The second lieutenant called, 'The cutter's turning to go alongside, sir!'
Adam said sharply, 'Recall the boat, Mr Martin! Now!' To the startled Partridge he added, 'Prepare to get under way!'
The sailing-master stared at him. 'But-but we can rake that bugger, zur!'
Men were already dropping from the shrouds and gangways from where they had been enjoying the spectacle across the water.
The cutter had seen the recall signal, and Lieutenant Sargeant probably felt much the same as Old Partridge. Too much sun.
'He's standing away, sir!'
There were some ironic cheers from the gun deck, to cover a sense of disappointment. The cutter was almost bows-on now, the oars moving quickly. Sargeant probably thought the lookouts had sighted another vessel further out to sea, which appeared more promising.
'Deck there! Smoke on t' 'eadland!'
Adam hurried to the opposite side and trained his glass on the misty green slope.
He heard a man say, 'A camp o' some kind, I reckon.'
Adam shouted, 'Hands aloft, Mr Martin! Loose tops'ls! Pipe the hands to the braces!'
Partridge glanced at the shore as the topmen dashed to the shrouds and scampered up the ratlines. To his helmsmen he growled, 'Be ready, my lads! We'll be all aback else!' He had been at sea a long time, and was the oldest man in the ship. He knew that what some simpleton had mistaken for a camp fire was the smoke of an oven, an oven which had just been flung open when the cutter had begun to come about and return to Anemone.
'Break out the main course!'
There were cries of alarm and surprise as a gun banged out, and seconds later a ball slapped through the fore- topsail even as it was released to the wind. Adam tried to swallow but his mouth was too dry. Where the ball had punched its hole through the sail was a blackened circle, the mark of heated shot. If it ploughed into the hull the whole ship could become a pyre in minutes. With tarred rigging, sun-dried canvas and a hull filled with powder, paint, spirits and cordage, fire was the dread of every sailor, more than any storm. The worst enemy.
Discipline reasserted itself as men charged to the gangways with water buckets and even sponges from the guns.
Another shot, and the ball skimmed across the sea's face like something alive.
Adam shouted, 'Bring her about! Weather the headland if need be, but I'll not lose Peter Sargeant!'
Under command again, her forecourse and topsails filling to the hot wind, Anemone showed her copper as she heeled over in the bright sunshine.
The men in the cutter seemed to realise what their captain was doing, and when the boat crashed and ground against the frigate's side, they flung themselves on to the lines and rope ladders the boatswain had made ready for them. One man slipped and fell, and by the time his head broke surface Anemone had already left him astern.
Adam grasped the nettings until the tarred ropework cut his skin.
I nearly lost her. It kept repeating itself in his aching mind. I nearly lost her.
'Ready about, sir!'
Lieutenant Sargeant hurried aft and turned to stare at the abandoned cutter and the drowning seaman, who was still thrashing helplessly in the water.
'What happened, sir?'
Adam looked at him but barely saw him. 'Bait, Peter. That's what they were.' He turned and looked towards the land as another shot echoed across the placid water. Another few minutes and his ship, his precious Anemone, would have been either hit by some of those white-hot balls or forced into the shallows like a stranded whale. He felt the anger surge through him. He could scarcely believe he could feel like this. Like madness.
'Clear the larboard battery, Mr Martin! Load and run out, double-shotted, if you please!' He ignored the startled expressions, the relief of some of the cutter's crew obvious as they grinned and shook hands with their comrades.
Sargeant said, 'Course to steer, sir?' He must have known, and even beneath his sunburn his face looked pale.
'I want to pass her at half-a-cable!'
Gun captains were racing each other as the larboard battery of long eighteen-pounders were loaded, their wads tamped home, before they were run squealing to the open ports.
Adam raised his glass as each gun captain faced aft. He saw the earlier disinterest aboard the schooner already giving way to panic as the frigate changed tack and bore down on her, her broadside catching the sun like a line of black teeth.
'The hull, Mr Sargeant, not her rigging this time.'
Adam watched intently. A group of men were trying to hoist out a boat, and now there were uniforms clambering on deck from hatchways and holds. French soldiers, some armed, others in obvious terror as they ran about the drifting schooner like blind things.
'Go forrard, Peter.' Adam did not look at him. 'If need be, lay each gun yourself. I want every ball to strike true.'
Sargeant ran along the gangway, pausing only to call down to each gun captain.
A midshipman exclaimed, 'Some of them are jumping overboard!' Nobody answered; they were either staring at the schooner or at their own captain.
Sargeant drew his sword and stared aft as if still expecting the order to stand-down, then he shouted, 'On the uproll, gun by gun, fire!'
The crews were very experienced, and knew their drill by heart. Down along the frigate's tilting side each gun belched orange fire and hurled itself inboard on its tackles. At one hundred yards' range they could not miss. Holes appeared in the schooner's hull and a ricochet burst through the side and brought down a mass of writhing rigging and blocks.
At the fourth gun the sea seemed to split apart in one terrible explosion. Men covered their ears, and others ducked down as splinters and whole lengths of timber and snapped spars cascaded over the sea, changing the clear water into a mass of splashes and pieces of charred wood. When the smoke finally drifted clear there was no piece of the schooner afloat.
Adam closed the glass with a snap. 'Put it in the log, Mr Martin. Vessel carried soldiers, powder and shot. There were no survivors.' He handed the glass to the signals midshipman and said tonelessly, 'What did you expect, Mr Dunwoody? War can be a bloody business.'
Sargeant came aft and touched his hat. 'I didn't realise, sir. Nor did I know why you recalled my boat.'
'Well, remember in future.' He laid his hand on the lieutenant's shoulder. It was shaking badly. 'I should have known-realised what was happening. It will not happen again.'
He watched the seamen throwing themselves back on the braces until their half-naked bodies were angled to the deck. Beyond them he could see the darting shapes of gulls as they overcame their fear of the explosion and circled above the grisly flotsam in search of food.
'I nearly lost her!' Only when he looked at his friend's tense features did he realise he had said it aloud.
He shrugged heavily. 'So let us go and inform Lord Sutcliffe that he has the French army camping on his back doorstep.'
Four days after Black Prince had dropped anchor Bolitho was lying back in a chair, while Allday shaved him with his usual panache. It was early morning: a good time for a shave, to sip some of Catherine's fine coffee, and to think. The stern windows and quarter galleries were open to the breeze and he could hear men moving about, washing down decks, preparing the flagship for another day. Visitors and visits: it had been endless, and Bolitho knew he had done little to spare either Jenour or Yovell in his search for information.
He had received every captain, even Herrick's new enemy, Captain the Lord Rathcullen of the Matchless, a languid, disdainful man, but one with a fiery reputation. That and the ancient family title would be enough to enrage Herrick at any time.
But he was amazed by the change in his old friend since that last terrible day of his court martial. Herrick drove himself without respite, and his inspections of ships and docking resources had left several officials and sea officers cringing from his anger if there were any faults discovered.
It was like being in a sealed room, despite the lush surroundings and the brilliant colours of sea and sky. Until
