on the narrowing strip of water between them. Less than a cable's length to go, with neither ship able to fire. Phalarope was almost dead in line with the other ship's stem, so that if she held her course her bowsprit would drive straight through the stern windows. On one side of the enemy frigate lay the listing, rid-• dled brig, and on the other the guns waited to claim another victim.
Bolitho called sharply, `Run out the starboard battery!'
He watched as his men threw themselves against the tackle falls, and in a squealing, protesting line the guns trundled up the slight slope of the deck and out through the open ports.
There was a great bellow of noise from the French ship, wild and inhuman. The sound gained from killing and madness. Phalarope's own men remained tense and cold, their eyes unblinking as the enemy's pockmarked sails grew higher and higher above the bows.
Bolitho placed his hands on the rail and said slowly, `Now send your men across to the larboard battery, Mr. Herrick!' He saw the quick, mystified glances and added harshly, `In another minute I am, going to turn to starboard and go alongside the Witch of Looe. She is low in the water, our broadside should pass right above her!'
Herrick's frown gave way to a look of open admiration.
`Aye, aye, sir!'
Bolitho's voice stopped him in his tracks. `Quietly there! I don't want the Frogs to see what we're doing!'
Crouching almost on their knees the gunners scuttled
across to the opposite side, then excitement instantly quelled
by hoarse threatss from the gun captains.
Nearer and nearer. A few musket balls whined harmlessly overhead, but for the most part the French captain was prepared to wait. He could match gun for gun, and as Phalarope's bows and foremast would take the first punishment he could afford to feel confident. His own ship was drifting slowly downwind and his gunners could thank the Witch of Looe's weight alongside for a'steadier platform beneath their feet. There was a faint ripple of cheering, drowned instantly by a fresh outburst of musket fire.
Proby muttered, `The brig's people are cheering us, sir!'
Bolitho ignored him. One error now and his ship would change into a shambles. Fifty yards, thirty yards. Bolitho lifted his hand. He saw Quintal crouching like a runner, one beefy hand resting on the nearest seaman at the braces.
Bolitho shouted, `Now!'
At his side Pioby added his weight to the wheel, as with a scream of blocks the yards began to swing, the sails flapping in protest, but answering the challenge of wind and rudder.
`Run out!' Bolitho felt ice cold as the larboard battery squealed across the sanded planks. `Fire as your guns bear!'
He pounded the rail, counting each frantic second. For a moment he thought that he had mistimed the change of course, but even as be waited, holding his breath and hardly daring to watch, the bowsprit swung lazily across the French ship's high stem, almost brushing away a small group of sailors which had gathered above the hammock nettings.
Herrick ran from gun to gun, making sure that each successive shot went home. Not that he need have troubled. As the French gunners ran dazedly from the opposite side the first shots went crashing home. The Phalarope shuddered as she ground -against the little brig, but maintained her way steadily down the ship's side, her guns belching fire and death above the heads of the stunned boarders and the remaining members of the brig's crew.
Bolitho winced as the quarterdeck nine-pounders joined in the din. But still there was no answer from the French ship. Bolitho had guessed correctly that the guns which stared impotently at the Phalarope's smashing attack would have been in action right up to the moment of grappling and boarding the little brig.
He watched as great pieces of the frigate's bulwark caved in and fragments of torn planking rose above the smoke as if thrown from an invisible hand. An axe flashed dully, and Bolitho yelled, `He's trying to free himself!' He drew his sword. `Over you go, lads! Boarders away!'
As the Phalarope ground to a sluggish halt, her bows locked into the brig's fallen rigging and spars, Bolitho ran down the port gangway and clambered on to the Witch of Looe's tilting deck. For a moment nobody followed him, and then with a great roar, half cheer and half scream, the waiting seamen swept over the bulwark behind him.
Most of the French sailors, caught between the Phalarope's savage gunfire and the revived members of the brig's crew, threw up their hands in surrender, but Bolitho thrust them aside, his sword raised high towards his own men. `Come on, lads! We'll take the frigate!' There would be time enough for the boarders later, he thought vaguely.
Once up the frigate's shot-pitted side the resistance became fierce and deadly. Wild, crazed faces floated around Bolitho as he hacked his way aft towards the poop, and his feet barely supported him-in the heel-thick layer of blood.which seemed to cover the deck like fresh paint. The enemy's upperdeck had been crammed with men. Some were boarders recalled from the Witch of Looe, and others were gunners caught off guard by the Phalarope's sudden change of course. This tangled, momentarily disorganised mass of men had received the full force of the broadside. All the Phalarope's larboard twelvepounders and the quarterdeck battery as well, every one double- shotted and loaded with grape for good measure. It looked as if a maniac had been throwing buckets of blood everywhere. Even the lower edges of the sails were speckled in scarlet, and fragments of men hung from upended guns and splintered bulwarks alike.
A French officer, hatless and bleeding from a scalp wound, leapt in front of Bolitho, his thin sword red almost to its hilt. Bolitho lifted his own sword, but felt it parried aside, and saw the French officer's expression change from anxiety to sudden exultation. Bolitho tried to draw back, but the struggling, press of figures prevented it. He could not lift his sword in time. He saw the man's arm come round, heard the swish of steel, and waited for the shock of the thrust.
Instead the Frenchman's face twisted with alarm as a battle-crazed marine burst through the throng, his fixed bayonet held in front of him like a spear. The sword swung round yet again, but it was too late. The momentum of the marine's charge impaled the officer on the bayonet and threw them both against the poop ladder. The marine screamed with wild' delight and stamped his boot on the Frenchman's stomach, at the same moment wrenching out the dripping bayonet. The French officer sank slowly to his knees, his mouth opening and shutting like a dying fish. The marine stared at him as if for the first time and then thrust. the bayonet hone again.
Bolitho caught his arm. `That's enough! For God's sake, man!' The marine did not seem to hear him, but after a brief startled look at his captain's face he charged off into the battle once more, his expression one of concentration and hatred.
The frigate's captain lay on the poop, his shoulders supported by a young lieutenant. Someone was tying a crude tourniquet around the shattered stump of one leg, and the captain was only just hanging on to his senses as fighting, stabbing seamen reeled and staggered across his body.
Bolitho shouted, `Strike! Strike, Captain! While you still have some men left!' He did not recognise his own voice, and his hand around the hilt of his sword was wet with sweat. He thought of the crazed marine and knew that he too was in danger of giving way to the lust of battle.
The French captain gestured faintly, and the lieutenant gasped, `We strike! M'sieu, we strike!'
But even after the white flag had fluttered to the deck and men had been hauled bodily from the work of killing, it took time to make the Phalarope's men realise they had won.
The first to congratulate Bolitho was Dancer of the Witch of Looe. Bleeding from several wounds, his arm tied across his chest with a piece of codline, he limped over the splintered, bloodstained' deck and held out his good hand. `Thank you, sir! I was never more pleased to see any man!'
Bolitho sheathed his sword. `Your own ship is sinking, I fear.' He looked up at the frigate's tattered sails. `But you sold her dearly.'
Dancer swayed and then gripped Bolitho's arm. `I was trying to warn Sir Robert! The French are out, sir!' He squinted his eyes as if to restore his dazed thoughts. `Three days ago de Grasse met up with Rodney's fleet, but after a quick clash at long range, broke off the battle.' He pointed vaguely through the smoke. `I have been trying to shadow the Frogs, and thismorning I saw the whole fleet nor'-west of Dominica!' He shook his head. `I think Sir George Rodney has managed to engage them again, but I cannot be sure. I was caught by this frigate before I
