to be proud.
He heard a midshipman whisper to his friend and saw them look up, and he shaded his eyes and stared with them at his flag, the red cross suddenly hard and bright, touched by the first light of dawn.
“Deck there!” Carleton’s voice was clear and very loud: he was using a speaking-trumpet. “Sail on the larboard bow!” A pause, and Bolitho could picture the young midshipman asking the masthead lookout his opinion. Tyacke was always careful with his choice of “eyes”: they were invariably experienced sailors, many of whom had grown older with the ships they were serving, or fighting.
Carleton called again, “She’s Attacker, sir!” He sounded almost disappointed that it was not a first sighting of the enemy. The other frigate was one of the smaller sixth-rates, and mounted only twenty-eight guns. Bolitho frowned. The same as Reaper. But she was not like Reaper. In his mind’s eye he could see Attacker ’s captain, George Morrison, a tough northerner from Tyneside. But no sadist: his punishment book was one of the cleanest in the squadron.
Avery said quietly, “He must sight Virtue soon, sir.”
Bolitho looked at him, and saw the new light driving the shadows from his face.
“Perhaps. We may have become separated in the night. Not for long.”
He knew Allday was close by: he must be standing almost where his son had fallen that day.
He pushed the thought away. This was now. Attacker was on her proper station, or soon would be, once she had sighted the flagship. The other frigate, Virtue, carried thirty-six guns. Her captain was Roger M’Cullom, in character a little like Dampier, who had been Zest’s captain before Adam had taken command. Devil-may-care and popular, but inclined to be reckless. Whether to impress his men or for his own benefit, it was still a dangerous and, as Dampier had discovered, sometimes a fatal flaw.
Sam Hockenhull the boatswain had come aft to speak with the first lieutenant. Bolitho noticed that he was careful to avoid contact with Allday, who still blamed him for sending his son to join the afterguard on the day he had died. The quarterdeck and poop were always ripe targets for enemy sharpshooters and the deadly swivel-guns in close combat: command and authority began and were easily ended here. It was nobody’s fault, and Hockenhull probably felt badly about it, although nothing had been said.
Bolitho sensed the restlessness among the waiting seamen. The leading edge of tension and apprehension had passed. They might be relieved later, when there was time to think on it. Now they would feel cheated that the sea was empty. As though they had been misled.
And here was the sun at last, giving a bronze edge to the horizon. Bolitho saw Attacker ’s topsails for the first time, the faint touch of colour from her streaming masthead pendant.
Someone gasped with alarm as a muffled bang echoed across the sea’s jagged whitecaps. One shot, the sound going on and on for seconds, as if in a mine or a long tunnel.
Tyacke was beside him immediately. “Signal, Sir Richard. It’s
Virtue. She’s sighted ’em!”
Bolitho said, “Make more sail. Then as soon as…”
Carleton’s voice came down from the masthead again. “Deck there! Two sail in sight to the nor’-east!”
There were more far-off shots, in earnest this time.
Tyacke’s strong voice controlled the sudden uncertainty around him. “Hands aloft, Mr Daubeny! Get the royals on her!” To York he called, “Weather-helm, let her fall off two points!” He rubbed his hands. “Now we’ll see her fly, lads!”
More shots, sporadic but determined. Two ships, perhaps more. Tyacke was looking toward him again.
Bolitho said, “When you are ready, Captain Tyacke.” Then he looked up as the royals thundered from their yards, adding their power to the straining masts and rigging.
“Beat to quarters, Mr Daubeny! Then clear for action, if you please!”
Daubeny was staring at him. Reliving the past, trying to face the future.
The marine drummers were already below the poop, and at a signal from their sergeant they began to beat out the familiar rattle, the sounds soon lost in the answering rush of feet as idlers and off-watch hands divided into teams, each of which knew precisely what was expected of them. Bolitho stood quite still, aware of the order and purpose around him, gained by months of drills and exercises, and Tyacke’s own forceful example.
The cabin beneath his feet would be stripped bare like the rest of the ship, screens torn down, all privacy gone, until the vessel was open from bow to stern. A ship-of-war.
“Cleared for action, sir!” Daubeny turned back to his captain.
Tyacke nodded. “That was well done.” Then, formally, he touched his hat to his admiral. “Virtue is engaging without support, Sir Richard.”
Bolitho said nothing. M’Cullom was not the kind to wait. It would be ship to ship, evening old scores, a seizing of the initiative like any frigate captain. Carleton’s voice came down like an intrusion.
“Third sail in sight, sir! There’s smoke!”
Bolitho said, “Go aloft, George. Discover what you can.”
Avery glanced at him even as he hurried to the shrouds. Afterwards, he was to recall the pain in his eyes, as if he already knew.
More gunfire, and Bolitho saw the smoke for the first time, like a stain on the shark-blue water. He could feel the deck lifting and then shuddering down as Indomitable thrust her fourteen hundred tons into each oncoming roller. Even the yards appeared to be bending like giant bows, every sail full, each shroud and stay bar-taut under her great pyramid of sails.
“Load, sir?” Tyacke’s eyes were everywhere, even aloft, where a man had almost lost his hold as he was securing one of the nets which had been spread to protect the gun crews from falling spars.
Bolitho glanced at the masthead pendant. Like an arrow. The enemy could not outpace this ship, nor did they have the time to beat back into the wind. M’Cullom must have seen all this, and set it against the risk. The odds.
“Yes. Load, but do not run out. Virtue has given us time. Let us use it!”
Avery called down suddenly, “ Virtue has lost a topmast, sir! There are two frigates engaging her!” The rest was lost in an angry growl from the gun crews as they paused to peer up at the mainmast, their legs braced on the freshly sanded deck, their expressions shocked, but free of fear. This was different. Virtue was one of their own.
Bolitho looked away. My men.
More explosions, and then Avery returned to the quarterdeck.
“She can’t hope to last much longer, sir.”
“I know.” He spoke sharply, angry with himself at the cost, which was already too high. “Make to Attacker, Close on the Flag.” As Avery shouted for the signal party, he added, “Then hoist Close Action! ”
So easily said. He felt for the locket under his shirt.
May Fate always guide you.
A tiny mark on this great ocean, he had said to Allday.
He turned and stared along the full length of the ship, past each unmoving gun crew, the lieutenants at the foot of each mast, then beyond the lion, with its upraised paws ready to strike.
The sea was cleaner, and a darker blue now, the sky empty of cloud in the first frail sunlight.
He gripped the sword at his side and tried to feel something, some emotion. No place now for any perhaps or maybe. Like all those other times, this was the moment. Now.
And there lay the enemy.
9. A Flag Captain
BOLITHO waited for the bows to rear across another broken roller, then raised the telescope to his eye. The sea was glinting in a million mirrors, the horizon hard and sharp like something solid.
He moved the glass very slowly until he had found the embattled ships, changing shape in a swirling pall of gun smoke.
Avery said, “Attacker ’s on station, sir.” He sounded unwilling to disturb Bolitho’s concentration.
