and if the Algerines had managed to stop the fuses. Then he gasped as his foot grated painfully between two sharp stones, and he realised that he had lost or kicked off his boots. He staggered into the shallows, one hand groping for his hanger, the other still clinging to the choking gunner’s mate.
Campbell was already on his feet, pulling the other seaman on to firm ground.
Galbraith wanted to tell them something, but saw Campbell ’s eyes light up like the fires he had seen on the beach.
“Get down!” But it came out as a croak. Then the whole world exploded.
Adam Bolitho rested his hands on the quarterdeck rail and listened to the regular creak of rigging, the clatter of a block.
Otherwise it seemed unnaturally quiet, the ship forging into the deeper darkness, as if she was not under control.
He shivered; the rail was like ice. But it was not that and he knew it. He could see Unrivalled in his mind’s eye, ghosting along under topsails and forecourse; to set more canvas would deny them even a faint chance of surprise. He stared up at the maintopmast and thought he could see the masthead pendant licking out towards the lee bow. It would be plain for everyone to see when daylight finally parted sea from sky. To set the topgallants, the “skyscrapers,” would be a gift to any lookout.
He felt the twinge of doubt again. There might be nothing.
They had cleared for action as soon as they had cast off the boats. There had been no excitement, no cheering. It had been like watching men going to their deaths, pulling away into the darkness. Not just a captain’s decision. But mine.
He walked to the compass box again, the faces of the helmsmen turning towards him like masks in the binnacle light.
One said, “Sou’-west-by-south, sir. Full an’ bye.”
“Very well.” He saw Cristie with a master’s mate. Their charts had been taken below; their part was done. The master was probably thinking of his senior mate, Rist, who had gone with Galbraith and the others. Too valuable a man to lose. To throw away.
Suppose Galbraith had misjudged his approach. It was easy enough. It would give the enemy time to cut and run for it, if they were there… The slight shift of wind had been noted. Galbraith might have ignored it.
He saw Lieutenant Massie’s dark shadow on the opposite side of the deck, standing in Galbraith’s place, but with his heart most likely with his gun crews. The eighteen-pounders were already loaded, double-shotted and with grape. It was inaccurate but devastating, and there would be little time to reload. If they were there.
He wondered briefly if Massie was still brooding over the reprimand he had been given. Resenting it, or taking it personally. What did one man matter in any case?
It was an argument Adam had heard many times. He could recall his uncle’s insistence that there had to be an alternative, beginning with the conditions under which men were forced to serve in times of war. Strange that Sir Lewis Bazeley had made the same point during that meal in the cabin. To impress the officers, or had he really cared? He had drawn comparisons with the Honourable East India Company’s ships, where men were not ruled by the Articles of War, or subject to the moods and temper of a captain.
Adam had heard himself responding, very aware of the girl’s eyes, and her hand lying still on the table. The same hand which had later gripped his wrist like steel, refusing to release him.
“So what is the alternative for the captain of a King’s ship, Sir Lewis? Restrict their freedom to come and go, when they have none? Deny them their privileges, when they are afforded none? Cut their pay, when it is so meagre after the purser’s deductions that were it gone they would scarcely miss it?”
Bazeley had smiled without warmth. “So you favour the lash?”
Adam had seen her hand clench suddenly, as if she had been sharing it in some way.
He had answered, “The lash only brutalises the victim, and the man who administers it. But mostly, I think, the man who orders it to be carried out.”
He came out of his thoughts abruptly and stared at the masthead. Colour. Not much, but it was there, the red and white of the long pendant, and even as he watched he saw the first touch of sunlight run down the topgallant mast like paint.
He took a telescope brusquely from Midshipman Cousens and strode to the shrouds, extending the glass as he moved. He rested it on the tightly packed hammocks and stared across the bow.
Land, fragments. As if they had been scattered by the gods.
He said, “Are the leadsmen ready, Mr Bellairs?”
“Aye, sir.”
Cristie said, “Closer inshore there’s some seven fathoms, sir.” He did not add, or so the notes state. He knew his captain needed no reminding. Seven fathoms. Unrivalled drew three.
Adam looked up at the gently bulging maintopsail. He could see most of it, the head in contrast with the foot, which was still in deep shadow. Not long now.
He steadied the glass once more and trained it slowly across the craggy humps of land. He could see the higher ground also, and that one small islet had a solitary pinnacle at its end, like something man-made.
“Bring her up a point. Steer sou’-west.” There was an edge to his voice but he could not help it. “Rouse the lookouts, Mr Wynter-they must be asleep up there!”
Suppose Galbraith had been taken by surprise and overwhelmed? Thirty-five men. He had not forgotten what Avery had told him about the barbarity of the Algerines towards their captives.
He rested his forehead against the hammock nettings. So cool. Soon it would be a furnace here.
“Sou’-west, sir! Steady she goes!”
A quick glance at the topsails again. Steady enough. Braced close to the wind, such as it was.
He thought of Halcyon, in position by now on the other side of this miserable group of tiny islands. The trap was set. He touched his empty watch pocket and felt the pain again.
Somebody moved past him and he saw that it was Napier, his feet bare, as if to avoid being noticed.
Adam said, “We are cleared for action, Napier. You know your station. Go to it.”
He swung round and stared up again. Very soon now, and the whole ship would be in broad daylight. Or so it would feel.
He realised that the boy was still there. “Well?”
“I-I’m not afraid, sir. The others think I’m not to be trusted on deck!”
Adam stared at him, surprised that the simplicity could move him, even distract him at this moment.
“I understand. Stand with me, then.” He thought he saw Jago grin. “Madness is catching, it seems!”
“Deck there! Somethin’ flashin’ from the middle high ground!”
Adam licked his lips. The voice was Sullivan’s. Something flashing: it could only be one thing, early sunshine reflecting from a glass. A lookout. They were there.
Then came the explosion, which seemed to linger in a slow climax before rolling across the sea and sighing against the ship. Unrivalled seemed to quiver in its path.
“One craft under way, sir. ’Nother on fire!” Sullivan was barely able to contain his excitement, which was rare for him.
On the upper deck the gun crews were staring into the retreating shadows or aft at the quarterdeck, trying to guess what was happening. A great pall of smoke had begun to rise, staining the clear, clean sky like something grotesque, obscene. There were more explosions, puny after the first, and smoke spreading still further as if to confirm the success of Galbraith’s attack.
But sails were moving, suddenly very bright and sharp in the new sunlight, and Adam had to force himself to see it as it really was. A vessel destroyed: impossible to guess how many had died to achieve that. But the explosion was on a different bearing, so that the alleged anchorage must also be wrongly charted.
Galbraith would stand no chance of getting away. Another chebec, perhaps two, were using the change of wind which had delayed his attack. They would escape. He steadied the glass again, ignoring everything but the tall triangles of sails, a flurry of foam as the chebec used her long sweeps to work around the blazing wreck, which was burned almost to the waterline.
Between and beyond was the gleam of water: the line of escape. And Halcyon would not be there to prevent it. He swallowed as a second set of sails moved from the smoke, like the fins of a marauding shark. They still had time for revenge. Galbraith’s boats would stand no chance, and even if his men broke and scattered ashore they would
