mind from the din of running feet, and the voices calling to one another. Voices offering hope and reassurance, and he was moved by them.
And then there was utter silence again; he thought of the flag lieutenant up in the cross trees with his telescope, probably looking down at the ship and the assembled seamen and marines, so rarely seen all together at one time.
Bolitho did not look up as Yovell padded quietly from the cabin. He read the first part of the letter very slowly, and hoped she would hear his voice when she read it. How could he be so sure that she would even receive it, or that they would be victorious today?
The pen hesitated above the letter, and then he smiled. There was nothing to add.
He wrote, I love thee, Kate, my rose. Then he kissed it, and sealed it with great care.
He was aware of the Royal Marine sentry outside the door, shuffling his feet and probably trying to hear what the captain was saying on deck.
The adjoining door opened and Allday entered, pausing only to close the skylight. His own way of holding the things he hated at bay. He said offhandedly, 'Young Mr. Singleton says there are two frigates. Sir Richard.' He glanced at the eighteen-pounder gun near him. 'They'll not do much, no matter what they thinks, an' that's no error!'
Bolitho smiled at him. and hoped that there was no sadness in his heart.
But we know differently, my dear friend. We have done it ourselves. Can you not remember?
Instead he said. 'We've a fine day for it, old friend.' He saw Allday's eyes move to the swords on their rack. 'So let's be about it!'
Ozzard was here also, Bolitho's coat over his narrow shoulder. 'This one. Sir Richard?'
'Yes.'
It would be a hard fight, no matter what Allday thought about it. Frobisher's company would need to see him. To know they were not alone, and that someone cared for them.
Then the drums began to rattle, urgent and insistent.
'Hands to quarters! Clear for action!'
He slipped his arms into the sleeves and took his hat from Ozzard. The one she had persuaded him to buy in that other, timeless shop in St. James's.
My admiral of England.
He held out his arms and waited for Allday to fasten the old sword into position. Ozzard would take the glittering presentation blade with him when he went down to the orlop, when the guns began their deadly symphony.
Allday opened the door for him and the marine sentry slammed his heels together, waiting to be released from this duty so that he could be with his comrades.
Allday closed the door from habit, even though the ship would soon be cleared from bow to stern, screens and cabins torn down, personal possessions stowed away until they were recovered by their owners, or sold to their mates if fate turned against them.
He found time to notice that Bolitho did not look back.
Captain James Tyacke stood by the quarterdeck rail, his arms folded while he surveyed the ship, his ship, in this moment of instinct and experience when nothing could be overlooked. He could feel the first lieutenant watching him, perhaps seeking approval, or preparing for some sharp criticism. But he was a good officer, and he had done well. The chain slings had been rigged to the yards, and nets spread to protect men on the maindeck from falling debris. There were boarding nets also. They could not estimate the strength or the determination of the enemy. If fanatics from a chebeck could hack their way aboard, this was no time to take chances.
He looked along each line of guns, the eighteen-pounders which made up half of Frobisher's artillery. Until action was joined, each remained a separate unit, the gun captains sorting over the rows of black balls in the shot garlands. A good gun captain could select a perfectly moulded shot just by turning it in his hands.
A glance aloft, to the small scarlet clusters in each fighting top: marine marksmen and others who could aim and fire the deadly swivel guns. Known by the Royals as daisy cutters, they could scythe anything more than an inch high to the ground, or to the deck. Most sailors hated the swivels; they were unpredictable, and could be equally dangerous to friend and foe alike.
The decks had been well sanded. It was said to prevent men from slipping in the heat of action, although everyone knew the real reason for it.
'Well done, Mr. Kellett.' Tyacke took a telescope from the rack and raised it to his eye. Without looking, he knew that Kellett was smiling his deceptively gentle smile, satisfied.
He felt his jaw tighten as the first pyramid of sails appeared to rise out of the shark-blue water like a phantom. He moved the glass again. The second frigate had luffed, and was drawing away from her consort. Almost to himself, he said, They hope to divide our fire.'
He lowered the glass slightly and glanced up at Frobisher' sspread of canvas, topsails and fore course flying and outer jib, with the big driver angled across the poop, the White Ensign streaming out from the peak. He knew that Tregidgo, the sailing master, was watching him. He ignored him. They all had their vital roles to play, but he was the captain. He must decide.
The wind was as before, from the north-west, not strong, but steady. Enough to change tack when required. She would handle even better when the order was given to slip the boats from their tow-lines astern; the main deck looked strangely clean and bare without them. Always a bad moment for sailors, when they saw their means of survival cast adrift. But the risk of flying splinters was far greater.
The sky was clearing, so different from the dawn. Long banks of pale clouds, but the sun already stronger and higher. He grimaced. A perfect setting.
He turned to face Kellett. 'I want to make this quite clear. When we get to grips with those fellows, I want every available man at his station. Provided he can walk, I need him today, and I'll not stand for carrying passengers! The lower gundeck is the key to any fight with faster vessels. Inform Mr. Gage and Mr. Armytage that I expect them to maintain rapid fire no matter what may be happening up here. Is that understood?'
Kellett nodded. He had heard about Tyacke's experience at the Nile, when he had been on the lower gundeck with the big thirty-two pounders. Guns which, if properly laid and trained, could pierce nearly three feet of solid oak. Or so it was claimed.
Kellett had only served on a lower gundeck once, as a very junior lieutenant. The noise and the inferno of fire and smoke had been enough to drive some men to panic. It was a place and a time where only discipline and rigid training could overcome fear and madness. How it must have been for Tyacke… He remarked, 'They wear no colours, sir.' It was something to say, to ease the tension.
Tyacke raised his glass again. 'They soon will. And by God they'll lose them, too!'
He concentrated on the leading frigate. There was a fine display of gilded carving around her beak head He smiled, unconsciously. She was Spanish, or had been once. He wondered what had happened to Huntress; perhaps they had put her down after the failure to lure Tireless beneath her broadside. He thought of his own depleted company. He must keep the enemy at a distance, cripple at least one of them.
How easy it was to regard strange ships as enemies; he had been doing it for most of his life. He thought suddenly of Bolitho. He was in the chart room, probably keeping out of the way. when every fibre in his body was tugging at him to take command, as a captain again. But there was neither fleet nor squadron this time, and some of the waiting seamen would be thinking as much. Their fate lay in the hands of three captains, and the man whose flag whipped out from the mainmast truck.
Tyacke heard Midshipman Singleton instructing his signals party by the halliards. The boy seemed different in some way, not yet mature, but in definably different.
Tyacke moved to the compass box and gazed at the group there, the backbone of any company committed to action. The master and his mates, three midshipmen to carry messages, four helmsmen at the tall double wheel, and beyond them, the rest of the after guard the marines and nine-pounder crews. Protected by nothing more than tightly-packed hammocks in the nettings, they would be the first target for any sharpshooter.
He said, 'Converging tack, Mr. Tregidgo.' He saw him nod; Tregidgo was not one to waste words. 'We will engage from either side.' He looked at their faces, stiff, empty. It was too late for anything else. I have decided.
He walked to the rail and gripped it. Warm, but nothing more. He smiled tightly. That would soon change. He
