Signal-Close Action!

18. The Din of War

BOLITHO strode across the quarterdeck with Herrick beside him. Figures, mostly in shadow, cleared a path for him, and he heard Grubb say, 'steady at east-by-north, sir."

Veitch, who had the watch, came to meet him, and touched his hat.

Harebell has just signalled again, sir. Ships in sight to the nor"-west." He glared at the signal party. "Mr. Glasson was somewhat slack with his men, and I fear we missed some of Harebell's flags."

Bolitho nodded. "I’ve little doubt that the ships which Inch saw were patrols ahead of a larger force. Otherwise they"d have come closer. "

He peered up at his pendant. It was shining cleanly in the new daylight, but the lower yards and shrouds were still in deeper shadow.

He said, "Very well. Make to the squadron. Prepare for battle." He smiled at Veitch. "Have our people had breakfast?"

"Aye, sir." Veitch looked at Herrick and stammered, 'someone told me of the commodore's feelings about today, sir. So I had all hands called an hour earlier."

Bolitho rubbed his chin. "I will shave now, and have some coffee, if there's any left." He heard the squeak of halliards as the signal dashed up the yards and broke to the wind. "I hope Nicator is awake and repeats the signal to Javal."

He turned to look for Harebells lithe shape, but she was stem-on, her braced topsails very pale against the sky.

He said, "We must deploy our ships to best advantage, Thomas. Alter course directly and steer due north on the larboard tack."

Across the heaving water he heard the staccato beat of drums, and pictured Nicator" s seamen and marines hurrying to quarters.

Herrick nodded. "Aye, sir. It’ll be more prudent. I’ll have the signal bent on, once Nicator has acknowledged. "

'she has, sir!" Glasson's normally sharp voice was hushed..

Veitch snapped, "Then say it, Mr. Glasson! Or your rank will never rise above "acting"!"

Bolitho did not even hear the exchange. He was thinking. Imagining the breadth of an enemy fleet. The control from one or several flagships.

He said, 'send away the quarter boat, Captain Herrick. Have the despatch bag sent over to Harebell." He hesitated. "And any letters there may be for England. "

Shouts echoed along the deck and the boat's crew dashed aft, Yeo, the boatswain, urging them with his powerful voice.

Bolitho looked once more at his pendant. Brighter yet again, but there was not much of a wind. His new course and tack would aid their speed a little, but it would still feel like an age before they got to grips with the enemy.

Pascoe hurried towards him, the heavy bag under his arm. "Boat's ready, sir!"

"Off you go, Adam. Don’t delay, and tell Commander Inch to make all speed to rejoin the fleet."

Herrick asked, "Will we take the wind-gage, d"you think?" "J am not certain." He felt his stomach contract. Hunger? Fear? It was hard to tell. "But if it is the force I imagine, it will be large enough to see."

Veitch came aft again. "Boat's away, sir. Pulling like the devil. "

"Thank you." He pulled out his watch. "You may clear for action in fifteen minutes, Mr. Veitch. In the meantime, make to the squadron, Steer north. When that is completed, make one other. To Form line of battle. "

He walked away as the calls started to shrill and men ran to their stations for altering course. He could leave all that and more to Herrick. Now.

He ducked his head automatically beneath the poop as Grubb yelled, 'stand by at th" braces there!" The wheel was going over, the sails flapping and banging and spattering the men beneath with great droplets of moisture.

In the cabin it seemed very cool, and he sat almost unmoving while Allday gave him a speedy shave and Ozzard plied him with black coffee.

Ozzard said dolefully, "That was the last of it, sir."

He heard Allday mutter, "Never mind. We’ll take some off a Frenchie, eh?"

More stamping feet overhead, and the shriek of blocks and rigging.

Veitch's voice, hollow in his trumpet. "Make fast there!

Belay that brace, Bosun!"

With the lantern giving only a feeble light, the cabin became extra dark, and he imagined the ship heading due north, the others following _in a line astern. Soon now.

There was sudden stillness, broken within seconds by the rattle of drums, sharp and nerve-racking, so that he knew Leroux's little drummer boys were just above the skylight.

The hull trembled, each deck giving its own sound and reaction as screens were tom down, chests and unwanted gear stowed below, and every gun captain bustled around his crew like a mother hen.

Allday stood back and wiped the razor. "Eight minutes, sir. Mr. Veitch is learning your ways."

Bolitho stood up and waited for Ozzard to bring his best coat.

He said, "Captain Farquhar did the honours last time." Their eyes met "I think that is all." He smiled. "But for the sword."

Ozzard watched the pair of them and then darted forward to adjust the bow around Bolitho's black queue.

Bolitho recalled his feelings about Farquhar. Like an actor.

He heard more yells from the upper deck, a clatter of oars as the boat returned alongside.

He looked at Allday, wondering if he was thinking the same. All together. Herrick and Pascoe, Allday and himself.

Bolitho said, "It's time. "

They walked through the screen door, where instead of a dining table and polished chairs there was only open deck, the dark shapes of the waiting guns and their crews stretching away beneath the poop and towards the strengthening day- light.

He strode past the mizzen mast's great trunk and tried not to recall the broadside which had ripped through Osiris's" stem like a bloody avalanche.

Some of the gun crews turned to watch him, their eyes glittering white in the gloom behind the sealed ports.

One man called, "Yew"m a fair zight today, zur!" He was finding courage in the darkness and ignored the harsh threats of a petty officer. "Bet there's no better lookin" sailor in the "ole fleet!"

Bolitho smiled. He knew the accent well. A Cornishman like himself. Perhaps even a face he had seen as a youth, now brought close for this encounter.

He walked past the double wheel and the imperturbable helmsmen. The master and his mates, the midshipman of the watch, little Saxby. And further, to the centre of the quarter deck.

He saw Pascoe, his head and shoulders soaked in spray, speaking in a fierce whisper to Glasson, who had taken charge of the ship's signals.

Pascoe touched his hat to Bolitho and said, "I will go below, sir."

Bolitho nodded, knowing that some of the seamen nearby were watching them curiously. Pascoe's new station was down on the lower gun deck with the great thirty-two- pounders. He had Lieutenant Steere as his superior, and a midshipman to fetch and carry messages. Youth indeed for Lysander's main batteries.

"God be with you, Adam."

"And you," he hesitated, "Uncle." He shot a smile towards Herrick and then hurried down the companion.

"Deck there! Sails in sight on the larboard bow!" Bolitho snapped, "Aloft with you, Mr. Veitch. I’d like a firm opinion this morning."

He stared at the sky, now pale blue and devoid of cloud.

The red blobs of the marine marksmen and swivel gunners in the tops, the great yards and black tarred rigging. A living, vital weapon of war. The most complex and harshly demanding creation of man. Yet in the weak sunlight Lysander had a true beauty, which even her bulk and tonnage could not spoil.

He crossed to the larboard side and clung to the neatly stacked hammock nettings. Harebell was already fighting round in a steep tack, her topsails flapping, her topgallants and maincourse being set even as he watched.

Astern he could see the black lines of Nicator's weather shrouds and tumblehome, but her outline, and Immortalite's, too, were hidden beyond the sloping poop.

Major Leroux ran lightly down a ladder and raised his drawn sword to his hat with a flourish.

"I have arranged my men as you ordered, sir. The best marksmen where they will be unhampered by those less accurate." He smiled, his eyes far-away. "Maybe the French will expect to meet with Nelson?"

Herrick heard him and laughed. "Our gallant admiral must take his turn!"

Veitch returned to the deck by way of a backstay with as much ease as a twelve-year-old midshipman.

He wiped his hands on his coat and said, "It is the enemy fleet, sir. They seem to be steering south-east, and the bulk of it lies well to windward. " He hesitated and then said, "There is a second squadron directly across our bows on a converging Jack, sir. I had a good look at it, and I am certain that one or more of the ships were at Corfu. One of "em was painted in red and black. I saw her just now, as plain as day." Bolitho looked at Herrick and drove one fist into his palm. "De Brueys is holding his main squadron to the west of us, Thomas! He must still expect a chance to meet with our fleet!"

Herrick nodded and said bitterly, "If he only knew that they had already gone from here!"

Bolitho seized his arm. "Mr. Veitch is not mistaken!" He looked at both of them, willing them to understand. "De Brueys has kept his other supply ships to the east"rd, protected by his lines of battle!"

"Then I’ll warrant our appearance is causing some cackling!" Herrick climbed into the weather shrouds with a telescope. "I can just make out some sails on the horizon. But you may well be right, Mr. Veitch! Our Frenchmen are protecting their charges from the wrong direction!" He said in a duller voice, "But the French have plenty of time to re-arrange their defences. "

Bolitho toyed with the idea of going up to the topgallant yard to see for himself.

"There are but three of us, Thomas. The French will have sighted Harebell and may assume she is about to relay our signals to the main fleet."

Leroux said quietly, "Then I’d not be in Commander Inch's boots."

Some of the gun crews had left their weapons and stood on the gangways to watch the enemy's slow approach. Like plumed cavalry topping a hard blue rise, the masts and sails began to show themselves even to the men on the gun deck. More and still more, until the horizon seemed engulfed by their sails.

"A fleet indeed, Thomas."

Bolitho tilted his hat to keep the light from his eyes. He could feel the sun on his right cheek, the clinging weight of his coat. It would be hotter than this soon. In more ways than one.

Hour ran into hour, and as the sunlight grew stronger and harsher, the enemy ships took on style and personality. The

measured lines of French seventy-fours, and the. whole dominated by one great first-rate, the largest ship Bolitho had ever seen. That would be de Brueys's flagship. He wondered what the French admiral was thinking, how the small line of British ships would look to him and his officers. He wondered, too, if Bonaparte was there with him, watching and despising their brave gesture. Bonaparte was their one real hope. De Brueys was a very experienced and courageous officer, and of all those present he probably understood his enemy's navy best. His intelligence and cunning were well known and respected. But would Bonaparte be willing to listen to advice now, with Egypt almost in sight and nothing but three ships in his way?

He said, "Tell your marines to strike up a tune of some kind, Major. This waiting burrs the edge off a man's strength. I know it does off mine!"

Moments later the drums and fifes led off with The Old East Indiaman, the youthful marines marching up and down the quarterdeck, stumbling only occasionally over a gun tackle or a seaman's out-thrust leg.

After some hesitation, and the knowing grins from his mates, Grubb delved into his pocket and joined the fifes with his tin whistle, the one which had become something of a legend.

"Deck there! Enemy frigate steerin" due south, sir!"

'she's after Harebell, sir!"

Bolitho gripped his hands behind him, as with a growing pyramid of sails a powerful frigate tacked away from the unending line of ships and headed towards the sloop.

Inch had the edge on her. With this slow south-westerly it would be hard for the French captain to overreach him now, and unless he crippled Harebell with a long shot from a bow chaser, he should be safely clear."

A gun echoed dully across the glittering water, and a thin white fin spurted in the sunlight. It was well short, and brought a ripple of cheers from the watchers in the tops.

The deck tilted heavily, and one of the marching drummer boys almost pitched headlong.

Grubb thrust his whistle into his coat and growled, "Wind's gettin" up, sir!" To his helmsmen he added, "Watch it, my beauties!"

Bolitho looked at Herrick. "You may load and run out when you are ready."

He felt the ship lifting and then dipping into a low swell, the spray darting through the beakhead like broken glass."

Herrick cupped his hands. "Mr. Veitch! Pass the word! Load and run out!"

Leroux said to his lieutenant, "Bless my soul, Peter, I do believe that the French are keeping their formations!"

Nepean peered at him vacantly. "But that will surely take us right amongst the second group, sir? Those supply ships seem to be heavily protected also." He swallowed hard and blinked the sweat from his eyes." "Pan my word, sir, I think you"re right!"

The major looked up at the poop. 'sar"nt Gritton! Spread your sharpshooters to either side! At this rate I think we will be into the enemy's centre before he knows it!"

Bolitho heard all of it. The busy clatter of rammers and handspikes, the shrill of whistles as the guns were run out, one side gleaming like teeth, the other still in a purple shadow.

Bolitho thought of Pascoe and his great charges, three decks beneath his feet. He wanted him here with him, and yet knew that the lower deck was probably safer.

"Run out, sir!"

Bolitho took a glass from Midshipman Saxby and it almost dropped to the deck. The boy was shaking badly and trying not to, show it. Bolitho ran up a poop ladder and trained the glass astern.

He said sharply, 'signal to Nicator, Mr. Glasson: Make more sail."

He returned to the quarterdeck and said, "We want no great gap between us."

The remark reminded him of Saxby and he said quietly, "Take this glass, my lad, and go aft with the marines. Keep levelled on Nicator for me, until I say otherwise."

Herrick dabbed his face with a handkerchief. "Worried about young Saxby, sir?"

"No, Thomas." He lowered his voice. "About Probyn." "Nicator s acknowledged, sir. " Glasson sounded very alert now.

Bolitho nodded and climbed on to a nine-pounder, one hand resting on a seaman's bare shoulder. Heading on a diagonal tack towards Lysander's larboard bow he saw the French men-of-war reforming to protect their scattered convoy of supply ships.

He counted them carefully. Four ships of the line. Odds against his own strength, but not too much so. Beyond the overlapping straggle of supply vessels he saw the squared sails of a frigate, snapping at the heels of those vital ships like a Cornish sheepdog when a fox was after the lambs.

He looked past Veitch without seeing him. An hour more at the most. The French admiral would know by then that there were no more British ships close by. What then? Revenge and destruction of the little squadron? Or on to Alexandria in case there was one more trick to play?

Bolitho saw the gleam of red amongst the enemy's formation and knew it was the supply ship from Corfu. Veitch would remember. He"d had plenty of opportunity to watch her and her scattering consorts while he had set fire to the hillside to protect Osiris from the guns. And she would be carrying more of those great guns. Without the last of them, de Brueys would never dare to anchor inside Alexandria's narrow entrance. He would need their protection for his ships and the landing of so many soldiers and stores. Denied them, he would do it as Herrick had described, in AboukirBay.

And with any kind of luck, Nelson would find them there. After that, it would be up to him.

He looked along Lysander's decks, his heart heavy. And what of us? We did our best.

He heard several bangs, and saw smoke drifting downwind from the leading French two-decker. Some of the balls whipped across the low waves like flying fish, but were well clear of Lysander.

It was a show of anger. A sign that the French were ready and eager for battle after so long preparing behind their booms and harbour batteries.

Herrick said, "Bow chaser, Mr. Veitch! Try a ranging ball or two!"

The crash of the larboard bow chaser brought some cheers from those who were unable to see the enemy's show of strength.

Below the quarterdeck, other men were already wrapping their neckerchiefs around their ears,. and placing their cutlasses and boarding axes in close reach.

Bolitho heard Glasson say, "Half a cable short!" But nobody answered him.

The leading French ship was firm placed towards Lysander's larboard bow, sailing as close to the wind as she could, every sail fully visible on her tightly braced yards.

Bolitho watched narrowly, gauging time and distance.

Whether they would collide or break the enemy's line. They had to get amongst the supply ships.

A ripple of bright orange tongues from the leading ship, and this time the controlled broadside was better directed. He felt the hull jerk, and heard the searing whine of iron passing over the poop.

Up and down between the eighteen-pounders and their motionless crews, Kipling, the second lieutenant, walked unhurriedly, his drawn sword over his shoulder like a stick. "Easy, my lads!" He was speaking almost softly. As if calming a horse. 'stand-to and face your front!"

Bolitho saw the Frenchman's forecourse stretched and hard-bellied on its yard, and it looked for all the world as if it was spread on Lysander's bowsprit and jib boom.

Bolitho snapped, "Let her falloff two points!"

He nodded to Herrick as Grubb's men put up their helm. "As you bear! Fire!

From forward to aft, Lysander's larboard guns fired, reloaded and fired again, smoke and fire belching from her ports, the trucks squealing as the crews trundled them back again for another broadside.

Bolitho gritted his teeth, feeling the deck shaking violently to the guns" recoil. His eyes smarted as he trained his glass beyond the bow, seeing the Frenchman's sails jerking and tearing under the barrage. Some of Lysander's guns would not bear on the French leader, but he hoped that the heavier balls from the thirty-two-pounders might be finding targets over and beyond her stem.

Herrick shouted, "The French captain's altered course, sir!" He cursed as the enemy ship fired, the broadside haphazard and ill-timed, but nevertheless deadly. Great thuds shook the hull, and two large holes appeared in the main topsail.

Bolitho watched the enemy's yards moving, narrowing the exposed sails as she turned slightly away. To give her gun crews a better chance to fire and to take advantage of the wind, which by being so close-hauled had been denied her.

Bolitho said sharply, "Alter course to larboard again! Steer north by west!"

He had not wasted his first broadsides. It had unnerved the enemy captain enough to make him edge round to return fire. It would take him far too long to work his ship back so close to the wind.

Men hauled wildly at the braces, the yards creaking and allowing the sun to spill more light into smoke-hazed decks. "Fire!"

The larboard guns came crashing inboard, one by one, the crews sponging out and yelling like madmen as they reloaded.

Bolitho saw the second French ship rising above the rolling smoke, and knew he had caught the leader unprepared… The second one was already probing towards the larboard bow, and ahead of her, hidden in Lysander's own gunsmoke, was the gap between the ships, the hole in the line.

'set the forecourse!" Bolitho heard balls whimpering over- head and saw tall waterspouts bracketing the ship on either side. The deck bucked sharply, and several lengths of broken cordage fell unheeded on the spread nets. "Hold her, Mr. Grubb!"

Major Leroux yelled, "Ready, Marines!" He had his sword above his head. "By sections, fire!"

The sharper cracks of the muskets, the hollow bang of the maintop swivel, must have made the men at the lower battery on the starboard side realise for the first time just how near the Frenchman was. And as Lysander, holding the wind in her increased canvas, surged across the leader's stem, the crews cheered, blinking in the sunlight, then reeling aside as Lieutenant Steere blew his whistle, and the whole line of thirty-two-pounders roared out at the enemy.

Painted scrollwork, glass and strips of timber flew above the smoke, and Bolitho pictured the terror amongst the supply ships as Lysander s fierce-eyed figurehead thrust through the line towards them.

"Fire!"

The second Frenchman, another seventy-four, was changing course rapidly, swinging to larboard and firing as she followed Lysander round. Balls ripped into the hull and hissed above the sweating gun crews, while from the French leader came a less powerful challenge from a stem chaser and a few charges of canister. Several marines had-dropped, but Sergeant Gritton was holding them together. The ramrods rising and falling, the balls rammed home, and then the scarlet line back up to the nettings to shoot once more.

Bolitho ran to the lee side and peered through the smoke.

The French leader had lost her main topmast and was drifting heavily, with either her steering gone, or so badly hampered by dragging spars and canvas she was temporarily out of control.

"Again, Mr. Veitch! Full broadside!"

Gun captains yelled to restrain the din-crazed crews, even used their fists, as one by one the starboard guns were trundled to the ports and each captain held a blackened hand towards his officer.

Veitch yelled, "Fire!"

Starting with the lower battery, up along the eighteen-pounders, and finally to the quarterdeck nine-pounders, every black muzzle added its havoc to the bombardment.

Bolitho watched the smoke rolling away, trying to see the enemy, his eyes streaming, his mouth like sand.

The sky had gone, even the sun, and the world was confined to a thundering nightmare of flame and earsplitting noise.

He felt the hull shiver, heard muffled screams from far below as enemy iron came through a port and sliced amongst the crowded gun deck. He tried not to. think of Pascoe lying hurt or crippled, the horror that a great ball could do in such a confined place.

He saw a flag making a small patch of colour in the smoke, and realised there was no other mast near it. Some of the gun crews started to cheer, their voices strangely muffled after the din of a full broadside. He watched grimly as the other ship showed herself through the fog, her stem and quarter smashed and almost unrecognisable. Only her foremast remained, and some brave soul was risking death to climb aloft and fix a new tricolour to the foretop.

Herrick shouted incredulously, "Nicator's not following!"

He fell back as a man was hurled from a gun, his scream dying in his throat. Herrick lowered him to the deck, his hands spattered with blood. As he scrambled up again he said savagely, "Probyn's not going to help!"

Bolitho glanced at him and ran to the larboard side, seeking the rest of the enemy line, and saw that the remaining two were holding on the same course, while the one which had swung round after Lysander was still trying to overhaul, her forward guns firing towards the quarter.

Bolitho shouted, "Direct your fire on that one!"

He winced as men fell kicking from a pair of guns.

Splinters and charred hammocks burst" across the boat tier, and he saw a ship's boy smashed to the deck and almost decapitated by a jagged length of planking.

"Fire!" Lieutenant Kipling was still walking up and down, but his hat had gone, and his left arm hung useless at his side. 'stop your vents! Sponge out! Load!" He stooped to drag a wounded man from the path of a gun. "Run out!"

Thuds along the gangway and decks made some duck away, and Bolitho saw bright darting flames from the enemy's tops as the sharpshooters tested their aim. "Fire!

There was a ragged cheer as the enemy's fore topgallant mast toppled, steadied and then plunged into her own gunsmoke. Some of her marksmen would have gone with it. But she was still firing, and Bolitho could feel the balls slamming into the side and poop, the crash and whine of metal, the dreadful screams.

A midshipman ran across the deck, his eyes fixed on Bolitho.

'sir! Immor-Immor-" He gave up. "Captain Javal's ship is breaking through, sir! Mr. Yea's respects, and he saw her thrusting across the third Frenchie" s bowsprit!"

Bolitho gripped his shoulder, feeling him jump with alarm as a ball crashed through the quarterdeck rail and killed two men at a nine-pounder. They fell in a bloody heap at the midshipman's feet, and it was then that Bolitho realised it was Breen, his ginger hair almost black with smoke.

"Thank you, Mr. Breen." He held his shoulder tightly until he could feel some of the terror ebbing away. "My compliments to the boatswain." As the midshipman started to run for the ladder he said, "Take your time, Mr. Breen!" He saw his words holding him, steadying him. "Our people are looking to their" "young gentlemen" today!" He saw the boy grin.

Herrick called, "I can see Nicator, sir! She's still disengaged!"

Bolitho looked at him. Probyn was well clear. He could apply his strength to the rearmost French seventy-fours which were now exchanging shots with Immortalite. Or he could set more sail and come after Lysander.

He said, "General signal. Close action."

He turned as Herrick hurried away and stared across the nettings. He saw Nicator's topsails, her hoisted. acknowledgement very bright against the smoke.

Bolitho coughed and retched as more smoke funnelled through the ports.

"Mr. Glasson! Tell your men to keep that signal flying, no matter what!"

Herrick shouted, "Glasson's dead, sir."

He stepped" aside as some marines lifted the acting-lieutenant clear of the guns. His face was screwed into a petulant frown, his mouth open as if about to reprimand the marines who carried him.

"I’ll attend to it, sir!"

Bolitho turned and saw Saxby staring up at him. He had forgotten all about him.

"Thank you." He tried to smile, but his face felt stiff and unmoving. "I want the signal, and our Colours to be seen. If you have to tie them to the bowsprit!"

He heard a chorus of groans, and then Major Leroux shouted from the poop, "Captain Javal's having a hard fight, sir! His mizzen is gone, and he seems to be trying to grapple!" Bolitho nodded. The French would have recognised Javal's ship as one of their own. They would try to recapture her first. It was a natural instinct.

He said, "More sail, Thomas! Set the t"gallants! I want to get amongst the supply ships!"

A seaman fell from an upper yard and lay with an arm thrust through the net. The dead reaching for the living.

But others were responding to the orders, and under more sails Lysander forged ahead of the French two-decker.

Herrick wiped his grimy face with his sleeve and grinned. "Always was a fast sailer, sir!" He waved his hat, the desperation of battle in his eyes. "Huzza, lads! Hit "em, lads!"

Another line of long flashes burst from Lysander s hull, and with full traverse on the lower battery Lieutenant Steere's gun captains got several more hits on the enemy. The other ship had lost all her topgallant masts, and her forecastle was a shambles of broken spars and cordage. Several of her ports were black and empty, like blind eyes, where guns had been overturned, their crews killed or wounded.

But she was still following, her jib boom overlapping Lysander's larboard quarter like a tusk, and less than eighty yards clear.

Leroux's marksmen were firing without pause, their faces grim with concentration as their tall sergeant picked out what he considered the most important targets.

But the French were also busy, and the air above the poop was alive with musket balls. Splinters flew from planking and gangways, or thudded viciously into the packed hammock nettings. Here and there a man fell from a gun or the shrouds, and the roar of gunfire was becoming unbearable. For across – Lysander's path lay several supply ships, two locked together after colliding in their haste to get away. Kipling was up in the midst of his forward guns, yelling to the carronade crews and encouraging everyone around him. The most forward guns on both decks were already adding their weight to the din, and the entangled supply ships were raked and ablaze with the swiftness of a torch in dry grass.

Veitch yelled wildly through his trumpet, "Mr. Kipling!

Point your guns to starboard!"

He gestured with the trumpet as a seaman touched Kipling's arm to catch his attention. Through the dense smoke, displaying her distinctive red wales, was the heavy supply ship from Corfu, yards hard-braced and her foresail filling strongly as she tacked to avoid her burning con- sorts.

"As you bear! Fire!"

. Bolitho walked as if in a trance. Calling out and encouraging, not knowing if they recognized him, let alone heard his words. All around men were working their guns, firing, and dying. Others lay moaning and holding their wounds. Some merely sat staring at nothing, their minds shattered perhaps forever.

All daylight seemed to have gone, although in his reeling mind Bolitho knew it was no later than eight or nine in the forenoon. It was painful to breathe, and what air there was seemed to be spewed from the guns, as if heated by each blistered muzzle before it reached his lungs.

A blast of canister scythed over the nettings, and he saw Veitch spin round, seizing his arm at the elbow and grimacing in agony as blood poured down his wrist and on to his leg.

A seaman tried to help him to the ladder, but Veitch snarled, "Bind it, man! I’ll not quit the deck for it!"

Lysander's guns were firing from both sides at once, seeking out the blurred shapes which loomed and faded in the dense smoke, and with the din of their broadsides Bolitho could hear the crash of the shots hitting the targets and cutting down masts, sails and men in a devastating onslaught.

Herrick shouted, "There she goes!" He pointed abeam. The red-striped supply ship was listing steeply, her hull punctured by several heavy balls. The weight of her cargo did the rest. The great siege guns began to tear adrift in her holds, and although there was no sound to rise above the thunder of cannon fire, Bolitho imagined he could hear the sea surging into her, while her crew fought to reach the upper deck before she dived to the bottom.

Hopelessly outgunned, the French frigate which had been trying to herd the supply ships away from the fighting, came out of the smoke, her guns blazing, her deck tilting to the thrust of her canvas. She swept across Lysander's bows, her iron slamming through the beakhead and foresail, knocking a carronade off its slide and killing Lieutenant Kipling where he stood.

As she forged across the starboard bow, Lysander's forward gun crews crouched at their ports, eyes reddened and smarting, bodies shining and streaked in sweat and powder smoke, watching the frigate's progress and awaiting Kipling's whistle.

The boatswain, Harry Yeo, cupped his hands and bellowed, "Fire!"

Then he, too, fell bleeding and dying, and like Kipling did not see the proud frigate changed into a dismasted shambles by the great guns.

A violent explosion stirred the sails like a hot wind, the smoke rising momentarily above the embattled ships and allowing sunlight to probe down like a misty lantern.

The first French ship was still drifting downwind, and the water around her was littered with flotsam and dead men. The second one was dropping astern of Lysander with only one- bow chaser which would bear. But Bolitho saw Immortalite and knew it must have been a magazine which had exploded.

Javal had managed to grapple one of the Frenchmen, and while the other had tried to cross his stem and rake him from end to end, a fire had started. A lamp blown from its hook, a man running in panic and igniting some powder by accident, nobody would ever know. Of the captured prize there was little to be seen. Her masts had gone, and she was a mass of flame which grew and spread with every second. It had blown to the ship alongside, and with her sails blasted away, her rigging and gang way well alight, she, too, was doomed.

Bolitho wiped his eyes, feeling the pain for Javal and his men.

Then as the smoke swirled down again he heard Grubb yell, "Rudder, sir!"

He crossed the deck, "ignoring the occasional thud of a ball by his feet as he stared at the helmsmen who were swinging the big wheel from side to side.

Grubb added thickly, "That bugger's chaser "as shot the rudder lines away!" He pointed at the fore topsail beyond the quarterdeck rail. 'she's payin" off!"

Bolitho shouted, "Get some men aft! Rig new lines!" He saw Plowman call for seamen from the nearest guns. "Fast as you can!"

Herrick stared despairingly at the flapping sails." We must shorten at once!"

"Aye, Thomas."

He tried not to think of their following Frenchman. One lucky shot had hit Lysander s steering gear, and now, as the wind turned her gently downwind, she was swinging her stern towards her enemy. It would be Osiris allover again. He tried not to curse aloud. Except that this time there was no Lysander coming to the rescue.

On every side he saw or heard the chaos caused amongst the supply ships. De Brueys might have soldiers and horse artillery in plerity with his main fleet, but he would never have a single siege gun like the one which had sent Osiris to her death.

Then, as now, Nicator had kept away. He1d off by a man so embittered, so twisted by his hatred that he would see his own people die, and do nothing to help.

More crashes came from below, and there was a chorus of yells as Lysander's main topgallant mast came splintering down through the smoke, taking men and sail with it into the water alongside with a mighty splash.

As more seamen ran with axes to hack it away, Bolitho saw Saxby hurrying jo the shrouds, another broad pendant wrapped around his waist like a sash.

As he hauled at the halliards he shouted, "Thought I might need an extra one, y" see, sir!" He was laughing and weeping, his fear gone in the horror which surrounded him. Later, if he survived, it would be harder to bear.

Bolitho looked past him towards the Frenchman's topsails and beakhead as they towered above the larboard quarter. Guns hammered back and forth between them, and he felt the deck lurching, heard some of his men still able to cheer as they saw their own shots slamming home.

But it was no use. Lysander was still swinging helplessly, her tattered sails streaming through the smoke, her, guns barely able to keep firing for want of men to supply their need.

The smoke writhed and blossomed scarlet, and Bolitho reached out for support as the first of the enemy's iron smashed through the poop. Marines and seamen fell dead and dying in its path. Lieutenant Nepean dropped his sword and fell choking on blood, and when Leroux yelled for his sergeant, he, too, was unable to reply, but sat holding his stomach, his eyes glazing as he tried to respond to his major as he had always done.

Allday drew his cutlass and thrust his body behind Bolitho like a shield.

Through his teeth he said, "One more broadside, an" I reckon they’ll try to board us!" He pushed a dying marine away and pointed his cutlass "through the smoke. "Just one man I’d rather kill than any Frog today!"

Herrick walked past, hands behind him, his face very composed.

He said, "Mr. Plowman says it will take all of ten minutes more, sir."

It might as well be an hour, Bolitho thought.

Herrick looked at Allday. "And who is that?" "Cap"n bloody Probyn, that's who!"

The French ship was barely feet away from the quarter, although with so much smoke it could have been any distance. What guns would bear were pouring shots into Lysander's poop and lower hull, and from the bowsprit and spritsail yard marksmen were shooting at Lysander's quarterdeck as fast as they could aim.

Bolitho shouted to Herrick, "How are the supply ships?" Herrick bared his teeth. 'six done for and maybe the same number crippled!"

Bolitho turned to see a body dragged clear of the poop. Moffitt, his clerk, his thin grey hair marked with a bright touch of scarlet where a splinter had cut him down. Like Gilchrist's father, he had known the misery of a debtor's prison, and now lay dead.

He had to force the words out. "I am ordering you to haul down our Colours, Thomas."

Herrick stared at him, his mouth tight with strain. 'strike, sir?"

Bolitho walked past him, feeling Allday close at his back. Protecting him as always.

"Aye. Strike." He looked at the upended guns, the blood, some of which had splashed as high as the tattered forecourse. "We did what we intended. I’ll not see another man die to save my honour. "

"But, sir!"

Herrick hesitated as Veitch lurched over to join him, his arm wet with blood, his face like wax.

Veitch gasped, "We’ll fight "em, sir! We’ve still got some good lads!"

Bolitho looked at them wearily. "I know you"d fight." He turned towards the enemy. "But then our men would die for nothing. "

He looked for Saxby and saw. him crouching by the bulwark.

"Haul down the Colours!" He shouted, "That is an order!" The guns fell silent, and above the crackle of a blazing supply ship and the. mingled cries of the wounded they heard the beginning of a French cheer.

They"re getting ready to board. Bolitho sheathed his sword and looked at those around him. At least their lives would be spared.

The smoke lifted again to a tremendous roar of cannon fire, and Bolitho imagined for an instant that the French were making certain of a victory with one last murderous broadside at point-blank range. He saw some of Lysander s shrouds tearing away like weeds as balls shrieked above the deck, and then turned as Herrick shouted wildly, "It's Nicator! She's firing into the Frenchman from t"other beam!"

Because of the smoke and the drifting supply ships, some of which were adding their own pyres to the surrounding fog, nobody had seen Nicator" s slow and careful approach. Every gun was firing on the Frenchman, which pivoting between the savage broadsides and Lysander's starboard quarter, could do nothing to escape.

Bolitho said, "Tell our people to stay off the gangways!" He heard some of Nicator's shots lashing through the rigging above him.

Herrick pointed at Saxby, who was capering around the halliards which held Bolitho's broad pendant. Neither it nor the ensign had been hauled down.

It was soon over, and as the cheering seamen and marines surged on to the French ship's deck, the tricolour vanished into the smoke.

One of Nicator's lieutenants arrived aboard some fifteen minutes later, as grappled the three vessels drifted down-wind, the victors and vanquished working together to help the wounded.

The lieutenant looked around Lysander's decks and removed his hat.

"I-I am deeply sorry, sir. We "were late again." He watched the wounded marines being carried down from the poop. "I have never seen a fight like yours, sir."

Herrick said harshly, "And Captain Probyn?"

"Dead, sir." The lieutenant lifted his chin. "Brought down by a marksman. He died instantly."

A man cried out in terror as he was carried to the orlop, and Bolitho remembered Luce, and Farquhar, and Javal. And so many others.

He asked, "Was that before or after you came to our aid?" The lieutenant looked wretched. "Before, sir. But I’m certain that…"

Bolitho looked at Herrick. Nicator had been too far off to be reached by any musket. At an enquiry it would be hard to explain, impossible to prove. But someone, driven by shame and anguish, had shot Probyn down as he had stood watching Lysander and Immortalite fighting unsupported.

He smiled gravely at the pale-faced lieutenant. "Well, you came."

The young officer turned as Pascoe appeared on the quarterdeck. "We had to, sir."

As Bolitho crossed the deck and clasped his nephew tightly, the unknown lieutenant looked up at a clearing patch of blue sky and at Bolitho's signal which was still flying.

He said quietly, "We saw the signal. Close. action. That was enough."

Bolitho looked at him. To Herrick he said, "Cast off the French ship as soon as Mr. Grubb's hands have repaired our steering. She fought well, and I’ve no use for another prize with De Brueys and his fleet so near."

Herrick walked to the rail and repeated his order to Lieutenant Steere who had emerged from the lower gun deck.

Grubb shambled beneath the poop, his ruined face smudged in smoke and grime.

"she’ll answer the 'elm now, sir! Ready to get under way!" Herrick said quietly, "He won’t hear you, Mr. Grubb." He looked sadly towards Bolitho. "He's looking at the signal and thinking of those who can "tsee it, and never will now. I know him so well."

As the sailing master moved away to his helmsmen, Herrick said to Pascoe, "Go to him, Adam. I can manage without you for a while." He watched Pascoe's face and was moved to add, "Try and tell him. They didn"t do it for any signal. It was for him."