Relentless Pursuit

19. Captain's Legacy

ADAM BOLITHO glanced at the compass and strode to the packed hammock nettings to train his telescope. In those few paces he saw the helmsmen watching the peak of the driver, flapping now as a warning, while Unrivalled held as close to the wind as was possible in the gentle pressure off the land.

So slow. So slow. He steadied the glass and watched the jagged spur of land reaching out towards the ships. It was as he remembered it: the rough landscape, where it was sometimes hard to distinguish between the country itself and the crumbling fortifications, and weathered towers built of sand-coloured stone, which looked older than time itself.

He swung the glass across the quarter. Halcyon was holding on station, a second ensign hoisted now, clean and very bright above the tanned sails and scarred hull. Their other companion, the 14-gun brig Magpie, was further astern, tiny against the great array of sails where the fleet was on its final approach.

Adam returned to the quarterdeck rail, and saw several of the seamen look up at him from the nearest eighteenpounders. So many times, and yet you were never certain. He ran his eyes along the length of the ship. The decks had been sanded to prevent men slipping in the height of battle, and to soak up the blood of the first to fall. That was always the hardest to accept. Not that men would die, but that they were faces and voices you knew, of which you had become a part. He saw the slow-matches, each in a bucket of sand beside every gun. It was still not unknown for the modern flintlock to fail because of a gun captain's haste, or over eagerness to beat the others to a first broadside.

The nets were spread overhead, and the boat tier was empty, so that the deck seemed more spacious than it should. The gig and jollyboat were towing astern; the rest were well away by now, drifting to a canvas sea anchor. Waiting for the victor to recover them, no matter which flag was still flying.

The land was curving away again, like the neck of a poacher's bag. He trained the glass ahead, moving to avoid shrouds and stays, or faces, intent as they leaped into the lens. He could see the main anchorage, exactly as it was described in the orders, and as his uncle's flag lieutenant, Avery, had reported after that first visit.

Adam lowered the glass and stared into the distance. There were ships at anchor, some no doubt waiting to attack and harry the slow-moving vessels of Lord Exmouth's fleet once his intentions were recognised. He had heard four bells chime, but precisely when, he could not remember. It was a wonder that the seaman had kept his head and was able to mark the hour.

Sullivan had been right. They had closed the land at noon. That was two hours ago.

He looked at the gun crew directly below him. Stripped and ready, their bodies shining with sweat, neckerchiefs tied around their ears, cutlasses freshly sharpened at the grindstone and within reach. Another glance aloft. The big yards were braced so tightly that they appeared almost fore-and-aft; she was as close-hauled as she would come. He heard the wheel creak sharply, and one of the helmsmen mutter something as if to silence it.

He saw Galbraith by the starboard ladder, speaking with Rist, master's mate, and Williams, the gunner's mate who had been with him on the chebeck raid. He dabbed his lips with his sleeve. A 1 fetime ago.

Bellairs called, "Flagship is altering course, sir!"

Adam moved the glass. It was impossible to imagine the strength and effort now responding to Exmouth's signal. Ponderous, slow, and some badly out of station, but the ships were moving as one, their shapes lengthening as they tacked like floating leviathans towards the shore.

It was still too far, but he could imagine the lines of guns running out, the muscle and sweat of hundreds of men like these around him, preparing to match their skills against the enemy. If Lord Exmouth had been expecting some lastminute submission he would be disappointed. The Dey was relying on his massive armament. Adam thought of that brief meeting. Trick for trick. Exmouth was still a frigate captain at heart.

There was a dull bang, the sound dragged out by echoes from the land, then they saw the ball splash down before ripping across the water like an enraged dolphin.

Cristie had his watch in one hand, but his voice was almost indifferent.

"Make a note in the log, Mr Bremner. At half past two o'clock, the enemy opened fire."

Adam turned away. Nothing seemed to unsettle the old sailing master. He had even remembered the name of the midshipman who had only recently joined the ship. Like a rock. The man who had been born in the next street to Collingwood.

Perhaps the watchers on the shore had expected the fleet to sail directly into the anchorage, loose off a few shots at long range, and then go about without risking the mauling of close action. If so, they were wrong. A flag dipped above the Queen Charlotte and the air was split apart by the crash of gunfire. Unlike any broadside, it went on without cease, guns firing and reloading with barely a pause, the bay and the land already covered by drifting smoke.

What the gun crews must have trained for, all the way from Plymouth, and from Gibraltar to this mark on the chart.

Adam gripped the rail and felt the vibration of the bombardment jerking at the wood, as if some of the shots had smashed down alongside.

He thought of his own service in a ship of the line, and knew that Halcyon's captain would be remembering it also. The incredible din, which scraped the inner walls of a man's mind, so that only drill and discipline saved him from madness. Down on those gun decks, the overhead timbers brushing your hair, the confined space thick with smoke and the stench of burning powder, and only an open port beyond each crew, a hazy outline or shadow which had to be the enemy.

Sponge out! Load.' Run out! Ready! Nothing else existed.

Adam called, "Two points, Mr Cristie! Steer sou' by west!" It was impossible, but he could feel his mouth fixed in a grin. "That'll give her more freedom!"

He swung round to watch a twisting column of sparks rising far beyond the nearest ships. Perhaps one had blown up, or a random shot had found its mark in one of the citadel's magazines. Nobody could survive that.

lie beckoned to Jago. "We shall be up to the anchorage directly. Keep with Mr Galbraith." lie lifted the glass again and held his breath until he had found the vessel in question. A schooner, moored apart from all the others. He moved the glass slightly and saw the frigate, anchored fore-and-aft, a floating battery, another man-of-war lying just beyond her. Guarding the anchorage, the ships which were the 1Jey's lifeblood. "You know what to do, yes?"

lie realised that Jago had remained silent. IIe looked at him, his ears cringing to yet another tremendous explosion, and saw the expression he had come to recognise since that day, when they had settled on a handshake.

Jago said flatly, "My place is 'ere. With you." He saw Lieutenant Varlo hurry past with a party of seamen. "Let 'irn go!"

Adam contained his sudden anger. "I did not hear that, Luke." He waved his hand towards the anchored ships. "That schooner is our weapon. The wind is right. Boat action, over quickly. Trust me."

Jago touched the double-bladed weapon at his belt. "Burn the bastards out, before they can cut an' run."

Adam nodded. "Or get amongst the fleet. Some of our ships will be in a had way by now."

Jago frowned, his eyes elsewhere. Recalling another battle perhaps.

He said shortly, "Gig an' jollyboat. Might leave you short-anded." He glanced at somebody below the rail. "Some still wet behind the cars. If you gets boarded…" lie looked at him and shrugged. "You command, sir." Adam felt his limbs shaking. Not fear. It was worse. The madness. just being here. It made no sense, and never would.

Jago was staring around, already seeking faces, names. "I'm ready."

He swung himself down the ladder, his eyes still lifted to the quarterdeck, to the helmsmen barely moving as the sails filled again to the wind. Even that was full of acrid smoke. And when you looked astern it seemed the whole fleet had been swallowed up in it, broken here and there by flashes of gunfire, and the lasting patterns of burning timbers. Like a scene from hell.

This deck was quiet by comparison: Cristie beside his small rigged table, his eyes moving restlessly from masthead pendant to compass, from individual sails to his master's mates and assistants, Midshipman Deighton at the flag locker, Bellairs waiting to make more sail, and the marines in position behind the hammock nettings, their only protection when the time came.

Jago said, "Watch yer back, sir." Then he was gone.

More flashes darted through the smoke. From the anchorage this time. Adam winced as iron thudded into the lower hull. Not dangerous. He tried not to move, or to wipe his face. Even the slightest change in behaviour might be seen as doubt, or loss of confidence.

The frigate which was anchored fore-and-aft fired again, but the shots were haphazard, the gun crews perhaps confused by the spreading barrier of smoke. Adam crossed to the side and looked for the brig. She was holding on station. It was only too easy to close on one another, if only for a false sense of security.

He heard Cristie say, "That's the same ship, sir! No Yankee colours this time, God rot him!"

Adam felt someone beside him. It was Napier, his eyes defiant as if he expected the worst.

But Adam said only, "Stay with me, David. Get down if I tell you." He saw the youth nod, and then bite his lip as he took the weight on his injured leg.

"The surgeon said…"

Adam gripped his shoulder. "I can imagine what he saidmuch as he did to me, I have no doubt!"

Some seamen at the quarterdeck nine-pounders watched and nudged one another. The captain passing the time of day with his servant, as if they were still at Plymouth. It could not be that bad.

Galbraith was here. He looked very alert, no more time left for mistakes.

"Ready, sir. I'm taking Rist as my secondin-command-he's a good hand. Williams has made up the charges. I already know what he can do!"

Adam did not look away as a ragged broadside crashed and echoed across the anchorage.

Bellairs exclaimed, "Halcyon's hit, sir!"

Adam shut it from his mind and concentrated on Galbraith. A good officer who was used to taking risks. Who was about to lay his life on the line yet again. Who wanted his own command, and was watching Halcyon's fore-topmast stagger and then pitch down into the water alongside. As if he was seeing his own ship under fire.

"I shall come about as soon as you slip the boats. If everything goes against us, then make your own way to the fleet. As you see fit, Leigh. I already know what you can do, too!"

Galbraith touched his hat and ran lightly down the ladder, shouting orders as he went. He paused only once, to stare across at Halcyon as she was raked by another full broadside. Then he, too, was gone.

Adam saw Partridge turn and wave his arm; the boats had cast off, and they were already pulling like madmen towards the anchorage.

He measured the distance as if he were studying a giant chart.

Varlo would remain up forward to direct the guns when Unrivalled came about. That inner voice persisted. If'the wind holds. He could also be called to command if the worst happened and the quarterdeck became a bloody shambles. He looked around, at Bellairs with the afterguard, Captain Luxmore with Sergeant Bloxham and his marines. He had already sent his lieutenant, Cochrane, to cover and protect the carronade crews on the forecastle. He saw Midshipman Deighton staring at him over his signal locker, and his unexpected smile when Adam tossed him a casual wave. Casual? It was like raising the dead.

"Stand by on the quarterdeck!"

Cristie was waiting, slightly hunched as if anticipating a stray shot. Beside him the boy Ede, who had been spared the rope for an attempted murder, made an unlikely companion on the threshold of battle. Cristie had proclaimed that none of his navigational equipment had ever been in such good hands. It was praise indeed.

He counted seconds, all else but the narrowing triangle of smoke-hazed water thrust aside.

Another quick glance aloft: the masthead pendant was lifting and falling as before. But steady. The wind held.

His hand had found the folded note he had crammed into his breeches pocket.

Lowenna. In the old Cornish tongue it meant "joy."

He swallowed, but his mouth was dry. So it will be.

"Ready ho.! Put the helm down!"

He had to shout, above the noise of wind and canvas, and the continuous thunder of the distant battle. And because of his heart, which surely those around him must hear.

"Helm a-lee, sir!"

They were beginning to turn, to swing the jib-boom across the anchored shipping as if they and not Unrivalled were moving.

"Off tacks and sheets!"

Adam stared above the heads of running men, while the ship continued to answer the wheel until she was pointing directly into the wind.

"Run out the larboard battery." I le drew his sword, and found time to imagine Unrivalled as she exposed her opposite side to the anchored frigate. They would have been expecting an immediate challenge, and they would have been ready.

"Run out!"

He gripped the boy's shoulder and knew he must he hurting him badly.

He saw the guns lurch against the side, muzzles lifting to the thrust of wind and wheel, as if to sniff out their old enemy.

The sword was above his head. All else was forgotten. Even the tearing crash of iron slamming into the hull meant nothing.

Not a voice he recognised.

"As you bear, lads! Fire!"

Lieutenant Leigh Galbraith half rose from his place in the gig's sternsheets as another ragged broadside crashed across the water. He saw the flashes reflected in the stroke oarsman's eyes, but forced himself not to turn. It seemed so much deadlier, more personal, in spite of the unbroken thunder of heavier weapons which, as far as he could tell, had not stopped since the opening shots.

He had seen Unrivalled's topgallants, taut and filling again as she came fully round on to the opposite tack, had heard the squeal of blocks, and imagined the shouted commands and stamping feet while men threw the full weight of their bodies and souls on braces and halliards.

Then the broadsides, Unrivalled's, and the sharper bark of the brig Magpie's nine-pounders as she sailed deliberately amongst the anchored shipping.

Here in the gig it was all so different, like being a spectator, or a victim, without the usual stealth and cunning of a boat attack.

He felt the heavy pistol at his side, the hanger already loosened in its scabbard. Puny against the thunder of battle, ships of the line matched against the Dey's batteries. The smoke over the town was thicker than ever, the fires rising through it, the gun crews probably half blinded and too dazed even to be afraid.

He said, "Ease the stroke, cox'n. We'll lose the jollyboat if we're not careful!" He thought he heard Jago grunt, and saw the quick exchange between him and the stroke oar. The jollyboat was abeam, heavier and slower because of Williams' explosives and some extra hands to allow for opposition, and sudden death.

He twisted round as another broadside cracked through the smoke. The anchored frigate was still firing, but the rate was slower; Unrivalled's sudden attack had worked. There were more shots on a different bearing, probably Halcyon. Wounded or not, she was well able to hit back.

Galbraith peered ahead as two anchored barges loomed through the haze. He found he was gripping the hanger as if to steady himself. The schooner lay directly beyond them.

He saw the bowman on his feet with the swivel gun on the stemhead. There would only be time for one shot. After that… Jago muttered, "There she is!"

The schooner's counter seemed to loom through the smoke. Galbraith measured the distance. One grapnel would suffice. Each man was hand-picked. They all knew what to do. How to die without complaint if their officer made a mistake. He knew Jago was looking at him. Probably thought him mad anyway, if he could actually grin in the face of death.

Someone hissed, `Boat, sir! Larboard bow."

It should not have been there. A major battle was in progress. Nobody sane or sober would venture out from a safe mooring.

There were wild shouts, and a sudden crack of musket fire. Galbraith heard and felt the balls smacking into the hull, saw the stroke oarsman throw up his hands and fall across his thwart, the oar trailing outboard like an extra rudder.

He shouted, "Fire, man! Rake the bastards!"

So close to the water, the bang of the swivel gun was deafening, the packed canister smashing into the other boat at almost point-blank range. The oars were in total confusion, the boat slewing round in a welter of spray, the air torn apart by the screams of men scythed down by the blast.

The bowman stumbled aft to help push the stroke oarsman over the gunwale and take his place. It all took time. Galbraith glanced at the corpse as it floated astern, turning slightly on one shoulder as if to watch them press on without him.

More shots now, from overhead.

Galbraith gasped as a blow flung him hard against the tiller bar. As if a white-hot bar of iron had been dragged across his back; he could even smell the cloth of his coat burning, then Jago's hard hands as he tore it away and slapped a wad of rags across the wound. But no pain. Just breathlessness, as though he had been kicked.

Jago said sharply, "Easy, Mr Galbraith. We'll get you fixed up, good as new!" He turned as the jollyboat passed abeam, oars rising and falling without cease, as if they had only now cast off from the ship's side. "Frank Rist can manage." He felt Galbraith turn to listen, to understand, and added, "He always wanted a bloody command of 'is own, anyway!"

Then the pain did come, and Galbraith found himself lying by the first stretcher, his head propped on somebody's hat. He was alive. But all he could think of was that he had failed.

Jago held out a hand. "Oars." He gauged the overhanging stern. Young Deighton would have enjoyed this, he thought vaguely. But his mind was still like ice. "Ready in the bows." He heard the hiss of steel being drawn, and knew a couple of them were armed with hoarding-axes. He trusted that the grapnel had been thrown, and lurched to his feet as the gig came under the counter with a violent jerk. A swivel gun exploded, it seemed only a few feet away, and for an instant he imagined that the schooner's crew had been ready and waiting for them. Instead he heard a wild whoop and knew it was Williams, the mad Welshman. At 'em, lads." Then he was clawing his way up and over the stern with all the others.

He paused only to peer down at the gig, where Galbraith lay where he had been dragged into a safer position. He even grinned. Bloody officers!

Frank Rist, master's mate, had heard the burst of firing and the swivel gun's murderous response. As ordered, he had brought the jollyboat alongside. He knew he would have done it in any case. Even if a friend is cut down in battle, don't offer your hand. Or it's your turn next.

He rubbed his stinging eyes; the smoke was everywhere. Miles and miles of it. He swore silently as his boots skidded on blood and fragments of flesh. There had only been one man to challenge them, and he had taken the full blast of canister, all on his own. Some other whimpering shapes had been seized without even a struggle. The anchor watch were alone on board, eight men in all. One had tried to escape, but a boarding-axe had stopped him in his tracks. A splash alongside told the rest.

He found that he could relax, albeit holding his nerves on a leash. He heard the battle roaring in the background, men being killed and maimed, ships disabled or sunk. It was all meaningless in the distance and the smoke.

And Unrivalled's guns had stopped firing. With her two consorts, she would be waiting. He stared around the unfamiliar deck, scarcely able to believe it. Because of us.

He heard Williams calling to one of his mates, pictured his nimble fingers twisting and fixing fuses, like that other time with the chebecks. Galbraith had been there then.

He thought Williams was humming to himself, unconcerned about everything beyond his immediate reach. Rist felt himself smile. The madness of a fight. Williams would probably lay a bet on the outcome of this raid, down to the last minute. Although he was a powerful man, he made his strength seem effortless; Rist had seen him pick up a handspike and use it to train an eighteenpounder gun to explain something to a green landman at Plymouth. He had used no more effort than somebody moving a chair up to a table. But a gentle man in many ways, despite his trade of gunner's mate. Like the time he had carried the young black girl in his arms, on board that damned slaver when her master had recognised him, or thought he had, from the past. The girl had been abused so badly that it was unlikely she would recover. It was common enough. But she had not said a word or protested once when Williams had carried her to her own people, when by rights she should have seen him as just another white devil.

Williams could have been promoted long ago, but for his love of gambling. With hirn it was like lust, and, discipline or not, nothing would change him. Dice, or simply laying odds on the most common daily occurrence: how many knots sailed in a single watch, or how much rum would be consumed in one mess in the course of a week. He had a loyal group of fellow gamblers, his clutch, as he called them, and as he was able to read and write he was the one who kept a tally of the wins and, more likely, the losses. Rist had heard some of them say they had already laid down their slave-and prize-bounty in Williams' care, and they had not even received it yet!

Williams was his own man. If he liked you, it was enough. If you pushed him too far, then beware.

It had all been so quick. If Mister bloody Sandell had not been nosing around between decks when he should have been standing watch, it would not have happened. Maybe the midshipman had heard something and was out to prove himself. But he was there that morning, when Williams had been returning to his mess after yet another secret session with the clutch.

Sandell had probably attempted to seize the list of bets, or even some of the money, as evidence. It was all so fast, you would never know for sure. One moment there had been the two of them, Williams towering over the irate, gesticulating midshipman, then there was only Williams. Sandell had fallen back against one of the carronades, his head striking the iron "smasher." Dead or unconscious, the sea had received him. And bloody good riddance.

He swung round guiltily as Williams shouted, "Done, Frank! Cut the cable, and we'll be going!"

Rist hurried forward and called, "Cut it, lads!" He stared ahead at the overlapping shapes of anchored vessels. They would soon do the same when they saw a fireship drifting down on them.

A seaman shouted, "Look out!" It was almost a scream.

One of the anchor watch must have hidden below, undiscovered, when the boarding party had swarmed up from the boats. He just seemed to rise out of the deck, from a small hatch which nobody had cared to investigate.

Fist aimed his pistol; he did not even recall having drawn it. The two shots sounded as one. He ran to help Williams, who had fallen to his knees; the other man had no time even to cry out as a cutlass smashed into his skull.

"Where is it, Owen?" Other hands were helping, but Rist and Williams were completely alone.

Williams said thickly, "It's a bad one, Frank. This time, I think…" His head lolled, and he groaned, as if to bite back the agony. Rist could feel the blood on his hand, running over his wrist. A bad one. He had seen enough of them.

"We'll get you to the boat."

Williams tried to protest but the pain held it back. Then he said in an almost normal tone, "You too busy to see the wind, man? It's shifted. Not much. But a bit. Enough, see?"

Rist stared around. "I don't give a damn!"

With sudden strength Williams pulled himself up to the schooner's wheel. Gasping with pain, he slowly wrapped and fastened the old-style crossbelt he always wore around and through the spokes, so that it took his weight.

"Get to the boats, Frank. Time to move, see? Nothing more you can do. The ship'll need you now!"

Somebody asked, "What d' you say, Mr Rist?"

For a moment longer he stared up at the masts, and the loosely flapping jib. A command of his own. What he had always wanted. He shrugged, as if to the world. What Galbraith wanted too, although he would never admit it.

He looked down as a hand gripped his.

Rist lowered his head until their faces almost touched. Feeling the agony, the sudden determination.

"What is it, Owen?"

Williams gripped his hand harder. "You saw me, Frank, that morning. I knew you did." lie fought a bout of coughing. There was blood on his shirt. Rist heard the distant guns. It could not last. He had others to think of

"Yes, I saw it."

"And you never said?" He tried to smile, but it only made it worse. "Save yourself, see? Time to go, cut the cable. Now." He reached out suddenly and Rist heard the sharp click of his flintlock. The realisation seemed to freeze him, but he could see it stark and clear in his mind. Williams had fired the fuse.

"Cut the cable, Billy! Into the boats, the rest of you!"

The deck was deserted, the only sound the regular thud of a heavy axe. He heard Williams mutter, "A life for a life, see, Frank? So I was taught!"

"Cut." The seaman was already running aft to the waiting boats.

Rist stood motionless, seeing the wheel respond to the hands, the jib hardening enough to swing the hull very slightly. Adrift, and at any second the fuses would blow.

Then he ran aft, his leg over the rail even as the first muffled explosion spurted sparks through the forehatch.

Voices were yelling at him to jump; he thought he had heard Galbraith too, but all he could think of was the figure strapped to the schooner's wheel. And how strong his Welsh accent had sounded, in the face of death itself.

Someone thrust a bottle into his hands. It was rum, like fire in his throat. He raised the bottle again and murmured, "All bets down, my friend!"

Then the world exploded.

"Hold your fire!" Adam had to shout twice to gain Varlo's attention. The guns had fired three broadsides, the havoc on the other frigate's deck easy to see despite the smoke and confusion. Perhaps their forecastle party had been cut down in the first double-shotted onslaught, when Unrivalled had come about to show her true intention. The ship was swinging now, moored only by her forward cable, the stream anchor aft having been cut to escape the second broadside. Purpose or panic, it mattered little now, but the blazing schooner Galbraith and his two boats had boarded had been enough for the crowded shipping which had been relying on the warships' moored broadsides.

The fireship had become entangled with another schooner and both were now drifting like one huge torch.

Even as he watched, Adam saw another, smaller vessel catch fire, the flames leaping up the sun-dried rigging and turning the sails into scattered ashes. He heard warning shouts from the maintop and saw two oared galleys sweeping past the other ships, turning as one towards Unrivalled and increasing speed to the urgent beat of a drum.

Such fanatical daring should have achieved a better settlement. But the brig Magpie was ready, and raked the leading galley with canister and grape, in an instant changing it to a shattered wreck. The second paid no heed and met with more grape from Unrivalleds larboard carronades.

The long sweeps splintered like boxwood as the galley lurched and shuddered alongside. In the next instant figures were swarming up and over the gangway, only to be confronted by the boarding nets, probably something they had never before encountered.

Men snatched up cutlasses and axes, while others dragged the deadly boarding-pikes from the racks and impaled the screaming, crazed attackers before they had even cut through the nets.

And yet there were a few who managed to hack their way past the defences. One, a bearded giant, marked out from the others by a scarlet robe, reached the quarterdeck ladder, his eyes fixed on the man he recognised as captain.

Adam had his sword balanced in his hand, loosely, some of the others might have thought. As if he no longer cared…

He saw the great blade swing down, heard someone, Napier perhaps, yell out a warning. Like being someone else, able to measure the weight and force of the blow. He felt it lance through his arm, heard the scream of steel as the two blades crossed, the heavier blade sliding down to lock against the hilt of his sword. He could even smell his attacker, feel the overwhelming hate which excluded everything else.

He stepped aside, gasping as pain seared his wounded side, but keeping his balance as the giant lunged forward.

It was the madness. The moment when risk and caution meant nothing. If anything, he felt light-headed, and knew only that he wanted to kill this man.

A shadow sliced across the smoky, sunshine and he saw the giant reel aside, eyes still blazing as he pitched down the ladder.

The hard man, Campbell, wielding a cutlass with both hands like a claymore, had almost severed his head from his body.

Campbell turned now, showing his mutilated back, the evidence of a dozen or more floggings, with something like a gladiator's triumph.

Adam raised the old sword to him.

"Thank you!"

Campbell, streaked with blood, his own or that of his victims, gave a mock bow.

"Your servant, Cap'n!"

And then, all at once, impossible though it was, it was over. Like a sudden deafness left when the last broadsides have exploded.

Adam grasped the quarterdeck rail and stared along his command. The dead lay where they had dropped, as if they had fallen asleep. Others reached out as grim-faced seamen and marines hurried around and over them: the wretched wounded. A captain's legacy, so that he should not forget.

Midshipman Deighton shouted, "From Flag, sir! Discontinue the action!"

Adam tried to sheathe his sword, but it was sticky with blood. The signal made no sense. Someone had removed the sword and was wiping it clean with a piece of rag.

He looked at Napier and wanted to smile, but his lips would not move. "You did well, David. Your mother…" He made another attempt. "I am proud of you!"

Small but stark pictures stood out. Like those first moments, the waiting. The aftermath was even worse.

Bellairs, sitting on a water barricoe, his face in his hands, the fine sword his parents had given him to mark his commission as lieutenant discarded at his feet, its blade also stained with blood. And now Yovell, coming from below for the first time, from the orlop where he had been helping the surgeon with the wounded and the dying. Staring around, a length of soiled bandage trailing from one pocket. A man wrestling with his beliefs.

And the boats returning alongside, Rist hurrying to the quarterdeck, peering at the planking, pock-marked with musket balls from the enemy's sharpshooters, and at the dark bloodstains where men had stood together and had died. Lastly he had looked at Cristie, the old sailing-master, and remarked almost casually, "You got through it, then?"

And Cristie, looking and feeling his age, who had never quit this deck throughout the attack, had smiled, perhaps because he knew what Rist had expected, and replied, "Got through what, Mr Rist?"

Adam walked to the hammock nettings, his hand feeling the torn canvas where musket balls had cut through the tightly-packed bedding. Some had been meant for him.

The bombardment was over. Through the pall of drifting smoke he could see the freshly set sails: Lord Exmouth's fleet on the move again. Withdrawing. The casualties would be terrible, but not a ship had been lost. On the shore there were fires raging, and the guns were silent. Many must have been buried with their crews when the old fortifications had crumbled under Exmouth's barrage.

He recalled his own relief when he had seen Galbraith being helped aboard, in pain, but quietly determined, like a man who had discovered something in himself which he had not suspected.

And the moment when Galbraith, his wounded shoulders covered by a seaman's jacket, had paused by Varlo, at the place where he had controlled every gun and every man of the full broadside.

Galbraith had said, "You did well."

Varlo had half-smiled, and retorted, "Go to hell!"

And now they were leaving this place. Many vessels had been destroyed or left abandoned. The enemy barque had not been one of them. They would meet again. He gripped the nettings until the pain in his side reawakened. And tomorrow Lord Exmouth would demand that all his previous terms be met. The Dey would have no choice.

He turned away from the smoke and the fires.

"Turn the hands to, Mr Bellairs! We will prepare to get under way.

He stared along the ship yet again. The first in, the last to leave. And they had done it.

He looked at the dead where some had been dragged from the places they had lain to clear the guns' recoil. One was a marine officer, his face covered with a bloodied cloth. Lieutenant Cochrane. Unrivalled was his first ship.

"Move yourselves!" He walked to the rail again. A captain must never show weakness. His authority was his armour. It was all he had.

Bellairs called, "Shall we put them over, sir?"

Adam stared down at him. So simply asked. Was that all it took?

He said, "No. We'll bury them when we clear the land." He saw Yovell watching him. "Perhaps you could read a suitable prayer, Mr Yovell?"

Afterwards, he thought it was like seeing Yovell's despair clear away. Another memory had been sparked. All he needed.

"For all of us, sir."

And tomorrow…

Galbraith straightened his back in spite of the bandage, and said quietly, "Here comes Halcyon."

Adam walked to the opposite side, feeling their eyes following him. The helmsman, Sergeant Bloxham, leaning on a musket on which the bayonet was still fixed. Midshipman Deighton, his telescope still trained on the distant ships, gnawing his lip to make a lie of his composure.

And Jago, watching the slow-moving frigate, feeling her pain. Sharing it. Foremast shot away, sails riddled with holes, the hull gouged by gunfire at close quarters.

Magpie was following astern; she had been in the thick of it, but looked unmarked by comparison.

The second ensign Halcyon had hoisted when the flagship had made the signal Prepare for battle had been lowered to half-mast, for the man who had been Tyacke's midshipman at the Nile, and had loved his ship above all else. Both ship and captain had fought their last fight.

Adam climbed into the shrouds as if something had snapped, releasing him from frozen immobility, and shouted, "A cheer, lads! Give them all you have!"

He waved, and imagined he saw a telescope being trained from Halcyon's splintered quarterdeck.

Then he climbed down and felt Jago's hand steady his arm. It must be the smoke. The fight had continued all afternoon. It would soon be dusk.

He stared around at the damage, his mind dulled by Unrivalled's wild cheering, which Halcyon's people would always remember, even when they were sent to other ships.

He said, "Pipe the hands to the braces, if you please." If only his eyes would stop smarting.

He looked at the anchorage again, already hidden in smoke and shadow.

Unrivalled was the last to leave. As ordered.

And tomorrow…

He heard Jago remark, "Our gig will need more than a couple of new planks when we gets home, sir."

"Yes." He did not trust himself to say more.

Home had a new meaning now.

Jago watched him, and was satisfied.

Like his ship, he thought. Second to None.