being carried below the water-line to leave the ship free to act to full advantage. The lower gundeck would be one long double battery from bow to stem, the thirty-two-pounders already manned, their breechings cast off even as the ship's boys ladled sand around the feet of their crews. On the upper gundeck the twenty-eight eighteen- pounders, each partly covered by gangways which ran along either side joining forecastle to quarterdeck, were equally busy.
Bolitho watched the quarterdeck gun crews, moving as if to an unspoken drill as they checked the tackles of their ninepounders, examined their equipment like surgeons, while the scarlet caterpillars of marines passed through them to poop or forecastle, to the fighting tops, or to the less popular tasks of guarding the hatchways to prevent any terrified man from running below.
It was a fact that such things were necessary. Men, driven out of their sanity by the thundering roar of artillery, the awful sights of close combat around them, would often try to seek refuge in the depths of the hull.
He heard Wolfe exclaim angrily, Dammee, Mr Speke, sir! The Indomitable has cut her time again! Beaten us to it!'
Browne said, 'From Relentless, sir.' He was squinting down at the midshipman's slate. 'Five sail o f the line, two frigates and one transport.'
Bolitho took a telescope from a master's mate and climbed into the shrouds, aware that the nearest gun crews were staring up at him as if expecting something more than a mere man inside the fine coat with its bright epaulettes.
He waited, steadying the glass against the vibrating ratlines, until Benbow lifted lazily on a long roller which passed diagonally beneath her keel before allowing her to slide into the next trough.
In those seconds Bolitho saw the enemy for the first time. Not just blotches of tanned sails against a dull sky, but as ships. He had no doubt that the French commander was watching him, too.
Six large vessels in two columns. The second one in the weather column wore the flag of a vice-admiral. If there had been any remaining doubt in Bolitho's mind it was gone now.
Beyond the two columns were the frigates, probably waiting well clear of their squadron until they knew Bolitho's strength, especially in fifth-rates like themselves..
He called, 'I estimate their course to be sou'-east, Captain Herrick.'
Herrick, equally formal with half the quarterdeck straining to hear him, replied, 'My view, too, sir.'
Bolitho waited for the next slow lift beneath Benbow's massive bilges and then searched for the transport. She was probably the rearmost ship in the lee column, he decided. In the best place to tack dear or seek protection from the frigates if so ordered. What would she be carrying? Surely not stores. More likely some of Napoleon's crack soldiers, men who barely knew the meaning of defeat. The Tsar of Russia would certainly need some of their professional instruction before he ventured into the spreading arena of war. Or maybe they were troops being sent to guard the captured British merchantmen. Well, Bolitho thought grimly, whatever is decided today, those ships will be safe from Ropars, and Styx 's action might make the Swedes or the Prussians less eager to support the Tsar's ambitions.
He climbed down to the deck and saw Midshipman Penels looking across at him like someone under sentence of death.
'Mr Penels, come here.'
The boy hurried to obey, bringing a few grins from the seamen as he caught his foot on a ring-bolt.
'It has been a bad day for you, it seems.' He watched the boy flinch under his gaze. Twelve years old, no father, sent off to sea to find his way as a King's officer. He would take it badly over his friend Babbage.
Penels sniffed. 'He was a good friend to me, sir. Now I don't know what I'll say when next we meet.'
Bolitho thought of Wolfe's casual acceptance of it. Penels' mother turning to another man. God knows, it happened enough to the wives of sailors. But Penels was only dressed as an officer. He was still a boy. A child.
Bolitho said quietly, 'Mr Pascoe did what he could. Perhaps after this Babbage will need your help more rather than less. I suspect it has always been the other way round in the past?'
Penels stared at him, speechless. That his admiral should care must seem incredible. That he was also right in his assumption about Babbage even more astounding.
He stammered, `I – I shall try, sir.'
Wolfe tapped one great foot impatiently, and as Penels hurried back to his station on the starboard side he barked, `Assist the flag lieutenant, Mr Penels. Though, God damn me, I'd feel safer with a Frenchie than with you, sir!' He glanced at Lieutenant Speke and winked.
Old Ben Grubb blew his nose noisily and remarked, 'Wind's steady, sir. Westerly with barely a shift either way.' He peered at the half-hour-glass by the binnacle and added, `Not long now, I'd say.'
Bolitho looked at Herrick and shrugged. Not long for what? he wondered. Early darkness, victory or death? The sailing master seemed to enjoy tossing in these strange observations. He had one massive fist in the pocket of his shabby watch-coat, and Bolitho guessed he was holding his tin whistle, ready to play them into hell itself if need be.
Herrick was less charitable. 'Grubb's getting old, sir. Should be ashore somewhere with a good woman to take care of him.
Bolitho smiled. `Heavens, Thomas! Since you took to marriage you cannot help replanning others' lives!'
Allday, lounging by the mainmast trunk, relaxed slightly. He always gauged his own chances by watching Bolitho at such moments. He looked over the weather gangway and studied the other ships. The enemy. Both squadrons were moving towards each other like a great arrowhead, the steady wind parting their courses like a shaft. But the French had the wind's advantage, and there were more of them. He turned to watch the men near him. The old hands checking their gear. Flintlocks and powderhorns, sponges and rammers, screws and prickers, even though they had already done it several times. And when they had finished they would begin again. They had seen it all before. The slow, deadly approach, the huddle of sails and masts changing to individual vessels and formations. It took nerve to stand and wait for the final, inevitable embrace.
The youngsters saw it through different eyes. Excitement touched with the ice of fear. The need to be doing something at last instead of the endless backbreaking work and drills.
Slightly separated from the individual gun crews and the men who would work the ship throughout a battle, the petty officers went through their lists and examined their own parts of the whole. Here and there along the divisions of guns were small patches of blue and white, the lieutenants, warrant officers and midshipmen, and below on the other gundeck the pattern was repeated in the eerie darkness behind sealed gunports.
Lieutenant Marston of the marines was up forward talking with the crews of the two big carronades, and Allday recalled the Styx 's marine officer sitting with his head in his hands, struck blind by flying splinters.
Major Clinton was right aft with Sergeant Rombilow, pointing up at the swivel gun in the mizzen top with his black stick. Allday considered that all marines were probably a little mad. Clinton was no exception, and always carried his walking-stick when the ship went to quarters, while his orderly nursed his sword like a bearer.
Allday saw Pascoe walking slowly behind each of his forward guns. If the ships continued on their same tack, his guns would engage the enemy first. How like Bolitho he looked. He thought suddenly of Babbage, of the sickening spectacle of him writhing and screaming under the lash. Even the boatswain's mate who head been using the cat-o'-nine-tails had looked shocked by the outburst.
Next to Bolitho, Allday would do anything for Pascoe. They had lived, fought and suffered together, and if Babbage was to be the cause of Pascoe's worried expression, then All day found good reason for hating him.
The ship was about to sail into battle. Allday cared very little for the rights and wrongs of it, the 'cause' which was drawing the whole world into a war. You fought for those you cared about, for the ship around you, and for little else.
The rich and powerful could drink their port and gamble away their fortunes, Allday thought, but this was his world while it lasted. And if Pascoe had his mind even partly occupied by some fool's problems he would be in more danger than the rest of them.
Bolitho watched his coxswain and said quietly to Herrick, `See him, Thomas? I can almost read his mind from here.'
Herrick followed Allday's glance and answered, 'Aye, sir. He's a good hand, though he'd blast your eyes rather than agree with you!'
The air reverberated to the sudden boom of gunfire, and Wolfe said, The Frenchies are putting a few shots at the Relentless, I shouldn't wonder, sir.'
