The Flag Captain

19. a ship of War

“A LTER COURSE a point to larboard, Mr Partridge.”

Bolitho walked to the lee side to watch the Zeus which was almost directly abeam at the head of the other seventy-fours. It had taken less than an hour to put the squadron about and for

individual captains to form up in their present divisions, and he was grateful they had had sufficient time for getting to know each other’s ways.

“West by south, sir!” Partridge sounded grim.

“Steady as you go.”

Bolitho walked forward to the quarterdeck rail and ran his eye along his command. How much more space and vision to see and think now that Euryalus was in the van. With her great courses clewed up and topsails braced round to hold her on a steady starboard tack he could see the enemy like some painted panorama of battle. The ten ships were sailing in an almost perfect line, their approach diagonal to that of the British squadron. To an untrained eye it would appear as if the way ahead was completely sealed by this great line of ships, and even to the experienced onlooker the sight was enough to chill the imagination.

He made himself walk a few paces athwart the silent quarterdeck, darting an occasional glance towards Zeus to ensure she was still keeping on station to leeward. Astern of her, Tanais and Valorous followed at regular intervals, their double lines of guns glinting in the hard sunlight like rows of black teeth.

The Euryalus’s high poop hid most of the Impulsive from view, but he could see her furled topgallants and whipping masthead pendant, and just as easily picture Herrick standing stolidly on his deck, feet apart, with those bright blue eyes watching the flagship.

Keverne asked quietly, “Do you think the Frogs have guessed what we are about, sir?”

Bolitho gauged the distance for the tenth time between the two small divisions. Captain Rattray’s Zeus was about three cables distant, and he saw a gleam of scarlet as her marines began to climb up to the fighting tops. The best marksmen would be in dire need today.

He replied, “Our divisions are so ill-matched that I hope the French admiral imagines us to be unprepared.”

As well he might, he thought grimly. Five ships in two unequal divisions approaching that unwavering line like huntsmen trotting towards some unbreakable barrier.

He looked once more at his own ship. Keverne had cleared for action in eight minutes in spite of everything else. From the moment the drummer boys had started their nerve-jarring tattoo the seamen and marines had gone to quarters with the intentness of men under sentence of death. Now there was only silence. Only here and there was there any movement. A ship’s boy scampering with sand to give the gun crews better grip on the deck. Fittock, the gunner, in his felt slippers making his way once again down to the threatening gloom of the magazine.

Nets were rigged above the decks and chain slings on each yard, and at every hatch an armed marine had been posted to prevent those terrified by the sights of battle from fleeing below to illusionary safety.

How clean and open it all seemed. The boats were either cast adrift or being towed astern, and below the gangways he could see the gun crews, naked to the waist, as they stared at their open ports and waited for bedlam to begin.

And it would not be long. He raised a glass and steadied it upon the leading enemy ship. She was less than two miles away on the larboard bow and therefore almost directly across Zeus’s line of advance.

She was strangely familiar, but it had taken Partridge to explain the reason. He had said with professional interest, “I knows ’er, sir. Le Glorieux, Vice-Admiral Duplay’s flagship. Met up with ’er once off Toulon.”

Of course he should have seen it. It was like the one additional twist of fate, for Le Glorieux came from the same yard as Euryalus, to the same specifications down to the last keel bolt. But for her colouring, the broad scarlet stripes between her gunports, she was an exact twin of his own command.

He shifted the glass slowly to starboard and then held it on the two vessels in the middle of the line. Unlike the rest, they wore the red and yellow colours of Spain, placed for security’s sake in the centre where they could follow their admiral without having to display too much initiative. Initiative which had already cost their French allies dearly at St Vincent.

He heard Calvert murmuring to Midshipman Tothill, and when he lowered the glass saw him poring over the signal book, as if giving one last effort to make himself useful. Poor Calvert. If he survived this day, arrest and trial awaited him in England. Draffen’s friends would see to that.

Bolitho turned and saw Pascoe standing by the quarterdeck nine-pounders, a hand resting on his hip, and one foot on a bollard. The boy did not see him and was staring towards the enemy line.

He said to Keverne, “If possible we will break through by the Spanish ships. It will be the weakest point, if I am any judge.”

Keverne was watching Zeus. “And Captain Rattray, sir?”

Bolitho looked at him gravely. “He will act as he sees fit.” He thought of Rattray’s heavy, bulldog face and guessed he would need no urging to close with the enemy. Only one thing counted now, that they could separate the French flagship from her consorts long enough to break the line and obtain the advantage of the wind. After that it would be every man for himself.

Vice-Admiral Broughton strode out into the sunlight and nodded curtly to the officers on the quarterdeck.

For a moment longer he looked at the lee division of ships, his eyes clouded with doubt and anxiety. Then he said, “The din of battle I can endure. But the waiting is torture.”

Bolitho watched him thoughtfully. He appeared calmer again. Or was it resignation? The admiral was wearing his beautiful sword, and beneath his coat the scarlet ribbon of the Bath. Was he so despairing that he was even offering himself as target to some French marksman? All at once he felt sorry for Broughton.

Recriminations and accusations were pointless now. He was watching his squadron and his proud hopes sailing towards what must seem certain destruction.

He asked, “Will you walk a while, Sir Lucius? I find it helps ease the tension!”

Broughton fell in step beside him without protest, and as they strode slowly up and down Bolitho added quietly, “The centre of the line is the best choice, sir. Two Spanish seventy-fours.”

Broughton nodded. “Yes, I saw them. Astern of them is the second-in-command.” He halted suddenly and snapped, “Where the hell is Coquette?”

“She is making good some repairs, sir. Auriga too has suffered damage to foremast and mizzen.” He added quietly, “They will not be of much use yet.”

Broughton looked at him for several seconds, his eyes very still. Then he asked, “Will our people fight?” He held up his hand urgently. “I mean really fight?”

Bolitho turned away. “Have no fear on that score. I know them, and…”

Broughton interrupted, “And they know you.”

“Yes, sir.”

When he looked forward again the enemy line had extended itself across either bow, so that it seemed to hide all of the horizon with a wall of sails. At any moment now the French admiral might guess what was happening, in which case they were beaten before they had made even the smallest impression on him. Had they been given more time, or better still the fluidity and independence denied to them by Broughton’s rigid demands, they could have sent some meaningless signal to Rattray and the others. It would have made the enemy believe that at any moment now they would tack and engage his line in the same hidebound traditional style still approved by so many. But without previous experiments of that sort, any false signal would throw their meagre resources into terrible and fatal confusion.

Unless… He looked at Broughton’s strained profile.

“May I suggest a general signal before the one to engage, sir?” He saw a nerve jumping in Broughton’s throat, but his eyes were unblinking as he stared at the oncoming ships. He persisted. “From you, sir.”

“Me?” Broughton turned and looked at him with surprise.

“You said earlier that our people know me, sir. But this is my ship, and they understand my ways, as I have tried to appreciate theirs.” He gestured towards Zeus. “But all these ships are yours, and they are depending on you today.”

Broughton shook his head. “I cannot do it.”

“May I speak, sir?” It was Calvert. “The signal should read ‘My trust is in you.’” He flushed as Keverne strode towards him and clapped him on the shoulder.

“By God, Mr Calvert, I never thought you had the imagination!”

Broughton licked his lips. “If you really believe…”

Bolitho nodded to Tothill. “I do, sir. Now get that bent on and hoisted immediately. We have little time left.”

He saw the sunlight flashing on glass as several officers on Zeus’s poop watched the sudden array of flags streaming from Euryalus’s yards.

But he turned swiftly as the air quaked and shook to a sudden roar of gunfire. The French flagship had fired, the orange flame spurting from gun after gun as she discharged a slow broadside towards the oncoming squadron. With the approach being diagonal, most of the balls were blind, and he saw them ripping through the short wave crests and throwing up water spouts far beyond the lee division. The smoke rolled down from the enemy in a steep brown fog, until only Zeus’s topmasts were visible.

Broughton was gripping his sword-hilt, his face tight with fixed concentration as another French ship fired and a ball slapped through the fore topsail and shrieked away over the water.

Bolitho said tersely, “Listen, sir!” He strode to the admiral’s side. “Hear them?”

Faintly above the wind and the dying echo of cannon fire came the sound of cheering, distorted and vague, as if the ships themselves were calling the tune. As word was shouted from gun to gun and deck to deck the Euryalus’s seamen joined in, their voices suddenly loud and engulfing. Some stood back from the main deck twelve-pounders and waved to Broughton, who still stood like a statue, his face as stiff as his shoulders.

Bolitho said quietly, “You see, sir? They don’t ask for much.”

He turned away as Broughton muttered, “God help me!”

More ships were firing now, and some of the balls were flicking across the water close by, and he saw several holes in the Zeus’s sails as she continued purposefully into the smoke.

He turned as Broughton said firmly, “I am ready. Signal the squadron to engage.” Before he hurried back to the rail he saw that Broughton’s eyes were bright with shock or surprise at hearing the cheers. Cheers for a short, trite signal which at the threshold of death could mean so much.

Bolitho shouted, “Make the signal, Mr Tothill!” To Keverne, “Man the braces. We will endeavour to keep station on Zeus until the last moment.”

More crashes echoed across the shrinking arrowhead of water, and he felt the deck shudder as some hit home. He saw Meheux walking behind the forward guns, his sword bared as he spoke to some of the crews, his round face completely absorbed.

“Ready, sir!”

Bolitho raised his hand very slowly. “Steady, Mr Partridge!” He felt the pain throbbing in his shoulder to mark the rising tension in his blood. His hand sliced down. “Now!”

The flags vanished from Euryalus’s yards, and while men threw themselves on the braces and the wheel squealed against the rudder lines he saw the French line changing as if on a great gate,

swinging across the bowsprit until Euryalus was pointing directly towards it at right-angles.

A quick glance told him Zeus was leading her own division in obedience to the signal, her sails flapping violently as more balls screamed through them from the enemy guns. But instead of a converging bunch of ships, the French gunners now had the more slender targets to compete with. End on, their gundecks still silent, the two British lines moved steadily towards them, although because of the gentle turn to starboard Euryalus was a good ship’s length ahead of Zeus.

Bolitho gripped the rail as smoke rolled down from the flashing guns. Iron shrieked above the quarterdeck, and here and there a severed line or block fell unheeded on the taut nets.

“Steady!”

He wiped his eyes as more smoke swirled above the deck and watched the nearest set of topmasts standing, as if detached, fine on the larboard bow. He felt the deck jerk again as more shots smashed into the hull, and recalled suddenly the time he had described the superiority of her French build to Draffen. It was macabre to think of him down in the undisturbed darkness of a lower hold in his cask of spirits while the rest of them waited to fight and die.

He strode to the nettings as a small patch of colour showed itself above the smoke. The Spanish flag was flapping from her gaff, and he knew he had not mistimed his approach.

“Stand by on the gundecks!”

He saw the midshipmen scamper to the hatchways and imagined Weigall and Sawle down there in their world of semi-darkness, the great muzzles glinting perhaps in the open ports.

Meheux was facing aft, his eyes fixed on the quarterdeck, and Bolitho noticed that he had his sword sloped across his shoulder as if on parade.

With sudden alarm he clapped his hand to his hip and said, “My sword!”

Allday ran forward. “But, Captain, you can’t use it yet!”

“Get it!” Bolitho touched his side and marvelled at the stupid value he had given to wearing the sword. And yet it was important to him, although he could not put words to it.

He waited as Allday slipped the belt around his waist and said, “Left-handed or not, I may need it today.”

The coxswain took up his position by the nettings and watched him fixedly. While he had his cutlass the captain would not need his arm, he would lay an oath on that.

A new sound made several faces turn upwards. Screaming and sobbing, like some crazed spirit, it passed overhead and faded into the drifting smoke.

Bolitho said shortly, “Chain shot.”

The French usually tried to dismast or cripple an enemy if at all possible, whereas the British gunnery was normally directed at the hulls, to do as much damage and create sufficient carnage to encourage surrender.

The smoke glowed red and orange, and he heard cries from the forecastle as more chain shot scythed past the carronades to cut away shrouds and rigging like grass.

A strong down-eddy of wind thrust the smoke to one side, and while gunfire continued up and down the enemy line Bolitho saw the nearest Spanish seventy-four less than half a cable from the larboard bow. Just before the smoke billowed down again she stood there on the glittering water, clear and bright, her gold scrollwork and elegant counter throwing back reflections, while on her tall poop there were already flashes of musket fire.

To starboard the second Spanish ship was wallowing slightly out of line, her jib and fore topsail in torment as her captain tried to avoid the oncoming three-decker.

When he looked at Broughton he found him as before. Standing motionless with his hands hanging at his sides as if too stricken to move.

“Sir! Walk about!” He pointed at the nearest ship. “There are sharpshooters there this morning!”

As if to verify his warning several splinters rose like feathers from the planking, and a man beside a gun screamed in agony as a ball smashed into his breast. He was dragged away gasping and protesting, knowing in spite of his pain what awaited him on the orlop.

Broughton came out of his trance and began to pace up and down. He did not even flinch as a corpse bounced down from the main yard and rolled across the nets before pitching overboard. He seemed beyond fear or feeling. A man already dead.

More crashes and thuds against the hull, and then as the smoke cleared once again Bolitho saw the Spanish ship’s stern swinging level with the foremast. They were passing through the line, and the realisation almost unnerved him. He gripped the rail and tried to make himself heard above the din.

“Both batteries, Mr Meheux! Pass the word!” Fumbling and cursing, he tried to draw his sword with his left hand. It was hopeless.

A voice said, “Here, let me, sir.” It was Pascoe.

Bolitho took the worn hilt in his hand and smiled at him. “Thank you, Adam.” Was he thinking the same in that small fragment of time? That this old sword would be his too one day?

He held it above his head, seeing the hazed sunlight touch the keen blade before the smoke rolled inboard again.

“As you bear!” He counted the seconds. “Fire!”

The ship gave a terrible lurch as deck by deck, gun by gun, the deadly broadsides flashed and bellowed from either beam. He heard the groan of falling spars, the sudden screams in the smoke, and knew that the nearest ship had been badly mauled. And it

had not even begun. The lower batteries of thirty-two-pounders were roaring above all else, their recoil shaking the hull, to its very keel as their double-shotted bombardment raked the two ships with merciless accuracy. The one to starboard had lost both her fore and main topmasts, and charred canvas dropped alongside like so much rubbish. The nearest two-decker was idling downwind, her steering gone and her stern gaping to the sunlight like a great black cave. What the broadside had done within her gundecks was past speculation.

A blurred shape was edging around the other Spaniard, and Bolitho guessed it must be the French second-in-command. Euryalus’s lower battery had already reloaded and raked the Frenchman’s bows almost before she had drawn clear of her consort. He saw her guns belching fire and smoke, and knew she was shooting with little attention to accuracy.

“Stand by to tack, Mr Partridge!”

They were through. Already the disabled seventy-four was lost in smoke and there seemed an immense gap before another ship, the third in the line, could be seen.

Yards creaking and voices yelling above the thunder and crash of gunfire, Euryalus turned slowly to follow the enemy line. The difference was startling. With the wind’s advantage on their side it was possible to watch the enemy unhindered by gunsmoke, and he breathed with relief as the deck cleared and he saw that masts and yards were still whole. The sails were pitted with holes, and there were several men lying dead and wounded. Some had been hit by marksmen in the enemy’s tops, but most had been clawed down by flying wood splinters.

Somewhere astern there was a sickening crash, and when he leaned over the nettings he stared with disbelief as Impulsive swung drunkenly in a welter of broken spars, her passage through the enemy’s line only half completed. Her foremast had gone completely, and only her mizzen topsail appeared to be intact.

There were great gaps in her tumblehome, and even as he watched he saw her main topmast fall crashing into the smoke to drag alongside and pull her still further under the guns of a French two-decker. Chain shot had all but dismasted her, and he could already see another French ship tacking across her stern to rake her, as Euryalus had just done to the Spaniard.

He made himself turn back to his own ship, but his ears refused to block out the sounds of that terrible broadside. He saw Pascoe staring through the smoke, his eyes wide with horror.

He shouted, “Cast the boats adrift!” The boy turned towards him, his reply lost in a sudden burst of firing from ahead. Then he ran aft, beckoning to some seamen to follow him.

Bolitho watched coldly as the wind pushed his ship steadily towards the next Frenchman’s quarter. He was staring at her stern, knowing that her captain would either stay and fight or try to turn downwind. In which case he was doomed, as Impulsive had been. He had to grind his teeth together to stop himself from speaking Herrick’s name aloud. Casting the boats adrift had been more to ease the boy’s pain than with any hope of saving more than a handful of survivors.

Almost savagely he shouted, “Stand by on the fo’c’sle, Mr Meheux! Carronade this one!”

“Fire!”

The first guns roared out from the larboard battery, and then the air shivered to the deeper bang of a carronade. Timber and pieces of bulwark flew from the enemy’s poop, and the mizzen, complete with tricolour, toppled into the rolling bank of smoke.

Broughton was shouting at him. “Look! God damn it!” He was all but jumping with excitement as like a great finger a jib boom and then a glaring figurehead thrust ahead of the nearest ship.

“Zeus has broken the line!” Keverne waved his hat in the air. “God, look at her!”

Zeus came through firing from either beam, her sails in rags

and most of her side pitted and blackened with holes. Thin tendrils of scarlet ran from her scuppers, as if the ship herself was bleeding, and Bolitho knew that Rattray had fought hard and at a great price to follow the flagship’s example.

As far as he could tell the action had become general. Guns hammered from ahead and astern, and there were ships locked in combat on every hand. Gone was the prim French line, as were Broughton’s divisions. Gone too was the French admiral’s control, separated as he was downwind, blinded by smoke in a sea gone mad with battle.

Broughton shouted, “General signal! Form line ahead and astern of admiral!”

Tothill nodded violently and ran to his men. There was not much chance of anyone complying, but it would show the others that Broughton was still in command.

And there was Tanais, her mizzen gone, her forecastle a splintered shambles, but most of her guns firing as she raked the enemy and pushed after Zeus, her ensign ripped by musket fire as she passed.

More gunfire echoed through the smoke, and Bolitho knew it must be Furneaux fighting for his life in a press of disabled but nevertheless deadly ships.

“Ship on the starboard quarter, sir!”

Bolitho hurried across the deck and saw a French two-decker, unmarked, her sails showing not a single hole, thrusting towards him, her speed gaining as she set her forecourse and topgallants, so that she leaned heavily under the pressure.

While everyone else had been engaged, her captain had taken his ship out of the line to try to regain an advantage. As she turned slightly, shortening her silhouette until almost bows on, Bolitho saw the Impulsive. Dismasted, she was so settled in the water that her lower gunports were already awash. A few tiny figures moved vaguely on her listing decks and others were jumping

overboard, probably too stricken by the slaughter to know what they were doing.

Keverne asked harshly, “Do you think many will survive?”

“Not many.” Bolitho looked at him steadily. “She was a good ship.”

Keverne watched him as he walked back to the rail. To Pascoe he said, “He is taking it badly. In spite of his bluff, I know him well by now.”

Pascoe glanced astern at the sinking ship beneath her great pall of drifting smoke. “His best friend.” He looked away, his eyes blind. “Mine, too.”

“Deck there!” Maybe the masthead lookout had been calling before. Amidst all the noise his voice would have been unnoticed. Keverne looked up as the man yelled hoarsely, “Ship, sir! On the larboard bow!”

Bolitho gripped his sword in his left hand until his fingers ached. Through the shrouds and stays, just a fraction to larboard of the massive foremast, he saw her. Wreathed in the endless curtain of gunsmoke she loomed like a giant, her braced yards almost fore and aft as she edged very slowly across Euryalus’s course.

Bolitho felt the hatred and unreasoning fury running through him like fire. Le Glorieux, the French admiral’s flagship, was coming to greet him, to repay him for the shameful destruction done to his ships and his overwhelming confidence.

He seized the sword even tighter, blinded by his hatred and sense of loss. She, above all, would be Herrick’s memorial.

“Stand by to engage!” He pointed his sword at Meheux. “Pass the word! Double-shotted and grape for good measure!” He saw Broughton staring at him and rasped, “Your contemporary lies yonder, sir.” He could feel his eyes stinging and knew Broughton was speaking to him. But he could see nothing but Herrick’s face staring up through the smoke as his ship died under him.

Broughton swung round and then strode along the starboard gangway, his epaulettes glinting in the dim sunlight.

His feet seemed to be carrying him in spite of his wishes, and as he walked above the smoke-grimed gun crews he paused to nod to them or to wish them good luck. Some watched him pass, dull-eyed and too dazed to care. Others gave him a grin and a wave. A gun-captain spat on his heated twelve-pounder and croaked, “Us’ll give ’ee a victory, Sir Lucius, don’ you fret on it!”

Broughton stopped and seized the nettings for support. Aft, above the chattering seamen and the marines who were already levelling their muskets through the smoke, he saw Bolitho. The man who had somehow given these men a faith so strong they could not weaken even if they wanted to. And in their own way they were sharing it with him.

Bolitho was quite motionless by the rail, the sling white against his coat and the sword hanging in his hand by his side. He saw too the captain’s coxswain at his back, and Pascoe watching him with something like despair.

It was then that he made up his mind. Bolitho had given them, and him, all this, yet now that he was crushed by grief none of them could help.

Almost angrily he strode aft and snapped, “By God, we’ll teach that fellow a lesson, eh, lads?” He felt his tight skin cracking into a grin. “How about it, Mr Keverne? Another three-decker for the fleet!”

Keverne swallowed hard. “As you wish, sir.”

Bolitho lifted his head and looked at him. “Thank you, Sir Lucius.” He sighed and rested his sword on the top of the rail. “Thank you.”

When he looked again at the French flagship she seemed much clearer. And his mind had become empty of everything but the need to destroy her.

Broughton was on the opposite side of the quarterdeck and peering at the French two-decker.

“She’s wearing!” He gestured to Bolitho. “Look!”

Bolitho saw the enemy ship swinging heavily away to expose her full broadside to Euryalus’s starboard quarter. Either her captain had failed in a first intention to cross their stern, or had changed his mind about drawing too near.

Then the Frenchman fired. Being the first time she had taken part in the desperate battle the broadside was well timed and aimed, and as the thick smoke billowed along her hull Bolitho felt the deck lurch sickeningly, the air suddenly alive with splinters and that terrible screaming sound they had heard earlier.

The deck gave one more tremendous lurch, and as his hearing returned he heard Giffard yelling, “The mizzen! The bastards have got it!”

Before he could follow Giffard’s agonised stare he saw the slicing shadow sweep across the poop, as with rigging and shrouds and screaming men falling on every hand the mizzen, complete with topsail and yards, thundered amongst them.

Trailing lines and braces tore through the crouching gun crews and startled marines like deadly snakes, as with a further savage crash the mast toppled drunkenly over the side. Another blaze of gun flashes made the smoke writhe above the deck, and he felt the chain shot whirling overhead and crashing into the hull with a scream of metal.

Blackened figures pushed past him, and he saw Tebbutt, the boatswain, waving an axe, urging his men to hack away the great weight of wreckage alongside. Mast and spars, mangled corpses and a few trapped seamen from the top who were still trying to struggle free before they were carried astern, all were acting like a sea anchor, dragging the ship round in a nightmare of smoke and deafening explosions.

Where there had been a line of marines seconds earlier was a

grotesque heap of ripped and pulped bodies, broken muskets and a fast-spreading pattern of blood. Giffard was already yelling orders, and other marines were stepping blindly amongst the carnage to fire their muskets into the choking smoke.

In the middle of it all Bolitho saw Broughton dragging a sobbing midshipman to the shelter of the mainmast trunk, his hat gone, but his voice as sharp as ever as he yelled, “Reload and run out, damn you! Hit ’em, lads! Hit ’em!”

Bolitho climbed over a great pile of fallen blocks and cordage, almost blinded by smoke, and shouted, “Mr Partridge! More men on the wheel! She’s broaching to!”

But the master did not hear. One section of chain shot had cut his rotund body almost in half, so that Bolitho had to fight back the vomit as he saw the horror below the poop.

Part of the double wheel had been carried away, but cursing and gasping more seamen slithered and stumbled towards it, throwing themselves on the spokes.

With a long shudder the mizzen slipped clear of its lashings and plunged into the sea. Bolitho felt the ship responding almost immediately, but as he pushed past some more hurrying figures he saw the French flagship and knew it was too late. With his ears and brain cringing against the thunder of the thirty-two-pounders he tried to think of some last-minute alternative. But the pull of the heavy mizzen, the momentary loss of control by the rudder, had thrown Euryalus off course, so that now her bowsprit was pointing directly at the enemy’s forecastle. Collision was unavoidable, and even had there been greater distance between them, the sails were too pitted, too torn to give anything but small steerage way.

He saw Keverne and yelled, “Up forrard! Repel boarders!”

More crashes rocked the hull, and he watched the French two-decker passing slowly down the starboard side, her guns firing, her masts and sails unharmed.

He pulled himself to the rail and sought out Meheux in the confusion of smoke and yelling gun crews. He saw the shining bodies of half-naked seamen, powder blackened and almost inhuman as they hurled themselves on the tackles and sent the gun trucks rumbling and squealing back to the ports. Up and down the line captains jerked their lanyards and the muzzles spat out tongues of flame, while the smoke came funnelling inboard to blind and torment the desperate crews.

But Meheux needed no telling. He was crouching beside one of the guns, shouting at its captain, his eyes very bright in his grimy face. More balls screamed above the deck, and a seaman who had been running with a message fell in a flounder of arms and legs, his head lopped off by the ball.

Then Meheux raised his sword, and the gun crews stooped and crouched behind their ports like athletes awaiting a signal.

“On the uproll!” Meheux glared along his line of men. “Fire!”

Every one fired at once, and Bolitho saw the Frenchman’s foremast and main topmast vanish into the smoke together. The lower batteries were firing again, and hampered by her trailing spars the French two-decker took the broadsides again and again. When the smoke drifted above the Euryalus there was no more firing from the enemy.

Bolitho almost fell as the bowsprit and jib boom ploughed into the French flagship’s shrouds and with a further grinding convulsion both hulls came together.

The smoke was bright with darting flashes of muskets and swivels, and Bolitho watched Lieutenant Cox of the marines leading his men across the forecastle to close with the enemy.

Below decks the larboard guns recommenced firing, as swinging like parts of a mammoth hinge the two ships angled towards each other. Right forward the gun muzzles were almost touching, and Bolitho felt the enemy’s shots crashing through the hull, upending guns and turning the lower batteries into places of slaughter and stark horror.

Musket balls ricocheted and whined around the exposed quarterdeck, and Meheux peered at the maintop where the swivel gunners were firing towards the enemy’s poop.

He yelled, “Shoot down those marksmen!” But the noise was so great they did not hear. Desperately he climbed on to the gangway and cupped his hands to try again. A marine, wild-eyed and grinning, peered down at him and then swung the swivel towards the other ship’s maintop. Even as he jerked the lanyard Meheux took a ball full in the stomach, and with his eyes already glazing in stunned surprise he rolled over the rail and fell unseen beside one of his beloved twelve-pounders.

Broughton watched the French marksmen as they fell to the vicious cannister. Some hung kicking across the enemy’s main yard and others, more fortunate, fell to the deck below and died instantly.

Then he said calmly, “Our people are not holding them off.”

Bolitho looked along the larboard gangway and saw the enemy boarders already overflowing on to the forecastle, while others swayed back and forth between the two hulls, steel against steel, pike against musket.

Here and there a man would fall out of sight to be ground between the two massive bilges, or a solitary figure would find himself isolated on his enemy’s deck to be hacked down with neither thought nor mercy.

A marine officer dropped screaming, his white crossbelt already soaked in blood, and Giffard snarled, “Cox is gone!” Then with an oath he was charging along the gangway, soon to be lost in the packed mass of figures.

The two hulls were grinding closer and closer, and with a violent jerk Euryalus’s bowsprit splintered and tore free, the jib flapping uselessly above the confusion like a banner.

More men were clambering across from the other ship, and Bolitho saw some of them fighting their way steadily aft towards the quarterdeck. A young lieutenant appeared as if by magic on

the ladder, his sword swinging as he hurled himself across the deck. Bolitho tried to parry him to one side, but saw the French officer’s eyes wild with triumph as he knocked the blade away and turned on his heels for the fatal blow.

Calvert thrust Bolitho aside, his face calm as he snapped, “This one is mine sir!” His blade moved so fast that Bolitho did not see it. Only the Frenchman’s face slashed from eye to chin as he reeled gasping against the rail. Calvert’s wrist turned deftly and then he lunged, taking the Frenchman in the heart.

He said, “Amateur!” Then he was down amongst more of the attackers, his hair flying as he sought out another officer and fought him back against the ladder.

Keverne staggered through the smoke, blood dripping from his forehead. “Sir!” He ducked beneath a swinging cutlass and fired his pistol into the man’s groin, the force of the shot hurling him bodily amongst the others. “We must get clear!”

His voice was very loud, and Bolitho realised dazedly that the guns had ceased firing. Through open ports on both ships men jabbed at one another with pikes or fired pistols in a madness of hatred and despair.

Bolitho gripped Keverne’s arm, his sword hanging from his wrist on its lanyard. “What is it, man?”

“I-I’m not sure, but…”

Keverne pulled Bolitho against him and thrust at a yelling seaman with his sword. The man faltered, and Bolitho saw Allday run from aft, his cutlass driving forward and down with such force that the cutlass’s point appeared through his stomach.

Keverne retched and gasped, “The Frenchman’s afire, sir!”

Bolitho saw the admiral slip to his knees, groping for his sword, and watched helplessly as a French petty officer charged towards him with a bayoneted musket.

A slim figure blocked his path and Bolitho heard himself yell, “Adam! Get back!”

But Pascoe stood his ground, armed only with a dirk, his face a mask of stricken determination.

The bayonet lunged, but at the last second another figure jumped through the smoke, his sword dark with blood as he parried the blade up and clear of the boy’s chest. The musket exploded, and Pascoe stood back, horrified as Calvert crumpled at his feet, his face blown away. With a sob he struck at the petty officer with his dirk, hurting him sufficiently to make him recoil. Allday’s cutlass finished it.

Bolitho tore his eyes away and hurried to the side. Beyond the enemy’s mainmast he could see a steady plume of black smoke. Figures darted down the hatchway, and he heard sudden cries of alarm, the urgent clatter of pumps.

Perhaps in the confusion a lantern had been upended, or a blazing wad from one of the guns had found its way through an open port. But there was no mistaking the signs of fire, nor the desperate urgency now needed to get clear.

He shouted, “Pass the word. Lower battery reload. Fire on the order!”

He stared round at the shattered planking, the sprawled corpses and sobbing wounded. It was a faint hope, but it was all he had. Unless they got away from Le Glorieux’s embrace they would become one inferno together.

A midshipman yelled, “Ready, sir!” It was Ashton.

“Fire!”

Seconds later the lower battery erupted in a great, blasting roar. It felt as if the ship would fall apart, and as smoke and pieces of wreckage flew high above the nettings Bolitho saw the other ship reel drunkenly under the full weight of the lower battery’s broadside.

The French flagship’s sails were still drawing and quivering in the wind, and as she idled clear she began to move slowly towards the Euryalus’s bows. The smoke was rising thickly from her main

hatch, and Bolitho felt himself shaking uncontrollably as the first tip of flame licked above the coaming like a forked tongue.

All resistance had ceased on Euryalus’s deck, and the French boarders left behind by their ship watched in silence, their hands in the air, as Le Glorieux continued to draw away.

Broughton said hoarsely, “They’re finished!” There was neither pride nor satisfaction in his voice. Like the others, he sounded completely crushed by the ferocity of the battle.

Tothill limped to the rail. “Zeus is signalling, sir.”

When Bolitho looked down at him he saw the midshipman was grinning even though uncontrollable tears were cutting sharp lines through the grime on his face.

He asked quietly, “Well, Mr Tothill?”

“Two of the enemy have struck to us, sir. One has sunk, and the rest are breaking off the action.”

Bolitho sighed and watched with silent relief as the enemy flagship began to drift more swiftly downwind. As the smoke of battle faded reluctantly away he saw the other ships scattered across the sea’s face, scarred and blackened from conflict. Of Impulsive there was no sign, and he saw the sloop Restless, which must have arrived unseen in the battle, drifting above her shadow, her boats in the water searching for survivors.

He felt a sudden heat on his cheek, and when he turned saw the French three-decker’s sails and rigging ablaze like torches. The lower gunports were also glowing bright red, and before a man could speak the air was torn apart with one deafening explosion.

The smoke surrounded the destruction, changing to steam as with a jubilant roar the sea surged into the shattered hull, dragging it down in a welter of bubbles and terrible sounds. Guns crashed from their tackles, and men trapped below in total darkness ran in madness until caught by either sea or fire.

When the smoke finally cleared there was only a great, slow-moving whirlpool, around which the flotsam and human

fragments joined in one last horrible dance. Then there was nothing.

Broughton cleared his throat. “A victory.” He watched the wounded being carried or dragged below. Then he looked at Calvert and added, “But the bill is greater.”

Bolitho said dully, “We will commence repairs, sir. The wind has eased slightly…” He paused and rubbed his knuckles into his eyes, trying to think. “Valorous looks in a bad way. I think Tanais can take her in tow.”

He heard distant cheering and saw the men on the Zeus’s battered forecastle waving and yelling as they edged past. They could still cheer after all that. He turned to watch as some of his own company scrambled into the shrouds to return the cheers.

He said quietly, “With men like these, Sir Lucius, you never need fear again.”

But Broughton had not heard him. He was unbuckling his beautiful sword, and with a small hesitation handed it to Pascoe.

“Here, take it. When I needed it, I dropped it.” He added gruffly, “Any damn midshipman who tackles the enemy with a dirk deserves it!” He watched the astonishment on the boy’s dark features. “Besides, a lieutenant must look the part, eh?”

Pascoe held the sword and turned it over in his hands. Then he looked at Bolitho, but he was standing rigidly by the rail, his fingers gripping it so tightly that they were white.

“Sir?” He hurried to his side, suddenly fearful that Bolitho had been wounded again. “Look, sir!”

Bolitho released the rail and put his arm round the boy’s thin shoulders. He was desperately tired, and the pain in his wound was like a branding iron. But just a little longer.

Very slowly he said, “Adam. Tell me.” He swallowed hard. He could barely risk speaking. “That boat!”

Pascoe stared at his face and then down into the sea nearby. A longboat was pulling towards the Euryalus’s shot-scarred

side, crammed to the gunwales with dripping, exhausted men. He replied hesitantly, “Yes, Uncle. I see him, too.” Bolitho gripped his shoulder more tightly and watched the boat’s misty outline as it nudged alongside. Beside its coxswain he saw Herrick peering up at him, his strained face set in a grin while he supported a wounded marine against his chest.

Keverne came striding aft, an unspoken question on his lips, but paused as Broughton snapped, “If you are to have Auriga, Mr Keverne, I would be obliged if you would take command here until such time as a transfer is possible!” He looked at Bolitho with his arm round the boy’s shoulder. “I think my flag captain has done enough.” He saw Allday hurrying down to the entry port. “For all of us.”