With All Despatch

ignore the shouts and demands which came from every side. He had to make Triscott understand if only for a moment longer. 'You're the lieutenant, sir.'

Triscott stared at Paice who was gripping the compass box, one hand still thrust inside his coat. His eyes were tightly shut, his teeth bared as if to bite back the pain. Then he saw the blood which had soaked the left side of Paice's breeches, all the way from beneath his coat to the deck around him. He had been hit in the side.

Hawkins persisted, 'Took a piece of iron the size of three fingers in his ribs. God dammit, I tried to get 'im to let me-' He watched the lieutenant, his voice suddenly desperate. 'So act like 'im, sir, even if you does feel like runnin' to yer mother!'

Triscott nodded jerkily. 'Yes. Yes, thank you, Mr Hawkins.' He looked at the watching faces. 'We shall follow Wakeful, and attack to-' He hesitated, thinking of the dead gunner. 'To larboard. There's no time to transfer the carronades this time.'

The boatswain frowned and then touched his arm. 'That's more like it.' He turned to the others nearby. 'The lieutenant says we'll engage to larboard!' He brandished the axe. 'So stand to, lads! Man the braces there!'

From aft Paice watched the sudden bustle, with even injured men limping to their stations, the sudden response as the punctured mainsail tugged at the long boom and filled reluctantly to the wind. He dragged himself to the tiller, the remaining helmsmen moving to give him room.

He gripped the well-worn tiller bar and felt his Telemachus answering him through the sea and rudder. His head dropped; he jerked up his chin, suddenly angry, and doubly determined.

God Almighty, what a bloody mess. He did not know or care if he had spoken aloud. A terrified lieutenant, and a third of his company killed or wounded. Two guns upended, and so many holes in the remaining sails they would be hard put to put about when the worst happened.

He closed his eyes and gasped while the agony lunged through him. Each time it was worse, each one like the thrust of a heated blade. He had bunched his waistcoat and shirt into a tight ball against the wound, and could feel his blood soaking his side and leg. It felt warm while the rest of his body was shaking and icy cold.

'Steady, men!' He peered forward but the compass seemed too misty to read. He said thickly, 'Steer for the bugger's quarter!'

Chesshyre cried, 'Wakeful's nearly there!'

Paice leaned hard on the tiller and growled, 'Get up on your feet, man! D'you want the people to see you cringing like a frightened cur?'

Chesshyre scrambled upright and stared at him wildly. 'God damn you!'

'He most likely will!'

He heard Triscott yell, 'All loaded, sir!' Paice hoped that nobody else had guessed just how terrified Triscott really was. But his was the true courage, he thought. More afraid of showing fear than of fear itself.

Hawkins hurried toward him, his gaze taking in the blood and Paice's ashen features.

He said, 'Wakeful's goin' to engage, sir! But I reckon the Frogs 'as got their chaser rigged again!'

Paice nodded, for a moment longer unable to speak. Then he asked, 'What can you see now, Mr Hawkins?'

Hawkins turned away, his eyes burning. He had served with Paice longer than anyone. He respected him more than any other man, and to see him like this was worse than the stark death which had torn the decks open in a merciless bombardment. Now he could barely see. Hawkins said, 'She's up to 'er starboard quarter!' He slammed his hands together and shouted, 'The stern-chaser is runnin' out, sir!'

The explosions seemed joined as one, the stern-chaser's sharper note almost lost as Wakeful's carronade belched fire at point-blank range even as her bowsprit outreached the enemy's quarter.

Paice asked, 'Well? What's happened?'

Hawkins said, 'Not sure, sir. Wakeful's payin' off.' He could not bear to look at Paice. 'Their jib and fores'l are shot away.'

'And the enemy-speak up, man!'

Hawkins watched the other vessel. The carronade had blasted away the stern windows and must have completely destroyed the makeshift stern-chaser. But otherwise she seemed intact, with only her foresail in disarray. Some of her hands were swarming aloft, and he saw the corvette begin to change course for the first time.

Then he said with chilled disbelief, 'I think 'er steerin's gone, sir!'

Paice gripped his shoulder and shook him. 'Thank God!' He peered along the torn and littered deck. 'Ready there?'

Triscott called aft, 'Aye, sir!'

Paice forced a grin. 'We'll close with her now, before the buggers can rig new steering-gear!'

Hawkins asked urgently, 'Will you let me fix a bandage?'

Their eyes met and Paice said, 'You bloody fool. We both know the truth.' Then he grimaced as the pain came back. 'But I thank you, and I plead to my Maker that you see another dawn break, Mr Hawkins!'

Hawkins swung away and waved his axe at some unemployed gun crews.

'To me, lads! Stand by to wear ship!'

He thought he heard faint cheering, and when he peered through the drifting smoke he saw Wakeful falling with the wind, temporarily out of control, her forecastle torn and splintered by that last charge of grapeshot.

He turned on his heel and shouted, 'They'm cheerin' you, sir!' Then he waved his hat and yelled to his own men, 'Huzza, lads! A cheer for Wakeful!'

They probably thought him mad, with death lurking so close. But it helped to save Hawkins's last reserve of strength. When he had turned aft he had seen that for Paice, victory, like defeat, was already out of reach.

Bolitho crouched on his hands and knees, his mind and ears cringing to the twin explosions. He had felt the massive charge of grapeshot smash into the bows, the screams and yells of men who had been scythed down even as the carronade had crashed inboard on its slide.

Then Allday's hand was beneath one armpit, lifting him to his feet, and he saw Queely offering him the old sword, which must have been cut from his belt by a single iron splinter. He felt his breeches, the jagged tear. The splinter had been that close.

Then he stared at the enemy's blackened stern. All windows demolished, the counter stove in like wet felt, the ornate taffrail high overhead splintered and unrecognisable.

Queely said hoarsely, 'I think we got her steering, sir!' He looked at him with sudden desperation. 'It's still not enough, is it?'

Bolitho watched the small figures swarming up the corvette's ratlines. Soon they would have a jury-rig, and be ready to face them once more. He shifted his glance to Wakeful's foredeck. Six men dead, several more crawling to safety, or being carried to the hatchway. It was a miracle that anyone had survived.

It would take Queely's men an hour or more to rerig the foresail and jib, and it was obvious that most of the forward rigging was rendered quite useless.

He watched the corvette turning very slowly, wind, and not rudder, carrying her off course. At this range she would use her broadside to bombard Wakeful until she followed Snapdragon to the seabed.

Allday exclaimed harshly, 'Here comes Telemachus, Cap'n! By God, haven't they taken enough?'

Bolitho saw the other cutter bearing down on the drifting corvette for another attack, her sails in rags, her bulwark and forecastle looking as if they had been torn and gnawed by some nightmare monster.

He said quietly, 'Give them a cheer, Mr Queely. I'd not thought to see such valour this day.'

The cheers echoed across the lively wave crests to the men on the other cutter, and probably to those working aloft aboard La Foi whose captain had ordered his stern-chaser to fire just seconds too late. Men were running aft and shooting towards the oncoming cutter, but once under the corvette's quarter there was not a single nine-pounder which could be brought to bear.

The two carronades fired within seconds of one another. More debris burst from the stern and up through the