There was time yet to change it.
He thought of the rest of the squadron, and mostly of Captain Farquhar. Farquhar had his instructions. With the other two-decker, and Buzzard to watch over their flank, he would be ready to come to his aid as soon as he received the word. When daylight made it possible to contact Harebell…
Herrick shook himself with sudden desperation. It would all take time. Too much time. Bolitho and the landing party had not made their signal as arranged. To take Lysander into the bay without either support or intelligence from the shore was madness. Bolitho had made that plain enough.
'Course nor'-east by north, sir!'
'Very well.'
Herrick thought of Farquhar once again. He would love to have him ask for help. Equally, he would despise him if he failed now to make a decision. He was flag-captain. How sour the title tasted at this moment.
He said slowly, 'We will enter the bay, Mr. Grubb.' He looked towards Fitz-Clarence's squared shoulders. 'Run out the larboard battery, if you please.'
As the pipe ran from deck to deck and the port lids were heaved open, Herrick heard a muffled cheer, as squealing like disturbed hogs the Lysander's guns were trundled out. He tried to compose his thoughts, seeing Bolitho's calm face in his mind.
Fitz-Clarence reported warily, 'Larboard guns run out, sir.'
'Thank you. Pass the word forrard to the carronades. Fire only on my command. It is always hard to mark' a land target-' He broke off, sensing the lieutenant's curious stare.
'As you will discover.'
Lysander was heeling quite steeply to the press of sail, but Herrick knew from experience that it was better to hold on to as much agility as possible under these circumstances. No ship had ever got the better of a well-sited shore battery. It was like trying to kill a flea with a feather.
He crossed to the weather side and held on to the hammock nettings and watched the surge of white water below some fallen rocks. The western headland was slipping abeam, and as Lysander's jib boom picked up the first thin ray of light like a lance he saw the bay and the solid land-mass beyond.
He snapped, 'Alter course two points, Mr. Grubb. Steer nor' by east. 'He knew Grubb was protesting silently behind him but concentrated on the span and depth of the little bay. It might be empty. Perhaps they had all been wrong from the beginning.
As the braces were manned again, the yards trimmed to hold the wind, he made himself walk aft to the compass, feeling the eyes of the two helmsmen on him as he checked the course and then turned to examine the set of each sail.
'Nor' by east, sir.'
He nodded. 'Good.'
Grubb added, 'she's full an' bye, sir, as close 'auled as she can be.'
Herrick was peering up at the great sails, noting how they were starting to flap and shiver. The yards were braced tight round, and the ship must be losing way despite the press of canvas. But it would give him the maximum time and room to move.
'Deck there! Musket fire on the larboard bow!' A pause and then from the foremast lookout, 'ships at anchor, sir! Three on 'em!'
The sudden crash of a large cannon made more than one man yelp with alarm.
Herrick held his breath, counting seconds, until with a whine and a loud splash the ball plummeted 'down well clear of the opposite side.
'Let her fall off a point, Mr. Grubb.'
Herrick listened to the squeak of steering gear, the noisy response from the topgallant sails as the Lysander's jib boom edged round very slightly towards the out-thrust pointer of the other headland.
Bang. He was astonished to realise he could now see a pale beach behind the anchored vessels. And some running figures, like insects, without personality.
Bang. There was a great chorus of shouts as a ball smashed down hard alongside the bow, hurling a curtain of spray over the forecastle.
Plowman remarked, 'Good shootin'.
Grubb said, 'Means they was waitin' for us. Must 'ave known all along.'
Fitz-Clarence shouted, 'One of the ships! She's trying to get under way!'
Herrick wiped his forehead. He felt frustrated at every turn. Sickened with the new understanding that even surprise was denied them.
'A brig, sir!' Young Saxby shouted wildly, 'she's cut her cable!'
Herrick saw the flutter of pale canvas as the brig set her foresail and jib, the way her outline was shortening as freed from her anchor she started to payoff towards the sea. The same wind which carried Lysander towards the tell-tale water-spouts of falling shot would take her to safety.
He drew his sword and walked briskly to the quarterdeck rail. It was a climax of bitterness and worry, of concern for Bolitho and for his own ability.
'Mr. Veitch! As you bear! I want that brig held!'
The lieutenant came out of his trance and yelled, 'Gun captains! On the uproll!' He crouched behind one of his eighteen-pounders, peering through the open port. 'Fire!'
