too well when roused from a warm bunk to face this kind of weather.
'Now, Captain Neale! Alter course and cut astern of the merchantmen! '
A long way off a gun boomed out, the sound without menace in the snow. A testing shot? A call to arms? Bolitho could feel the excitement welling up like madness. It was too late, whatever it was.
He put his hand down to steady himself as the wheel went over and the Styx changed tack towards the anchorage. His palm touched- the brilliantly gilded hilt of his presentation. sword, and with something like shock he remembered he had left his old blade in the Benbow.
Allday saw his uncertainty and felt the same anxiety.
Bolitho turned and looked at him. He knew that Allday understood and would be blaming himself.
'Never fear, Allday, we did not know our visit to the Danes would end here.'
They both smiled, but neither was deceived. It was like an. omen.
'The Ajax has cut her cable, sir!' A midshipman was dancing with excitement. 'They are in a real confusion!'
Bolitho watched the first scrap of canvas appear on the other frigate's yards, the steep angle of her masts as wind and current carried her towards the shore.
Neale had drawn his sword and was holding it above the nearest gun crew as if to restrain them. The French ship was standing higher through the snow now, taking on shape and personality. More sails had appeared, and above the din of spray and canvas they heard the rumble of gun trucks, the urgent shrill of a whistle.
Across his shoulder Neale called, 'Don't let -her fall off too much! We'll hold the Frenchman 'twixt us and any shore battery!'
Bolitho studied the enemy frigate as she appeared to move astern. Neale had forgotten nothing. From the corner of his eye, even as the Styx completed her slight change of tack, he saw the captain's sword slice down.
'As you bear! Fire!'
6. Quickley done
Bolitho felt his eyes smarting painfully as a freak breeze brought some of the gunsmoke down across the quarterdeck. He watched the guns hurling themselves inboard on their tackles, the fiery orange tongues ripping through the swirling snow, his ears half-deafened by the noise. Then the quarterdeck six-pounders added their sharper notes, the balls falling short or beyond the other, ship, some even hitting her.
Like madmen the crews were already sponging out their weapons, ramming home fresh charges and balls before throwing their weight on the tackles once again.
And still the French captain had failed to fire a single shot in reply.
The hands of the gun captains were raised in a ragged line, and the first lieutenant yelled, `Stand by! Fire!'
Bolitho shaded his eyes to watch the dense smoke being driven downwind towards the other ship. They were on a converging tack, the slightly heavier Ajax spreading even her topgallants to fight her way into more open water.
There was a cheer as the Ajax 's topsails danced and shook to the onslaught, the wind exploring the shot holes and ripping the maincourse apart like an old sack.
Then the enemy replied. At a range of perhaps a cable, the broadside was ill-timed and badly aimed, but Bolitho felt the iron smashing into the Styx 's hull, and a stray ball striking further aft beneath his feet. The deck rebounded as if being struck by a great hammer, but Neale's gun crews did not even seem to notice.
'Stop your vents! Sponge out! Load!'
All the drills, the training and the threats had paid off. `Run out!'
The smoke writhed between the two ships, its heart bright with red and orange as if it contained life of its own. Then the balls crashed into the Styx 's side once more even as she returned the broadside.
Bolitho saw one gun overturned, some of its crew writhing across the deck, leaving patterns of scarlet to mark their agony. Holes appeared in the sails, and Bolitho heard a ball tear above the quarterdeck within feet of where he stood.
Neale was pacing back and forth, watching the helm, the sails, his gun crews, everything.
'Fire!'
Whooping and yelling the men threw themselves on their guns again, barely pausing to see where their shots had gone before they reloaded.
Bolitho walked aft, his feet slipping on slush as he raised his telescope to seek out the other man-of-war. She was still at anchor but her decks were crammed with sailors. But she was not making sail or even running out her artillery, and as he moved the glass further he saw the blue and white flag of Russia. The Tsar wished more than anything else to be a respected friend and ally of Napoleon. His captain obviously thought differently, probably still stunned by the ferocity of Styx 's attack.
A ball slammed through the nettings behind him and he heard a chorus of cries and shrieks. The line of marines, who had been training their muskets over' the tightly packed hammocks in readiness to engage, had been parted by bloody confusion. Men crawled and staggered through the smoke, and two were smashed to bloody gruel on the opposite side.
Their sergeant was yelling, `Stand fast, marines! Face yer front!'
The marine lieutenant was sitting with back to the bulwark, his face in his hands, his fingers the same colour as his coat.
Neale shouted, `The Frenchman has recovered his wits, sir! He'll try using chain-shot presently!'
Bolitho stared quickly around. It had been only minutes, yet felt an eternity. The cluster of English merchantmen were as before, but small figures dashed along their yards and gangways, cheering or calling for aid, it was impossible to tell.
Neale saw his glance and suggested, 'I'll send the quarter boat, sir! Those poor devils may have no officers to help them escape.'
Bolitho nodded, and as men rushed aft to the quarter boat he said to Browne, 'You go.' He clapped him on the shoulder, expecting him to be as relaxed as he looked. But his shoulder was like a carriage spring, and he added quietly, `Captain Neale has enough to contend with.'
Browne licked his lips and winced as more enemy shots crashed into the side, throwing up cruel splinters, one opening a man's arm and hurling him to the deck.
Then he said, `Very well, sir.' He forced a smile. `I shall have a fine view!'
Moments later the boat was pulling lustily towards the merchant ships. Somebody had even had the presence of mind to hoist a British ensign above the transom.
The Ajax was moving closer, her gunports flashing fire at regular intervals. But the wind was holding her over, and many of her balls shrieked above the Styx 's gangway, bringing down oddments of cordage and severed blocks like dead fruit.
Bolitho looked along the gundeck, seeing Pascoe's white breeches faintly through the smoke and snow as he directed the. forward guns towards the enemy.
The broadsides were getting more ragged, the men too dazed by the din and thunder of battle to keep up their original timing.
Some lay dead or badly injured, others tried to drag them clear of the recoiling cannon, their faces masks of determination and shock.
There came a wild chorus of yells from the forecastle, and Bolitho saw the Frenchman's foremast part like a carrot, the upper spars and yards, complete with thrashing canvas and rigging and not a few men, plunged across her forecastle. Even through the roar of battle they heard it, like a cliff falling,. and the effect was instantaneous. As most of the topmast staggered over the side, trailing broken shrouds like black weed behind it, the frigate swung drunkenly into the wind, the wreckage acting as a giant sea-anchor.
Neale cupped his hands, his sword dangling from his wrist, as he yelled, `Full broadside, Mr Pickthorn! Double- shotted with grape for good measure!'
