pressure so that the deck heeled over even further. Another look astern. There was Icarus visible just briefly astern of Despatch. A ghost ship. He grinned into the spray. Houston was a miserable man, he thought.
'Deck there!' That was one of the lieutenants. Savill had done right to put an experienced officer up there. 'Rapid has signalled. Three sail of the line to the nor'-west!'
Inch felt a tingle run through his body. Three. There was no doubt now. They might try to avoid a confrontation, but Inch had no doubts about what he would do. Must do.
'General signal, Mr Savill. Prepare for battle.' He made himself smile. 'After that, you may clear for action.'
He thought of Bolitho, and felt sudden pride that he had entrusted this day to him.
The drums began to roll, and as Helicon hurled spray over her beak-head the violence of sea and wind seemed like a foretaste of their destiny.
13. WEST WIND
INCH stared up at the topsails as spindrift floated through the drumming shrouds like ragged banners. There was much movement and the hull was staggering over each successive crest, every stay and ringbolt protesting to the violent motion.
But he knew that all the noise and discomfort hid the fact that their progress was slow, painfully so. Unless the wind backed in their favour-he pushed the conjecture from his mind.
'Bring her up a point, Mr Savill. Steer nor'-east.'
He heard the muted cries of the topmen, the hiss of halliards and blocks as his men fought to obey him. He dare not let her pay off just to gain more advantage from the wind. He must leave that until the last moment, when manoeuvrability would count the most. The second lieutenant was up there on the crosstrees watching the oncoming vessels, although even his vision must have been impaired by spray and the persistent layers of wet mist. The land was only five miles abeam and yet it was invisible. The sea had changed completely in a single hour, from shark-blue to pewter, and then to angered crests which broke in the wind as it moaned through shrouds and running rigging like an onslaught of demented souls.
Savill lurched up the canting deck, his face and chest running with water.
'Cleared for action, sir!'
Inch bit his lip. They could not attempt to open the lower gunports on the lee side. They would flood the whole deck in minutes. He comforted himself with the thought that the three French ships would not be finding it easy either. How could he be sure they were French? Spanish maybe? He discounted it instantly as he pictured Rapid's young commander. Quarrell would have signalled the fact by now.
He considered his feelings. They were the enemy. Another time, a different place. The same flag.
Savill said, 'No sign of Icarus, sir.' He grinned. 'A change indeed.' It was well known in the squadron that Houston always liked to be the first and the best. This time he was sadly lagging behind the others.
Three to three. Good odds. Maybe the enemy would try to avoid them. There was little chance, Inch decided. If they headed for open sea, Helicon would lead the others round to take better advantage of the wind. No, it was far more likely that the French commander would continue on a converging tack with that same wind offering him all the advantage.
Inch looked at his ship. Cleared of unnecessary gear, the nets rigged above the gangways, the arms chests opened below the mainmast. The gun crews were stripped to the waist, their bodies already wet from spray as they crouched around their weapons or listened to their captains. Inboard of the black breeches the lieutenants moved restlessly about, their bodies angled to the tilt and shuddering vibration each time that Helicon ploughed into a trough or roller.
'Run up the Colours, Mr Savill.' He looked round for the Royal Marines officer. 'Ah, Major, I suggest you tell your fifers to strike up a jig, eh?' He gave his wide horsy grin. 'It will be a while yet before we match points with the Frogs.'
And so Helicon, followed as closely as her people could manage by Despatch, headed towards the distant sails; the small marine fifers marched up and down the deck playing jig after jig, sometimes barely able to keep on their feet.
Inch saw his gun crews watching and grinning at the miniature parade. It took their minds off the inevitable. Only here and there a man stared across the nettings or above a gangway to seek out the enemy. New men probably, he thought. Or those who had done it before too often.
He glanced at his first lieutenant. A good and reliable officer. He seemed popular with the hands and that was a real bounty. It was a difficult thing for a first lieutenant to be.
'Deck there!'
Savill remarked, 'God, he has much to say today!'
Several of the men near him laughed.
But all smiles faded as the lieutenant in the crosstrees continued, 'The leading sail is a three-decker, sir.'
Inch felt them all looking at him. A first or second rate-bad odds, but he had known worse.
'Signal Despatch, repeated Icarus, close line of battle?
The three-decker's captain would be quick to exploit any weakness in his adversary, Inch thought.
Eventually the signals midshipman lowered his glass.
'Acknowledged, sir.'
Inch paced back and forth, deep in thought. It was taking much too long.
He looked up as the air quaked to sporadic cannon fire. 'What th' devil?'
The masthead yelled, 'Firin' on Rapid, sir!'
Inch swore. 'Signal Rapid to stand away! What does that young fool think he's playing at? If he tries to harass one of those ladies he'll soon get a bloody nose!'
Savill had climbed on to the shrouds with his telescope and shouted, 'One of the ships is closing with Rapid, sir! Trying to cut her off from us!'
Inch stared at him. Facing a battle, and yet the French commander seemed prepared to waste time and strength on a small brig.
Houston's words seemed to mock him, as if he had just spoken them aloud. Rapid was their only link now that Supreme was in dock. But for Bolitho, she would have been on the bottom. Now, with Barracouta to the north, the brig's importance was paramount.
'No acknowledgement, sir.'
'God damn!' Inch looked round. 'Chase your younkers aloft and get the t'gan's'ls on her, Mr Savill. Then the main course. Lively with it!' He watched the hands rushing to obey the pipe, the wild freedom of the topgallant sails as they were released from their yards. He felt the ship shivering to the extra power, and when the mainsail thundered out he saw its yard bend and knew he was risking everything to cut down the range before one of the French guns scored a fatal hit on Rapid.
He said urgently, 'General signal. Make more sail!'
Savill glanced at the sailing-master and saw him grimace.
'Aye, aye, sir.''
The cannon fire continued with just an occasional gun being used. It would only require one of those massive balls to bring down the brig's masts or hit something vital below deck.
'Signal from Despatch, sir!' The midshipman was almost yelling. 'In difficulty!'
Inch snatched a glass and ran up a poop ladder where his marines leaned on the muskets and waited for something to do. He rested the telescope on the hammocks and felt his heart go cold as he saw the other two- decker's outline changing as she paid off to the wind. He did not notice the anguish in his voice as he exclaimed, 'Steering's gone!' He saw the sails being taken in, tiny figures risking death on the madly pitching yards as they struggled to prevent the ship from being laid over or dismasted. It was common enough in a gale. The rudder or a parted yokeline, it was just another hazard and could always be repaired. But the gap was already widening, and Icarus was completely invisible in the lurking mist.
He hurried down the ladder and saw Savill's anxious expression; others were staring at him with dismay, when
