Second to None

11. The Last Farewell

GALBRAITH stifled a yawn and walked up to the weather side of the quarterdeck. Another morning watch, when a ship came alive again and found her personality. A time for every competent first lieutenant to delegate work, and to discover any flaws in the pattern of things before his captain drew his attention to them.

He felt a growing warmth on his cheek, and the ship sway to a sudden gust of wind. He saw the helmsmen glance from the flapping driver to the masthead pendant, licking out now across the larboard bow, easing the spokes with care to allow for it.

It would be hot today, whatever the wind decided. The decks had been washed down at first light, and were now almost dry, and some of the boatswain’s crew were filling the boats with water to prevent the seams opening when the sun rose to its zenith. His eye moved on. Hammocks neatly stowed, lines flaked down ready for instant use, without the danger of tangling and causing an infuriating delay.

A brief glance aloft told him that more men were out on the yards, searching for breaks and frayed ends, another daily task.

He saw the cabin servant, Napier, making his way aft, a covered dish balanced in one hand, and recalled the burial, Lovatt’s body sliding over the side after the captain had spoken a few words. A seaman, one of Lovatt’s, tugged off his tarred hat: respect or guilt, it was hard to tell. Napier had been there also, standing in the dying light beside Lovatt’s son. As the body had been tipped on a grating Napier had put his arm around the other boy’s shoulder.

Galbraith saw another gust crossing the heaving water, ruffling it like a cat’s fur. The large ensign was standing out from the peak, and beyond the naked figurehead the hazy horizon tilted to a steeper angle. In for a blow… He smiled. As the master had predicted. The wind had shifted, veered overnight, north-easterly across the starboard quarter.

He walked to the opposite side again and looked at the compass, the helmsman’s eyes noting every move. Due west. Gibraltar in three days, less if the wind increased. He watched a seaman on the gun deck splicing a rope’s end, his face stiff with concentration. Another, who had been applying grease to a gun truck, reached out and took it from him. The strong, tarred fingers moved like marlin spikes, there was a quick exchange of grins, and the job was done. One of the prisoners, helping a new hand still mystified by the intricacies of splicing and rope work. If only they were not so undermanned. He paced impatiently up the tilting deck. There was still half the morning watch to run, and a hundred things he needed to supervise.

The lookouts had sighted a few distant sails, doubtless fishermen. It was as well they were not hostile. What would happen if they could get no more men at Gibraltar? He looked towards the cabin skylight, imagining Captain Adam Bolitho down there, alone with his thoughts. No matter what orders the vice-admiral had given him, or any other flag officer for that matter, he had nothing with which to rebuke himself. So short a time in commission, and together they had welded a mixed collection of hands into one company, had cut out a frigate and had taken a supply ship. It could have gone against them if Tetrarch had fought to the finish; they might both have been destroyed. And yet, despite all this, Galbraith still found his captain impossible to know. Sometimes almost bursting with spirit and enthusiasm, and then suddenly remote, as if he were afraid to draw too close to any one person. He thought of Lovatt, and the captain’s determination to extract all available intelligence, even though the man was dying. What was Lovatt after all? A traitor, most would say; an idealist at best. Yet there had been compassion in the captain’s voice when he had buried that unhappy man.

He heard a step on the companion ladder and saw Lieutenant Avery staring at the sea and the sky.

“No breakfast, then?”

Avery grimaced and joined him by the compass. “Too much wine last night. It was stupid of me.” He peered aft. “The captain about yet?”

Galbraith studied him. Avery sounded depressed, and he guessed it had nothing to do with the wine.

“Once or twice. Sometimes I think he never sleeps.” Then, “Walk with me. Blow away the cobwebs, eh?”

They fell into step together. They were both tall men, and like most sea officers who cared to take regular exercise they were able to walk without difficulty among watchkeepers and working parties alike, their feet avoiding ringbolts and gun tackles without conscious effort, when any one of those obstacles would have sent a landsman sprawling.

Galbraith said, “You’ve known Captain Bolitho for a long time, I gather.”

Avery glanced covertly at him. “Of him. We have not met very often.”

Galbraith paused as a halliard snaked past his thigh. “I should think he’d be a hellish fine target for women, but he’s not married.”

Avery thought of the girl who had killed herself. He sensed that Galbraith was not merely seeking gossip to pass it on elsewhere. He wanted to know his captain, perhaps to understand him. But not from me.

Galbraith continued to walk, aware of Avery’s unwillingness to discuss it, and changed the subject.

“When all this is over, what do you intend for yourself?”

Avery winced at the pain in his head. “On the beach. There will be too many officers in better positions than mine for me to compete any more.” Like you.

Galbraith said, “You have a very famous uncle, I hear. If I were in your shoes-”

Avery halted abruptly and faced him. “I hope you never are, my friend!” He thought of the locket the admiral had been wearing when he had been shot down, which he had given to Adam. What would become of Catherine?

Midshipman Fielding said, “The captain’s on his way, sir.” He had been trying very hard not to look as if he had been eavesdropping.

Galbraith touched Avery’s arm. “I did not mean to pry, George, but I need to understand this man. For all our sakes.”

Avery smiled, for the first time. “One day, when he is down there in his cabin, the man without the bright epaulettes, ask him. Just ask him. His uncle taught me that, and so much more.”

Adam Bolitho walked from the companion-way and nodded to the master’s mate of the watch.

“A promising start to the day, Mr Woodthorpe.” He looked up at the braced yards, the canvas full-bellied now, cracking occasionally in the breeze. Seeing the ship as Galbraith had this morning, but viewing it so differently.

“We shall set the main course directly, Mr Galbraith.” He shaded his eyes to look at the compass as it flashed in reflected sunlight. “Then bring her up a point. She can take it. Steer west-by-north.” He gestured at the midshipman. “And, Mr Fielding, after you have brushed the crumbs off your coat, you will note the change in the log and inform Mr Cristie!”

One of the helmsmen glanced at his mate and grinned. So little, Adam thought, and yet it was infectious. He walked to the rail and pressed his hands on it. Hot, bone-dry already. He looked at the boats on their tier, the trapped water slopping over the bottom boards as Unrivalled dipped her stem into a trough, and spray pitched over the bowsprit.

A wind. Please God, a wind.

He saw some seamen splicing, and one he did not recognise showing another how to twist and fashion the strands into shape. The man must have sensed it and stared up at the quarterdeck. Where might his loyalty lie? Perhaps like Jago, it was just another officer.

He said suddenly, “You have a key to the strongbox, Mr Galbraith?” He turned his back to watch a solitary bird, motionless above the mizzen truck. “Use it as you will. Any letters, documents and the like.”

Galbraith seemed uncertain, and shook his head.

“None, sir.”

Adam saw the master’s head and shoulders hesitate in the companion hatch. Cristie’s eyes were already on the masthead pendant.

Adam joined Avery by the nettings, sensing his isolation from the others. Knowing the reason for it.

“Think, George, it will be full summer when you walk ashore in England.”

Avery did not respond. He had thought of little else since his change of orders. He gazed at the working parties on deck, the sure-footed topmen moving like monkeys in the shrouds; even the greasy smell from the galley funnel was like a part of himself.

And the letters he had written for Allday, and the replies he had read from his wife. Belonging.

He tried to think of London, of the Admiralty, where there would be polite interest or indifference to what he had to say. And he did not care. That was almost the worst part.

Had he really lain in bed in that gracious house, with the tantalising Susanna Mildmay? Beautiful, faithless Susanna.

Adam said, “Is there something I can do?”

Avery studied him, memories stirring and fading like ghosts.

“When I reach England…”

They stared up as the lookout’s voice turned every head.

“Deck there! Sail, fine on the starboard bow!”

Galbraith shouted, “Mr Bellairs, aloft with you! Take your glass, man!”

Avery smiled, and reached out as if to take Adam’s hand. “I shall think of you.” The rest was lost in the sudden rush of feet and another cry from the masthead.

He said softly, “No matter.”

The moment was past.

Midshipman Bellairs’ voice carried easily above the sounds of sea and flapping canvas.

“Deck there! Square-rigger, sir!”

Adam folded his arms and looked along the length of his command. The forenoon watch had not been piped, but the deck and gangways seemed to be crowded with men. And yet there was hardly a sound. Some stared ahead to the darker line of the horizon, others inboard at the ship, at one another.

Cristie muttered, “No fisherman this time, then.”

Adam waited, feeling the uncertainty. The doubt.

He said, “Frigate.”

Galbraith was peering up at the mainmast crosstrees, as if willing Bellairs to confirm or deny it.

“Beat to quarters, sir?” Even his voice seemed hushed.

“Not yet.” Adam held out his hand, remembering Avery’s despair. “There’ll be another out there somewhere.” He watched the low banks of cloud. “They will have had plenty of time to prepare. We’ve had the sun behind us since first light-a blind man could see us.”

Galbraith moved closer, excluding all the others.

“We still have time, too, sir.”

Adam looked at him.

“To run?”

“We shall be hard put to stand and fight.”

Adam touched his arm, and felt it tense as if he had been expecting a blow.

“That was well said, Leigh. I respect you for it.”

He could see the two ships in his mind, as if they were within range instead of miles distant, visible only to the masthead lookout and Bellairs. He would learn something today. If he lived through it.

“How many extra hands do we have aboard?”

“Fifty-five, and two injured. I’ll clap the whole lot in irons if you think-”

What had Lovatt called it? A gesture. But too late.

He said suddenly, “Clear lower deck, and have all hands lay aft.” He attempted to smile, but his mouth refused. “Though it would seem they are already here!”

He walked to the compass once more, hearing the sound of his shoes on the deck, like that day at his court martial at Portsmouth. So impossibly long ago. He heard the trill of calls below decks, and a few idlers running to join the mass of figures already on deck.

Galbraith said, “Lower deck cleared, sir.”

Adam touched the compass box, remembering the brief moments of clarity before Lovatt had died.

I could not offer them a reason for dying.

He could have been speaking at this very moment.

Adam turned and strode to the quarterdeck rail and looked out across the sea of upturned faces. The others he had already seen, the afterguard, and the swarthy Lieutenant Massie who was responsible for the gunnery of this ship. And young Wynter, whose father was a member of Parliament. And the two scarlet coated marine officers, standing a little apart from the others; the midshipmen and the master’s mates; men and faces which had become so familiar within six months.

“You will know by now that two ships are standing to the west’rd of us.”

There were some quick, uncertain glances, and he sensed the sudden understanding as Bellairs’ clear voice called, “Second ship, starboard bow! Square-rigged, sir!”

“They are not there by accident. It is their intention to engage, seize, or destroy Unrivalled.”

He saw some of them looking at the black eighteen-pounders, perhaps already considering the hazards-the older men would call it folly-of engaging two frigates at once. Heeling to the wind, it would require brute force to haul the guns back to their ports on the weather side once they had been fired.

“The war with Napoleon has likely been over for some time. We shall be told eventually. I hope.”

He saw old Stranace, the gunner, offer a dour grin. It was little enough, but it was all he had.

Adam pointed at the empty sea.

“These ships will respect no treaty, no pieces of paper applauded by old men in government. They are already outlaws!” He let his arm drop and recalled Lovatt’s words. We are all mercenaries in war.

He laid both hands on the rail and said deliberately, “I need trained men today.” He saw some of Unrivalled’s people looking at those who had been thrust amongst them. None had forgotten the days, so recently passed, when men had been seized and dragged aboard King’s ships by the hated press-gangs with no less severity.

“I can promise you nothing, but I can offer the chance of a new beginning. If we lose the day, our fate at the hands of the enemy will be prolonged and terrible. If we win, there is the possibility of freedom.” He thought of Avery, and said, “Of England. You have my word upon it.” What he had said to Lovatt…

Galbraith pointed. “That man! Speak up!”

It was a seaman who would not have seemed out of place in any ship, any port.

“An’ if we refuse, Cap’n? If we stands by our rights?”

There was a growl of agreement.

“Rights?” Adam patted a quarterdeck nine-pounder by his knee. “Speak to me of those rights when these are silent, eh?”

He nodded to Galbraith. He had made a mistake; the gesture had misfired. Galbraith joined him by the rail.

“Show of hands!”

The silence was physical. Crushing. Far worse than if they had jeered at his inability to reach them.

Then he heard Partridge, the massive boatswain, bawling out as if it were a part of normal routine.

“Right, then, you lot over ’ere. Lively, lads! Creagh, take their names, if you still knows ’ow to write!”

And somebody laughed. Laughed.

Adam turned towards them again. The crowd was breaking into groups, pushed and sorted into small parties, the blues and whites of warrant officers moving amongst them, taking control. He tried to remember; how many had Galbraith mentioned? Over fifty: not an army, but it might make the difference. Men who had been cheated, lied to and ill-treated for most of their lives, when loyalty to one another carried far more weight than flag or country, they had decided.

Galbraith was beside him again.

“I would never have believed it, sir.” He hesitated. “Would you tell me? How did you do it?”

Adam saw the one man who had challenged him. Their eyes met across the bustling figures and frantic petty officers, and then the man gave a shrug. Resignation, or was it trust after all?

He murmured, “Perhaps I offered them a reason for living.”

He felt spray dash across his cheek. The wind was still rising. The chance.

But all he heard was Lovatt’s mocking laugh.

He turned on his heel and said, “Now you may beat to quarters, and clear for action, Mr Galbraith.” He saw the boy Napier watching from beside the capstan, and called, “Fetch my coat, will you? My sword, too.” But Jago was already there, the old sword held casually, almost indifferently.

“Here, sir.”

Adam held out his arms and felt him clip the sword into place. Was this, too, a final conceit?

Jago stood back. “Scum they may be, sir, but fight they will. Like me, they don’t know nothing else!”

At that moment the drums began their staccato roll to beat to quarters.

Adam stared at the sea until his eyes misted over. He felt no fear. If anything, it was pride.

Adam Bolitho brushed a lock of loose hair from his eyes and used his sleeve as a shield against the glare from a lively sea, broken now by the strengthening wind.

One bell chimed from forward, and he saw Midshipman Fielding apparently jerk out of his thoughts and turn the half-hour glass before someone rebuked him.

So little time since the first hint of danger; two hours, or less. It was hard to remember, but it would all be noted in the log. He licked his dry lips. For posterity.

Even the ship had changed in that time. Cleared for action, Unrivalled was stripped, like the gun crews who had discarded their shirts but retained their neckerchiefs to tie over their ears against the roar of battle, of her main and mizzen courses and staysails, so that the deck felt open and vulnerable. Under topsails and topgallants, with the big forecourse loosely brailed, she was making a fair speed through the water, spray constantly breaking over the beak-head and forecastle. Nets had been rigged to protect the gun deck from falling wreckage. Adam faced each possibility like a challenge, the margin between winning and losing. And lastly the boats. He did not move from his place on the weather side of the quarterdeck but could see the boat tier, each hull already bailed and steaming in the hot sunshine.

It was always a bad moment when the boats were lowered and cast adrift on a sea-anchor, to await collection by the victors. Even seasoned sailors never accepted or became accustomed to it. The boats were their last hope of survival. Adam had seen some of them watching Partridge’s crew rigging the tackles in readiness for hoisting and then swinging each boat outboard. Abandoned…

But Adam had seen hideous casualties caused by splinters ripped from tiered boats, like flying razors when they cut into human flesh. It was the last task.

He took a telescope from its rack and trained it across the nettings. It was no longer a suspicion, or a flaw on the dawn horizon, but brutal reality. The enemy.

Two ships. Frigates, their hazy silhouettes overlapping as if joined, a common illusion. They were probably some five miles away; he could see each sail, braced so hard round that they were almost fore-and-aft. Another trick perhaps, but each captain was hard put to hold his ship up into the wind, as close-hauled as any professional officer could manage.

Who were they? What did they hope for today, apart from victory? Perhaps it was better not to know your enemy, to see his face. You might recognise yourself in him.

He gazed across the deck. They were all present, the Royal Marines at the barrier of packed hammocks, extra hands on the big double-wheel, Lieutenant Wynter with the afterguard, his midshipman, Homey, close by. Cristie and his senior master’s mate, and Avery, arms folded, hat tilted over his eyes, observing. As he must have done so many times with…

Adam swung away. “Very well, Mr Galbraith, cast off the boats!”

He saw faces turn away from the guns to watch. This was the worst moment. Especially for newcomers.

Galbraith returned to the quarterdeck and waited for the gap left in the nets to be sealed. He did not look astern at the drifting cluster of boats.

“If I might make a suggestion, sir.”

Adam said, “I know. My coat, it troubles you.”

“You have me all aback, sir. But any marksman will be looking for the chance to mark down the captain. You know that well enough!”

Adam smiled, touched by the concern. Genuine, like the man.

“The enemy will know Unrivalled has a captain, Leigh. I want our people to know it, too!”

He raised the glass again. The frigate astern of her consort had hoisted a signal of some kind. Two flags, nothing more. A private signal, perhaps? It could also be a ruse, to make him believe it was the senior ship. He recalled Francis Inch, his first lieutenant in Hyperion, telling the midshipmen that in ship-to ship actions beyond the control of the ponderous line of battle a good captain often survived by trickery as much as agility.

He considered it. Two frigates, neither as powerful as Unrivalled, but, used aggressively and with determination, they were formidable.

He said, almost to himself, “They will try to divide our strength. Tell Mr Massie to point each gun himself, no matter which side we engage first. The opening shots will decide.” He paused, and repeated, “Must decide.”

He walked from one side of the deck to the other, hearing Galbraith calling to Massie. If Unrivalled altered course away from those ships, they would gain the advantage from the wind. He imagined the two frigates, like counters on an admiral’s chart. From line ahead to line abeam, they would have no choice, nor would they want one.

He heard the spray pattering over the lee side, and thought, no, Captain Lovatt, not running away.

When Galbraith returned he found his captain by the compass, his shirt and coat opened to the hot wind. There was no sign of the strain he had glimpsed earlier. He found himself thinking of the woman again, the one Avery so pointedly had not discussed. What had happened, he wondered. What would she feel if she could see him now on this bright, deadly forenoon?

Adam said, “Pass the word to load. Single-shotted to starboard, double-shotted to larboard, but do not run out. At the turn of the glass, we shall alter course and steer south-west.” He almost smiled. “What the enemy intended, I believe. A lively chase with the wind under their coat-tails without too much risk to themselves, and if all else fails they will hope to run us ashore on the African coast. What say you?”

Galbraith stared up at the rippling masthead pendant. “It would make sense, sir.” He sounded doubtful, surprised.

Adam said, “We will luff at the right moment and rake the nearest one. Tell Massie, each ball must make its mark.”

“I did tell him, sir.”

But Adam was not listening; he was seeing it. “We must get to grips, it’s our only way out. So get all spare hands off the upper deck. We are short-handed, remember? And they will know it!”

Galbraith saw him turn away and gesture urgently to the cabin servant, Napier.

“You! Over here!”

Napier hurried across, past grim-faced seamen and marines, a cutlass thrust through his belt, his shoes clicking on the sun-dried planking and bringing some unexpected grins from the crew of a nine-pounder. One called, “Look, boyos! We’ve nowt to fear now! We’re all in good hands!”

Adam said gently, “Your place is below. You know what to do.”

Napier faced him anxiously, with something like desperation.

“My place is here, sir, with you.”

There was no laughter now, and Cristie looked away, perhaps remembering somebody.

Adam said, “Do as I ask. I shall know where you are. I mean it.”

Jago heard it, too, feeling the handshake again, the strange sense of sharing what he could not contain or understand.

Galbraith watched the boy return to the companion-way, head high, the cutlass almost dragging along the deck.

Adam raised the glass once more, and remembered that Midshipman Bellairs was still at the masthead.

“Carry on, Mr Galbraith. Bring her about. Let’s see her fly today!” His hand was raised and Galbraith waited, remembering every phase, and each mood, like pictures in a child’s most treasured book.

And saw his captain suddenly give a broad grin, teeth very white against his tanned skin.

“And be of good heart, my friend. We shall win this day!”

Cristie’s voice was harsh, his Tyneside accent even more pronounced as he shouted, “Steady as she goes, sir! Sou’-west-by south!”

Another bang echoed across the choppy water, the second gun to be fired. Adam clenched his knuckles against his thighs, counting seconds and then feeling the ball smash into Unrivalled’s lower hull. He did not need the glass; he had seen the smoke from the nearest pursuer before it was shredded in the wind. The second shot, and both had come from the frigate on Unrivalled’s starboard quarter. Not because the other, on almost exactly the opposite quarter, could not bear but, he suspected, because the ship which had fired was the senior, and probably mounted heavier bow-chasers.

The ship which had made that brief signal. No trick, then; she was the main danger. Unrivalled’s stern was vulnerable to any shot, no matter how badly aimed. The rudder, the steering tackles… He shut his mind to it.

“Stand by to come about, Mr Galbraith!” He strode to the rail again, and shaded his eyes. Two shots; it was enough. He dared not risk it any further. Disabled, Unrivalled would be destroyed piecemeal.

As he turned he saw the staring eyes of those at the gun tackles along the starboard side, muzzles pointing at the empty sea. The breechings were cast off, the guns were loaded, and men with sponges, worms and rammers were already poised for the next order, their bodies shining with sweat, as if they had been drenched by a tropical rain.

“Stand by on the quarterdeck!”

Massie would be ready with his gun captains. All those drills… it was now or not at all.

“Put the helm down!”

Feet skidded on wet gratings as the three helmsmen hauled over the spokes. With her topsails filled to the wind Unrivalled began to respond immediately, her head swinging even as more men freed the headsail sheets, spilling out the wind, to allow the bows to thrust unimpeded into and across the eye. Sails flapped and banged in confusion, and as the deck tilted hard over the nearest enemy ship appeared to be charging towards the concealed broadside.

It must have taken the other captain completely by surprise. From a steady, unhampered chase to this: Unrivalled pivoting round, revealing her full broadside, and none of his own guns yet able to bear.

“Open the ports! Run out!”

All order had gone. Men yelled and cursed with each heave on the tackles until every port was filled, and there was no longer an empty sea for a target.

Massie strode past the empty boat tier. “Fire!” A slap on a man’s tense shoulder. “As you bear, fire! ”

As each trigger-line was jerked an eighteen-pounder thundered inboard to be seized and sponged out, charge and ball tamped home.

Adam shouted, “Hold her now! Steer north-west!”

There were more yells, and he imagined that he heard the splintering crack of a falling spar, although it was unlikely above the din of canvas and straining rigging, and the last echoes of a full broadside.

The other frigate was falling downwind, her bowsprit and jib boom shot away, the tangle of severed cordage and wildly flapping sails dragging her round.

Adam cupped his hands. “On the uproll! Fire! ”

It was a ragged broadside, some of the guns had not yet run out, but he saw the iron smash home, and bulwarks and planking, broken rigging and men being flung like flotsam in a high wind.

It might have been us.

Galbraith was shouting, “The other one’s coming for us, sir!”

The second frigate seemed so near, towering above the larboard quarter, stark in the hard sunlight. He could even see the patches on her forecourse, and the pointing sword of a once proud figurehead.

He winced as more iron smashed into the hull, feeling the deck lurch beneath his feet, and hearing the heavy crash of a ball ripping into the poop. The enemy’s jib-boom was already overreaching the larboard quarter.

He dashed the smoke from his eyes and saw a man fall on the opposite side, his scream lost in the report of a solitary gun.

He waved to Cristie. “Now!”

The wheel was moving again, but one of the helmsmen was sprawled in blood. Unrivalled turned only a point, so that it appeared as if the other ship must ride up and over her poop. The jib-boom was above the nettings now, men were firing, and through the swirling smoke Adam saw vague figures swarming out on the other frigate’s beak-head and bowsprit, cutlasses glinting dully in the haze of gunfire.

Going to board us. It was like another voice.

“Clear lower deck, Mr Galbraith!” Suppose it failed? He thrust the thought away and dragged out his sword, conscious of Avery beside him, and Jago striding just ahead, a short-bladed weapon in his fist.

Adam raised the sword. “To me, Unrivalleds!”

She was a well-armed ship. He could remember the admiration, the envy. Apart from her two batteries of eighteen-pounders, she also mounted eight 32-pound carronades, two of which were almost directly below his feet.

It happened within seconds, and yet each moment remained separate, stamped forever in his memory.

Midshipman Homey slipping and falling to his knees, then being hit in the skull by a heavy ball even as he struggled to his feet. Flesh, blood and fragments of bone splashed across Adam’s breeches. The carronades roared out together, crashing inboard on their slides and hurling their massive balls, packed with grape and jagged metal, directly into the enemy forecastle.

Avery turned and stared at him, shook his sword, shouted something. But the stare did not waver, and he fell face down, and the packed mass of boarders surged across his body and on to the other ship’s deck.

It was useless to hesitate. Too many who depended upon… But for only a second Adam halted, looking for the man who had been his uncle’s friend.

Jago was dragging at his arm.

“Come on, sir! We’ve got the bastards on the run!”

A dream, a nightmare; scenes of desperate brutality, all mercy forgotten. Men falling and dying. Others dropping between the two hulls, the only escape. A face loomed out of the yelling, hacking mob: it was Campbell, the hard man, waving a flag and screaming, “The flag! They’ve struck!”

Now there were different faces, and he realised that, like Avery, he had fallen and was lying on the deck. He felt for the sword, and saw Midshipman Bellairs holding it; it must have been knocked out of his hand.

And then the pain reached him, a searing agony, which punched the breath from his lungs. He groped for his thigh, his groin; it was everywhere. A hand was gripping his wrist and he saw it was O’Beirne, and understood that he was on Unrivalled’s gun deck; he must have lost consciousness, and he felt something akin to panic.

He said, “The orlop! You belong with the wounded, not here, man!”

O’Beirne nodded grimly, his face sliding out of focus like melting wax. Then it was Jago’s turn. He had torn down the front of Adam’s breeches and was holding something in the hazy sunlight. No blood. No gaping wound. It was the watch, which he always carried in the pocket above his groin. A shot had smashed it almost in two pieces.

He was losing control again. The shop in Halifax. The chiming chorus of clocks. The little mermaid…

Jago was saying, “Christ, you were lucky, sir!” He wanted to lessen it, in his usual way. But the levity would not come. Then he said, “Just hold on.”

Men were cheering, hugging one another, the marines were rounding up prisoners… so much to do, the prizes to be secured, the wounded to be tended. He gasped as someone tried to lift him. And Avery. Avery… I shall have to tell Catherine. A letter. And the locket.

Somehow he was on his feet, staring up at the flag as if to reassure himself. But all he could think of was the little mermaid. Perhaps it was her way; the last farewell.

Then he fainted.