known. Marines and seamen, lieutenants and midshipmen. He had seen them in a dozen ships, in as many fleets.
A marine lieutenant's silver shoulder-plate gleamed suddenly as if heated from within. As Bolitho turned his head to starboard he saw the sun's rim on the horizon, the rays filtering down across the ruffled water towards him like molten metal.
Allday remarked, 'Going to be a fine day.'
Lieutenant Outhwaite was standing by the main companion way, his eyes glowing like little stones as he stared towards the sunrise. Like his captain, he was impeccably dressed, his hat set exactly square on his head, his long queue straight down his spine.
Farquhar wore no hat, but a midshipman stood near him, carrying it, and his sword, as if for an actor waiting to begin his most difficult role. In fact, Bolitho saw that Farquhar's mouth was moving. Speaking to himself, or rehearsing a speech for his men, he did not know.
His hair was very fair, and he had it pulled back to the nape of his neck and tied with a neat black bow. Whatever happened in the next hours, Farquhar was dressed for it.
He seemed to sense Bolitho's scrutiny and turned towards him. He gave a slow smile. 'A new uniform, sir. But I recalled your own custom before a fight of consequence. ' He gave a brief shake of the head. 'And as your tailor is else- where, I thought I would set the example.'
Bolitho replied, 'A kind thought. '
He peered along the deck again, seeing the land-mass growing and looming towards the bowsprit, as if they were touching.
'The enemy will not fire until he has a sure target. His gunners will have the sun in their eyes directly, but once we are standing well up the eastern shore it will not help us much. There is a dip behind the bay I have in mind. A good site for long-range guns.'
He strained his eyes beyond the bows as a voice yelled, 'surf! Fine on the larboard bow!'
The master said tightly, 'That’ll be the damned reef, sir.' 'Let her payoff a point, Mr. Bevan. Steer nor' -east by north.' Farquhar looked at his first lieutenant. 'D'you have a good leadsman in the chains?'
'Aye, sir,' The frogface watched him questioningly. 'I have stressed the importance of his task this morning. '
Bolitho found he could smile, in spite of the gnawing uncertainty of waiting. Farquhar and Outhwaite were well matched. So maybe Farquhar was right in his methods of selection. After all, they said of West Country ships that they were foreign to all but the Cornish and Devonians who manned them. The ways of St. James's and Mayfair were as hard to learn.
The light was spreading and filtering on to small beaches now and winkling out shadows from hillsides and coves. The sea's face, too, was clearer, the tiny white cat's-paws moving away to starboard to merge in the colourful horizon and the sun.
Maybe the real Lysander has seen such a sea, Bolitho thought. When the fleets of triremes and galliasses had smashed into each other and the sky had been dark with arrows and darts of fire.
From astern he heard the sudden squeak and rumble of guns being run out, and knew that Javal was getting ready.
Farquhar snapped, 'Alter course three points. Steer north. ' He craned over the nettings to watch a hump of sand or rock edging past the quarter. Some gulls rose squawking from their little islet, very white against the land's backdrop.
They circled above the mastheads, hoping for food, noisy in their greed.
Bolitho looked up at his pendant as one gull dipped near it, screaming angrily. It was flapping less persistently, for the land was creeping past, dampening down the wind. He thought of Probyn. It was to be hoped he had worked his ship into position early, to allow for adverse winds, the treacherously narrow channel.
He pulled his watch from his breeches and examined it. He could see it well now, even the beautiful lettering on the face, Mudge and Dutton of London. He closed the guard with a snap and saw Midshipman Breen jump with alarm.
He said, 'Very well. We are past the headland.' Outhwaite swung round, his speaking trumpet to his mouth. 'Mr. Guthrie! Pass the word! Run out!'
As the port lids squeaked open there was a brief pause, and down on the lower gun deck the seamen; stripped and ready, would be seeing the land for the first time. A whistle shrilled, and with a mounting tremble Osiris ran out her artillery…
'Brail up the forecourse!'
Farquhar watched the great sail being subdued and brailed to its yard, and snapped his fingers. The midshipman gave him his sword and then his hat. He adjusted his hat with care, and after a moment walked forward to the weather gangway.
The forecourse had completed the illusion. The stage was set. The actors were prepared.
Bolitho drew his sword and laid it flat on the rail, feeling the steel, cool under his palms.
'Run up the Colours.'
He heard the squeak of a block and saw the flag's great shadow rippling across the gangway and above the gentle bow wave.
'Now stand-to, lads, and make each ball count.'
He glanced quickly at the nearest gun crews. They could have been placed in any part of history. One seaman, standing by a sixteen-pounder immediately below the 'quarterdeck, was leaning on a rammer, his neckcloth tied around his ears to withstand the first deafening roar. Men like him had sailed
with Drake aboard his Revenge, and had cheered as the Armada had been 'drummed up the Channel.' But this
