But for her, the odds might have been acceptable, if unfair. Five to three. But the Tornade's overwhelming superiority in firepower made all the difference in the world.
He compressed his mouth into a firm line.
'Wind's droppin' a bit, sir.' Gossett regarded him glumly. 'There's the spite of the Bay an' no mistake.'
Bolitho nodded. If it fell away altogether it would make the first embrace all the more devastating and reduce their chances of crippling Lequiller's ships enough to delay if not deter him.
He heard a ripple of voices below the rail and as he looked down he saw some of the seamen clinging to the gangways to watch the approaching ships, realising perhaps the magnitude of their foe.
That was bad. Waiting to close an enemy was always the worst part. It seemed to take an eternity, and all the while there was little to do but watch and consider, to lose confidence and find despair.
He beckoned to one of the drummers. 'Here, boy!' He saw the lad staring up at him from beneath his shako; his tanned face pinched with growing fright. 'Can you play that fife of yours, eh?' He forced a grin, feeling the skin cracking at the corners of his mouth with the effort.
'Yessir!' The boy blinked rapidly and removed the fife from his white crossbelt.
At that moment, as Bolitho tried to recall some tune or shanty which might attract the men's attention from the other ships, a terrible cry floated up from the poop. It seemed to go on and on, at one level, while the men at the guns around him stared past the wheel towards the dark passageway which led to the stem cabin. Even one of the helmsmen released his grip on the spokes to swing round in horror.
The dreadful cry stopped, but the sound still seemed to hang there as before.
Bolitho gritted his teeth and tried not to picture the gross, naked body being held across the table, that first frightful incision of Trudgeon's knife.
He said sharply, 'Well?'
The drummer lifted the fife, his small, rough hands shaking badly as he placed it to his lips.
Then Gossett said gruffly, 'How about Portsmouth Lass?' He glared at the gunners and the motionless marines. 'Sing, you lily-livered swabs, or I'll be amongst you this minutel'
And as another horrifying scream rent the air the fife's feeble notes were picked up by the seamen on the quarterdeck, and then, slowly at first, by those at the twelve-pounders, and even by some high in the fightingtops.
Bolitho walked to the weather side and turned his face to the sea. The men's voices, strengthening and lifting above the wind, the mental picture of Pelham-Martin's agony, all were part of the unreality around him.
But almost worst of all were the words of the song which Gossett had suggested with such haste, and in order to drown the sounds from the stem cabin.
'I knew a lass in Portsmouth Town…'
The same shanty they had sung when Hyperion had worked clear of Plymouth Sound on that bitter winter's morning.
He turned his head as one of Trudgeon's mates walked from beneath the poop with a canvas bundle in his hands. The man paused to listen to the singing before hurling the bloodstained parcel over the lee rail.
Bolitho asked, 'How was it?'
The surgeon's mate grimaced. 'A small splinter, sir. No bigger than me fingertip.' He shrugged heavily. 'But there was enough pus and muck around it fer ten men.'
'I see.' It was pointless to question him further. He was merely an extension of Trudgeon's arms, the strength to hold still a victim, and one so hardened by the horrors of his trade that he was beyond compassion of any kind.
Bolitho walked past him and raised the telescope once more. How quickly the French ships had tacked into line and how utterly indestructible they looked. Under reduced sails, with their hulls gleaming dully in the strange light, they seemed to be moving along an invisible thread, on a converging tack with the three English ships. Much further astern, her high poop just visible beyond the formidable line, he could see _the San Leandro, where no doubt Perez and his advisers were waiting to see the way opened for his return to power and wealth.
De Block had told him that the governor of Las Mercedes was over seventy years old. It was unlikely he would live long enough to enjoy his return, even if the French allowed him to.
He slammed the telescope on its rack. He was already thinking in terms of defeat. Lequiller would not succeed, and Perez would only live to see his new ally's destruction!
Barely three miles separated the two squadrons now, but it was still impossible to tell which ships would keep to windward. It was better to retain the present controlled approach than to lose station in some last-minute manoeuvre.
The singing had stopped, and as he looked along the ship's length he saw the men standing beside their guns, staring aft towards him.
He nodded. 'You may load and run out, Mr. Inch. It is time we showed our teeth!'
Inch grinned and hurried away. Minutes later the port lids swung upwards, and to the accompaniment of squealing trucks the guns trundled against the bulwarks, the captains gripping the trigger lines and speaking quietly to their own men.
Midshipman Pascoe dashed through the main hatch and ran aft to the foot of the quarterdeck ladder.
'Lower battery loaded and ready, sir!' He turned to hurry back but paused as Bolitho called, 'Come here, Mr. Pascoe!'
The boy ran on to the quarterdeck and touched his hat. He looked bright-eyed and there were patches of colour on his cheeks.
Bolitho said quietly, 'Look yonder.' He waited as the boy blimbed on to a bollard to peer above the hammock nettings.
Pascoe stared for a full minute at the great array of sails stretching towards the starboard bow. Then he climbed down and said, 'There are a lot of them, sir.' He lifted his chin, and without effort Bolitho could see his face pictured with all those others hanging in the empty house at Falmouth.
Impulsively he reached out and gripped his arm. 'Take care Mr. Pascoe. No heroics today, eh?' He thrust his hand into his pocket and took out the small carved ship which de Block had given him. 'Here, take this. A souvenir of your first voyage.'
The boy turned it over in his hands and said, 'It's beautiful!' Then he placed it inside his coat and touched his hat again.
Bolitho watched him go, his heart suddenly heavy with concern.
'He'll be safe down there, Captain.'
He turned to find Allday standing behind him, the sword and his best dress coat draped across his arm.
Several men watched him as he slipped out of his faded seagoing coat and thrust his arms into the one with the white lapels and bright gold lace. The coat which Cheney had admired so much.
Allday adjusted the swordbelt around his waist and stood back with a critical glance.
Then he said quietly, 'It is going to be fierce work before we're done today, Captain. There's many a man who'll be looking aft when things get bad.' He nodded, apparently satisfied. 'They'll want to see you. To know you're here with them.'
Bolitho lifted the old sword a few inches from its scabbard and touched the blade with his finger. Old, maybe, but the man who. had forged it had known a thing or two. It was lighter than most of the modern ones, but the blade was like a razor. He let it drop into the scabbard and thrust his hands beneath his coat.
He said, 'If I fall today, see that the boy is safe.'
Allday stood at his back, a heavy cutlass naked in his belt. If you fall it will be because I am already pulped, he thought. Aloud he replied, 'Never fear, Captain.' He showed his teeth in a grin. 'I'll be an admiral's cox'n yet!'
There was a dull bang, and seconds later a thin waterspout rose lazily across the larboard bow. Bolitho watched the brown smoke being whipped away from the three-decker's forecastle by the wind.
He imagined Lequiller and his captain watching their slow approach and felt his breathing becoming more controlled, even relaxed. The last calm before madness began. The moment when there was no more room for conjecture or regret.
Another ball ploughed through the white-tipped rollers and ricocheted towards the horizon.
He found that he was smiling, his skin tight like a mask. You will have to get closer than that, my friend. Much closer.
