooner which was, reasonably, running for shelter. No enemy fleet, no cutting-out raid, and in any case the other fortresses would have taken care of such daring stupidity.

Bolitho watched the jib-boom swinging round until it seemed to impale the treasure-ship's forecastle, although she still stood a cable away. The guardboat was pulling towards them unhurriedly, an officer rising now to peer towards the smoke and haze.

Bolitho said, 'Pass the word. The guardboat will stand between us. Make it appear we are shortening sail.'

Jenour stared at him. 'Will we, Sir Richard?'

Bolitho smiled. 'I think not.'

A sudden gust filled the topsail and a line parted high above the deck like a pistol shot.

Dacie, the formidable boatswain's mate, jabbed a seaman with his fist. 'Aloft with ye, boy! See to it!'

It took just a second and yet as Dacie peered aloft, the Swedish master sprang forward and seized a musket from one of the crouching sailors. He pointed it above the bulwark and fired towards the guardboat. Bolitho saw the musket smoke fan away even as the master hit the deck, felled by one of the boarding party.

The guardboat was frantically backing water, her blades churning the sea into a mass of foam. There was no time left.

Bolitho shouted, 'Run her down! Lively!' He forgot the shouts, even the crack of a solitary musket as the schooner tacked round and drove into the guardboat like a Trojan galley.

It felt like hitting a rock, and Bolitho saw oars and pieces of planking surging alongside, men floundering, their cries lost in the rising wind and the boom of canvas.

The treasure-ship seemed to tower above them, individual figures which moments earlier had been staring transfixed towards the explosions, running along the gangways, others pointing and gesticulating as the schooner charged towards them.

'Stand by to board!' Bolitho gripped the hanger and tightened the lanyard around his wrist. He had forgotten the danger, even the fear of his eye's treachery, as the last half-cable fell away.

'Down helm! Take in the tops'l!'

Shots whimpered overhead and one gouged a tall splinter from the deck like a clerk's quill.

'Hold your fire!' Parris strode forward, his eyes narrowed against the glare while he watched his men, as they hunched down close to the point of impact.

Bolitho saw the sagging boarding nets, faces peering through them at the schooner, one solitary figure reloading a musket, his leg wrapped around the foremast shrouds.

Halfway down the Spaniard's side a port-lid rose like an awakened man opening one eye.

Then he saw the gun muzzle lumber into view, and seconds later the livid orange tongue, followed by the savage bang of an explosion. It was a wild gesture and nothing more; the ball eventually hit open water like an enraged "dolphin.

As the last of the sails were freed to the wind, the Spica's jib-boom plunged through the Spaniard's larboard rigging and shivered to splinters. Broken cordage and blocks showered down on the forecastle before both ships jarred finally together with a terrible crash. Spica's foretopmast fell like a severed branch, but men ran amongst torn canvas and snakes of useless rigging, oblivious to everything but the need to board the enemy.

'Swivels!' Bolitho dragged the midshipman aside as the nearest swivel jerked back on its mounting and blasted the packed canister across the other ship's beakhead. Men fell kicking into the sea, their screams lost as Parris signalled the six-pounders to add their weight to the attack.

Allday ran, panting at Bolitho's side as he leapt on to the bulwark, the hanger dangling from his wrist. To board her from aft would have been impossible; her high stern, a mass of gilded arving, rose above her reflection like an ornate cliff.

The forecastle was different. Men clambered across the beak-head, hacking aside resistance, while others slashed and cut their way through the nets.

A pike darted through a net like a serpent's tongue and one of Parns's men fell back, clutching his stomach, his eyes horrified as he dropped into the water below.

Another turned to stare after him then gurgled as a pike thrust into him, withdrew and struck again, the point taking him in the throat and reappearing through his neck.

But Dacie and some of the seamen were on deck, pausing to fire into the defenders before slashing aside the remaining nets. Boh-tho felt someone seize his wrist and haul him through a hole in the netting. Another toppled against him, his eyes glazing as a ball smashed into his chest like the blow of a hammer.

'To me, Hyperions!' Parns waved his hanger and Bolitho saw it was running with blood. 'Starboard gangway¹'

Shots banged and whimpered over their heads, and two more men fell writhing and gasping, their agony marked by the stains across the planking.

Bolitho stared round wildly as some swivels blasted the Spaniard's high poop, cutting down a handful of men who had appeared there as if by magic. Mere seconds, and yet his mind recorded that they were only partly dressed or stark naked; probably some of the ship's officers roused from their sleep by the sudden attack.

Parns's men were on the starboard gangway, where another swivel was seized and depressed towards an open hatch as more faces peered up at them.

The remainder of Parns's boarders were already leaving the little schooner, and Bolitho heard the thud of axes as the Swedes took the opportunity to hack their vessel clear of the treasure-ship, complete with Hyperion's longboats.

Dacie brandished his boarding axe. 'At 'em, you buggers!'

Every man Jack would know now that there was no retreat. It was victory or death. They would receive no quarter from the Spaniards after what they had done.

Bolitho paused on the gangway, his eyes watering from drifting smoke as the scrambling seamen spread out into purposeful patterns. Two to the big double-wheel below the poop, others already swarming aloft to loose the topsails while Dacie rushed forward to cut the huge anchor cable.

Shots cracked from hatchways to be answered instantly by reloaded swivels, the packed canister smashing into the men crammed on the companion ladders and turning them into flailing, bloody gruel One Spaniard appeared from nowhere, his sword cutting down a seaman who crouched on all fours, already badly wounded from the first encounter.

Bolitho saw the little midshipman, Hazlewood, staring at the wild-eyed sailor, his dirk gripped in one hand while the Spaniard charged towards him.

Allday stepped between Bolitho and the enemy and shouted hoarsely, 'Over here, matey¹' He could have been calling a pet dog. The Spaniard hesitated, his blade wavering, then saw his danger too late

Allday's heavy cutlass struck him across the collar-bone with such force it seemed it might sever the head from his body. The man swung round, his sword clattering to the deck below as Allday struck him again.

Allday muttered, 'Get yerself a proper blade, Mr Hazlewood! That bodkin couldn't kill a rat¹'

Bolitho hurried aft to the wheel, and watched as the bows appeared to swing towards the nearest fort with the cry, 'Cable's cut''.

'Loose tops'ls' Lively, you scum¹' Dacie was peering aloft, his single eye gleaming like a bead in the sunlight.

Parns wiped his mouth with a tattered sleeve. 'We're under way¹ Put your helm down¹'

There were unexplained splashes alongside, then Bolitho saw some Spanish seamen swimming away from the hull, or floundering in the current like exhausted fish. They must have clambered from the gun-ports to escape, anything rather than face the onslaught they had heard on deck.

Midshipman Hazlewood walked shakily beside Bolitho, his eyes downcast, fearful of what terrible scene he might witness next. Corpses sprawled in the scuppers who had been caught by the double-shotted six-pounders, and others who had been running to repel boarders when the swivels had scoured the decks with their murderous canister shot.

One jibsail cracked out to the wind and the great ship began to gather way. She appeared to be so loose in stays that she must be fully loaded with her precious cargo, Bolitho thought. What would the fort's battery commander do? Fire on her, or let her steal away under his eyes?

Bolitho saw the second treasure-ship as she appeared to glide towards them. Pin-pricks of light flashed from her tops, but at that range it would need a miracle to hit any of Hyperion's topmen or those around the helm.

Bolitho snapped, 'Hand me the glass!' He saw Hazlewood fumbling with it, his mouth quivering from shock as he stared at the vivid splashes of blood across his breeches. He had been within a hair's breadth of death when Allday's cutlass had hacked the man down.

Bolitho took the glass and levelled it on the other ship. She lay between them and the fort. Once clear of her, every gun on the battery would be brought to bear.

If I were that commander I would shoot. To lose the ship was bad enough. To do nothing to prevent their escape would get little mercy from the Captain-General in Caracas.

There was a ragged cheer and Parris exclaimed, 'Here comes Imrie, by God!'

The Thor had spread every stitch of canvas so that her sails seemed to make one great golden pyramid in the early sunlight. All her snub-nosed carronades were run out like shortened teeth along her buff and black hull, and Bolitho saw the paintwork shine even more brightly as the helm went over and she tacked round towards the two treasure-ships. Compared with the G'M-dad de Sevilla's slow progress, Thor seemed to be moving like a frigate.

It must have taken everyone in the forts and ashore completely by surprise. First the Swedish schooner, and now a man-of-war, running it would appear from inshore, their own heavily-defended territory. Bolitho thought briefly of Captain Price. This would have been his moment.

'Signal Thor to attack the other treasure-ship.' They had discussed this possibility, even when it was originally intended to be a boat attack. Bolitho glanced at the bloodstained deck, the gaping corpses and moaning wounded. But for falling upon the schooner it now seemed unlikely they would have succeeded.

Bolitho trained the glass again and saw tiny figures stampeding along the other ship's gangways, sunlight flashing on pikes and bayonets. They expected Thor to attempt a second boarding, but this rime they were ready. When they realised what Imrie intended it was already too late. A trumpet blared, and across the water Bolitho heard the shrill of whistles and saw the running figures colliding with each other, like a tide on the turn.

Almost delicately, considering her powerful timbers, Thor tacked around the other ship's stern, and then with a deafening, foreshortened roar so typical of the heavy 'smashers', the carro-nades fired a slow broadside, gun by gun as Thor crossed the Spaniard's unprotected stern.

The poop and counter seemed to shower gold as the bright carvings splashed into the sea or were hurled high into the air, and when a down-draft of wind carried the smoke clear, Bolitho saw that the whole stern had been blasted open into a gaping black cave.

The heavy grape would have cut through the decks from stern to bow in an iron avalanche, and anyone still below would have been swept away.

Thor was turning, and even as someone managed to cut the stricken ship's cable, she came about and fired another broadside from her opposite battery.

There was smoke everywhere, and the men trapped below Bolitho's feet must have been expecting to share the same fate. The other ship's mizzen and main had fallen in a tangle alongside, and the rigging trailed along the decks and in the water like obscene weed.

Bolitho cleared his throat. It was like a kiln.

'Get the forecourse on her, Mr Parris.' He gripped the midshipman's shoulder and felt him jump as if he had been shot. 'Signal Thor to close on me.' He retained his grip for a few seconds, adding, 'You did well.' He glanced at the staring eyes of the men at the wheel, their smoke-grimed faces and bare feet, the blood still drying on their naked cutlasses. 'You all did!'

The big foresail boomed out and filled to the wind, so that the deck tilted very slightly, and a corpse rolled over in the scuppers as if it had only feigned death.

He saw Jenour on the mamdeck where two armed seamen were standing guard over an open hatch, although it was impossible to know how many of the enemy were still aboard. Jenour seemed to sense that he was looking at him, and raised his beautiful sword. It was like a salute. Like the thirteen year-old Hazlewood, it was probably his first blooding.

'Tfcor has acknowledged, sir!'

Bolitho made to sheathe his hanger and remembered he had dropped the scabbard before the fight. It was lying in the little schooner which even now was fading in sea-mist, like a memory.

'Steady as she goes, sir! Nor'-east by east!'

The open sea was there, milky-blue in the early light. Men were cheering, dazed, with joy or disbelief.

Bolitho saw Parns grinning broadly, gripping the master's mate's hand and wringing it so hard the man winced.

'She's ours, Mr Skilton! God damn it, we took her from under their noses!'

Skilton grimaced. 'We're not in port yet, sir!'

Bolitho raised the glass yet again; it felt like lead. And yet it had been less than an hour since they had driven into the anchored treasure-ship.

He saw a host of small boats moving out from the land, a brig making sail to join them as they all headed for the shattered treasure-ship. That last broadside must have opened her like a sieve, he thought grimly. Every boat and spare hand would be used to salvage what they could before she keeled over and sank. A worthwhile sacrifice. To try and take two such ships would have meant losing both. The master's mate was right about one thing. They still had a long way to go.

He dropped the hanger to the deck and looked at it. Unused. Like the midshipman's dirk; you never really knew what you could do until called to fight.

He examined his feelings and only glanced up as the main topsail boomed out to the wind.

Death-wish? He had felt no fear. Not for himself. He looked at the sweating seamen as they slid down the backstays and rushed to the next task, where a hundred men should have been ready at halliards and braces.

They trusted him. That was perhaps the greatest victory.

Bolitho picked up a coffee cup and then pushed it away. Empty. Something Ozzard would never allow to happen in these circumstances. Wearily he rubbed his eyes and looked around the ornate cabin, palatial when compared with a man-of-war. He smiled wryly. Even for a vice-admiral.

It was mid-afternoon, and yet he knew that if he had the will to go on deck again and climb to the maintop he would still be able to see the coast of the Main. But in this case speed was as important as distance, and with the wind holding steady from the north-west he intended to use every stitch of canvas the ship would carry. He had had a brief and hostile interview with the ship's captain, an arrogant, bearded man with the face of some ancient conquistador. It was hard to determine which had angered the Spaniard more. To have his ship seized under the guns of the fortress, or to be interrogated by a man who proclaimed himself to be an English flag-officer, yet looked more like a vagrant in his tattered shirt and smoke-blackened breeches. He seemed to regard Bolitho's intention to sail the ship to more friendly waters as absurd. When the reckoning came, he had said in his strangely toneless English, the end would be without mercy. Bolitho had finished the interview right there by saying quietly, 'I would expect none, since you treat your own people like animals.'

Bolitho heard Parris shouting out to someone in the mizzen top. He seemed tireless, and was never too proud to throw his own weight on brace or halliard amongst his men. He had been a good choice.

Thor had placed herself between the ponderous treasure-ship and the shore, probably as astonished as the rest of them by their success. But great though that success had been it was not without cost, or the sadness which followed any fight.

Lieutenant Dalmaine had died even as his men had been hoisted into Thor from the waterlogged lighter. The two mortars had had to be abandoned, and their massive recoil had all but knocked out the lighter's keel. Dalmaine had seen his men to safety and had apparently run back to retrieve something. The lighter had suddenly flooded and taken Dalmaine and his beloved mortars to the bottom.

Four men had died in the attack, three more had been seriously wounded. One of the latter was the seaman named Laker, who had lost an arm and an eye when a musketoon had been discharged at point-blank range. Bolitho had seen Parris kneeling over him and had heard the man croak, 'Better'n bein' flogged, eh, sir?' He had tried to reach out for the lieutenant's hand. 'Never fancied a checkered shirt at th' gangway, 'specially for 'is sake!'

He must have meant Haven. If they met with Hyperion soon, the surgeon might be able to save him.

Bolitho thought of the holds far below his feet. Cases and chests of gold and silver plate. Jewel-encrusted crucifixes and ornaments – it had looked obscene in the light of a lantern held by Allday, who had never left his side.

So much luck, he thought wearily. The Spanish captain had let slip one piece of information. A company of soldiers were to have boarded the ship that morning to guard the treasure until they unloaded it in Spanish waters. A company of disciplined soldiers would have made a mockery of their attack.

He thought of the little schooner, Spica, and her master, who had tried to raise the alarm. Hate, anger at being boarded, fear of reprisal, it was probably a bit of each. But his ship was intact, although it was unlikely that the Spaniards would divert other vessels to convoy him to safer waters as intended. They might even blame him. One thing was certain; he would not want to trade with the enemy again, neutral or not.

Bolitho yawned hugely and massaged the scar beneath his hair. Hyperion's imposing boatswain, Samuel Lintott, would have a few oaths to offer when he discovered the loss of the jolly boat and two cutters. Maybe the chance of prize-money would soften his anger. Bolitho tried to stop his head from lolling. He could not remember when he had last slept undisturbed.

This ship and her rich cargo would make a difference only in the City of London, and of course with His Britannic Majesty. Bolitho smiled to himself. The King who had not even remembered his name when he had lowered the sword to knight him. Perhaps it meant so little to those who had so much.

He knew it was sheer exhaustion which was making his mind wander.

There was more than one way of fighting a war than spilling blood in the cannon's mouth. But it did not feel right, and left him uneasy. Only pride sustained him. In his men, and those like Dalmaine who had put their sailors first. And the one called Laker, who had fought shoulder-to-shoulder with his friends, simply because it meant far more to him and to them than any flag or the cause.

He allowed his mind to touch on England, and wondered what Belinda was doing with her time in London.

But like a salt-blurred telescope her picture would not settle or form clearly, and he felt a pang of guilt.

He turned his thoughts to Viscount Somervell, although he knew it was a coward's way of opening the door to Catherine. Would they leave the Indies now that the treasure, or a large part of it, was taken?

His head touched his forearm and he jerked up, aware of two things at once. That he had fallen asleep across the table, and that a masthead lookout had pealed down to the deck.

He heard Parris call something and found himself on his feet, his eyes on the cabin skylight as the lookout shouted again.

'Deck there! Two sail to the nor'-west!'

Bolitho walked through the unfamiliar doors and stared at the deserted ranks of cabins. With the remaining crew members battened below where they could neither try to retake the ship nor damage her hull without risking their own lives, it was like a phantom vessel. All Hyperion's hands were employed constantly on deck; or high above it amongst the maze of rigging, like insects trapped in a giant web. He noticed a portrait of a Spanish nobleman beside a case of books, and guessed it was the captain's father. Perhaps like the old grey house in Falmouth, he too had many pictures to retell the history of his family.

He found Parns with Jenour and Skilton, the master's mate, grouped by the larboard side, each with a levelled telescope.

Parns saw him and touched his forehead. 'Nothing yet, Sir Richard.'

Bolitho looked at the sky, then at the hard horizon line. Like the top of a dam, beyond which there was nothing.

It would not be dark for hours yet. Too long.

'Hyperion, maybe, Sir Richard?'

Their eyes met. Parris did not believe it either. Bolitho replied, 'I think not. With the wind in our favour we should have made contact by noon.' He ceased thinking out loud. 'Signal Thor. Imne may not have sighted the ships as yet.' It gave him time to think. To move a few paces this way and that, his chin digging into his stained neckcloth.

The enemy then. He made himself accept it. The Ciudad de Sevilla was no man-of-war, nor did she have the artillery and skills of an Indiaman. The cannons with their ornate mountings and leering bronze faces were impressive, but useless against anything but pirates or some reckless privateer.

He glanced at some of the seamen nearby. The fight had been demanding enough. Friends killed or wounded, but survival and the usual dream of prize-money had left them in high spirits. Now it was changing again. It was a wonder they didn't rush the poop and take all the bullion for themselves. There was precious little Bolitho and his two lieutenants could do to prevent it.

The lookout yelled down, 'Two frigates, sir! Dons by the cut o' them!'

Bolitho controlled his breathing as some of the others looked at him. Somehow he had known Haven would not make the rendezvous. It was an additional mockery to recall he himself had given him the honourable way out.

Parris said flatly, 'Well, they say the sea is two miles deep under our keel. The Dons'll not get their paws on the gold again, unless they can swim that far down!' Nobody laughed.

Bolitho looked at Parris. The decision is mine. Signal Thor to take them and their Spanish prisoners on board? But with only half their boats available it would take time. Scuttle the great ship and all her wealth, and run, hoping Thor could outsail the frigates, at least until nightfall?

A victory gone sour.

Jenour moved closer. 'Laker just died, sir.'

Bolitho turned towards him, his eyes flashing. 'And for what -is that what you're asking? Must we all die now because of your vice-admiral's arrogance?'

Jenour, surprisingly, stood his ground. 'Then let's fight, Sir Richard.'

Bolitho let his arms fall to his sides. 'In God's name, Stephen, you mean it- don't you?' He smiled gravely, his anger spent. 'But I'll have no more dying.' He looked at the horizon. Is this how he would be remembered? He said, 'Signal Thor to heave-to. Then muster the prisoners on deck.'

The lookout yelled, 'Deck there! Two Spanish frigates an' another sail astern o' them!'

Parns muttered, 'Christ Almighty.' He attempted to smile. 'So, Mr Firebrand, will you still stand and fight the Dons?'

Jenour shrugged, then gripped his beautiful sword. It said more than any words.

Allday watched the officers and tried to fathom out what had gone wrong. It was not just failure which bothered Bolitho, that was as plain as a pikestaff. It was the old Hyperion. She had not come for him. Allday ground his teeth together. If ever he reached port again he would settle that bloody Haven once and for all, and swing for him to boot.

Bolitho must have felt it all the while in his blood. Why he had left the old sword behind. He must have known. Allday felt a chill run down his spine. I should have guessed. God alone knew it had happened to others.

They all stared up as the foremast lookout, forgotten until now, yelled down, 'Sail to the nor'-east, sir!'

Bolitho gripped his fingers together behind him. The newcomer must have run down on them while every eye was on the other strange sails.

He said, 'Get aloft, Stephen! Take a glass!'

Jenour paused just a few seconds as if to fix the importance and the urgency of the moment. Then he was gone, and was soon swarming hand over hand up the foremast shrouds to join the lookout on his precarious perch in the crosstrees.

It felt like an eternity. Other hands had climbed up to the tops or merely clung to the ratlines to stare at the eye-searing horizon." Bolitho felt a lump in his throat. It was not Hyperion. Her masts and yards would be clearly visible by now.

Jenour yelled down, his voice almost lost amongst the clatter of blocks and the slap of canvas.

'She's English, sir! Making her number!'

Parns climbed on to one of the poop ladders and levelled his own glass on the pursuers.

'They're fanning out, Sir Richard. They must have seen her too.' He added savagely, 'Not that it matters now, God damn them!'

Jenour called again, 'She's Phaedra, sloop-of-war!'

Bolitho felt Parns turning to watch him. Their missing sloop-of-war had caught up with them at last, only to be a spectator at the end.

Jenour shouted, faltered, then tried again, his voice barely audible. But this time it was not only because of the shipboard sounds.

'Phaedra has hoisted a signal, sir! Enemy tn sight!'

Bolitho looked at the deck, at the blackened stain where a Spanish sailor had died.

The signal would be being read and repeated to all the other ships. He could picture his old Hyperion, her men running to quarters, clearing for action again to the beat of the drums.

Parns exclaimed with quiet disbelief, The Dons are standing away, Sir Richard.' He wiped his face, and perhaps his eyes. 'God damn it, old lady, don't cut it so fine next time!'

But as the Spanish topsails melted into the sea-mist, and the smart sloop-of-war bore down on the treasure-ship and her sole escort, it soon became obvious that she was quite alone.

The ill-assorted trio rolled in the swell, hove-to as Phaedra's youthful commander was pulled across in his gig. He almost bounded up the high tumblehome, and doffed his hat to Bolitho, barely able to stop himself from grinning.

'There are no others?" Bolitho stared at the young man. 'What of the signal?'

The commander recovered his composure very slightly. 'My name is Dunstan, Sir Richard.'

Bolitho nodded. 'And how did you recognise me?'

The grin came back like a burst of sunlight.

'I had the honour to serve in Euryalus with you, Sir Richard.' He looked at the others with exclusive pride. 'As a midshipman. I recalled how you had used that deception yourself to confuse the enemy.' His voice trailed away. 'Although I was not sure it might work for me.'

Bolitho gripped his hand and held it for several seconds.

'Now I know we shall win.' He turned away and only Allday saw the emotion in his eyes.

Allday glanced across at the eighteen-gun Phaedra.

Perhaps after this Bolitho would accept what he had done for others. But he doubted it.