The Flag Captain

12. the Fortress

“Wake up, Captain!”

Bolitho opened his eyes and realised he must have fallen asleep across his desk. Allday was peering down at him, his face yellow in the glow of the single deckhead lantern. Both candles on the desk were guttered and dead, and his throat felt dry and smoky. Allday placed a pewter cup on the desk and poured some black coffee into it.

“It will be dawn soon now, Captain.”

“Thank you.”

Bolitho sipped the scalding coffee and waited for his mind to repel the last dragging claws of sleep. He had been on deck several times during the night, checking last details before daylight, studying the wind, estimating the squadron’s course and speed. He had finally fallen into deep sleep while going over Draffen’s notes, but in the sealed cabin he could feel no benefit from it.

He stood up, suddenly angry with himself. They were all committed to the coming day. Nothing could be gained by supposition at this early stage.

“A quick shave, Allday.” He downed the coffee. “And some more of that.”

He heard something clatter in the cabin below, and knew Broughton’s servant was about to call his master. He wondered if he had been sleeping, or just lying in his cot, fretting over the coming battle and its possible consequences.

Allday returned carrying another lantern and a jug of hot water.

“Wind’s holding steady from the nor’ west, Captain.”

He busied himself with the razor and towel as Bolitho threw his shirt on the bench and slumped back in his chair again.

“Mr Keverne called all hands an hour since.”

Bolitho relaxed slightly as the razor scraped over his chin. He had not even heard a sound as Euryalus’s company of several hundred souls had come alive to the pipe’s bidding. While he had lain on the desk in an exhausted sleep they had been fed and had set about cleaning down decks in spite of the surrounding darkness. For, no matter what lay ahead, there was no sense in allowing them to brood about it. When they commenced to fight they would expect the ship around them to be as normal as possible. It was not only their way of life, but their home also. Like the faces at the mess tables, the ones which would soon be peering through open gun ports, everything was as familiar as the spread sails and the sluice of water against the hull.

While Allday completed the hasty shave with his usual dexterity, Bolitho let his mind drift back over the previous day’s frantic preparations. The whole complement of marines from all the ships had been divided into equal halves. Half had been transferred to Rattray’s Zeus at the head of the line. The remainder to Valorous astern. Almost all the squadron’s large pulling boats had been divided in the same way, and Bolitho could pity the two ships’ uneasy night with so many extra people to accommodate.

He stood up and wiped his face, peering as he did so through the stern windows. But outside the cabin it was still too dark to

see anything but a brief scattering of spray from around the rudder. The ships were heading almost due east, with the coast some five miles on the starboard beam. Broughton had been right to continue as before, with the wind comfortably across the quarter, instead of trying to complete the final manoeuvre for his approach towards the land. The vessels might have become scattered, whereas now, with a favourable wind and the usual discreet stern lanterns, they would be able to halve the time when the admiral made his signal.

In the thick glass he could see his own reflection, with Allday standing behind him like an additional shadow. His own shirt was still open and he saw the locket swinging slowly to the ship’s motion, the dark lock of hair hanging rebelliously above his eye. Involuntarily he reached up and touched the deep scar beneath the lock of hair gently with one finger. It was automatic, yet he always expected to feel heat there, or pain, like the actual memory of the time he had been cut down and left for dead.

Behind him Allday smiled and relaxed slightly. The familiar action, the apparent surprise Bolitho always seemed to show when he touched the scar, were always reassuring. He watched as Bolitho tied his neckcloth carelessly around his throat and then stepped forward with coat and sword.

“Ready, Captain?”

Bolitho paused with one hand in a sleeve and turned to study him, his grey eyes calm again.

“As I will ever be.” He smiled. “I hope God is merciful today.”

Allday grinned and extinguished the lanterns. “Amen to that, I say.”

Together they went out into the cool darkness.

“Deck there! Land ho!” The masthead lookout’s voice sounded very loud in the clear air. “Fine on the starboard bow!”

Bolitho paused in his pacing and peered through the black

lines of rigging. Beyond the gently spiralling bowsprit and flapping jib he could see the first flush of pink dawn spreading down from the horizon. A little to starboard there was what appeared to be a sharp sliver of cloud, but he knew it was the crest of some far-off mountain, tipping itself in colour from the hidden sun.

He tugged out his watch and held it close to his eyes. It was already getting lighter, and with luck Valorous would now be hove-to while she unloaded her cargo of marines into the boats, casting them adrift to make their own way ashore. Euryalus’s Captain Giffard was in command of that landing party, and Bolitho could pity him. It was bad enough to lead some two hundred marines with their heavy boots and weapons across rough, unknown territory, but when the sun found them it would become torture. Marines were disciplined and drilled like soldiers, but there the similarity ended. They were used to their strange shipboard life. But because of it and its cramped lack of space and exercise they were no match for the hard slogging required in a forced march.

Keverne said, “I can see Tanais, sir.”

Bolitho nodded. The pink glow was etched along the seventy-four’s main yard like fairy fire in a Cornish wood, he thought. Her stern light already appeared fainter, and when he glanced up at the masthead pendant he saw the main topsail was shining with moisture and gaining colour with every slow minute.

There was a scrape of feet and Keverne whispered, “The admiral, sir.”

Broughton strode on to the quarterdeck and stared towards the distant mountain as Bolitho made his formal report.

“Cleared for action, sir. Chain slings rigged to the yards and nets spread.” Broughton could hardly not know of these things with all the noise they made. Screens torn down, guns released from their lashings; and the patter of many feet as the seamen prepared their ship and themselves to do battle. But it had to be said.

Broughton grunted. “Are we in sight of the squadron yet?” “Tanais, sir. We will be able to signal the rest directly.” The admiral walked to the lee side and peered towards the land. It was not much more than a darker shadow, above which the crested mountain seemed suspended in space.

He said, “I’ll be pleased when we can put the squadron about. I hate being on a lee shore and unable to see where I am.”

He fell silent again, and Bolitho heard the regular clump of shoes back and forth along the starboard gangway, like someone hitting a tree with a hammer.

Broughton snapped, “Tell that officer to stay still, damn him!” Keverne relayed his sudden burst of irritation and Bolitho heard Meheux call, “I beg your pardon, Sir Lucius!” But he sounded cheerful for all that. Bolitho had recalled him from the Navarra to resume charge of his beloved upper battery of twelve-pounders, and Meheux had hardly stopped smiling since his return.

Nevertheless, it did reveal something of Broughton’s uneasiness.

Bolitho said, “I had the prisoner taken below to the orlop, sir.” The admiral sniffed. “Damn Witrand! It would do him good to stay up here with us.”

Bolitho smiled. “One thing seems certain. He knows more of this place than I first suspected. When Mr Keverne went to escort him below he was dressed and ready. No surprise, sir, not what you would expect at all from a man innocent of military affairs.” Broughton said, “That was shrewd of Keverne.” But it was only a passing interest, and Bolitho guessed his mind was still firmly fixed on what lay behind the shadows.

More feet clattered on the deck and Broughton swung round as Calvert stepped awkwardly over a gun-tackle.

“Mind your feet! You make more noise than a blind cripple!”

Calvert mumbled something in the gloom, and Bolitho saw

some of the nearby gun crews grinning knowingly at each other.

It must be over the whole ship about Calvert’s conflict with his admiral.

“Good morning, gentlemen.” Draffen came from beneath the poop, dressed in a frilled white shirt and dark breeches. He had a pistol in his belt, and sounded very refreshed, as if he had just emerged from a dreamless sleep.

Midshipman Tothill called, “Zeus in sight, sir!”

Bolitho walked to the quarterdeck rail and stared along the length of his ship. The Tanais was growing steadily from the shadows, and beyond her, a little to larboard, he could just make out the leading seventy-four, her upper yards already shining in the reflected glow.

The sun’s rim lifted over the horizon, the warm light reaching away on either bow, touching the lively wave crests, spreading still further, until Tothill exclaimed, “There’s the land, sir!”

It was hardly a proper sighting report, but in the sudden excitement no one else seemed to notice. Which was just as well, Bolitho thought, in view of Broughton’s edginess.

“Thank you, Mr Tothill,” he replied coldly. “That was very prompt.”

The strengthening sunlight made the midshipman’s face glow like one enormous blush, but he had the sense to remain silent.

Bolitho turned to watch the land gaining personality as the shadows were pushed aside. Long rolling hills, grey and purple for the moment, but already showing their barren slopes with the deeper patches of darkness where gullies and other steep clefts remained hidden to the watching eyes.

“Valorous is in sight, sir.” Lucey, the fifth lieutenant, who was also in charge of the quarterdeck nine-pounders, kept his voice low. “She has set her t’gallants.”

Bolitho walked up the tilting deck to the weather side and stared across the hammock nettings. The rearmost seventy-four made a fine picture as she forged after her slower-moving

consorts, topsails and topgallants shining like polished shells, while her hull remained in shadow as if unwilling to show itself. Soon now a lookout would sight the frigate standing well out to seaward, and then the little Restless, creeping closer inshore, and the last to be freed from the night’s darkness. The prize, Navarra, would remain within visual signalling distance but no nearer. It would do no harm for the defenders of Djafou to think Broughton had at least one other ship-of-war at his disposal. Bolitho had even advised the master’s mate sent across to relieve Meheux to make as many signals as he liked to give the impression he was in contact with more ships below the horizon.

So much depended on the first attack. The enemy, especially Spaniards, might feel less willing to fight against a growing force of ships if the early assault went against them.

Bolitho made himself walk slowly up and down the weather side, leaving the admiral standing motionless by the foot of the mainmast.

The poop and nettings seemed strangely bare without the customary reassuring scarlet lines of marines. But for the rest, his ship appeared to be ready. He could see both ranks of guns on the upper deck now, their crews stripped to near nakedness, with coloured neckerchiefs tied around their ears as protection against the cannons’ roar. Above, through the spread nets he saw the swivel guns manned in the tops, while more seamen waited at braces and halliards momentarily unemployed and watching the quarterdeck.

Partridge blew his nose violently into a green handkerchief, and then froze as Broughton shot him a savage glance. But the admiral said nothing, and the white-haired master thrust the offending handkerchief into his coat, grinning sheepishly at Tothill.

Bolitho rested one palm on his sword. The ship was alive, a vital, intricate weapon of war. He recalled his last fight aboard the Navarra, the stark contrast between this ordered world of

discipline and training and the other ship’s crude defences. The frightened Spanish seamen as they allowed their terror to change to bloody ferocity, hacking at the retreating boarders until there was none left alive. The half-naked women resting from their efforts at the pumps, shining in their sweat as he had passed. Meheux cursing as he had slipped in the Spanish captain’s blood, and Ashton’s youthful voice rising above the din as he had urged his gunners to fire and reload in his amateur Spanish.

And little Pareja. Wanting to please him. Feeling really needed, perhaps for the first time in his life. He thought too of his widow, wondering what she was doing at this moment. Hating him for leaving her without a husband? Regretting all the things which had brought her to Spain in the first place? It was hard to tell. A strange woman, he thought. He had never met anyone quite like her before. Wearing the finery of a wealthy lady, yet with the bold and fiery arrogance of one used to a much harder life than Pareja had given her.

Tothill’s voice shook him from his thoughts. “Signal from Zeus, sir. Repeated by Tanais.” He was scribbling busily on his slate. “Enemy in sight, sir.”

Broughton swore silently. “Hell’s teeth!”

Tanais’s topsails and rigging had hidden Rattray’s signal from the flagship, so time had been lost in repeating it down the line. Bolitho frowned. It was another argument for having Euryalus leading, he thought. He could imagine Rattray passing his order to a midshipman like Tothill. He would be very aware of his position in the van and would want to get his signal hoisted as soon as possible. There was nothing in the signal book which would suffice for a word like Djafou. Wanting to make haste and avoid spelling it out letter by letter, he had made a more familiar signal instead. Captain Falcon would have devised something more imaginative, or said nothing at all. How easy it was to know a ship’s ways once you knew her captain.

The land had changed colour as the sun climbed higher above its own image, the purples giving way to scorched green, the grey rocks and gullies becoming sharper defined, as if from an artist’s drawing in the Gazette.

But the overall appearance had not changed. Treeless and without any sign of life, above which the air was already distorted in haze, or perhaps it was dust swirling around on the steady sea breeze.

There was the western headland, and overlapping it, its nearest side still in deep shadow, the one shaped like a great beak. Exactly abeam was a round hill, the side of which had cracked and fallen into the sea. It was a good four miles distant, but Bolitho could see the sea breaking in white feathers across the crumbled rocks, driven along the cheerless shoreline by the wind, as if searching for an inlet.

Zeus would be level with the nearest headland now, and able to see the fort in this visibility. Rattray might already be in a position to gauge for himself what he was expected to face within the next few hours.

Broughton snapped, “Tell Zeus to make more sail. She can get on with landing her marines.” He glared at Calvert. “You see to the signal and try to be of some use.”

To Bolitho he added more calmly, “Once Rattray has got his boats away, make the signal to wear in succession. We will have seen the outer defences and be able to measure our approach.”

Bolitho nodded. It made sense. To go about and return along this same course was safer than to make the attack now as ship by ship they crossed the bay’s entrance. If the first sight of the fort proved different from the plans and scribbled reports, they would still have time to claw away from the shore. Nevertheless, when Zeus turned to lead the line back again it was to be hoped Rattray would keep an eye firmly fixed on the closeness of the land and the behaviour of the wind. If the wind got up suddenly,

or veered, they would all be hard put to it to work clear of the rocks, let alone find time to give battle.

He watched the flags dashing up the yards and breaking to the wind, and moments later the answering activity above Zeus’s decks as more and still more canvas billowed out in response to Broughton’s signal.

So far everyone was doing and acting exactly as Broughton had laid down. It might take Rattray an hour to get all his boats away, and by that time the remaining ships would be in position beyond the bay’s entrance.

Bolitho glanced up as a voice called, “Thar’s the Coquette, sir! Two points abaft the weather beam!”

Bolitho plucked at the front of his shirt. It was already damp with sweat, and he knew that in a short while it would be even hotter. He smiled in spite of his thoughts. Hotter… in more ways than one.

Partridge, seeing the small smile, nudged the fifth lieutenant and whispered, “See that? Cool as a chambermaid’s kiss!”

Lieutenant Lucey, who was usually cheerful and easygoing, had been dreading the daylight and what it might mean for him. Now as he saw the captain smiling to himself he felt a little better.

All at once they were level with the first headland. After the long, slow approach it seemed to take everyone by surprise. As the edge of land peeled back Bolitho saw the great fort, blue-grey in the morning sunlight, and felt strangely relieved. It was exactly as he had pictured it in his mind. One massive circular building and a smaller round tower within. A bare flagpole was centred on the smaller tower, gleaming in the sunlight like a white hair. But there was no flag as yet, nor any sign of alarm. It looked so still that he was reminded of a great, lonely tomb.

As the ship moved steadily across a sluggish offshore chop he saw deeper into the bay. One small vessel at anchor, probably a brig, and a few fishing dhows. He wondered how far Giffard and

his marines had managed to march, and whether they would be able to cross the causeway.

He saw the Restless tacking carefully away from the headland, and was thankful to see that Poate, her young commander, had two leadsmen busy in the chains. The sea bottom shelved very steeply, but it was always possible someone had overlooked a rocky ledge or reef when the charts were last corrected.

Because of its overlap, the second headland passed much closer, and as it crept out to hide the silent fortress from view Keverne exclaimed, “Look, sir. Someone’s awake!”

Bolitho took a telescope and trained it towards the sloping side of the beak. Two horsemen, quite motionless, but for an occasional flick of a tail or the wind ruffling the long white burnous which each rider wore. Looking down on the ships as they tacked slowly into the growing sunlight far below them. Then, as if to a signal, they both wheeled their horses and disappeared below the ridge, not hurriedly, nor with any sign of excitement.

Bolitho heard a voice say, “The word is goin’ out about us, lads!”

He glanced at Broughton, but he was staring at the empty skyline, as if the horsemen were still watching him.

And apart from the normal sounds of sea and wind everything was too quiet, the waiting made more obvious and unsettling. Giffard had even taken the marine band with him, and for a moment Bolitho toyed with the idea of getting the fiddler to strike up some familiar shanty for the seamen to sing. But Broughton seemed in no mood for any distraction and he decided against it.

He glanced from Broughton’s stiff back to some of the nearby seamen at the nine-pounders. The latter were standing to peer over the nettings at the slow-moving wall of rock and stone. How strange it must seem to most of them. They might not even know where they were, or see the worth of their being maimed or killed

for such a dismal place. And Broughton, he was probably just as doubtful of the reasons for bringing him here, yet could share his apprehension with no one.

Bolitho turned to watch Draffen, but he had already gone below, content, it appeared, to leave it all to the professionals. He walked slowly to the weather side again. In war, as he had learned from experience, there was no such creature. You never stopped learning. Unless you were killed.

“Zeus is drawing abeam th’ headland, sir!”

Bolitho walked to the lee side of the quarterdeck. “Thank you, Mr Tothill.”

It was all he could do to keep his voice even and unruffled. The final manoeuvre of reassembling the squadron and then wearing ship in succession to return along the same stretch of barren coastline had taken far longer than expected. Rattray had got all of his boats away quickly enough, but once inshore it was obvious the oarsmen were having great difficulty in getting their overloaded craft to the proposed landing places. There were half-submerged rocks as well as a hitherto unsuspected current which swung the boats around like leaves on a millrace, their oars flailing in confusion until finally brought under control.

Even Broughton had conceded they should have allowed extra time, and as the Zeus made more sail again to resume station at the head of the line he could barely hide his anxiety.

The sloop had anchored as close as she dared to the great beaked headland, her masts spiralling uncomfortably in the swell, the slim hull made to seem puny by the mass of dark rock behind her.

But now they were approaching the bay once more, with Zeus passing the anchored Restless so close he appeared to be heading straight for disaster on the point of the great beaked headland. All the ships were close hauled on the starboard tack, their yards

braced tightly to give them maximum advantage from the fresh wind. The two leading ships had already run out their larboard guns, and as he trained his telescope over the nettings Bolitho saw Zeus’s lower battery was lifted to what must be maximum elevation, the double line of black muzzles appearing to scrape against the headland as she forged past. It was of course yet another illusion brought about by distance. She was a good two cables clear, and he hoped Rattray had some good helmsmen who would be ready to act very smartly when required.

Tothill shouted, “Signal from Restless, sir! The marines have reached the top of the headland!”

Bolitho turned and saw the big blue flag rippling from the sloop’s main yard, and as he moved his glass slightly beyond her he saw some of the marines scurrying around the tip of the hillside, shining in the fierce sunlight like a horde of bright red insects.

Broughton snapped, “Good. If they hold that hill nobody can shoot down on us from it.” He moved to the quarterdeck rail and watched Meheux walking slowly along the larboard line of guns.

Bolitho looked at Keverne. “You may run out now. Pass the word to Mr Bickford on the lower gundeck to gauge each shot well. His are the heaviest pieces we have today.”

Keverne touched his hat and beckoned to three midshipmen who were messengers for the gundecks. As he leaned over the rail, speaking in a sharp, urgent whisper, Bolitho watched their faces. Ashton, still pale, with his bandage around his head. Little Drury, the inevitable smudge on his round face, and Lelean of the lower gundeck, whose extreme youth was badly marred by the most pimply skin Bolitho had ever seen.

When they scurried away Keverne yelled, “Run out!” And as the order was piped from deck to deck the hull shook inwardly to the sudden rumble of trucks, the shouts of gun-captains to their crews to take charge as the massive weapons trundled down the tilting decks and through the open ports.

The air quivered suddenly to a slow and measured bombardment, the sound dragging itself out and rolling back against the headland until it seemed as if every ship had fired. In the van Zeus was wreathed in her own smoke, her black muzzles gone from view as her men sponged out frantically for another broadside.

Bolitho watched the smoke rolling inshore and being sucked into the bay by some freak down eddy. If the Spanish garrison were in any doubt earlier, they knew now, he thought grimly.

Another broadside, again perfectly timed, the guns shooting out their long orange tongues, the ship’s reefed main topsail jerking violently in the upthrust of heated air.

Every glass was trained on the dancing lines of white-horses around and beyond the leading seventy-four. But there was still no sign of a falling shot, or any intimation that the enemy had returned fire.

Broughton said harshly, “Fair. Very fair.”

Bolitho glanced at him. Perhaps Broughton was still testing his flag captain. Feeling him out for suggestions which he might accept or scornfully reject. But he could add nothing for Brough-ton’s benefit. It was still too early.

He lifted his glass again as a voice yelled, “There’s a ball! Fine on Zeus’s larboard quarter!”

Bolitho watched the ball’s progress, counting seconds as the feather of white spray slashed viciously from wave to wave, throwing up a waterspout a good mile beyond the Zeus like a sliver of ice.

He heard Lieutenant Lucey whisper to Partridge, “By God, that was a long shot!”

There was another, almost exactly along the same line as before, and no less powerful.

Broughton remarked, “One gun, Bolitho. If that is all they have we need not wait much longer.”

“Signal from Zeus, sir.” Tothill was clinging to the lee shrouds

to watch the leading ship. “Disengaging.”

Bolitho looked at Partridge. “How long was that?”

The master examined his slate. “Ten minutes, sir.”

Ten minutes to cross the fort’s arc of fire, during which time they had only got off two balls.

“Tanais is closing the range, sir.” Keverne steadied his glass against his forearm. “She’ll be ready to fire in a minute or so.”

Bolitho did not reply, holding his breath until the big red and black flag broke from Tanais’s topsail yard to show she was within sight of the enemy.

Falcon did not wait as long as Rattray, and his guns started belching fire and smoke almost immediately. The gunnery was impeccable, with the forward ones firing their second balls almost before the aft sections had run in for reloading.

Broughton rubbed his hands. “That weight of metal’ll give the Dons sore heads, eh?”

But the enemy remained silent as before, and Bolitho said quickly, “I think the Spaniards are using a fixed battery, sir. They were sighting shots used on Zeus, but this time…” He broke off as the reverberating crash of gunfire welled out of the bay, followed by a terrible sound of splintering wood.

As he strode to the rail he saw the smoke spurting from the Tanais’s poop, and a black tangle of broken rigging pitching overboard as the shots slammed into her. Two, maybe more, he thought, with another which had missed, whipping the wave crests apart like an enraged dolphin.

Something like a sigh came from the watching men as more shots hammered into the Tanais’s hull and pieces of wood whirled high into the air before splashing into the sea on either side of her.

Falcon’s men fired again, but the rhythm was gone, and here and there along her tumblehome Bolitho could see an angled muzzle to show a gun was unmanned, or an empty port which told its own story better than words.

Keverne said, “Four guns at a time, I’d say, sir.” He sounded cool and detached. An onlooker.

Lucey remarked, “Quite big too, by the look of them.”

Bolitho glanced at him. Lucey was only twenty and had been terrified. Bolitho knew all the signs, the constant swallowing, the inability to find anything for the hands to occupy themselves with, all the little things which told of a man’s mounting terror. Now Lucey was swopping comments with Keverne like an old campaigner. He hoped the pretence would last, for his sake.

Broughton said, “I can’t see for the damn smoke! What is Falcon doing?”

The smoke was funnelling through the Tanais’s stern windows, but whether from a fire or the exertions of the guns it was hard to tell. She was still managing to shoot, but she looked in a bad way. Her braced sails were easy targets and were pitted with holes, the latter from her own wood splinters as much as the enemy’s gunfire. Long trailers of severed rigging hung over her gangways, and Bolitho could see men already hacking it away with axes, the distance making their efforts all the more frantic.

Partridge cleared his throat. “She’s dipped ’er flag, sir.” He squinted at his big turnip watch. “Nigh on fifteen minutes that time.”

Broughton said, “I hope your thirty-two-pounders earn their keep, eh?” He was smiling, the skin drawn back tightly from his even teeth to make his efforts a lie.

But Bolitho was thinking of other things. Fifteen minutes, during which time his ship would be subjected to another merciless bombardment. The Spanish gun crews did not even have to alter their elevation. They merely waited and fired, as ship after ship the squadron sailed across that strip of open water. Sun in their eyes or not, it was as easy as shooting birds off a branch.

“I suggest you signal the squadron to discontinue the action, sir.” He kept his voice low, but saw the words affecting Broughton as if he had cursed him. He added quickly, “Independent action

in support of the landing parties would…” He got no further.

“Never! Do you imagine I’ll let a few bloody Dons make me withdraw?” He glared at him with something like contempt. “By God, I thought you were made of sterner stuff!”

Bolitho looked past him and called, “Shake out the forecourse, Mr Keverne! Then hands aloft and get the t’gallants on her!” He held the lieutenant’s eyes with his own. “As quick as you can!”

As the men swarmed up the ratlines in response to the order he made himself walk slowly to the quarterdeck rail. He knew Broughton was staring after him but shut him from his mind. Broughton had made his decision, and the order had to be obeyed. But the Euryalus was his ship, and he would fight her to the best of his ability, and Broughton could think what he liked.

The big forecourse billowed out with a clap like thunder, the seamen scampering wildly as the wind momentarily took charge. Bolitho felt the deck tilting still further as the fore topgallant was released and hardened its belly to the wind, the additional thrust making the spray fly above the figurehead and jib boom.

To Partridge he snapped, “Steady as you go!”

“Steady she be, sir. West by north.”

The dark headland was slipping past more rapidly as the ship spread her canvas tautly in the sunlight. High above the decks the topmen worked like demons, and when he raised his glass Bolitho saw some marines dancing up and down on the headland and waving their muskets as the flagship plunged level with the out-thrust beak of land.

There was the opposite side of the bay now, misty with haze, or perhaps still foggy from Tanais’s own smoke. How blue the water looked below that far headland. Blue and unreachable. He touched his lips with his tongue but they were bone dry.

He heard Lucey whisper shakily, “My God. My God.” He probably imagined he was speaking to himself, or not at all.

Up forward, with one foot resting casually on a carronade slide,

Meheux was peering into the bay. He had drawn his sword, and as Bolitho watched he lifted it very slowly above his head. He stood motionless in the sunlight, and Bolitho was reminded of an old heroic statue he had once seen on a visit to Exeter.

The sword moved slightly and he heard Meheux shout, “Target in sight, sir!”

Bolitho cupped his hands, aware of the stiff, gripping tension all around him.

“Fire as you bear!” He saw some of the crouching seamen peering up at him, their faces like masks. He twisted his mouth into a grin and yelled, “A cheer, lads! Show ’em we’re coming!”

For an instant longer nothing happened, and while the ship forged steadily past the last piece of cliff Bolitho thought they were too stricken to respond. Then a seaman jumped up beside a twelve-pounder and shouted, “Huzza for the Euryalus! An’ another huzza for our Dick!”

Bolitho waved his hat as the wild cheering swept along the upper deck and was taken up by the men in the crowded batteries below. The madness was beginning, nor would it stop until the next time. And the time after that.

Meheux’s voice was almost drowned as he bellowed, “Fire as you bear!”

Bolitho gripped the rail as the first trio of guns roared out from forward. The harsh bark of the upper deck battery swallowed completely by the deafening thunder of the thirty-two-pounders. He wiped his streaming eyes as the smoke lifted above the larboard gangway and swirled and plunged around him, watching the distant fort, the waterspouts below and beyond as the ship’s first attack smashed home. What looked like white powder was drifting from the fortress wall, the only sign that they were hitting it also.

He heard Keverne rasp, “God, ’tis like trying to fell an oak with a toothpick!”

Still the firing continued, three by three, with the guns hurling

themselves inboard where they were seized and reloaded by men already dazed beyond reason. Beyond anything but the need to load and run out. To keep on firing no matter what was happening.

Meheux was walking behind the guns now, his sword tapping a breech or pointing towards the fort for another captain’s benefit, his face frowning with concentration.

Broughton asked, “Where are the other marines? Your Captain Giffard should be at the causeway by now.”

Bolitho did not reply. His mind was rocking to the crash of guns, his eyes almost raw with smoke and strain as he concentrated everything on watching the fort. He could see the dark smudge below its circular wall where the sea entrance was situated. The double line of square windows, like gunports, which appeared to circle the whole building.

Two of them suddenly flashed with fire, and he imagined he saw the line of the nearest ball streaking across the sea towards him. The thud against the lower hull was muffled, and he saw the other ball throwing up a burst of spray far abeam.

He glanced astern. The ship was almost halfway across the bay, and with all sails drawing well would reach the opposite headland in about five minutes.

Again the telltale tongues of fire, and this time both balls smashed into the Euryalus’s side with the force of hammers striking a wooden box.

Three hits, and he did not yet know how serious. Yet the fortress was outwardly unmarked, with just a few patches of fallen chippings to show for their efforts.

Astern he could see the Valorous’s topmasts rounding the headland, and knew what Furneaux must be thinking as he watched the flagship under the onslaught of those great guns.

He turned to the admiral, who was standing with his hands on his hips, his eyes fixed on the fort as if mesmerised.

“May I signal Valorous to stand off, sir?”

“Stand off?” Broughton’s eyes moved slightly to fix him with an unmoving stare. “Is that what you said?” A muscle jumped in his cheek as the lower battery roared out again, the smoke driven downwind by the darting tongues of flame.

Bolitho studied him for several seconds. Perhaps Broughton was caught off balance by the squadron’s inability to hurt the fort, or maybe he was dazed by the continuous crash of cannon fire.

He said bluntly, “Ships are being damaged to no purpose, sir.” He winced as the planking beneath his shoes gave a violent jerk. Another hit somewhere below the quarterdeck.

All at once, as the wind whipped the smoke clear of the deck, he saw Broughton’s face clearly in the sunlight and knew what was wrong. Broughton had not been testing him in the past, or trying to gauge the extent of his capability. The realisation was like a dash of icy water on his spine. Broughton did not know what to do next! His plan of battle was too rigid, and, found wanting, had left him with nothing to replace it.

He said, “It is all we can do at present, sir.”

Partridge called, “Eight minutes, sir!”

Suddenly Broughton nodded. “Very well. If you think so.”

Bolitho shouted, “Cease firing! Mr Tothill, signal Valorous to stand off and discontinue action immediately!”

The fortress fell silent as soon as Euryalus, and he guessed the garrison had to keep a careful watch on supplies of powder and shot. Not that they need have much fear of being beaten, he thought bitterly. Almost every ball fired from the fortress had hit home.

“Valorous has acknowledged, sir.”

Bolitho watched the two-decker’s shape lengthening as she began to tack, her sails almost aback as she swung heavily into the wind.

He called, “Report casualties and damage, Mr Keverne.”

To Broughton he said quietly, “We will have to support the marines, sir. They will be waiting for help.”

The admiral was studying the passing shoreline with something like resignation. Below a man was screaming and whimpering, and Bolitho felt the growing need to tend to his men and his ship.

But he persisted, “What instructions, sir?”

Broughton seemed to shake himself, and when he replied his voice was stronger again, but without conviction.

“Signal the squadron to close around the flagship.” His lips moved as if trying to form an order which would not come.

Bolitho looked at Tothill. “Make that signal at once.”

“Then I think we might land a second force, of seamen.” Broughton was pouting his lower lip. “Some guns too, if we can discover a favourable beach.”

Bolitho looked away. “Very well, sir.” Already he could visualise the tremendous effort and strain of getting even one thirty-two-pounder ashore and hauled up the hillside. And nothing but a gun of that size would do any good against the fortress. It would take a hundred men, maybe more, and others to be nearby to ward off any sudden attack by enemy skirmishers. A Long Nine weighed over three tons, and one such weapon would not be enough.

But it was better than having the squadron pounded to fragments in a senseless procession back and forth across the bay’s entrance.

He turned, caught off guard as Tothill said, “Sir!”

“What is it? Have they all acknowledged?”

“Not that, sir.” The midshipman pointed across the starboard nettings. “Coquette is off station and making more sail, sir.”

As he raised his telescope Bolitho saw the telltale balls dashing to the frigate’s yards and breaking out in bright patches of colour.

Tothill said, “Signal, sir. Strange sail bearing north-west.”

Bolitho lowered the glass and looked at Broughton. “Shall I order Coquette to give chase, sir?”

Tothill’s voice cut across Broughton’s reply. “Coquette is making another signal.” A pause, and Bolitho watched the muscle jerking in sharp, regular intervals in Broughton’s cheek. Then, “Strange sail has gone about, sir.”

Broughton let his arms fall to his sides. “Probably an enemy frigate. Coquette would have been able to close with her had she been anything else.” He looked at Bolitho. “She’ll be screaming our presence to the world now.”

“I suggest we recall the marines, sir.”

Bolitho pushed away his earlier ideas about landing guns and all the tackle and boats it would have required. There was no time for that now, and they might be lucky to regain all their marines if an enemy squadron was nearby.

“No.” Broughton’s eyes were like stones. “I will not withdraw. I have my orders. So have you.” He gestured towards the line of barren hills. “Djafou must be taken before any enemy ships reach here! Must be, do you understand?” He was almost shouting, and several of the seamen by the guns were staring up at him.

Draffen’s voice cut through the brief silence like a knife. Where he had been during the action Bolitho did not know, but now he looked very calm, his eyes cold and steady, like a hunter at the kill.

“Let me make a suggestion, Sir Lucius.” As Broughton turned to him he added quietly, “For I think you will agree we have wasted quite enough time with conventional methods.”

For a brief instant Bolitho expected the admiral to show some of his earlier defiance.

But instead he replied, “I will agree to hear your suggestions, Sir Hugo.” He looked round as if seeking the companion ladder. “In my quarters, I think.”

Bolitho said, “I will signal the squadron to steer due west, sir.

With Restless and Coquette remaining on station at present.”

He waited, seeing Broughton’s mind wrestling with his words.

Then he replied, “Yes.” Nodding more firmly, “Yes, attend to it.”

As they left the quarterdeck Keverne said softly, “We fared better than Tanais, sir. She lost twenty killed. We have seven dead and five with splinter wounds.”

Bolitho was still looking towards the poop and wondering what Draffen could suggest at this late stage.

“Damage?”

“Sounded worse than it was, sir. The carpenter is below now.”

“Good. Tell Mr Grubb to get his men to work on it as soon as he can.”

He paused as the first corpse was carried through the main hatch and dropped loosely to await burial. In the space of a few minutes they had lost seven lives. About one a minute.

Bolitho clasped his hands behind him and walked slowly towards the weather side, his face suddenly angry. Euryalus was the most modern device known to man’s ingenuity at making war. Yet an ancient fort and a few soldiers had made her as impotent as a royal barge.

He snapped, “I am going to see the admiral, Mr Keverne.”

“Sir?”

“I too have some ideas which I will put to him directly!”

Allday watched him pass and gave a slow smile. Bolitho was angry. It was about time the captain took charge, he thought, for all their sakes.