no mere gale. It was a full-scale storm, and as he ducked beneath the poop deck beams he saw that the wheel. was doubly manned, the seamen clinging to the spokes while the deck heaved violently to leeward.
It took several more moments to accustom his eyes to the dark, to pitch his hearing above the moan of wind, the boom and thunder of canvas overhead.
Figures darted past him, crouching and groping for hand- holds as spray lifted above the nettings and doused them violently before gurgling away through the scuppers. Every stay and shroud seemed to be vibrating and humming, and he found time to pity the awakened watch below, who even now must be fighting out along the yards to fist and reef the treacherous canvas.
He saw Farquhar, his slim figure very pale against the sea and sky, his hands cupped as he yelled to one of the lieutenants. He noticed Bolitho and lurched towards him, his fair hair streaming from his head. He was dressed only in shirt and breeches, and his feet were bare.
If anyother evidence was needed to show the height of the emergency, Bolitho could not think of it.
Farquhar shouted, 'Wind's veered to the nor'-west, sir!
I’ve ordered the hands to reef tops'ls and take in the forecourse! '
He swung round as a sound like a musket shot came from forward, and then changed to a great rippling tear as the foresail exploded into a mass of flapping fragments.
'They will be spared that!'
Bolitho clawed his way to the rail and peered along the slanting deck. To one side the sea was as black as pitch. To the other it lifted and surged in tremendous banks of foam, building up beneath the quarter until the lee gunports were awash. Of the other ships there was no sign, and he guessed that each captain would be too preoccupied to care much about Lysander's plight.
He heard Grubb's deep voice rising like a bellow. 'Ease off, lads! You’ll 'ave the sticks out of 'er else!'
A man slipped beneath the weather gangway and fell. kicking and yelling in a flood of swirling water. He came up against an eighteen-pounder, and Bolitho could almost im- agine that he heard his ribs stove in.
'In heaven's name, Captain, why so late? The squadron will be driven for miles in this!'
A broken halliard fell from aloft, writhing about the upper deck like a live thing. More would follow unless Farquhar acted, and immediately.
Farquhar spat out spray and replied, 'That fool Gilchrist! He left it too long! By God, where is that man, I’ll have him-'
Bolitho gripped his arm. 'There is no time now! We must lie-to and make the best of it.'
Farquhar stared at him, nodding. 'Yes, sir. At once!' He sounded desperate.
Bolitho did not release his arm. 'Bring her about as soon as you’ve shortened sail!' He had to shout to make himself heard. 'We will lie-to under the main tops'ls!' He ducked, closing his eyes tightly as a wall of spray tumbled over the empty nettings and swept mercilessly across the deck and down to the one below. 'But have the main stays'l manned and ready to set in case the other carries away!'
He heard Farquhar's voice receding as he struggled along the rail, hand over hand, saw the blurred shapes of seamen hurrying to obey. Above in the darkness he could see the wildly flapping sails where the topmen were still fighting to obey the last order. Voices, too, caught up in the deafening chorus of wind and sea, of straining rigging and spars.
Grubb shouted harshly, 'Pass the word! Stand by to come about!' He blinked at Bolitho. 'I’ll bet those damned Frogs are laughin', sir!'
Bolitho did not answer. But it was uppermost in his thoughts. A strong north-westerly was a curse to his squadron. To any French commander trying to gauge the right time to quit Toulon it would be merciful, a chance he could not possibly ignore.
He watched as Gilchrist's beanpole figure emerged above the quarterdeck ladder, shining dully in his long tarpaulin coat. Gilchrist had probably been more frightened of his captain than he had of the first storm signs. Or so eager to prove that he could manage any eventuality he had left it far too late for anything but submission.
He wiped his streaming face with one sleeve, feeling the sting of salt in his eyes and mouth. When he peered aloft again he saw that much of the canvas had vanished, although the fore topsail was only lashed to its yard at one end. At the other a great balloon of canvas filled and puffed as if it contained a living, savage monster. Something passed across the scudding cloud formations, and he ran to the rail as it struck the forecastle with a sickening thud.
A voice called hoarsely, 'Get that man below to the sickbay!' Then Lieutenant Veitch. 'Belay that order. There's nought the surgeon can do for him!'
Poor wretch, he thought. Fighting the lashing sail, with only his feet to support his body as he craned over the great, swaying yard. His messmates on either side of him, all cursing and yelling into the darkness, punching the wet, hard canvas until their nails were tom out, their knuckles raw. One slip, an extra gust of wind, and he had fallen.
'Man the braces there! Stand by on the quarterdeck!' Grubb snarled, 'Ease the spoke when I gives the word!
Treat 'em like they was babies!'
'Helm a'lee!'
More figures staggered through the dismal gloom, a midshipman bleeding from the head, a seaman holding his arm to his side, teeth bared with agony.
'Lee braces! Heal'e!'
The Lysander dipped her seventeen-hundred tons of oak and artillery heavily into a maelstrom of bursting spray. Above, in a shortened, iron-hard rectangle, the reefed topsail seemed to swing independent of their muscle and bone, every mast groaning to the strain of wind and sea.
