abreast of the headland.”
Bolitho studied the sloping island, the lively white crests around some reefs and a smaller islet like the monster’s pup. The yawl was keeping very near to the tip of the island, so that she appeared to be trying to climb bodily on to dry land.
Neale called sharply, “Bring her up a point, Mr Bundy!”
“Aye, sir. East by north.”
Bolitho moved the glass very carefully, seeing the flapping jibsail and two seamen standing on the forecastle, like giants as they were captured in the lens.
A few low buildings at the foot of the island, probably more on the landward side. He stiffened as he saw some grey walls near to the top of the headland. A battery perhaps? Even as he watched he saw a tiny pin-prick of colour caught in the sunlight like a butterfly. The mast was still invisible, but the butterfly was a tricolour.
He said, “Clear for action, Captain Neale. And please tell your gunner to try a few shots on that yawl.”
As the marine drummers beat their sticks so rapidly that their hands were blurred, and the boatswain’s mates yelled, “Hands to quarters! Clear for action!” Bolitho could sense the wild excitement being unleashed about him like a tide-race.
The starboard bow-chaser crashed out violently and threw itself inboard on its tackles, and even as its crew darted around it to sponge out and reload, Bolitho saw the ball drop in direct line with the yawl’s sails, flinging up a column of water like a spouting whale.
The other gun belched smoke and flames, and a second waterspout brought a chorus of cheers from the topmen and those who were able to see it.
Neale said, “No chance of a hit unless we can close the range.”
The first lieutenant hurried aft and touched his hat. “Cleared for action, sir.”
Neale deliberately tugged his watch from his breeches and studied it, his round face impassive as he said, “Twelve minutes, Mr Pickthorn. Won’t do. I want it done in ten or less.”
Bolitho had to turn away. It could have been himself speaking when he had commanded Phalarope and Neale had been the junior midshipman.
The bow-chasers continued to fire after the yawl, and although the balls were dropping short by a cable, the Frenchman obviously did not know how lucky he was, for he began to tack violently from side to side as if to avoid the next fall of shot.
Neale smiled. “Interesting, sir. If he continues like that we may take him yet.”
Smoke drifted harmlessly from the grey wall on the headland, and after what seemed like an eternity some eight or nine spouts of water shot from the sea well away from the frigate’s side.
Bolitho listened to the dying echo of the concealed battery. Just a token, a warning.
“Bring her up now, Captain Neale.”
Neale nodded, his mind grappling with the dozen or so problems which were most immediate to him.
“We will alter course four points to larboard, Mr Pickthorn, and steer nor’-east by north.”
“Hands to the braces there!”
As the big double wheel was turned steadily to leeward, Styx responded easily to the pressure of sail and rudder, the island appearing to slide away to starboard.
Bolitho raised his glass once more. Across the starboard bow was the beginning of the channel, and far beyond it, barely visible through the haze, was a deeper tone, the coast of France.
No more shots came from the battery, and while the yawl continued to move past the island’s northern shoreline, Styx headed purposefully away, as if she intended to discontinue the chase.
Bolitho walked to the quarterdeck rail and looked along the upper deck. Beneath the gangway on either side he saw the gun crews crouching by each sealed port, the instruments of their trade within ready reach. Each gun- captain was a king, every breech a small demanding kingdom.
The decks had been well sanded, and high above the busy seamen and marines chain-slings had been fixed to each yard and nets spread above their heads to further protect them from falling wreckage.
Neale watched him. “Another fifteen minutes, sir.” He added hesitantly, “I’ve put two of my best leadsmen in the chains. The tide is already on the ebb, I fear.”
Bolitho nodded. Neale had thought of everything. He saw some of the men at the nearest guns staring up at him. Trying perhaps to decide their own fates this day by what they saw in him.
Bolitho said, “Fetch my coat, Allday.”
He heard Neale give a small sigh and added, “Have no fear, there’ll be no sharpshooters today, I think.”
Allday held out his coat and slipped it over his shoulders. The effect was instant, as if there had been something lacking.
Several seamen gave a cheer, and the marines in the maintop who were manning the swivels waved their hats as if something special had just happened.
Neale said quietly, “That was good of you, sir. They like to see. To know.”
“And you? What about your feelings?”
Neale gave a great grin, as if, like the cheering, it had been held back for this small moment.
“Your flag flies in my ship, sir. It’s a proud day for all of us, but especially for me.” His gaze shifted to the two bright epaulettes on Bolitho’s shoulders. “There’s many who’d wish to be here with us today.” He did not have to mention their names.
Bolitho looked past him at the creaming water alongside. “Then so be it.” He saw Browne hurrying to join him, all signs of seasickness gone. “When you are ready, Captain Neale.”
Neale cupped his hands. “Stand by to come about, Mr Pickthorn! We will steer south-east!”
With yards creaking round, and hull dipping to the pressure of increased sail, Styx turned her bows purposefully to starboard until she pointed towards the centre of the channel. Caught unaware, and showing her full length for the first time, the distant yawl appeared to be pinioned on the jib-boom and incapable of movement.
“South-east, sir! Steady as she goes!”
“Get the royals on her, Mr Pickthorn! Then load and run out!”
Bolitho stood close against the rail, watching the island moving in again to starboard, some drifting smoke against the sky which might be anything from burning gorse to a furnace heating shot. Styx was moving very rapidly through the water, as with royals and topgallants at last responding to a following wind she headed into the channel.
A whistle shrilled and along either side the port lids were hauled open, and at another signal the Styx’s guns were run out, their black muzzles poking into the dying sunlight like teeth.
Bolitho shivered slightly in spite of his coat. If the French had had any doubts about their intentions, they would soon disappear now.
Without turning his head he knew Allday and Browne stood at his back, that Neale was nearby. What had Browne called the original squadron before Copenhagen? We Happy Few. As spray dashed over the tightly packed hammock nettings to sting his cheeks like ice, he knew exactly what he had meant.
He watched the frigate’s two other lieutenants pacing slowly back and forth behind the guns, swords drawn and across their shoulders like walking-sticks as their ship sailed into action. These were the sailors who were never seen by the people they defended through each day of war. The powers of Admiralty could plan and scheme, and dissect every item of intelligence about the enemy’s intentions and movements, but it was left to men and boys like these to do the job. The stuff of battle. Bolitho smiled quietly. One of his old captains had described his own men like that in another war.
Around him, some of the men saw the smile and knew it was because of them.
Because it was their day.
5. Single-Handed
“BY TH’ MARK SEVEN!” The leadsman’s voice seemed unnaturally loud to the intent figures on Styx ’s quarterdeck.
Bolitho looked up quickly as the big mainsail and forecourse filled and hardened to the breeze. You could hardly
