There might be a battery, but Bolitho doubted that. The nearest garrison of any size was said to be in Gerona, only twenty miles inland. Enough to deter any would-be invader.
The small Spanish man-of-war was within a cable's length now. Bolitho heard the clatter of tackle from Argonautes forecastle as an anchor was loosened at its cathead as if they were preparing to drop it. Many eyes must be watching Argonaute from the Frenchman. Her preparations, like her design, would be noted.
Bolitho fretted at his inability to see. He took a telescope from Stayt and trained it across the nettings. He saw the corvette, watched her heeling over, her red and yellow ensign streaming almost abeam as she came up into the wind. He could ignore the blindness, forget that without the glass he would be helpless again. Tuson would rebuke him severely for straining his good eye. But the surgeon was in his sickbay, waiting for the next harvest.
Bolitho thought of the girl, her lovely eyes as she had exchanged glances with Keen. Could they ever find happiness? Would they be allowed to?
Fallowfield growled, 'Be God, sir, the wind's a veerin'!'
Men ran to braces and halliards again and Keen said, 'From the sou'-west by my reckoning, sir.'
Bolitho nodded, fixing the chart's picture in his mind. Veering. Lady Luck, as Herrick would have said, was with them.
Keen shouted, 'Be ready to brail up the forecourse, Mr Paget!'
A thin voice floated across the water from the corvette.
Bolitho said, 'Wave your hat to them!'
Keen and Stayt waved to the Spaniard, who was being rapidly driven towards the larboard quarter.
A mile to go. Bolitho gripped the rail and peered through the crossed rigging and straining jibsails. He could see the enemy, angled towards the starboard bow just as Keen had described her.
Keen glanced meaningly at Paget. 'Load, if you please.'
The order was instantly piped to the decks below and Bolitho could imagine the gun crews toiling with charges and rammers in semi-darkness behind sealed ports, their naked backs already shining with sweat. He had seen and done it so often from the early age of twelve. The men at the guns, the red-painted sides to hide the blood, and here and there an isolated blue and white figure of authority, a lieutenant or a warrant officer.
It did not seem to take long before each deck had reported ready.
Bolitho heard Captain Bouteiller of the Royal Marines whispering instructions to Orde, his lieutenant. Like the rest of the Marines, he was crouching out of sight of the enemy. One sign of a scarlet coat would be enough to rouse a hornet's nest.
'Take in the forecourse!' Paget sounded hoarse. It had to appear as if they were shortening sail and preparing to drop anchor.
Bolitho stood away from the rail, his hands clasped behind him. It could not last much longer. One thing was certain, Jobert was not here. He would have been ready to fight as soon as his old flagship was revealed in the dawn light. 'Five cables, sir!'
Bolitho felt a trickle of sweat run down to his waist. Half a mile.
'The Frenchie's hoisted a signal, sir!'
That was it. No coded acknowledgement meant instant discovery for what they were.
Keen yelled, 'Belay that order, Mr Paget! Get the t'gan's'ls on her!'
Calls shrilled, and high above the decks the topmen spread out on the yards like monkeys to release the extra sails.
Fallowfield said, 'Wind's steady, sir. Sou'-west. No doubt about it.' He sounded too preoccupied to care about the enemy closing towards the starboard bow.
'Three cables, sir!'
Faintly above the din of wind and rigging they heard the urgent blare of a trumpet.
Voices called from every hand, the anchor was catted again and, as the marine marksmen swarmed up to the fighting-tops with their muskets or manned the swivels there, the rest of the detachment spread themselves along the poop nettings, their weapons already resting on the tightly packed hammocks.
Keen watched unblinking, gauging the moment, knowing that Bolitho was sharing it, and that Paget was ready to act on each command.
'Open the ports!'
Along each deck the port lids lifted on their tackles, like drowsy eyes awakening.
'God, they're cutting their cable, sir!' Keen bit his lip. Too late. 'Run out!'
Squeaking and rumbling, the Argonautes powerful armament poked through the open ports like snouts. The muzzles of the big thirty-two-pounders on the lower gun deck were already lifting or dipping as their captains practised their aim.
Bolitho took Stayt's glass again and trained it on the other ship. He saw her fore-topsail breaking free from its yard and men swarming aloft while others crowded the forecastle above the cable. The water-lighter was still lashed alongside, its hull lined with staring faces as Argonaute bore down on them.
The cable parted and the French two-decker began to fall downwind, more canvas flapping in disarray as men fought to bring her under command.
'Stand by, starboard battery!'
Keen's eyes narrowed in the strengthening sunlight as he waited for the Tricolour to tumble across the deck, and the Red Ensign to break out from the gaff in its place. At the foremast truck Bolitho's flag flapped stiffly to the wind, and Keen heard one of his midshipmen give a shrill cheer.
Argonautes tapering jib-boom crossed the other ship's bows barely a cable away.
Keen lifted his hanger. He heard the grate of a handspike from forward and saw the starboard carronade being inched round; her massive sixty-eight-pound ball would be the first to fire. The rest would shoot as they found the target, not in a full broadside, but deck by deck, pair by pair.
'As you bear, lads!' The hanger's blade made a streak of light.
'Fire!'
10. RETRIBUTION
WITHOUT changing tack or altering course one degree Argonaute swept past the drifting French two-decker, her hull jerking violently to each resounding bang. So conscious were the gun captains of this moment that each pair of cannon sounded like a single explosion.
Bolitho swayed and almost slipped as the deck tilted into another offshore roller. He felt his nostrils flare in the acrid smoke, his ears quake to the thunder of gunfire. The attack was begun by the carronade, but at a range of almost a cable it was more of a gesture than any danger to the enemy.
Keen wiped his face as the last division of guns recoiled inboard on their tackles and men scampered to sponge out and reload. The Frenchman had been badly mauled, and smoking scars along her tumblehome marked the accuracy of the carefully aimed attack. A few guns fired in return, and one ball smashed into Argonautes lower hull like a mailed fist.
Some of the crews were calling to each other, racing to beat their time, to be the first to run out and be ready to fire again.
Keen watched narrowly as the Frenchman set her forecourse and then her maintopsail. She was under command, but almost beam-on to sea and wind as she fought to bear up to her attacker.
He shouted, 'Ready! On the uproll, Mr Paget!' He glanced at Bolitho, just a fraction of a second, but he saw him as he always remembered. Straight-backed, facing the enemy yet now unable to see them. 'Full broadside!' This might be the only time. He caught a vague glimpse of the Spanish corvette, now well astern, a helpless and astonished spectator.
More shots hammered alongside and somewhere a man screamed out in agony.
Keen held out his hanger, his eyes watering again as the sunlight warmed his face. 'Now!'
As the whistles shrilled and Argonaute s topgallant masts began to tilt once more, the whole broadside thundered out with such violence it was like hitting a rock.
Smoke and charred wads drifted everywhere, but not before Keen had seen the broadside tear across the
