Signal-Close Action!

7. One Company

"CLEARED for action, sir." Gilchrist's face was inscrutable. "Nine minutes exactly."

Bolitho did not hear Herrick's reply and walked unhurriedly to the weather side of the deck. With her great mainsail brailed up and every visible gun manned and ready, the ship had taken on an air of tension and of menace.

Herrick came towards him and touched his hat. "Apart from seven sick or injured men, sir, the ship's company is at quarters." He watched him enquiringly. 'shall I pass the order to load and run out?"

"Later. "

Bolitho took a telescope from its rack and trained it towards the larboard bow. The sea's face glittered painfully in the glare. Like a million tiny mirrors. More silver than blue. He stiffened as first one and then the other of the ships swam across his lens.

Herrick was still watching his face. Searching for something. Their fate, perhaps.

Bolitho said, 'seventy-fours, at a guess. This wind is making it heavy going for them."

He held the glass on the leading ship. She was turning away, displaying her length, the twin lines of chequered gunports. Her sails were in disarray, he could see them criss-crossing with shadows as her master tried to hold the wind until he had completed his change of course.

He said, 'she handles badly, Thomas." He bit his lip, trying to picture his own ship from the enemy's viewpoint. It would take an hour before they were at grips. To have a chance against two powerful seventy-fours he must hold on to the wind-gage. At least until he could rake one, or pass between the pair of them. He added slowly, "Too long in port" maybe. Like us, they need all the drill they can manage. "

Bolitho watched Harebell's slender hull passing across the bows on a converging tack, her officers steeply angled on the small quarterdeck. He thought he saw Inch waving his hat, but forgot him as Luce's men hoisted the signal for Harebell to take up her new station. As a mere spectator, at worst a survivor who would carry the news to the admiral or Farquhar.

He walked to the gangway and ran his eyes along the upper deck, The worst part. The waiting. It was a pity only half the company had found time to eat before the call to quarters.

He asked. "Do we have any beer left, Thomas?" Herrick nodded. "I believe so. Though I doubt that the purser will be pleased to broach it at this moment."

"But he will not be fighting." Bolitho saw his remark rippling along the nearest group of gun crews. "Pass the word for it to he issued directly."

He turned away. It was a cheap way of raising their morale. But it was all he had.

He returned to the quarterdeck and stood with one foot balanced on a nine-pounder. Its captain peered up at him and knuckled his forehead. Bolitho smiled at him. The man was old, or looked it. His hard hands covered with tar, his arms entwined with fierce, blue-coloured tattoos.

He asked, "And who are you?"

The man showed his uneven teeth. "Mariot, sir." He hesitated, doubtful at prolonging a conversation with his commodore. Then he said, 'served with your father, sir, in the old Scylla."

Bolitho stared at him. He wondered if Mariot would ever have told him had he been on another gun in some other part of the ship.

He asked, "Were you there when they took off his arm?" Mariot nodded, his faded eyes far away. "Aye, sir. He were a fine man, I served none better. "He grinned awkwardly 'savin" your presence, sir."

Herrick stopped beside him, his face questioning. Bolitho said, "This man served with my father, Thomas." He shaded his eyes to look for the enemy. "What a small world is bound up in a navy."

Herrick nodded and asked Mariot, "How old are you?" The man shook his head. "I can"t rightly recall, sir." He patted the gun's breech. "But young enough for this little lady!"

Bolitho walked slowly back and forth across the deck, his "ears deaf to the cheerful shouts which were welcoming the first of the beer. All in one company. A man who had been with his father in India. Allday, his trusted coxswain and friend who had first been brought to him by a press-gang. Herrick, once a junior lieutenant under him, and Adam Pascoe. His brother's only son, perhaps the link between all of them.

Herrick was saying, "They may be handled poorly, sir, but I’d be happier if we had had some support. Even a frigate to snap at their damned backsides!"

Bolitho paused at the nettings, realising that he was soaked in sweat. "Lysander fought and defeated the Athenian fleet nearly four hundred years before our Lord was born. He captured Athens a year later, if my old tutor was to be believed." He smiled at Herrick. 'surely he will not let us down today?" He added in a quieter tone, "Be easy, Thomas. Your people are watching you. Show one sign of doubt and we may well be done for."

Herrick linked his hands behind him, his chin on his neckcloth. "Aye. I’m sorry. It is strange how you never get used to the one thing you’ve worked and trained for, The sight of an enemy's sail, the sound of his broadside. Keep going until he's struck or gone under." He added with unusual bitterness, "Those fancy people in England who go all weepy at the sight of a King's ship working out of harbour never spare a thought for the "poor devils who have to man "em. Who die every day just to keep them in comfort and safety. "

Bolitho watched him impassively. It was easier to see the old Herrick now. Quick to speak out for the underdog, no matter how much wrath he incurred from his superiors. Which was probably why he was still a junior post-captain.

He asked, "And your sister, Thomas, how is she keeping?" Herrick brought his thoughts under control. "Emily?" He looked away. 'she is missing our mother, no doubt, although she took some looking-after towards the end."

Bolitho nodded. "And you have hired someone to take care of Emily while you are at sea?"

Herrick faced him, his eyes staring into the sun. "May I ask, sir, are you coming to the matter of Mr. Gilchrist?"

"I had heard something, Thomas." He was surprised at Herrick's tone. His readiness to defend an understanding.

Herrick's eyes were almost colourless in the glare. "Emily is taken with him. He is a reliable officer, if hasty-tempered at times." He lowered his head. "And what he has, he has earned, sir."

"Like you, Thomas."

"Indeed." Herrick sighed. "And I care very much for what Emily wants. God knows, she has had precious little in this world!"

"Deck there!"

Gilchrist was striding across the deck, his hands cupped. "What is it?"

"Leadin" ship is makin" more sail!"

Herrick snatched a telescope and hurried to the rail. "Damn their eyes! They will try to divide our defences."

Bolitho watched "him, seeing his mind at work with how best to present his ship to the enemy, yet still holding on to what they had been saying.

Gilchrist said sharply, "They’ll not get too near, sir. They’ll more likely use chain-shot or langridge to try and cripple us. Then rake our stern at leisure and at little risk." Bolitho said, "Make a signal to Harebell. We will alter course. Steer sou"-east. "

Herrick asked huskily, "Is it wise, sir? There's less than a league between us. If we hold on as we are, we might be able to out sail them. With the wind in our favour it"d be hours before the Frogs could beat round and come after us."

Bolitho took the glass from him and trained it on the two ships. They were moving, wide apart, towards Lysander's larboard bow. They were having a hard time to stay so closehauled, and turning any more towards the wind would put them all aback. Less than three miles. Herrick had always been good at estimating distance. Lysander would touch the leading two-decker bow to bow almost at right angles and then the second Frenchman would act as he saw fit. Go to larboard and present a broadside as Lysander fought herself free from the first embrace, or luff and work round under their stem while they were actually engaging the other one.

Herrick's plan gave them and the prize an excellent chance of escaping both. It also meant running away, with a real possibility of a long stern-chase until they met up with another enemy force. He cursed Farquhar silently. With three ships facing them the enemy would soon change their tactics.

He walked aft, feeling Grubb's eyes on him as he checked the compass. North-east by north, with the friendly west wind holding across the quarter.He looked at Grubb's ruined features.

"Well? Will it hold, d"vou think?"

"The wind, sir?" He wiped his watery eye. "Aye." He nodded his head towards the nearest gun crews and beyond to the upper deck. "It's them I ain"t so sure of."

Gilchrist was striding past and halted on the other side of the wheel, his voice scornful. "Really, Mr. Grubb! If we are to weep before we fight, I see no hope for anyone!"

Grubb stared at him stubbornly. "You was in this ship at St. Vincent, sir. Like me an" some of the others."

"Yes." Gilchrist had a way of speaking to Grubb but projecting his words to Bolitho. "I’m proud of it."

Grubb shrugged. "They was a trained company. Cap"n Dyke" ad " ad this ship in more scrapes than I can shake a stick at." He turned to Bolitho. "You knows, sir." He did not actually look at Gilchrist. "Better"n anyone, if I’m a judge."

Bolitho walked forward to the rail, deep in thought. "Have Harebell and the prize acknowledged?"

Gilchrist followed him, his shoes tapping. "Aye, sir."

"Then tell me! I’m not a damned magician!" He calmed himself. "Execute the signal."

He looked at Grubb's reddened face, "Lay her on the starboard tack."

Men rushed to the braces, the afterguard's boots keeping perfect time as they hauled the mizzen yards round, letting the sails empty and then billow out again, tilting the ship on an opposite tack.

Bolitho raised his glass; his legs straddled as the deck dipped under him. He found he could shut out the bellowed orders, the flap and thunder of sails overhead, and hold on to the small, silent world in the lens.

He saw a darker shadow pass across the leading ship's foresail. She was edging slightly away, feeling a new strength as she allowed the wind to move a few points further abaft.her beam.

"Course sou" -east, sir!"

Gilchrist snapped, "Mr. Luce, what of the others?" Luce was equally sharp in his reply, well aware of the tension between his superiors. "Harebell and prize on station astern, sir."

Bolitho pursed his lips and watched his two enemies. They were getting larger every minute, and he could see the bright tricolours at their peaks, the flash of sunlight on raised telescopes or weapons. They would have seen the commodore's broad pendant. A valuable capture. A suitable ending to this impudent gesture.

Herrick was beside him. "They"re both falling off a few points. Our change of course has aided them. They could take the wind-gage from us if we overreach them."

"Which is why we must make certain they don’t." He pointed his arm at the other ships. "I have given them more wind, as you say, Thomas. If we continue on this tack we will be abeam of the leading Frenchman in a half-hour… His consort may then try to rake our disengaged side."

"However." He saw Major Leroux turn slightly and smile at him. "What they will not be able to do is steer upwind with us so near. They would be in irons."

Herrick was unimpressed. "I know. But now, they don’thave to worry about that, sir."

Bolitho looked at him. "Consult with the master and your first lieutenant. In ten minutes I intend that we shall wear ship." He saw an unspoken protest on Herrick's face but continued, "We will then lay her on the same tack as earlier and steer nor"-east.

He watched the slow understanding moving over his features like sunlight through departing cloud.

Herrick said slowly, "By God, we’ll either collide with one of "em or-"

"Or we shall pass between them. They cannot luff without risking damage to spars and canvas. If they turn and run downwind we will rake their sterns. If they stay as they are, we will engage from either battery as we sail through." He held on to Herrick's stare. "After that, your guess is as good as mine!"

He added, "Now attend to it. I’m going to speak with the people."

He strode to the quarterdeck rail and waited until most of the seamen were peering aft towards him. He saw Lieutenant Veitch, arms relaxed, standing with his back to the enemy, his hanger already unsheathed and glinting. Near him, two midshipmen and a gunner's mate. All part of the pattern. The red-coated marine at each hatch, ready to stop any terrified man from fleeing below. And along either side, half hidden by the gangways which joined forecastle to quarterdeck, were the men who would see the enemy through the ports. Would keep their heads no matter what. Or go under.

Bolitho said, "Up yonder, lads, are two fine French gentlemen." He saw the stiff grins of the older men, the nervous twisting of heads of the others, turning as if they expected to see the enemy right here on board. "For most of you this is the first time. While you serve your country it will not be the last. A few days ago you did well. A prize taken, another ship sunk by these eighteen-pounders."

He pictured two similar lines of men on the deck below, waiting in almost complete darkness for the ports to open and run out the massive thirty-two pounders. They would be trying to hear what he was saying, the word being carried by ship's boys and midshipmen, and probably distorted along the way.

"But this is no brig, lads. Nor a newly-built shore battery." He saw the words reaching them. "Two ships of the line, and fine vessels they are."

He heard Grubb whisper, "Anytime now, sir."

Bolitho looked along the crowded deck, well sanded to save the men from slipping in battle. "But they have a fault, nonetheless. They are crewed by Frenchmen, not Englishmen!"

He turned aft, seeing the men waving and cheering, the grins on the faces of the midshipmen, as if they were going on a Royal cruise. He felt sickened with himself. Angry that he could make it sound so simple.

He said sharply, "Pass the order to load, if you please.

Then run out the larboard guns. "He saw a flash of doubt and added, "Yes, the larboard ones. They must be made to think w

"I’m here, sir."

He raised his arms and allowed Allday to buckle on his sword. Allday was no better. He was doing this deliberately. Letting the seamen and marines see how calm they were.

He looked at him and said softly, "We are a fine pair." Allday gave a secret smile. "At least we are a pair again, sir." He stared towards the enemy, his eyes calm. "It’ll not be easy." He watched the ship with professional interest. 'still, I don’tsuppose they"re looking forward to it either!"

"Run out!"

The pipe was repeated to the deck below, and hesitantly at first, as if testing the quality of the air, the Lysander's larboard guns trundled into the sunlight like black teeth. "Frenchies are running out, too, sir."

"Good."

Bolitho pulled out his watch and flicked open the guard. It was warm from resting against his thigh. He snapped it shut. Within a short time it could be as cold as its owner.

A dull bang echoed across the choppy strip of water, and seconds later a thin spout of spray burst up alongside. It brought a baying growl of anger from Lysander's gun crews, but Bolitho heard Veitch yell, "Be ready! Starboard guns prepare to run out." He squinted at the quarterdeck and saw Herrick nod. "Both sides will engage independently!"

A youth at one of the nine-pounders whispered something, and Mariot, the old gun captain, replied, "E means separate, see?" He saw Bolitho's brief smile and added, "Wern ready for th" buggers, sir." He moved inboard from his gun, paying out the trigger line as he went. "Just like we done in th" old Scylla!"

Pascoe called, "The enemy are shortening sail"

Bolitho nodded, watching the leading Frenchman" s topgallant sails vanishing as if by magic. Preparing to meet Lysander's challenge. If they continued on this converging course either of the French captains would be well placed for the first broadsides.

He looked at Herrick. Beyond him, Gilchrist was poised by the rail, his speaking trumpet already raised.

Bolitho said, "Very well. This is the time, Captain Herrick." He held his gaze. "Put up your helm, and let's be amongst them!"

Gilchrist yelled, "Braces there!" He was weaving from side to side, his voice like metal as he urged the seamen to greater efforts. "Heave! Heave!"

Bolitho gripped the poop ladder and felt the ship shuddering, every stay and shroud humming with strain as the great yards started to creak -round. He heard the helmsmen panting with exertion as they threw their weight on the spokes, hauling the wheel over and further still.

Veitch was shouting above the thunder of billowing canvas, 'starboard battery! Run out!"

Bolitho looked aloft at his pendant, willing it to hold direction, while-all around him seamen and marines were rushing to obey the demands from their officers and bosun's mates.

He lowered his head and watched the leading French ship. Was it imagination? He held his breath, and then as the deck under his shoes began to heave over the opposite way he saw the French ship gathering speed, swinging past Lysander's bowsprit and flapping jib as if caught in a tide-race.

"Old"er steady!" Grubb sounded fierce. " "Nother man on th" wheel, "ere!"

The yards ceased, their creaking and steadied on the larboard tack, the topsails hard-bellied again, thrusting the ship over until spray sluiced above the lower line of port lids where the gun captains were already shouting their readiness to fire.

Herrick tugged at his hat as the wind blew more spindrift over the hammock nettings and across the smooth planks between the guns. It dried almost as soon as it had fallen, like summer rain, Bolitho thought.

"Course nor"-east, sir!"

'steady as you go."

Bolitho raised his glass, feeling the wind whipping at his coat as he trained it on the enemy. His sudden alteration of course had caught the two French captains by surprise. He saw the leading ship's ornate stem slipping past Lysander's starboard bow, the gap widening more and more until he could see the second seventy-four's jib boom pushing through the left side of his lens.

A ripple of orange tongues darted from the leading Frenchman's hull, and he heard some of the balls hissing overhead, the sharp crack of a stay parting somewhere in their path.

He strode across the deck and seized Herrick's arm. "The fool fired too soon. "He gestured towards the waiting seamen. 'starboard batterv, Thomas. Give him a broadside! With luck there’ll be time to reload before we cut across his stem. "

Herrick waved his arm. "As you bear!"

The earsplitting roar of the broadside, the great spouting bank of choking smoke as it was blown towards the enemy, made several of the marines loose off their muskets. They had no hope of finding a target, and Sergeant Gritton

bellowed, "Punishment for the next bugger to fire without orders!"

Bolitho stood on a bollard to peer above the hammock nettings, his eyes smarting in smoke as he watched for some sign of damage. -The enemy's sails were pockmarked with shot holes, and he saw a gap in the boat tier, an upended launch split in halves. But the tricolour was still there, and the ship was holding direction as before.

He heard his men cheering and whooping and snapped, "Reload! I want three rounds every two minutes." He saw Gilchrist staring at him. "Gunnery is all we have now. "

There was a ragged crash of cannon fire from larboard. and he realised that the second Frenchman was trying to hit Lysander with his forward guns, the only ones which would bear.

Veitch was yelling, "Larboard battery!" His hanger glittered above his head. "As you bear, lads!"

Bolitho saw one of the midshipmen scuttling to the hatch to pass the order.

The hanger cut downwards. "Fire!"

Once more the ship shook and bucked violently as both gun decks erupted in a slow and regular broadside. Men were already hurling themselves on the tackles and handspikes, reaching blindly for charges and fresh shot, many of them retching as smoke funnelled downwind to hide the deck from view.

Veitch shouted wildly, "Faster! Come on, number three! Sponge out"

Bolitho wiped his streaming face, his mouth like dust as he watched the Frenchman's foresail flapping in all directions like a torn sheet, the long black scars along the enemy's forecastle where some of the broadside had gone home.

The leading French ship was still on the same course, her captain probably unwilling to expose his stern until the last moment. Or hoping his consort might produce some kind of miracle.

Herrick said, "All loaded and run out again." His face was streaked with grime. "Less than two minutes, by my reckoning! "

"Fire!"

The starboard guns hurled themselves inboard on the tackles, the orange-tinged smoke rolling downwind towards the Frenchman which now appeared to lie diagonally across the starboard bow.

Bolitho gritted his teeth, seeing Lysander's drifting smoke light up again to the enemy's immediate reply. The deck jerked under him, and he saw men duck as the balls shrieked low over the quarterdeck, some dropping in the sea almost a mile away.

Bolitho shouted, "Now, Thomas! Pass the word to the carronade crews forrard!"

Herrick nodded, his face a stiff mask as more shots crashed into the side or sliced between the sails.

Bolitho strode down the deck to the lee side, seeing the leading French ship's stern rising like a golden horseshoe above the eddying smoke. Lysander's forecastle was already passing through the gap between them. He winced, in spite of his warning, as a carronade blasted out its great grape packed ball with an accompaniment of Veitch's foremost eighteen- pounders as they came to bear on the enemy's most vulnerable point.

Veitch was almost screaming. 'stop your vents! Sponge out! Load!

The thunder of cannon fire, the squeal and rumble of guns being run out, the endless mad chorus of yells and cheers seemed to be reaching out from another world, or from the depths of hell.

Severed rigging twisted like snakes on the protective nets across the upper deck, and as the gun crews stooped and heaved, their naked bodies running with sweat and powder, they looked like the servants and not the masters of their bellowing black charges.

"Fire!"

Bolitho heard a man scream, saw a body bounce down from the main top before pitching over the side.

More shots slammed through the smoke, but he heard Grubb exclaim hoarsely, "The old smasher "as done it, sir!" He took off his crumpled hat and waved it over his head. "Must "ave got "er rudder!"

Bolitho watched narrowly, realising that although Lysander had sailed through the gap, the leading Frenchman's stem was still pointing straight at him. The murderous charge of grape from the carronade, accompanied by the forward guns, which by their harsher bark suggested they had been double-shotted for the purpose, must have ripped through the stern and disabled the steering. She was falling downwind, swinging her stem round, and he saw that her once ornate gallery was in ruins, her poop pitted and splintered from the on-slaught.

As he watched he saw her mizzen stagger, held upright by stays and shrouds a while longer, and then begin to fall. Tiny figures were sliding down from the mizzen top, others ran like mad things to escape the great plunging mass of rigging and spars as with a crash, audible even above the thunder of guns, it swayed down into the smoke, the bright, flapping tricolour with it.

"T "other one is tryin" to follow us round, sir." Grubb's eyes were streaming. " "E’ll take our wind."

Bolitho pointed towards the second ship. "Mr. Gilchrist!

Prepare the larboard carronade!"

He saw the other ship's jib boom thrusting through the smoke like a black lance, the tiny pin pricks of musket fire from her beak head and foretop. With her yards hard-braced and the wheel over, she was struggling round to star-board, presenting more and more of her scarred side as the range shortened rapidly.

The larboard carronade slammed back on its slide, the ball exploding in a whirling mass of splinters and broken rigging, directly abaft the enemy's beakhead.

Herrick yelled, "By God, his fore is coming down!"

As the enemy's foremast started to totter drunkenly towards the sea his broadside rippled along his exposed side, a few of the gun ports remaining silent as a mark of Veitch's earlier success, But Bolitho knew it was the most carefully prepared attack so far. The deck bounded repeatedly, and from below he heard a metallic clang and a great chorus of shrill screams. The French marksmen were still firing, too, and as he paced restlessly about the deck Bolitho saw thin splinters flying from the planking as a sharpshooter tried to hit Lysander s officers.

A sharper bang came down from the pockmarked sails which now seemed to be towering above the nettings like a cliff, and a second later the after end of the quarterdeck was filled with kicking, screaming men. The French had a swivel gun in the top, and the canister fired at close range was evidence enough of the enemy captain's anxiety.

Herrick shouted, "The Frog's out of control! She's swing- ing towards us!" He peered through the smoke. "Mr. Grubb, put up your helm!"

But the master was coughing and cursing through the smoke, dragging corpses and wounded alike from the wheel, or what was left of it. The whole charge of canister had struck the wheel like a target and had scythed away in all directions, marking deck and guns, men and fragments in a great pattern of blood. More men ran dazedly to Grubb's aid, hauling at the remaining spokes, their eyes squinting as if fearful of the mutilated bodies around them.

Bolitho said harshly, "It's too late."

The enemy's bowsprit, the great dragging mass of severed mast and yards was directly across Lysander" s bows. The enemy was still firing, as were his own men. At the most forward positions the range was down to about thirty feet.

Balls whimpered overhead or thudded into the hull with great hammer-blows. One burst through a port and ploughed into a gun crew which was sponging out for the next shot. The eighteen-pounder, freed from its tackles, careered across the tilting deck, its trucks making little bloody lines as it thrust through the remains of its crew.

Harry Yeo, the boatswain, was bawling for his men to get the gun under control, brandishing a boarding axe like some primitive warrior.

Bolitho looked at Herrick. "We will ram her!" He sought out Gilchrist. "Get the tops"ls off her!" He felt a musket ball zip past him. "We must fight free before the other Frenchman recovers!"

Herrick nodded jerkily. "Mr. Gilchrist! Pass the word!

"Repel boarders!"

Bolitho heard more cries, and then Leroux's voice, "Kill those marksmen in the main top!"

He said urgently, "No, Thomas. We must board her!

They’ll cut our people to fragments."

He seized the rail as with a great groaning crunch Lysander's jib boom smashed through the enemy's beak- head. The impetus carried both ships in a slow embrace, the guns falling silent and giving way to the sharper cracks of musketry.

Bolitho drew his sword. "Work the ship clear, Thomas." He wanted to reassure him in some way, and saw the uncertainty on Herrick's- grimy face giving way to something worse as he replied, "Let someone else go, sir!"

A great chorus of shouts and yells came from forward, and through the dangling remains of rigging and drifting smoke Bolitho saw men already trying to swarm down along the bowsprit.

He snapped, "There's no time!" Then he ran along the starboard gangway, pointing down at every other gun on the disengaged side, shouting at their crews to follow.

When he reached the forecastle there were already a dozen or more corpses lying amidst the fighting seamen from both sides. Cutlasses rang against each other, and from the shrouds and the forechains of both ships the marksmen kept up a haphazard fire to add to the chaos.

Bolitho shouted, "Carronade!"

He thrust a wounded man aside and hacked a French petty officer across the neck, feeling the blow lance up his arm and bring a stab of fire to his wounded shoulder.

A wild-eyed marine seemed to understand what he wanted and threw himself on the carronade's tackles, while Midshipman Luce and some more seamen came running to his aid.

"Fire!"

The carronade's explosion made most of the boarders fall back in momentary confusion. When they peered at their own ship and saw the bloody remains of the men who had been about to swarm on to Lysander's decks they decided to retreat.

Bolitho yelled, "Boarders away, lads!"

He waved his sword. feeling his hat plucked from his head by a pistol ball from somewhere, and then he was leaping and half falling down on to the enemy's shattered beakhead. When he stared back to see how many of his were following he found himself looking into the eyes of Lysander's massive, unsmiling figurehead, and he felt the insane grin coming to his lips, the uncontrollable wildness which forced him on through upended ladders and broken spars, gaping corpses and great coils of fallen rigging.

Steel to steel, the men swaying back and forth locked together, feet stamping, teeth bared in curses and fear as they hacked and slashed their way aft along the forecastle deck.

From one corner of his eye Bolitho saw his flagship, nudging firmly through the enemy's torn shrouds, the smoky scarlet of Leroux's marines as they maintained a murderous fire on the Frenchman's upper deck.

From the direction of the drifting smoke he knew that both ships were standing downwind, the darkened water between the arrowhead of their embrace littered with splintered wood and a few bobbing corpses.

Sunlight lanced through the smoke, and he saw the gap widening. Herrick had succeeded in easing Lysander's bulky hull round to a point where she could use sails and rudder to work clear.

He saw a man darting towards him, an upraised pistol aimed at his chest. In those split seconds he shared the moment with the unknown French sailor. He had a thin dark face, teeth bared in frantic concentration as he took aim. Bolitho was too far away to reach him with his sword, and his arm ached so much from fighting his way through the yelling press of men that he felt he could not raise it even to defend himself.

The blade of a heavy cutlass cut downwards across his vision, so fast that it made an arc of silver in the hazy sunlight.

The French sailor gave a shrill scream and lurched away, staring with agonised horror at the pistol still gripped with his own hand on the far side of the deck.

Allday ran to Bolitho's side, the cutlass edge red against his coat.

"A moment, sir!"

He ducked under two fallen spars and hacked the wounded man across the neck, felling him with no more than a sob.

He said between gasps, "Better"n letting him live with one hand!"

Bolitho shouted, "Fall back, lads!"

A few more minutes and they could take the French ship.

He knew it. Just as he knew that the other seventy-four was probably working round again to pour a broadside into Lysander before she was able to return the fire.

"Fall back!"

The cry ran along the bloodied decks and mingled with the cheers of Leroux's marines, some of whom were squatting in Lysander's beakhead picking off their enemy like wild-fowlers in a marsh.

Many hands reached out to haul the boarders back into Lysander's protection, as with a splintering, jerking symphony she tore free from her opponent's fallen spars and shrouds and swung heavily downwind.

The lower gun deck erupted in one more savage broadside, the thirty-two pounders smashing into the enemy's side and making the holed and battered timbers shine with tiny tendrils of blood which ran freely from her scuppers.

Pascoe yelled, "Huzza! Huzza for the commodore!" Bolitho strode aft, taking his hat from a grinning, pigtailed seaman who had somehow managed to retrieve it from the vicious fighting.

Herrick greeted him hoarsely, his eyes moving over him as if anticipating some terrible wound.

Bolitho asked, "Where is the other one?"

Herrick pointed vaguely over the larboard quarter. 'standing off, sir."

"I thought she would."

Bolitho looked from foremast to quarterdeck. The fore topgallant mast had gone, and several guns lay upended. There were plenty of shot holes along the upper deck, and the busy thuds of hammers, the dismal clank of pumps, told him. that there was damage enough below the waterline also.

He said, "Get the ship under way."

He saw Pascoe kneeling beside a dying marine. Holding his hand and watching his face losing its understanding and recognition.

Grubb peering at his compass, and his new helmsmen staring fixedly at the flapping sails and waiting for them to respond, their bare feet slipping on blood.

The marines falling back from the hammock nettings, checking their muskets, their faces dull now that the fight had gone out of them.

Midshipman Luce using one of his flags to staunch the terrible wound in a man's thigh. The wounded seaman peering up at him, repeating like a prayer, "Promise you’ll not send me to the orlop, Mr. Luce!"

But, like ghouls, their aprons scarlet, the surgeon's assistants came for him, carrying him bodily down to the horrors of the orlop deck.

Bolitho saw it all and more. Like so many, that seaman who had faced the terrible demands of battle was unable to accept the horrors of a surgeon's knife.

Grubb muttered, 'she's answerin", sir."

'steer nor"-east." Bolitho looked up as the wind explored the holed sails. "And signal Harebell to stay in close company. "He wondered briefly how Inch had felt as an impotent spectator.

Herrick came aft and touched his hat. "We beat "em, sir." Bolitho looked at him. "It was no victory, Thomas." He listened to a man sobbing from the deck below the rail. Like a young boy. A child, with all defences gone. He added quietly, "But it has shown all of us what we can do." He nodded to Leroux as he walked past with his sergeant. "And next time we will do that bit better. "

He walked to the poop ladder and paused halfway up it to look for the enemy ships. With missing masts and spars, and their attendant snares of trailing rigging, they made a sorry sight.

Lysander's company had done well in their first battle together. But to attempt more, even though he had been tempted, would have invited disaster.

Allday climbed up beside him.

"It feels strange, sir."

Bolitho looked at him. Allday was quite right. Before, they had been kept too busy after a sea fight to brood or to find pain in misgivings. He saw Herrick. The captain. The man who really counted just now.

Allday sighed. "They did proudly, all the same. There's a different air in the ship."

Bolitho walked slowly aft to the taffrail, letting the wind explore his stained clothes and aching limbs like a tonic.

Harebell was tacking across the. larboard quarter, very clean and bright in the glare.

He pulled out his watch. The whole battle had taken less than two hours. Some corpses drifted astern, pale-faced in the clear water, and he guessed they were some of the French boarders who had fallen in the attack. And what of their own bill? How many lay dying or awaiting burial?

Two seamen ran along the poop, marlin spikes in their hands as they peered round for ropes which needed repair. For them it was over. For now. They chatted to each other, thankful to be whole, grateful to be alive.

Bolitho watched them in silence. Perhaps Herrick was right. About people in England who did not spare a thought for men like this.

He nodded to the two seamen as he strode to the ladder. If it were the case, he decided, then it was their loss. For men such as these were worth a thought, and much more beside.