Stand into Danger

16. Into Battle

OVERNIGHT Fougeaux Island seemed to have shrunk in size, so that when the first faint light filtered down from the horizon it looked little more than a sand-bar across Destiny’s starboard bow.

Bolitho lowered his telescope and allowed the island to fall back into the shadows. Within an hour it would be bright sunlight. He turned his back and paced slowly up and down the quarterdeck. The business of preparing the ship for battle had been unreal, an almost leisurely affair carried out watch by watch during the night.

The seamen knew their way around the masts and hull so well that they had little left to do which required daylight. Dumaresq had thought that out with the same meticulous care he planned everything he did. He wanted his men to accept the inevitability of a fight, the fact that some if not all of them would never make another voyage in Destiny. There was only one alternative passage, and it was marked on the master’s chart. Two thousand fathoms, straight down.

Also, Dumaresq intended his people to be as rested as possible, without the usual nerve-wrenching stampede of clearing for action when an enemy showed himself.

Palliser appeared on the quarterdeck, and after a cursory glance at the compass and each sail in turn he said, “I trust the watch below is completing breakfast?”

Bolitho replied, “Aye, sir. I have ordered the cooks to douse the galley fire as soon as they are done.”

Palliser took a glass from Midshipman Henderson, who had been assisting with the morning-watch.

Midshipman Cowdroy had been similarly employed during the night. As next in line for promotion, they might find themselves as acting-lieutenants before Destiny’s cooks relit their fires.

Palliser scrutinized the island carefully. “Terrible place.” He returned the glass to Henderson and said, “Aloft with you. I want to be told the moment Garrick tries to leave the lagoon.”

Bolitho watched the midshipman swarming up the ratlines. It was getting lighter rapidly. He could even see the boatswain’s topchains which he had slung on each yard, the additional tackles and lines hauled up to the fighting-tops for urgent repairs when needed.

He asked, “You believe it is today, sir?”

Palliser smiled grimly. “The captain is certain. That’s enough for me. And Garrick will know it is his only chance. To fight and win, to get away before the squadron sends support.”

Vague figures moved about the upper deck and between the guns. Those black muzzles, now damp with spray and a night mist, would soon be too hot to touch.

Petty officers were already discussing last-moment changes to crews, to replace those who had died or were on their way to safety aboard the captured schooner.

Lieutenant Colpoys was right aft by the taffrail with his sergeant as seamen trooped along the gangways to pack the hammocks tightly in the nettings as protection for those who shared the quarterdeck in times like these. An exposed, dangerous place, vital to any ship, an aiming-point for marksmen and the deadly swivelguns.

Midshipman Jury took a message at the quarterdeck ladder and reported, “Galley fires doused, sir.”

He looked very young and clean, Bolitho thought, as if he had taken great care over his dress and bearing.

He smiled. “A fine day for it.”

Jury looked up at the masthead, searching for Henderson. “We have the agility if nothing else, sir.”

Bolitho glanced at him, but saw himself just a year or so back. “That’s very true.” It was pointless to add that the wind was only a breeze. To tack and wear with speed you required the sails drawing well. Wind and canvas were the stuff of a frigate.

Rhodes climbed up to the quarterdeck and glanced curiously at the smudge of land beyond the bowsprit. He was wearing his best sword, one which had belonged to his father. Bolitho thought of the old sword which his father wore. It appeared in most of the portraits of the Bolitho family at Falmouth. It was destined to be Hugh’s one day, very soon now if his father was coming home for good. He turned away from Jury and Rhodes. Somehow, he did not have the feeling he would live to see it again. He was alarmed to discover he could accept it.

Palliser came back and said sharply, “Tell Mr Timbrell to rig a halter from the main-yard, Mr Bolitho.” He met their combined stares. “Well?”

Rhodes shrugged awkwardly. “Sorry, sir. I just thought that at a time like this…”

Palliser snapped, “At a time like this, as you put it, one more corpse will hardly make much difference!”

Bolitho sent Jury for the boatswain and thought about Spillane and what he had done. He had had plenty of opportunity to steal information and pass it ashore in Rio or Basseterre. Like the captain’s coxswain, the clerk was more free than most to move as he pleased.

Garrick must have had agents and spies everywhere, maybe even at the Admiralty where one of them had followed every move towards putting Destiny to sea. When the ship had made ready to sail from Plymouth, Spillane had been there. It would have been easy for him to discover the whereabouts of Dumaresq’s recruiting parties. He had only to read the posters.

Now, like lines on a chart, they had all been drawn here to this place. A cross on Gulliver’s calculations and bearings. Something destined rather than planned.

Most of the men on deck looked up as the boatswain’s party lowered a hangman’s noose from the main-yard to the gangway. Like Rhodes, they would have little stomach for a summary execution. It was outside their code of battle, their understanding of justice.

Bolitho heard one of the helmsmen mutter, “Cap’n’s comin’ up, sir.”

Bolitho turned to face the companionway as Dumaresq, wearing a freshly laundered shirt, with his gold-laced hat set firmly on his head, strode on to the quarterdeck.

He nodded to each of his officers and the men on watch, while to Colpoys, who was attempting to draw himself to attention, he said curtly, “Save your strength, you obstinate redcoat!”

Gulliver touched his hat. “Nor’ by east, sir. Wind’s still light though.”

Dumaresq eyed him impassively. “I can see that.”

He turned to Bolitho. “Have the hands lay aft at six bells to witness punishment. Inform the master-at-arms and the surgeon, if you please.” He waited, watching Bolitho’s emotions and his efforts to conceal them. “You’ve still not learned deceit, it seems?” One of his feet tapped on the deck. “What is it, the execution?”

“Yes, sir. It’s like an omen. A superstition. I-I’m not sure what I mean.”

“Evidently.” Dumaresq walked to the rail and looked along the upper deck. “That man tried to betray us, just as he attempted to destroy Murray and all he believed in. Murray was a good man, whereas-” He broke off to watch some marines beginning a slow climb to the fore and maintops.

“I’d like to have seen Murray before he left, sir.”

Dumaresq asked sharply, “Why?”

Bolitho was surprised at Dumaresq’s reaction. “I wanted to thank him.”

“Oh. That.”

Midshipman Henderson made all of them look up. “Deck there! Ship standing out from the island, sir!”

Dumaresq dug his chin into his neckcloth. “At last.”

He saw Midshipman Merrett by the mizzen. “Go and fetch the Articles of War from my servant. We’ll get this matter over with and then clear for action.”

He patted his scarlet waistcoat and gave a soft belch. “That was a nice piece of pork. And the wine will help to start the day.” He saw Bolitho’s uncertainty. “Bring up the prisoner. I’d like him to see his master’s ship before he swings, God rot him!”

Sergeant Barmouth placed a line of marines across the poop, and as the pipe for all hands to lay aft and witness punishment echoed between decks, Spillane, escorted by the master-at-arms and Corporal Dyer, appeared from the forecastle.

The seamen, already stripped to their trousers and ready for the drums to beat to quarters, parted to allow the little group through.

Beneath the quarterdeck rail they halted, and Poynter reported harshly, “The prisoner, sir!”

Bolitho made himself look at Spillane’s upturned face. If anything, it was completely empty, as if the neat and usually composed man was unable to accept what had happened.

Bolitho recalled how Spillane had come to his cabin with the message from Aurora, and wondered how much he had passed on to Garrick.

Dumaresq waited for his officers to remove their hats and then said in his resonant voice, “You know why you are here, Spillane. Had you been a pressed man, or one forced into the King’s service against your will it might have been different. You, however, volunteered, knowing you were intending to betray your oath and where possible bring disaster to your ship and your companions. Yours was a conspiracy to commit murder on a grand scale. Look yonder, man.”

When Spillane remained stricken and staring at him, Dumaresq snapped, “Master-at-arms!”

Poynter gripped the prisoner’s chin and swung him round towards the bows.

“That ship is commanded by your master, Piers Garrick. Take a long look, and ask yourself now if the price of treachery was worthwhile!”

But Spillane’s eyes were fixed on the swaying halter. It was doubtful if he saw anything else.

“Deck there!” Henderson ’s normally powerful voice sounded unsteady, as if he was afraid of breaking into the drama below him.

Dumaresq glared up at him. “Speak, man!”

“The San Augustin has corpses hanging from her yards, sir!”

Dumaresq swarmed into the shrouds, snatching a telescope from Jury as he passed.

Then he climbed down to the deck very slowly and said, “They are the ship’s Spanish officers.” He darted a quick glance at Bolitho. “Hung there as a warning, no doubt.”

But Bolitho had seen something else in Dumaresq’s eyes. Just briefly, it had been relief, but why? What had he expected to see?

Dumaresq returned to the quarterdeck rail and replaced his hat. Then he said, “Remove that halter from the main-yard, Mr Timbrell. Master-at-arms, put the prisoner down. He will await judgement with the others.”

Spillane’s legs seemed to collapse under him. He clasped his hands together and said brokenly, “Thank you, sir! The Lord bless you for your kindness!”

“Stand up, you bloody hound!” Dumaresq looked at him with disgust. “To think that men like Garrick can corrupt others so easily. By hanging you, I would have been no better than he. But hear me. You will be able to listen to our progress today, and I suspect that will be an even greater punishment!”

As Spillane was hustled away, Palliser said bitterly, “If we sink, that bugger will reach the bottom first!”

Dumaresq clapped him on the shoulder. “Very true!

Now, beat to quarters, if you will, and try to knock two minutes off your time!”

“Ship cleared for action, sir!” Palliser touched his hat, his eyes gleaming. “Eight minutes exactly.”

Dumaresq lowered his telescope and glanced at him. “Shorthanded we may be, but each man-jack is working the harder for it.”

Bolitho stood below the quarterdeck watching his gun-crews by their tackles, seemingly relaxed, although the waiting was far from over.

The distant ship had spread more sail to stand well clear of the island, but as Destiny lifted and fell gently in the swell, the San Augustin appeared to be motionless. Would she turn and run for it? There was always a chance her stern-chasers might cripple the pursuing frigate with a lucky shot.

Midshipman Henderson, isolated from the preparations far below his perch, had reported that two other sail had cleared the lagoon. One was the topsail schooner, and Bolitho wondered how Dumaresq could be so sure Garrick was in the big man-of-war and not in the schooner. Perhaps he and Dumaresq were too much alike after all. Neither wishing to be a spectator, each eager to inflict a quick and undeniable victory.

Little walked slowly behind the starboard battery of twelve-pounders, stooping occasionally to check a tackle or to ensure that the ship’s boys had sanded the decks sufficiently to prevent the crews from slipping when the pace grew warm.

Stockdale was at his own gun, his men dwarfed by his great bulk as he cradled a twelve-pound ball in his hands before replacing it in the shot-garland and selecting another. In a manner born, Bolitho thought. He had often seen old gun-captains do it. To make certain the first shots would be perfect. After the opening broadsides it was usually each crew to itself and devil take the hindmost.

He heard Gulliver say, “We have the wind-gage, sir. We can always shorten sail if the enemy comes about.”

He was probably speaking merely to release his own anxieties or to await a suggestion from the captain. But Dumaresq remained silent, watching his adversary, glancing occasionally at the masthead pendant or the sluggish wave curling back from Destiny’s bows.

Bolitho looked forward and saw Rhodes speaking with Cowdroy and some of his gun-captains. The waiting was endless. It was what he expected, but he never grew used to.

“The schooners have luffed, sir!”

Dumaresq grunted. “Hanging back like jackals.”

Bolitho climbed up to peer over the gangway which ran above the starboard battery to link quarterdeck to forecastle. Even with the packed hammock nettings and the nets spread above the deck there was little enough protection for the seamen, he thought.

Almost the worst part was the empty boat-tier. Apart from the gig and the quarter-boat towing astern, the rest had been left drifting in an untidy line. In action, flying splinters were one of the greatest hazards, and the boats made a tempting target. But to see them cast adrift put the seal on what they had to face.

Henderson called, “The corpses have been cut down, sir!” He sounded hoarse from strain.

Dumaresq said to Palliser, “Like so much meat. God damn his eyes!”

Palliser answered evenly, “Maybe he wishes to see you angry, sir?”

“Provoke me?” Dumaresq’s anger faded before it could spread. “You could be right. Hell’s teeth, Mr Palliser, it should be Parliament for you, not the Navy!”

Midshipman Jury stood with his hands behind his back watching the far-off ship, his hat tilted over his eyes as he had seen Bolitho do.

He said suddenly, “Will they try to close with us, sir?”

“Probably. They have the numbers. From what we saw on the island, I would guess they outmatch us by ten to one.” He saw the dismay on Jury’s face and added lightly, “The captain will hold them off. Hit and run. Wear them down.”

Bolitho glanced up at Dumaresq by the rail and wondered. No emotion, and yet he must be scheming and planning for every possible set-back. Even his voice was as usual.

Jury said, “The other two craft could be dangerous.”

“The topsail schooner maybe. The other one is too light to risk a close encounter.”

He thought of what would have happened but for their desperate action on the island. Was it only yesterday? There would have been six schooners instead of two, and the forty-four-gun San Augustin might have had time to mount more guns, maybe those from the hill-top battery. Now, whatever the outcome, their captured schooner would carry Dumaresq’s despatches to the admiral at Antigua. Too late for them perhaps, but they would ensure that Garrick remained a hunted man for the rest of his life.

How clear the sky looked. Not yet too hot to be oppressive. The sea too was creamy and inviting. He tried not to think of that other time, when he had pictured himself running and swimming with her, finding happiness together, making it last.

Dumaresq said loudly, “They will attempt to dismast us and lay us open to boarding. It is likely that the larger of the schooners has been armed with some heavier pieces. So make each shot tell. Remember that many of their gun-crews and seamen are Spaniards. Terrified of Garrick they may be, but they’ll not wish to be pounded to gruel by you!”

His words brought a murmur of approval from the bare-backed gun-crews.

There was a ragged crash of cannon-fire, and Bolitho turned to see the San Augustin’s starboard guns shoot out long orange tongues, while the smoke rolled over the ship and partially hid the island beyond.

The sea foamed and shot skywards, as if the power was coming from beneath the surface instead of from the proud ship with the scarlet crosses on her courses.

Stockdale said, “Rough.”

Several of the seamen around him shook their fists towards the enemy, although at three miles range it was unlikely anyone would see them.

Rhodes strolled aft, his beautiful sword at odds with his faded sea-going coat.

He said, “Just to keep them busy, eh, Dick?”

Bolitho nodded. Rhodes was probably right, but there was something very menacing about the Spanish vessel for all that. Perhaps because of her extravagant beauty, the richness of her gilded carvings which even distance could not conceal.

He said, “If only the wind would come.”

Rhodes shrugged. “If only we were in Plymouth.”

Another broadside spouted from the Spaniard’s hull, and some balls ricocheted across the sea’s face and seemed to go on forever.

There was an even louder shout of derision, but Bolitho saw some of the senior gun-captains looking worried. The enemy’s iron was dropping short and was not that well directed, but as both vessels were moving so slowly on what would likely remain a converging tack, it made each barrage more dangerous.

He pictured Bulkley and his loblolly boys on the shadowy orlop deck, the glittering instruments, the brandy to take away the agony, the leather strap to prevent a man biting through his tongue as the surgeon’s saw did its work.

And Spillane, in irons below the waterline, what was he thinking as the thunder rolled against the timbers around him?

“Stand by on deck!” Palliser was staring down at the double line of guns. “Run in and load!”

This was the moment. With fixed concentration each guncaptain watched as his men put their weight on the tackles and hauled them away from the sides.

Bulky cartridges were passed rapidly to each muzzle and rammed home by the loader.

Bolitho watched the one nearest to him as he gave the cartridge in his gun two extra sharp taps to bed it in. His face was so set, so absorbed, that it was as if he was about to take on an enemy single-handed. Then the wad, followed by a gleaming black ball for each gun. One more wad rammed down, just in case the ship should give an unexpected roll and tip the ball harmlessly into the sea, and they were done.

When Bolitho looked up again, the other ship seemed to have drawn much closer.

“Ready on deck!”

Each gun-captain held up his hand.

Palliser shouted, “Open the ports!” He waited, counting seconds, as the port-lids rose along either side like reawakened eyes. “Run out!”

The San Augustin fired again, but her master had let her fall off to the wind and the whole broadside fell a good half mile from Destiny’s larboard bow.

Rhodes was striding behind his guns, giving instructions or merely joking with his men, Bolitho could not tell.

With San Augustin now lying off their larboard bow on an invisible arrowhead, it was hard to keep his crews busy and prevent them from standing to look to the opposite side to see what was happening.

Palliser called, “Mr Bolitho! Be ready to send some of your hands across to assist. Two broadsides and we will alter course to larboard and allow your guns a similar chance.”

Bolitho waved his hands. “Aye, sir!”

Dumaresq said, “Alter course three points to starboard.”

“Man the braces there! Helm a-weather!”

With her canvas flapping and cracking, Destiny responded, the San Augustin seeming to go astern as she showed herself to the crouching gun-captains.

“Full elevation! Fire! ”

The twelve-pounders hurled themselves inboard on their tackles, the smoke rolling downwind towards the enemy in a frothing screen.

“Stop your vents!” Rhodes was striding more quickly now. “Sponge out and load!”

The gun-captains had to work doubly hard, using a fist or two if necessary to contain their men’s excitement. To put a charge into an unsponged barrel where some smouldering remains from the first shot were still inside was inviting sudden and horrible death.

Stockdale pounded the breaching-ring of his gun. “Come on, boys! Come on!”

“Run out!” Palliser was resting his telescope on the hammock nettings to study the other ship. “As you bear! Fire! ”

This time the broadside was uneven, with each captain taking his time, choosing his own moment. But before they could watch the fall of shot men were already dashing to braces and halliards, while aft Gulliver urged his helmsmen to greater efforts as Destiny changed tack, standing as close to the wind as possible without losing her manoeuvrability.

Bolitho’s mouth had gone dry. Without noticing he had drawn his hanger and was holding it to his hip as the deck tilted, and then slowly but steadily his gun-captains saw San Augustin’s gilded beak-head edge across their open ports.

“On the uproll!”

San Augustin’s side erupted in darting tongues, and Bolitho heard the wild shriek of langrage or chain-shot passing high overhead. He found time to pity Midshipman Henderson clinging to the cross-trees with his telescope trained on the enemy while the murderous tangle of chain and iron bars swept past him.

“Fire!”

Bolitho saw the sea bursting with spray around the other ship, and thought he saw her main-course quiver as at least one ball ploughed through it.

As his men threw themselves on handspikes and rammers, yelling for powder and shot, oblivious to everything but the hungry muzzles and Palliser’s voice from the quarterdeck, Bolitho glanced at the captain.

He was with Gulliver and Slade beside the compass, pointing at the enemy, the sails, at the drifting smoke, as if he held every act and each consequence in his palm.

“Fire!”

Down Destiny’s starboard side, gun by gun, the twelve-pounders crashed inboard, their trucks squealing like enraged hogs.

“Stand by to alter course! Be ready, Mr Rhodes! Larboard battery load with double-shot!”

Bolitho ducked away from running seamen and bellowing petty officers. Their constant, aching drills on the long passage from Plymouth had taught them well. No matter what the guns were doing, the ship had to be worked and kept afloat.

Once again the guns roared out their challenge, a different sound this time, jarring and painful, as the double-shotted barrels responded to their charges.

Bolitho wiped his face with his wrist. He felt as if he had been in the sun for hours. In fact, it was barely eight bells. One hour since Spillane had been sent below.

Dumaresq was taking a risk to double-shot his guns. But Bolitho had seen the two schooners working their way to windward, as if to close with Destiny from astern. They had to hit San Augustin, and hit her hard, if only to slow her down.

Dumaresq shouted, “Fetch the gunner! Lively there!”

Bolitho winced as water cascaded over the opposite gangway, and he felt the hull jump to a massive pounding. Two hits at least, perhaps on the waterline.

But the boatswain was already yelling orders, and his men were running past the marine sentries who guarded each hatchway, to examine the hull and to shore up any damage.

He saw the gunner, blinking like an owl in the sunlight, his face creased with anger at being called from his magazine and powder rooms even by the captain.

“Mr Vallance!” Dumaresq’s face was split in a fierce grin. “You were once the best gun-captain in the Channel Fleet, is that not so?”

Vallance shuffled his felt slippers, very necessary footwear to avoid kicking up sparks in so lethal a place as the magazine.

“That be true, sir. No doubt on it.” Despite the noise, he was obviously pleased to be so remembered.

“Well, I want you to personally take charge of the bow-chasers and put paid to that topsail schooner. I’ll bring the ship about.” He kept his voice level. “You’ll have to look alive.”

Vallance shuffled away, jerking his thumb to beckon two of the gun-captains from Bolitho’s battery without even asking permission. Vallance was the best of his kind, even if he was usually a taciturn man. He did not need Dumaresq to elaborate. For when Destiny tacked round to engage the schooners she would present her full length to the enemy’s broadside.

Destiny’s bow-chasers were nine-pounders. Although not as powerful as several other naval guns, the nine-pounder was always considered to be the most accurate.

“Fire!”

Rhodes ’ crews were sponging out again, and the seamen shone with sweat which cut runners through the powder-dirt on their bodies like marks of a lash.

The range was less than two miles, and when Bolitho looked up he saw several holes in the main-topsail and a few seamen working to replace some broken rigging while the battle raged across the narrowing strip of water.

Vallance was up in the bows now, and Bolitho could picture his grizzled head bobbing over the larboard nine-pounder, remembering perhaps when he had been a gun-captain himself.

Dumaresq’s voice cut through a brief lull in the firing. “When you are ready, Mr Palliser. It will mean five points to larboard.” He pounded his fists together. “If only the wind would come!” He thrust his hands behind him again as if to control their agitation. “Loose the t’gan’sls!”

Moments later, answering as best she could to the flapping canvas, Destiny tacked round to larboard, and in seconds, or so it seemed, the schooners lay across her bows.

Bolitho heard the crash of a nine-pounder, and then the other on the opposite bow as Vallance fired.

The topsail schooner seemed to stagger, as if she had run headlong on to a reef. Foremast, sails and yard all crumpled together to swamp her forecastle and slew her round out of command.

Dumaresq yelled, “Break off the action! Bring her about Mr Palliser!”

Bolitho knew that the second schooner was hardly likely to risk sharing her consort’s fate. It was a masterful piece of gunlaying. He saw his men sliding down the stays to the deck after setting the extra sails, and wondered how Destiny would appear to the enemy’s gun-crews as they peered through the smoke and saw one of their number crippled so easily.

It would hardly affect the difference of armament between the two ships, but it would put heart into the British seamen when they most needed it.

“Steady as she goes! Nor’ by east, sir!”

Bolitho shouted, “It’ll be our turn next!” He saw several of the seamen turn to grin at him, their faces like masks, their eyes glazed by the constant crash of gunfire.

The deck seemed to leap beneath Bolitho’s feet, and with astonishment he saw a twelve-pounder from the opposite battery toppled on to its side, two men crushed and screaming under it, while others ducked or fell sprawling to flying splinters.

He heard Rhodes yelling to restore order and the responding bang of several guns, but the damage had been bad, and as Timbrell’s men ran to haul away the broken timber and upended gun, the enemy fired again.

Bolitho had no way of knowing how many of San Augustin’s shots found their mark, but the deck shook so violently he knew it was a massive weight of iron. Woodwork and pieces of broken metal clattered around him, and he covered his face with his arms as a great shadow swooped over the deck.

Stockdale pulled him down and croaked, “Mizzen! They’ve shot it away!”

Then came the thundering crash as the complete mizzenmast and spars scythed across the quarterdeck and down over the starboard gangway, snapping rigging and entangling men as it went.

Bolitho staggered to his feet and looked for the enemy. But she seemed to have changed position, her upper yards misting over as she continued to shoot. Destiny was listing, the mizzen dragging her round as men ran and stumbled amongst the tangled rigging, their ears too deafened by the noise to react to their orders.

Dumaresq came to the quarterdeck rail and retrieved his hat from his coxswain. He glanced quickly around the upper deck and then said, “More hands aft! Cut that wreckage clear!”

Palliser seemed to rise out of the chaos like a spectre. He was gripping his arm which appeared to be broken, and he looked as if he might collapse.

Dumaresq roared, “Move yourselves! And another ensign to the mainmast, Mr Lovelace!”

But it was a boatswain’s mate who swarmed up the shrouds through the smoke to replace the ensign which had been shot down with the mizzen. Midshipman Lovelace, who would have been fourteen years old in two weeks’ time, lay by the nettings, torn almost in half by a trailing backstay.

Bolitho realized that he had been standing quite motionless while the ship swayed and shuddered about him to the jar of gun-fire.

He grasped Jury’s shoulder and said, “Take ten men and assist the boatswain!” He shook him gently. “All right?”

Jury smiled. “Yes, sir.” He ran off into the smoke, calling names as he went.

Stockdale muttered, “We’ve less than six guns which’ll bear on this side!”

Bolitho knew that Destiny would be out of control until the mizzen was hacked free. Over the side he could see a marine still clinging to the mizzen-top, another drowning as he watched, dragged under by the great web of rigging. He turned and looked at Dumaresq as he stood like a rock, directing the helmsmen, watching his enemy and making sure his own company could see him there.

Bolitho tore his eyes away. He felt shocked and guilty, as if he had accidentally stolen Dumaresq’s secret.

So that was why he wore a scarlet waistcoat. So that none of his men should see.

But Bolitho had seen the fresh, wet stains on it which had run down on to his strong hands as his coxswain, Johns, supported him by the rail.

Midshipman Cowdroy clambered over the debris and yelled, “I need more help forrard, sir!” He looked near to panic.

Bolitho said, “Deal with it!” What Dumaresq had said to him about the stolen watch. Deal with it.

Axes rang through the smoke, and he felt the deck lurch upright as the broken mast and attendant rigging drifted clear of the side.

How bare it seemed without it and its spread of canvas.

With a start he realized that San Augustin lay directly across the bows. She was still firing, but Destiny’s change of direction which had been caused by the mizzen dragging her round, made her a difficult target. Balls slammed down close to the side or splashed in the sea on either beam. Destiny’s guns were also blind, except for the bow-chasers, and Bolitho heard their sharper explosions as they reopened fire in deadly earnest.

But another heavy ball smashed under the larboard gangway, toppling two guns and painting the decks red as it cut down a group of men already wounded.

Bolitho saw Rhodes fall, try to recover his stand by the guns and then drop on his side.

He ran to help him, shielding him from the billowing gun-smoke as the world went mad around them.

Rhodes looked directly at him, his eyes free of pain, as he whispered, “The lord and master had his way, you see, Dick?” He looked up at the sky beyond the rigging. “The wind. Here at last but too late.” He reached up to touch Bolitho’s shoulder. “Take care. I always knew…” His eyes became fixed and without understanding.

Blindly Bolitho stood up and stared around at the destruction and the pain. Stephen Rhodes was dead. The one who had first made him feel welcome, who had taken life at face value, a day at a time.

Then, beyond the broken nettings and punctured hammocks he saw the sea. The sluggish swell was gone. He peered up at the sails. Holed they might be, but they were thrusting out like breast-plates as they pushed the frigate forward into the fight. They had not been beaten. Rhodes had seen it, the wind, he had said. The last thing he had understood on this earth.

He ran to the side and saw San Augustin startlingly close, right there on the starboard bow. Men were shooting at him, there was smoke and noise all around, but he felt nothing. Close to, the enemy ship was no longer so proud and invulnerable, and he could see where Destiny’s claws had left their mark.

He heard Dumaresq’s voice following him along the deck, commanding, all powerful even in its pain. “Ready to starboard, Mr Bolitho!”

Bolitho snatched up Rhodes ’ beautiful sword and waved it wildly.

“Stand to! Double-shotted, lads!”

Musket-balls hammered across the decks like pebbles, and here and there a man fell. But the rest, dragging themselves from the wreckage and leaving Rhodes ’ guns on the larboard side, shambled to obey. To load the remaining twelve-pounders, to crouch like dazed animals as foot by foot the San Augustin’s towering stern loomed over them like a gilded cliff.

“As you bear!”

Who was shouting the orders? Dumaresq, Palliser, or was he himself so stunned by the ferocity of the battle that he had called them himself?

“Fire!”

He saw the guns sliding inboard, the way their crews just stood and watched the destruction as every murderous ball ploughed through the Spanish man-of-war from stern to bow.

None of the gun-captains, not even Stockdale, made any attempt to reload. It was as if each man knew.

The San Augustin was drifting downwind, perhaps her steering shot away, or her officers killed by the last deadly embrace.

Bolitho walked slowly aft and on to the quarterdeck. Wood splinters were everywhere, and there were few men left at the six-pounders to cheer as some of the enemy’s rigging collapsed in a welter of sparks and smoke.

Dumaresq turned stiffly and looked at him. “I think she’s afire.”

Bolitho saw Gulliver, dead by his helmsmen, and Slade in his place, as if he had been meant for master from the beginning. Colpoys, his red coat over his bandaged wounds like a cape, watching his men standing back from their weapons. Palliser, sitting on a cask, while one of Bulkley’s men examined his arm.

He heard himself say, “We’ll lose the treasure, sir.”

An explosion shook the stricken San Augustin, and figures could be seen jumping over the side and trampling down anyone who tried to stop them.

Dumaresq looked down at his red waistcoat. “So will they.”

Bolitho watched the other ship and saw the smoke thickening, the first glint of fire beneath her mainmast. If Garrick was still alive, he would not get far now.

Bulkley arrived on the quarterdeck and said, “You must come below, Captain. I have to examine you.”

“Must!” Dumaresq gave his fierce grin. “It is not a word I choose-” Then he fainted in his coxswain’s arms.

After all that had happened it seemed unbearable. Bolitho watched as Dumaresq’s body was picked up and carried carefully to the companionway.

Palliser joined him by the quarterdeck rail. He looked ashen but said, “We’ll stand off until that ship either sinks or blows up.”

“What shall I do, sir?” It was Midshipman Henderson, who had somehow survived the whole battle at the masthead.

Palliser looked at him. “You will assume Mr Bolitho’s duties.” He hesitated, his eyes on Rhodes ’ body by the foremast. “Mr Bolitho will be second lieutenant.”

A greater explosion than all the previous ones shook San Augustin so violently that her fore and main-topmasts toppled into the smoke and the hull itself began to turn turtle.

Jury climbed up and joined Bolitho to watch the last moments of the ornate ship.

“Was it worth it, sir?”

Bolitho looked at him and at the ship around them. Already there were men working to put the damage to rights, to make the ship live again. There were a thousand things to do, wounded to care for, the remaining schooner chased and caught, prisoners to be rescued and separated from the Spanish sailors. A great deal of work for one small ship and her company, he thought.

He considered Jury’s question, what it had all cost, and what they had discovered in each other. He thought too of what Dumaresq would have to say when he returned to duty. That was a strange thing about Dumaresq. Dying was like defeat, you could never associate it with him.

Bolitho said quietly, “You must never ask that. I’ve learned, and I’m still learning. The ship comes first. Now, let’s be about it, otherwise the lord and master will have harsh words for all of us.”

Startled, he looked at the sword he still grasped in his hand.

Perhaps Rhodes had answered Jury’s question for him?

epilogue

BOLITHO tugged his hat down over his eyes and looked up at the great grey house. There was a squall blowing up the Channel, and the rain which stung his cheeks felt like ice. All the months, all the waiting, and now he was home again. It had been a long, hard journey from Plymouth after Destiny had dropped anchor. The roads were deeply rutted, and there had been so much mud thrown up on the coach windows Bolitho had found it difficult to recognize places which he had known since boyhood.

And now that he was back again he felt a sense of unreality, and, for some reason he could not determine, one of loss.

The house was unchanged, just as it had looked when he had last seen it, almost a year ago.

Stockdale, who had driven with him from Plymouth, shifted his feet uncertainly.

“Are you sure it’s all right fer me to be ’ere, sir?”

Bolitho looked at him. It had been Dumaresq’s last gesture before he had left the ship, before Destiny had been put into the hands of the dockyard for repair and a well-deserved overhaul.

“Take Stockdale. You’ll be getting another ship soon. Keep him with you. A useful fellow.”

Bolitho said quietly, “You’re welcome here. You’ll see.”

He climbed up the worn stone steps and saw the double-doors swing inwards to greet him. Bolitho was not surprised, he had felt in the last few moments that the whole house had been silently watching him.

But it was not old Mrs Tremayne the housekeeper but a young maidservant he did not recognize.

She curtsied and blushed. “Welcome, zur.” Almost in the same breath she added, “Cap’n James is waitin’ for you, zur.”

Bolitho stamped the mud from his shoes and gave the girl his hat and boat-cloak.

He strode through the panelled hall and stepped into the big room he knew so well. There was the fire, blazing brightly as if to hold the winter at bay, gleaming pewter, the filtered smells from the kitchen, security.

Captain James Bolitho moved from the fire and put his hand on his son’s shoulder.

“My God, Richard, I saw you last as a scrawny midshipman. You’ve come home a man!”

Bolitho was shocked by his father’s appearance. He had steeled himself against the loss of an arm, but his father had changed beyond belief. His hair was grey and his eyes were sunken. Because of his sewn-up sleeve he was holding himself awkwardly, something Bolitho had seen other crippled sailors do, fearful of having someone brush against the place where a limb had been.

“Sit down, my boy.” He watched Bolitho fixedly, as if afraid of missing something. “That’s a terrible scar you have there. I must hear all about it.” But there was no enthusiasm in his voice. “Who was that giant I saw you arrive with?”

Bolitho gripped the arms of his chair. “A man called Stockdale.”

He was suddenly aware of the quiet, the deadly, clinging silence.

He asked, “Tell me, Father. Is something wrong?”

His father walked to a window and stared unseeingly through the sleet-washed glass.

“There have been letters, of course. They’ll catch up with you one day.” He turned heavily. “Your mother died a month ago, Richard.”

Bolitho stared at him, unable to move, unwilling to accept it.

“Died?”

“She had a short illness. A fever of sorts. We did all we could.”

Bolitho said quietly, “I think I knew. Just now. Outside the house. She always gave the place light.”

Dead. He had been planning what he was going to tell her, how he would have quietened her concern over his scar.

His father said distantly, “Your ship was reported some days back.”

“Yes. Then fog came down. We had to anchor.”

He thought suddenly of the faces he had left, how much he needed them at this moment. Dumaresq, who had gone to the Admiralty to explain the loss of the treasure, or to be congratulated for depriving a potential enemy of it. Palliser, who had got his command of a brig at Spithead. Young Jury, with a break in his voice when they had shaken hands for the last time.

“I heard of some of your exploits. It sounds as if Dumaresq made quite a name for himself. I hope the Admiralty see it that way. Your brother is away with the fleet.”

Bolitho tried to contain his emotion. Words, just words. He had known his father would be like this. Pride. It was always a question of pride with him, first and foremost.

“Is Nancy at home?”

His father looked at him distantly. “You won’t know that either. Your sister married the squire’s son, young Lewis Roxby. Your mother said it was on the rebound after that other wretched business.” He sighed. “So there it is.”

Bolitho leaned back against the chair, pressing his shoulders against the carved oak to control his sorrow.

His father had lost the sea. Now he was alone, too. This great house which looked across the slopes of Pendennis Castle or out across the busy comings and goings of Carrick Roads. Each a constant reminder of what he had lost, of what had been taken from him.

He said gently, “Destiny has paid off, Father. I can stay.”

It was as if he had shouted some terrible oath. Captain James strode from the window and stood looking down at him.

“I never want to hear that! You are my son and a King’s officer. For generations we’ve left this house, and some have never come back. There’s war in the air, and we’ll need all our sons.” He paused and added softly, “A messenger came here just two days back. An appointment already.”

Bolitho stood up and moved about the room, touching familiar things without feeling them.

His father added, “She’s the Trojan, eighty guns. There’s going to be a war right enough if they’re recommissioning her.”

“I see.”

Not a lithe frigate, but another great ship of the line. A new world to explore and master. Perhaps it was just as well. Something to fill his mind, to keep him busy until he could accept all which had happened.

“Now I think we should take a glass together, Richard. Ring for the girl. You must tell me all about it. The ship, her people, everything. Leave nothing out. It’s all I have now. Memories.”

Bolitho said, “Well, Father, it was a year ago when I joined Destiny at Plymouth under Captain Dumaresq…”

When the young maidservant entered with the glasses and wine from the cellar, she saw the gray-headed Captain James sitting opposite his youngest son. They were talking about ships and foreign parts. There was no sign of grief or despair in their reunion.

But she did not understand. It was all a question of pride.