brightness forced him to lower the glass. Anemone'?' sails were in tatters, her rigging like tangled creeper, but he thought he heard cheering. Adam was safe. No other captain could have fought his ship like that.
He felt Herrick beside him and knew Allday was grinning despite the death and destruction which lay around them.
Herrick said quietly, They didn't need us after all. But if the Yankee had really had his say there's no telling what might have happened.'
Urquhart called, 'No signals yet, sir.'
Bolitho nodded. 'The most dangerous Frenchman afloat, and they did it. And I saw none of it.'
Herrick swayed and looked at the spots of blood which were falling from his bandaged stump.
'And he wanted to parade us together as his prisoners, eh? God rot him! '
Avery asked, 'What orders, Sir Richard?'
'We must assist the others with their prizes. After that…' He swung round and asked, 'No signals, Mr. Urquhart? No wonder Captain Hannay gave up the fight. Baratte was playing another old trick! ' They stared at him as if the fear for his sight had deranged him. Bolitho shouted, 'Where is that brig?'
'Standing well away to lee'rd, sir! '
Herrick stood steadily as a warrant officer tried to retie the reddening bandage, but suddenly the pain was too much. He gasped, 'We did it, Richard, like those other times…'
Then he fainted.
'Take good care of him.' Bolitho laid Herrick's coat over him as some seamen carried him on to a grating. 'But for him
Then he said, 'Baratte was directing the fight from the brig but flew his flag from Chacal. Just in case Unity could not frighten us off.'
Avery said quietly, 'If Captain Trevenen had had his way…' He shrugged. It already seemed like history. Only the grim reminders were real.
Bolitho said, 'Make all sail, Mr. Urquhart.' He glanced down at the sailing master's corpse as if he might still respond. But his face was stiff, `?,:/' frozen at the moment of impact. 'Baratte shall not get away this time.'
Allday watched him grimly as he touched his eyelid. 'You had me fair troubled, Sir Richard.'
Bolitho turned to look at him, his eyes very clear. 'I know, old friend.' He fingered the locket through his smoke-stained shirt. 'Now Commodore Keen's convoy will be safe. It is up to the military from this point.' He seemed to see it in his mind. Too many men, too many ships. The price was always unbearable.
The depression lifted slightly. 'I expect I shall be unemployed for a while.'
A voice called, 'The brig has set more sail, sir! '
Bolitho clenched his hands. 'Too late. Tell the master gunner to lay aft.'
Bob Fasken appeared below the rail and knuckled his forehead. 'I'm ready, Sir Richard.' His eyes seemed to ask, how did you know?
Bolitho stared past him as the brig seemed to drift into Valkyrie's mesh of rigging.
Tire when you are ready, Mr. Fasken.' He smiled briefly. 'Your crews did well this day.'
It seemed to take an eternity to overhaul the enemy brig. Corpses were dropped overboard, and the protesting wounded vanished from the darkly stained decks.
Trucks squealed as one of the big eighteen-pounder bow-chasers was manhandled into position. The gunner watching with his arms folded. Handspikes were used to train the gun round, and some of the unemployed men stood on the gangway to watch, a few still searching for friends, a familiar face, which would never be seen again.
The bow-chaser banged out and the smoke was cleared away even as the crew were sponging out and reloading.
Bolitho saw the shot fall short of the brig's counter, and heard some of the seamen laying bets with one another, when only moments earlier they had been staring death in the face.
'Ready, sir! '
'Fire! '
This time Bolitho thought he saw the actual fall of shot. A dark blur, then wood splinters and rigging flying from the brig's hull to drift along her side.
Urquhart said in a whisper, 'He must strike, damn him! '
Avery pointed. 'Look, sir! He's running up his flag! '
Bolitho lowered the telescope. Like an answer to Urquhart's remark. He would never surrender.
'Fire! '
It was another hit, and men could be seen running like mad creatures as spars and rigging smashed down amongst them.
Fasken shaded his eyes to peer aft. When no order was given he took the trigger-line from the gun-captain and balanced himself in a crouching position inboard of the black breech, something which he had probably not done since he had been part of a gun crew.
Bolitho felt the deck rise and then settle, saw the trigger line go taut and then jerk to Fasken's strong pull.
For a moment longer it seemed that the gunner had missed. Then there was a mingled gasp of surprise and horror as the forepart of the brig exploded into a great tower of fire. Driven gleefully by the wind, the sails and tarred rigging were consumed in minutes, the fires reaching out along the hull and spitting through the open ports like tongues of bright sparks.
The explosion, when it came, was like a single clap of thunder. Perhaps a magazine had been ignited, or maybe the brig was carrying extra powder for Baratte's privateers.
As the sound rolled away the vessel's death pall was smeared across the sky like a black stain.
Bolitho watched the sea's face easing away the violent disturbances. For what, he wondered? So that Baratte could further prove he was a better man than his father and loyal to his country's cause? A vanity, then?
He heard himself say, 'Rejoin the others, Mr. Urquhart. Then tell the purser to break out the rum.' He looked at the men who had once been too cowed even to speak. 'They are all heroes today.'
Avery ventured, 'After this, Sir Richard?'
'Home, if there is still justice in the world.' He let his mind linger on it.
The mood changed just as swiftly. 'Besides, we have a wedding to attend! ' He slapped Allday's shoulder. 'Keep this one up to his word! '
Surprisingly, Allday did not respond as he had expected.
He said quietly, 'Would you really do that, Sir Richard?'
The men in the other ships were all cheering now, the fear and pain held at bay. Until the next time.
But Bolitho heard only the words of his old friend. His oak.
Somewhere in the past he could recall a signal he had once made. It seemed very apt for this moment, for this special man.
'I will be honoured, ' he said.
Epilogue
Richard Bolitho gripped the tasselled strap as the carriage swayed and shuddered into some deep ruts like a small boat in a choppy sea. He felt drained, and every bone in his body was aching from this endless journey. In his tired mind it all seemed to overlay in vague, blurred pictures, from the moment he had stepped ashore at Portsmouth to be whisked immediately to London to make his report.
All the while he had been yearning to get away, to begin the long, long drive from that world to his own West Country. Surrey, Hampshire, Dorset, Devon. He could not remember how many times they had stopped to change horses, how many inns they had visited. Even when he had broken the journey to spend a night in one of the coaching inns the images seemed confused. People who had stared at him, wondering what business was taking him westward but too nervous or polite to ask. The smells of meat puddings and mulled ale, saucy-eyed servant girls, jovial landlords who lived off the coaching trade with far more success than the highwaymen.
Opposite him Allday sprawled across his seat, his bronzed face rested and untroubled in sleep. Like most sailors he could sleep anywhere, if an opportunity offered itself.
It was hard to accept that he was in England after all that happened. Baratte was dead, and even Tyacke, who had searched the whole area in his Lame, had found no living soul to survive the terrible explosion.
Under jury-rig and nursing their injuries and damage, the ships, including the two French prizes, had crawled
