THE INSHORE SQUADRON

8. Outwitted

Bolitho watched the fall of the French broadside from the leading ship. She had fired at extreme range, and he guessed her captain was using the broadside as an exercise. It was more than likely that his gun crews had had little opportunity of aiming at a real enemy before.

British sailors could curse and swear all they wished, but when it came to a fight it was sea-time which counted as much as the weight of armament.

He could not recall seeing the complete contents of a broadside fall before in open water. It was like a violent upsurge from something beneath the surface, hurling spray and smoke in a long, jagged barrier. Even when the last ball had fallen the sea still writhed, the surface painted with great daubs of hissing salt.

Herrick remarked, 'Waste of good powder and shot.'

Several others nodded, and Wolfe said, `They're shortening sail, sir.'

Herrick nodded. 'Do likewise, Mr Wolfe.'

Bolitho walked away. It was the usual practice, once enemies had been committed to a course of action. Enough canvas to give steerage-way and to manoeuvre, but not enough to encourage an outburst of fire. A flaming wad from a gun, a lantern knocked over by a stray ball, anything could change these fine pyramids of sail into a roaring inferno.

Bolitho watched the maincourse being gathered up to its yard, the sudden activity along the deck as the order was obeyed. Along the slow-moving British line the others followed suit, stripping for combat.

And still the two columns continued remorselessly towards one another. The second French ship, with Ropars' flag at the fore, fired some ranging shots from each deck. Much nearer than the first impressive broadside. Bolitho followed a ball's progress as it tore low across the wavecrests, cutting a path of spurting spray, until it struck hard into the sea and vanished. It fell less than a cable from Benbow's larboard bow.

Bolitho said, `When we engage, Mr Browne, make to Relentless, attack and harass enemy's rear. I will keep Lookout with us to give the French something to ponder on.'

Somebody laughed. A short, nervous sound. One of the new hands probably. The sudden burst of cannon fire, the overwhelming weight of iron as it had scythed into the sea had been less dangerous than the carefully pointed shots from Ropars' flagship. But to an inexperienced eye it would seem awesome.

Lieutenant Speke had left the quarterdeck and was walking between the lines of eighteen-pounders, hands behind his back until he joined Pascoe by the foremast bitts.

Gun captains watched them apprehensively, while here, and

there a handspike moved to point a cannon more accurately, while another seaman made a small adjustment with a quoin. It was as if the whole ship was on the edge of tension, and even the braced fore-topsail gave two sharp, impatient flaps, making one of the ship's boys peer round in alarm.

Bolitho turned as the leading Frenchman fired again. Much closer, some of the spray falling so near they could hear it, like tropical rain.

Bolitho trained a glass on the French line. Along the five vessels, all seventy-fours, he could see the sails changing, being reefed or filling again to the wind as their captains did everything to hold the distances and yet be ready to react to their enemy.

He said, `Alter course two points starboard, Captain Herrick. The squadron will follow.'

Men hurried to the braces, and he heard the wheel being hauled over rapidly as if the quartermaster and helmsmen had been expecting the order.

Grubb said, 'Steady as she goes, sir. East by north.'

The British line had edged slightly away from the other squadron, so that for a moment it appeared as if the French were falling astern. The yards squeaked to the pull of blocks and braces, and at the masthead Bolitho saw the pendant flapping almost directly forward.

He could feel the ship responding, as with the wind under her coat-tails she forged eagerly ahead.

`French have made more sail, sir.' Herrick looked at him. 'Do I set the courses on her again?'

`No.' Bolitho walked three paces to the nearest gun and back again. 'I want them to believe we're more interested in delaying their progress than closing to point-blank range.'

He watched the French topgallant yards changing shape and direction as the ships spread more sail and increased speed accordingly. Less than a mile separated them now.

'Be ready, Mr Browne.'

He pictured the captains following in Benbow's wake. He had explained this very tactic to them when he had first met them as a- squadron. The minimum of signals. The maximum of initiative. He could see them now. Keverne, Keen and good old Inch. Waiting for the solitary flag which was already bent on and ready. As he had said at the time, `The French can read our signals, too, so why share our knowledge with them?'

'I think we may open fire, Captain Herrick.'

Bolitho saw his words being passed forward along the gundeck by whisper and gesture with the speed of light.

'No broadside. Tell your gun captains to shoot on the uproll and to fire at will.'

Herrick nodded. `Aye, sir. That will get the Frogs moving. They'll not want to be dismasted or crippled by a random shot at this stage of the game. They've a fair way to go in either direction!'

A midshipman ran down the main hatch with the message, and seconds later a whistle shrilled out from the forecastle.

It was hard to see who fired first, and to what effect. Down the engaged side the guns came crashing inboard on their tackles, the crews jumping instantly to sponge out the steaming muzzles and reload. Gun captains, stooped like old men, peered through their ports, watching the sails of the leading French ship jerk wildly as if in a whirlwind.

From the lower gundeck the recoiling thirty-two-pounders made the timbers quiver, while streaming past her beakhead the drifting smoke fanned out on either bow like a fog.

'We've hit her, by God!'

Another voice yelled, 'That was our gun, lads! Run out now an' we'll make 'em dance another jig!'

The rest of Bolitho's line were firing now, the shots cutting through the waves, some falling short and others hitting sails and hulls in a confusion of bursting spray and smoke.

'The French have altered course again, sir.' Herrick could barely control his excitement. 'Here they come.'

He winced as the second ship vanished in a wall of smoke and the long orange tongues flashed through it with the sound of thunder.

Water deluged across the forecastle, and beneath his feet Bolitho felt the massive hull stagger to the enemy's iron. Five, maybe six hits, but not a stay or shroud had been parted.

'Sponge out, that man!' A gun captain had to punch one of his men in the shoulder to bring him back to his senses. 'Now load, you bugger!'

Crash… crash… crash. All along Benbow's painted tumblehome the guns came roaring inboard on their tackles. Alone, in pairs or whole sections their captains aimed and pulled their trigger lines, unhampered by the restricting demands of a fixed broadside.

Men were cheering from up forward as the leading Frenchman's main-topgallant mast vanished into the smoke. There were black dots drifting past the ships; wreckage, burned hammocks from the nettings or perhaps corpses thrown overboard to keep the guns firing.

'Again, lads! Hit them!' Herrick was yelling through his cupped hands, a far cry from the quiet-faced man who had stood at the altar in Kent.

The French line were all firing now, and each British ship was being damaged, or so deluged in falling spray she appeared to be.

A ball punched through the main-topsail and other holes appeared in the fore.

A few severed lines swung lazily above the guns, like dead weed, while Swale, the boatswain, Big Tom, matched his voice to the din as he urged his men aloft to splice and effect repairs before something vital carried away.

Bolitho flinched as metal clanged against a gun on the starboard side and the broken splinters cracked around him like musket fire. A seaman fell headlong to the deck, and Bolitho saw that beneath his pigtail his vertebrae had been laid bare. Nearby a petty officer had dropped to his knees and was trying to hold his entrails in his hands, his mouth wide in a soundless scream.

'Steady, lads! Point! Ready! Fire!'

The quarterdeck nine-pounders fired together, their sharper, note making some of the men gasp with pain.

'And again!'

Bolitho swallowed hard as more enemy shots beat into the hull. He heard one smash through an open port on the lower gundeck, pictured the horror as it ploughed through men already blinded by smoke and half-mad from the deafening explosions.

'Fire!'

The leading French ship was overreaching Benbow, in spite of her missing topgallant mast. She was firing wildly, but some of the shots were hitting the hull. Bolitho looked along the upper gundeck at the men moving back and forth, jumping clear as each gun came squealing and crashing inboard.

Some lay where they had been dragged to await treatment. Others would not move again. Pascoe was walking behind his men, shouting something, then waving his hat. One of his gun captains turned to grin at him and fell dead as a ball whipped past his stomach without even touching him. On the opposite side it thundered into the bulwark and killed another seaman even as he ducked away.

'Fire!'

Bolitho cleared, his throat. 'We are rightly placed, I think.' He peered up at the flapping pendant, his eyes smarting with smoke. 'Be ready, Mr Browne!'

He heard Herrick yelling, 'Stand by to come about, Mr Grubb! Mr Speke!' He had to borrow Wolfe's trumpet to make the lieutenant hear through the noise. 'We will engage with both batteries! Prepare to raise the starboard port lids!' He watched to ensure that his message had been carried to the lower gundeck and then turned to add, 'By God, our people are doing well today, sir!'

Bolitho took him by the arm. 'Walk about, Thomas. When we break the enemy's line they will try to mark us down from the tops!'

Somewhere in the smoke a man gave a shrill scream, and blood ran along the larboard scuppers in an unbroken thread.

He measured the distance. It was time. Later and the French might cripple them, or might try to separate them from each other.

'Make your signal, Mr Browne!'

The solitary flag broke from the yard, to be acknowledged all along the line.

Browne wiped his mouth with his hand. His hat was awry and there was blood on his white breeches.

`Close up, sir!'

Bolitho looked at the men ready at the braces, the ones at the big double-wheel taking the strain on the spokes while they tried to concentrate on Grubb, on everything but the crash and roar of cannon fire.

A marine fell from the maintop, hit a net and rolled over the side into the sea.

A powder-monkey, running towards the larboard guns, turned on his toes like a dancer then fell kicking to the deck. Before he looked away Bolitho-saw that his eyes had been blasted from his head.

'Now!'

The yards came round like great, straining bows, and as the helm went over Bolitho saw the French ships suddenly loom above the larboard bow. Then they stood before the bowsprit as Benbow continued to turn until her yards were all but braced fore and aft.

With canvas thundering and flapping in protest, Benbow held on her new tack, her tapering jib-boom pointing directly at the gilded gallery of the French flagship. He could see the sudden consternation on her poop and quarterdeck, the flags appearing frantically above the drifting smoke as she endeavoured to rally support.

'Make your other signal to Relentless.'

Bolitho watched narrowly as the deck heeled to starboard under the tightly braced sails. Would they manage it? Break astern of the flagship and smash her poop to fragments, or would Benbow ram her instead and impale her on the bowsprit like a lance?

He heard more cheering, rising from the fog of battle to drown the cries and groans of the wounded. Indomitable was following close astern and, seeming much further away now, Nicator, with Inch's smaller sixty-four, Odin, in her wake, was heading to break the enemy's line. With luck, Captain Keen would pass between the fourth and the rearmost ship in the French squadron. If he could cut out the last ship and cripple her, the big transport would be at his mercy.

`Open your ports! Run out the starboard battery!'

The guns squealed to the ports as one, as if eager to discard their previous roles of spectators.

Herrick said between his teeth, 'Easy, Mr Grubb. You can let her fall off a point now.' He slammed one hand into the other. 'Got him!'

They were so close to the other flagship that Benbow's jibboom and tattered staysails threw faint shadows across her counter and stern windows.

Bolitho heard Speke yell, 'As you bear! Ready!'

Right up forward Bolitho saw the two carronades poking their ugly snouts outboard. The starboard one at least could hardly miss.

Muskets cracked through the din, and Bolitho saw the hammocks jump in the nettings as the French marksmen tested their aim. In Benbow's tops the marines were also firing, pointing out their opposite numbers to each other as they tried to mark down anyone in authority.

The blast and thunder of gunfire from the scattered ships was mounting to a terrible crescendo. Bolitho saw the starboard carronade fire, but the effect of its devastating charge of tightly packed grape was lost in smoke and thrown spray. Through it all Benbow's men were yelling and cheering like demented beings. Their figures were blurred in smoke, their eyes staring and white as they threw themselves to their guns or ran to trim the yards in response to Wolfe's trumpeting voice from the quarterdeck.

Bolitho wiped his stinging eyes and peered at the Frenchman's stern as it loomed over the starboard bow. He could vaguely see her name, La Loire, the fine gilt lettering splintered by grape-shot and canister, while above it the stern windows were smashed to a shambles.

He heard Browne yelling at him and saw him pointing wildly to the opposite beam.

The third ship in the French line, the one which Bolitho had intended to isolate from La Loire, had suddenly hoisted an admiral's command flag to the fore, and even as the signal broke from her yards she began to tack round, following Benbow's slow turn as if they were linked together.

Browne shouted incredulously, ' La Loire has hauled down her flag, sir!'

Bolitho pushed past him, feeling the sudden despair drop across the wildness of battle like a blanket. The French admiral had planned it perfectly, the lure of his false flag breaking the British and not his own squadron into pieces.

Herrick was waving his sword. 'At 'em, lads! Engage to larboard again, Mr Speke!'

Thwarted by the enemy's unexpected change of direction, the Nicator and Odin were almost in irons, their reduced sails flapping in wild confusion as they tried to re-form into line.

Ropars' ship was surging level with Benbow s quarter, her forward guns firing rapidly across a narrowing strip of water. To the dazed seamen around Bolitho it must seem as if each ball was finding a target.

There was not even a cheer as the foremast of the false French flagship staggered overboard in one great mass of canvas, broken spars and rigging. La Loire had been badly mauled, but her sacrifice looked like changing a battle into a total defeat for Bolitho's squadron.

In poor light, made worse by the billowing smoke, the ships lurched drunkenly against one another, guns pounding mercilessly at point-blank range. It was like being surrounded by a forest of masts and whipping flags, like being in hell itself.

Herrick seemed to be everywhere. Directing and rallying, shouting encouragement here, demanding greater effort there.

The young sixth lieutenant, Courtenay, the one Allday had ousted from his barge, was sprawled on his face, his shoes drumming on the deck as some of the marines dragged him towards the quarterdeck ladder. He had been hit by a French sharpshooter and his lower jaw had been completely shot away.

Browne shouted, `Relentless is attacking the transport, sir!' He lowered his glass. The two French frigates are after him, and Lookout requests permission to engage!'

`Denied.' Bolitho wiped his face. 'We may need her yet.'

For what purpose? To pick up survivors or to carry news of a crushing defeat to England?

He said, `General signal. Take suitable stations for mutual support. Engage the enemy in succession.'

Some of the flags spilled over the deck as a ball ploughed through the hurrying seamen, but despite the horror and the screams the signal broke to the yards with barely a delay. Bolitho doubted if it would make much difference. His captains knew what to do, and were doing their best. But as the flags broke above the rolling smoke it might show that their force was still one, with a head and mind to control it.

Bolitho stared bitterly at a limping, sobbing seaman. What have I brought you to?

Herrick said, 'Indomitable's in trouble, sir. Her mizzen just went down.'

Grubb said, 'Aye, but old Nicator's spread more sail to cover 'er flank!'

'All have acknowledged, sir.' Browne looked at the spattered blood on his breeches, seeing it for the first time. 'Hell's teeth!'

Bolitho stared fixedly at Ropars' flagship. Less than half a cable away. She was shortening sail, her gangways alive with armed men, while her starboard batteries continued to fire as rapidly as ever.

Herrick yelled, 'She'll be down on us soon, sir!'

Bolitho looked up at the Benbow's pitted sails. Ropars' captain was acting like a true professional. Taking the wind out of Benbow's sails, cutting away her power to manoeuvre even as he poised for the final embrace.

Wolfe bellowed, 'Prepare to repel boarders!'

Overhead, a swivel crashed sharply and the hail of canister raked a bloody path through some of the massed French seamen and marines.

The taut faces of the crouching gun crews glowed in a vivid red light, and seconds later an explosion rocked the embattled ships like toy boats in a storm.

Smoking fragments fell hissing all around them, and Bolitho knew that La Loire had caught fire unnoticed in the fight, and now her magazine had exploded.

Men dashed past to obey the boatswain's lisping bellow, buckets of water poised to douse any piece of burning wood or fabric as it fell on their own ship.

`From Indomitable, sir. Request assistance!'

Bolitho looked at his flag lieutenant but saw only Keverne. He shook his head.

'We can't. We must hold together.'

Browne watched him curiously and then nodded to his assistants.

'Acknowledge.'

Indomitable was being attacked by the two ships which had been at the rear of the enemy squadron. Hampered by a broken mast and trailing rigging, she was falling slowly astern, while Nicator and Odin forged past in pursuit of their own flagship, spreading more canvas and firing as fast as they could reload.

Ropars' flagship was making a lot of signals, too, and Bolitho thought that most of them were being directed to his frigates and heavy transport. The last thing he would wish was for the transport to be so damaged that she and her cargo, troops or otherwise, would fall in to enemy hands.

Bolitho shouted hoarsely, 'Stand fast, lads! It's going to be now or never!' He gripped Herrick's arm. 'Make our people cheer, Thomas! Get them on the gangway as if they want to board the enemy!'

Herrick stared at him. 'I will try, sir!'

Bolitho tore off his brightly laced hat and waved it above his head. 'A cheer!' He strode along the larboard gangway above the overheated guns and past ripped and punctured hammocks. 'Huzza, lads! Show them what we can do!'

The most ignorant man aboard knew that Benbow had been outmanoeuvred and outwitted by the French admiral. If they faltered now they were finished,, with every likelihood of Benbow being taken intact to sail in a French line of battle.

It was too terrible to contemplate, and Bolitho did not even see Herrick's alarm or the concern on Allday's face as he ran to follow him along the exposed gangway.

But they were responding. As more shots hammered into the hull or clipped away rigging like some invisible scythe, the Benbow's people stood back from the guns to cheer, to arm themselves, and climb to join Bolitho at the boarding nets.

The depleted gun crews were busily reloading, held under control by threat and physical strength, as Speke yelled, 'Full broadside! Ready!'

Bolitho gripped the nettings and stared at the sea splashing alongside. It must soon end.

He could feel the grin fixed to his lips like a painful bit, hear the voices of the seamen blurred and distorted around him as they shouted towards the enemy. Like baying hounds, eager to kill even at the expense of death.

'Broadside! Fire!'

The shock almost hurled Bolitho headlong, and when he looked behind him he thought it was like standing on an abandoned footbridge, for the smoke, as it billowed inboard through every port, hid the entire gundeck from view.

Somewhere a trumpet blared with sudden urgency, and in disbelief Bolitho saw Ropars' ship standing away, her mizzentopmast gone completely, her side and gunports streaming smoke. There were sparks, too, with running figures throwing water to fight the sailor's greatest fear of all.

Allday shouted wildly, 'The Frogs are hauling off, sir! You did for 'em!'

Men were cheering in spite of the shots which still hissed and whimpered overhead.

Bolitho's mind cringed to the noise, but the realization was stronger. It would soon be too dark to chase the enemy, even if his battered ships were able. Ropars, too, would be unable to regroup in time to give battle, and a complete escape was no doubt uppermost on his mind.

He saw Pascoe hurrying along the gangway, his face strained and somehow defenceless.

He turned and then winced with pain as something struck him hard in the left thigh. For a brief instant he imagined someone had kicked him or had struck him with a musket or pike in the excitement of the moment. Then as he stared at the great pattern of blood pumping across his leg the agony slammed into him like a white-hot iron.

Bolitho could not think clearly, and heard himself cry out as his cheek scraped on the deck planking. He felt himself falling and falling, even though his body was motionless on the gangway.

He thought he heard Herrick shouting from a long way off, and Allday calling his name. Then Pascoe was above him, looking down at his face, his fingers pushing the hair from his eyes as the final darkness closed in and offered him oblivion.

Bolitho moved his head from side to side, conscious of little else but a terrible screaming, which for a few moments he imagined was coming from his own throat. Everything was dark, yet held patches of swaying light and blurred colours.

A voice said urgently, 'He is conscious. Get ready to move him!'

A red haze faded above him, and he realized it was Major Clinton's coat. He and some of his men must have carried him below. Sweat broke like ice water across his chest. Carried below. He was on the orlop deck, and the scream was someone already under the surgeon's knife.

He heard Allday, his voice almost unrecognizable as he said, 'We must take him aft, Major.'

Another voice, demented in terror, said, 'Oh no, oh no! Please!'

Bolitho felt his head being raised slightly and realized a hand was supporting it. Water trickled through his lips while his eyes probed the semi-darkness of the orlop as he tried to swallow. Another scene from Hades. Men propped against the Benbow's massive timbers. Inert shapes, and others which rocked about in their separate agonies.

Beneath a cluster of lanterns Loveys, the surgeon, stooped over his makeshift table, his apron spattered with blood like a butcher's.

The man who had been screaming was lying spreadeagled on the table, his cries stopped by a leather strap between his clenched teeth. He was naked, and held rigid by Loveys' mates. Only his eyes moved, like marbles as he stared at the surgeon, pleaded with him.

Bolitho saw that the man's arm had been split open, smashed by an enemy ball or a large fragment of iron. The knife glittered in Loveys' hand, and for what seemed like an eternity he held the edge of the blade on the soft flesh above the wound, barely inches from the point of the shoulder. With a quick nod to his mates he cut down and round, his face like stone. Another assistant handed him his saw, and in minutes it was done, the severed limb thrown into a bucket below the gyrating lanterns.

Someone whispered, 'Thank the Lord, he's fainted, poor bugger!'

Allday was behind Bolitho's head. 'Let us carry you aft, sir. Please, this is no place for you!'

Bolitho strained his head round to look at him. He wanted to console him, to explain that he had to remain here, if only to share the pain he had brought to the men around him. But no words came, and he was shocked to see the tears running down Allday's face.

Bolitho gritted his teeth. 'Where is Captain Herrick?'

Browne was on his knees beside him. 'He is attending to the squadron, sir. He will be down again soon.'

Again? So much to do; the dead to be buried, the repairs to be carried out before a storm found them, yet Herrick had already been here to see him.

Loveys was looking down at him, his wispy hair shining in the lamplight.

'Now, sir, let me see.'

Loveys knelt down, his skull-like features showing no sign of fatigue or dismay. He had just flensed a man's arm and amputated it, and God knew how many before that. For so frail a man he seemed to have more strength than any of them.

Bolitho closed his eyes. The pain was already so bad he barely felt the probing fingers, the slicing movement of a knife through his breeches.

Loveys said, 'Musket ball, but it is somehow deflected.' He stood up slowly. `I will do what I can, sir.'

Browne whispered, 'Your nephew is coming, sir. Shall I send him away?'

'No.'

Even one word was agony. The thing he had always dreaded. This was no scar, no spent ball in the shoulder. This was deep in his thigh. His leg and foot were on fire, and he tried not to think of the man he had just seen on the table.

'Let him come to me.'

Pascoe knelt beside him, his face very still, like one of the old portraits at Falmouth.

'I'm here, Uncle.' He took Bolitho's hand in his. 'How are you?'

Bolitho looked at the deckhead. Above it, and the next above that, the guns were still.

He said thickly, 'I have been better, Adam.' He felt the grip

tighten. 'Is everything all right with the squadron?'

He saw Pascoe trying to shield him from a man who was

carrying the bloodied bucket to the companion ladder.

Pascoe nodded. 'You beat them, Unde. You showed them!' Bolitho tried to hold the pain at bay, to estimate the damage

to his body his wild gesture had cost him.

Loveys was back again.

'I will have to remove your clothes, sir.'

Allday said, 'I'll do it!' He could barely look at Bolitho as he fumbled with his shirt and slashed breeches.

Loveys watched patiently. 'Better leave the rest to my loblolly boys.' He gestured to his assistants. 'Lively there!'

It was then that Bolitho wanted to say so much. To tell Adam about his father and what had really happened to him. But hands were already lifting him up and over some motionless figures. Drugged with rum, bandaged against infection, they might yet live. He felt something like terror, claws of fear exploring his insides.

He exclaimed, 'I want you to take the house in Falmouth. Everything. There is a letter…'

Pascoe looked desperately at Allday. 'Oh God, I cannot bear it.'

Allday said brokenly, 'He'll be all right, won't he?'

His words shocked Pascoe into reality. He had never known

Allday show doubt, in fact he had always looked to the burly

coxswain for assurance in the past.

He gripped Allday's sleeve. 'Be certain of it.'

Bolitho lay on the table, seeing little beyond the circle of swaying lanterns.

He had always expected it to be swift when it found him. One instant in battle, the next in death. But not like this, a useless cripple to be pitied or ridiculed.

Loveys said calmly, 'I will not deceive you, sir. You are in mortal peril of losing your leg. I will do my best.'

A hand came round Bolitho's head and the man placed a pad between his teeth. It was sodden with brandy.

Loveys said, `Bite well, sir.'

Bolitho felt the terror rising like a phantom. Fear that the moment was here and now, and that he would show it in front of all the unseen watchers.

Fingers gripped his arms and legs like manacles, and he saw Loveys' right shoulder draw back and then come down suddenly, the pain exploding in his thigh like molten lead.

He tried to move his head from side to side, but Loveys' men knew their trade well. On and on, the agony spreading and probing, cutting, and hesitating whenever the ship gave an unexpected roll.

Through the haze of agony and fear he heard a voice call, ''Old on, Dick! Not long now!'

The interruption by the unknown sailor or marine gave Loveys the seconds he needed.

With a final twist of his thin wrist he gouged the flattened musket ball from the blackened flesh and dropped it in a tray.

His senior assistant murmured, ''E's fainted away, sir.'

'Good.' Loveys made another, deeper probe. 'One more piece.' He watched the man swab away the blood. 'Hold him fast now.'

Herrick approached the table slowly, his men parting to let him through. It,was wrong to see Bolitho like this, naked and helpless. But in his heart he knew Bolitho would have it no other way. He had to clear his throat before he could speak.

'Is it done?'

Loveys snapped his fingers for another dressing. 'Aye, sir, for the present.' He gestured to the tray. 'The ball split one of his buttons and drove it and some fabric deep into the wound.' He met Herrick's anxious gaze. 'You and I have been in the King's service for a long time, sir. You know what can happen. Later I may regret that I did not remove the leg here and now.'

Herrick saw Bolitho stir, heard him moan quietly as a man removed the pad from his mouth.

He asked, 'Can we move him?'

Loveys signalled to his men. 'To my sick-bay. I dare not risk a longer journey.'

As they carried him into the shadows of the orlop Loveys seemed to thrust him momentarily from his mind. He pointed to a man whose head was swathed in bandages. `Get him!' Then to Herrick he added simply, `This place, these conditions, are all I have, sir. What do the Admiralty expect of me?'

Herrick walked past the man who was next on the table. To Pascoe he said, 'I'd take it as a favour if you'd stay with him.' He selected his words carefully, sensing Pascoe's sudden anxiety as he added, 'If things go badly, I need to know at once.' He looked at the young lieutenant gravely. 'And be will want to know you are dose by.'

He turned on his heel and beckoned to Browne. `Come. We'll walk through the gundecks and speak with our people. They did well today, bless 'em.'

Browne followed him towards the companion ladder, to the cleansing air of the upper deck.

Under his breath he said, `And so did you, Captain Herrick, and I know what it is costing you at this very moment.'

When Herrick eventually returned to the quarterdeck the work was still under way. Aloft and below men were splicing and cutting wood for repairs under Wolfe's watchful eye.

Speke, who had taken over the watch, touched his hat and said, 'Indomitable has rigged a jury-mast for her mizzen, sir, and the squadron is under command.'

It was strange, Herrick thought, he had not even considered his sudden authority of overall responsibility. Nor did it seem to matter now. He clenched his jaw as a man cried out pitifully from the lower gundeck. Then he took a telescope and levelled it on the other ships. The line was uneven, and the sails were more holes than canvas. But Herrick knew that given time ships could be put to rights, their hurts repaired. He thought of the terrible scene on the orlop. With people it was not so simple.

Herrick turned towards Browne. It would soon be too dark to pass or exchange signals. He had already ordered that the squadron should, steer south-east in the best formation they could manage.

'I will require a list of all casualties and damage, Mr Browne. Mr Speke will assist you. At daylight you will signal the squadron and request the same from each ship in turn.' He swallowed hard and turned his face away. `Our admiral is bound to ask me that first when he is up and about again.'

Speke was an unimaginative man. 'Will he recover, sir?'

Herrick swung on him, his eyes blazing. `What are you saying, man! Just you attend your damn duties!'

As the two lieutenants hurried away, Major Clinton came out of the gloom and said, `Be easy, sir. I'm sure he meant no harm.'

Herrick nodded. 'I expect you're right.' Then he moved to the weather side and began to pace up and down.'

Old Grubb blew his nose noisily and plodded over to the marine. 'Leave 'im, Major. With all respect, leave 'im be. This'll be a black day for the cap'n, be certain of that, an for many more beside.'

Clinton smiled sadly and then climbed up to the poop deck where some of his men had fallen that afternoon.

He had heard many stories about Bolitho and Herrick, that they had obviously been true was even more surprising, he thought.