The first lieutenant returned as the hands swarmed up to man halliards and braces.
He said, 'The masthead reported that our shy companion was still with us at eight bells, sir.'
To confirm it the lookout's voice made several of the seamen look up at his lofty perch.
'Deck thar! Ship on th' weather-bow! She's settin' 'er t'gan's'ls!'
Duncan grunted and turned to watch his own ship lean slightly to the mounting pressure. The second boat was being swayed up and over the gangway. His Sparrowhawk was moving again.
The sailing-master said, 'She'll be on a converging tack with us, sir.'
'Put a good man to watch her.'
Duncan pushed the sudden anxiety from his thoughts. For a small moment he had thought it might be Achates, Bolitho coming to look for him, to discover the meaning of the delay.
Blocks clattered and lines snaked through the sheaves as slowly, and then more confidently, Sparrowhawk responded to the pressure in her sails.
'North by west, sir! Full an' bye!'
Duncan rubbed his reddened face and waited for the sails to fill again. It was not much, but enough to make her thrust through the water. Even the tiny island which had shown itself on the horizon had dipped over the sea's rim before the master had identified it. Probably one of the islets of the Bahama chain, Duncan thought.
There were some little ones off San Felipe too. One even had a strange mission church on it, and he had been told that some monks existed there, entirely cut off from everything.
San Felipe had originally been Spanish, so it seemed likely that the monks were the last survivors of that occupation.
Duncan felt in better spirits. He had, after all, done what he had been ordered to do. Bolitho would know how to interpret what he had seen and heard.
'I'm going below, Mr Palmer. I've a letter to finish. Who knows, I may be able to send it off sooner than I thought!'
Palmer smiled. When the captain was in good humour the ship was always a better place.
As the wind continued to fill the sails, and froth gurgled around the bows, the other ship grew larger while she continued purposefully on a converging tack.
Too large for a frigate, Palmer thought, as he clung to the weather shrouds and trained his telescope on her. She was shining in the bright glare, her chequered gun-ports almost awash as she found the wind which had not yet reached Sparrowhauk.
West Indiaman probably, he decided. They were as smart as paint these days. It was said that a grocery captain could earn as much on one passage as would take ten years in the Navy.
'She's hoisted a signal, sir!'
'I can see that, dammit!' Palmer was tired from standing so long in the heat, praying for a wind. It put an edge to his voice which was unusual for him.
The signals midshipman swallowed hard and levelled his big glass on the other vessel, his face screwed up with concentration as he held the lens on the brightly coloured flags at her yard.
'She wishes to speak with us, sir!'
The first lieutenant swore under his breath. It was probably of no importance at all, and to heave to while they exchanged useless information might mean losing the wind again.
He snapped, 'Acknowledge the signal, Mr Clements.' He beckoned to the midshipman of the watch. 'My respects to the captain, Mr Evans. Tell him we shall have to heave to.'
Palmer swung away. The captain's good mood would vanish now.
Duncan, his shirt open to his waist, strode from the companion-way and eyed the other vessel without comment. She could have important news which had a bearing on their mission. Her master might just as easily be eager to exchange gossip. Two ships meeting far from home were all that was required.
'Shorten sail, Mr Palmer. Stand by to come about.' He clasped his hands behind him and watched his men scamper to their stations.
'Put the helm down!'
Duncan beckoned to the midshipman. 'Glass, Mr Evans.'
He took the telescope from the boy's hand and glanced at him as he did so. Midshipman Evans was thirteen, the youngest in Sparrowhawk's gun-room. A likeable youth, who had been mastheaded more than once since leaving England for his practical jokes.
Duncan levelled the glass and braced his legs as the ship heeled violently in a trough and the men up forward loosed the head-sail sheets to allow Sparrouhawk to swing through the eye of the wind. To a landsman the ship would appear in confusion, with rippling sails and clattering rigging, but in a moment or so she would come round on the opposite tack and reduce sail even more.
Duncan smiled grimly. He liked his ship to be handled firmly, like a strong-willed horse.
He stiffened as the other ship swam hugely into the lens. Her yards were swinging, her sails filling like metal breastplates as she changed tack, not into the wind, but to starboard, and as her fore-course thundered out from its yard she seemed to lean forward as she swept down across the frigate's stern.
Duncan yelled, 'Belay that order, Mr Palmer! Bring her about again!'
Men tumbled in confusion and braces and halliards squealed through the blocks and more hands threw themselves among their companions to try and haul the yards round.
Duncan reeled as his ship tried to respond, but she was nearly aback, the sails billowing and cracking against the masts and shrouds.
'Beat to quarters'.'
Duncan stared wildly at the other ship, his skin like ice despite the sun's heat. He should have seen it. Now it was already too late, and even as he stared he saw the other vessel's gun-ports open, the black muzzles poking out into the sunlight, while his own startled marine drummers started the staccato beat which brought more men pouring up from between decks, some still unaware of the danger.
Duncan made himself face the regular flashes along the other vessel's side, the darting orange tongues and rolling bank of smoke. Then in seconds a torrent of iron smashed into the frigate's hull and above the deck, tearing down rigging and spars, punching holes in the flapping canvas, and worse, ploughing through the stern to turn the crowded gun-deck into a bloody shambles.
Duncan clung to the nettings, bellowing like a wounded bull as a ball slammed into one of the quarterdeck guns and flung splinters across the planking, cutting down men and daubing scarlet patterns to mark where they fell.
He felt a blow in his side like the blade of an axe, and when he looked he saw blood pumping down his leg, and when the pain came he could hear himself moaning with agony.
A great shadow swept over him, and with a thundering roar the mizzen-mast and rigging crashed over the side carrying seamen and marines with them.
More violent shocks battered at the hull like iron rams, and Duncan had to hold on to the nettings to prevent himself from falling. 1'heir attacker was following them round, her sails rising above the smoke like the wings of hell itself. She was firing without a break, and still not one of Sparrowhawk's guns had been loaded. Men lay dead and dying everywhere, and when he peered at the helm Duncan saw that the wheel was in fragments, the master and his helmsmen scattered by the fury of the bombardment.
'Mr Palmer!'
His cry was less than a croak. But the first lieutenant was on his knees by the rail, his mouth like a black hole as he screamed silently at his hands which lay before him like torn gloves.
Duncan fell down as more great crashes rocked the hull. He could hear the balls slamming through the deck below and saw smoke rising from an open hatch. She was on fire.
He tried to stand, his rage and his despair making him terrible to see. He had fallen in his own blood, and he could feel the strength running away to match the terrible patterns on the deck around him. 'Let me help, sir!'
Duncan thrust his arm around the boy's shoulders. It was little Evans, and the realization helped to steady him.
He gasped, 'Done for, boy. See to the others.' He felt the midshipman shudder and saw the fear bright in his eyes. He gripped him more tightly with his bloody arm. 'Stand to, boy, you're a King's officer today. Get them – ' Then he fell and this time he did not rise.
