On and on, higher and higher, until his heart was pounding at his ribs like a fist.
He took Sullivan’s hard hand for the last heave up on to the crosstrees, and gasped, “Where away?”
Sullivan pointed without hesitation, and might even have smiled as Adam dragged out the small telescope which could easily be slung over one shoulder.
The light was still poor, high though he was above the tilting deck, but the other ship was a frigate right enough. Standing away, with all plain sail set and filling to the fresh north-easterly.
He swung the glass to larboard and studied the scattered ships. The two liners were on course again, Frobisher in the lead, with Matchless and Montrose standing well away on either quarter. And, far away, her masts and topsails shimmering in haze, was Halcyon, the admiral’s “eyes,” leading the squadron.
Then he saw the bomb vessel Atlas and found time to pity her commander as he sweated to work his ship into a position from which he could fire. From here it was all a sand-coloured blur, with only the slow-moving ships making sense. Adam had been aboard a bomb vessel during the campaign against the Americans, and Atlas seemed little improved. Bluff-bowed, and very heavily constructed for her hundred feet in length; bombs were always hard to handle. Apart from two immensely heavy mortars, they also carried a formidable armament of twenty-four pounder carronades as well as small weapons to fight off boarders. But the mortars were their reason for being. Each was thirteen inches in diameter and fired a massive shot, which, because of its high trajectory, would fall directly on top of its target before exploding.
Adam felt his own ship riding over again to the wind. They could keep their bomb vessels…
Sullivan said, almost patiently, “I reckon that when the light clears a bit we’ll see the other ship, sir.”
Adam allowed the glass to fall on to its sling and stared at him.
“I saw the frigate. Surely there’s no other.”
Sullivan gazed beyond his shoulder. “She’s there, sir. A big ’un.” He looked directly into his eyes. Not the captain, but a visitor to his world. “But I reckon you already knew that, sir?”
Adam gazed down at the deck. The upturned faces. Waiting…
“There could only be one. The merchantman that left Malta when Atlas sailed. Aranmore.”
Sullivan nodded slowly. “Might well be, sir.”
Adam reached across and touched his leg. “A prize indeed.”
He knew Sullivan was leaning over to watch him descend. Even the marines in the fighting-top remained quiet and unsmiling as he clambered down past the barricade and its swivel-gun, the daisy-cutter, as the sailors called them. Perhaps they saw it in his face, even as he felt it like a tightening grip around his heart.
Galbraith hurried to meet him, barely able to drag his eyes away from the tar-stained shirt and the blood soaking through one knee of his breeches.
“I think the frigate is chasing Aranmore, Leigh.” He leaned on the chart, his scarred hands taking the weight.
Galbraith said, “Suppose you’re wrong, sir?”
Cristie forced a grin, and said, “There was only one man who was never wrong, Mr Galbraith, an’ they crucified him!”
Adam lingered on the warning, and knew what it must have cost Galbraith to say it.
“But if I’m not? If the Algerines capture Aranmore,” he hesitated, loathing it, “it will make Lord Rhodes a laughing-stock.
The hostages could be used for bargaining, and so much for ‘a show of strength.’”
Galbraith nodded, understanding. Experience, instinct; he did not know how it came about. And he was ashamed that he was glad the choice was not his. Nor probably ever would be.
He watched the captain’s face as he beckoned to Midshipman Cousens. Outwardly calm again, his voice unhurried, thinking aloud while he held out one arm to allow his coxswain to clip the old sword into position.
“Make to Flag, Mr Cousens. Enemy in sight to the west, steering west-by-south.” He saw Cristie acknowledge it. “In pursuit of…” He smiled at the youth’s frowning features. “Spell it out. Aranmore.”
It took physical effort to take and raise the spare telescope. The next few hours would be vital. He heard the flags squeaking aloft and in his mind saw them breaking out at the yard and, across that mile or so of lively water, another signals midshipman like Cousens reading the signal, as someone else wrote it down on a slate.
Cousens’ brow was furrowed in concentration. “From Flag, sir. Acknowledged.” He sounded rather subdued. “Flag’s calling up Halcyon, sir.”
Adam snapped, “No use! Halcyon’s too far downwind-it will take her a whole watch to close with them!”
Cousens confirmed it. “Chase, sir.”
Galbraith was beside him again. “They might run for it when they see Halcyon, sir.”
“I think not. The man in command will lose his head if he fails this time. And he will know it!”
He looked back at the signals party.
“Anything, Mr Cousens?”
Sullivan’s voice broke the spell, “Deck thar! Frigate’s opened fire, sir!”
He heard the distant thuds, bow-chasers, he thought, testing the range, hoping for a crippling shot.
Cousens shouted, “Signal Chase is still flying, sir!”
Adam walked to the compass, the helmsmen gazing past him as if he was invisible, the big double-wheel moving slightly this way or that, each sail filled and fighting the rudder.
He said, “Then acknowledge it, Mr Cousens.” And swung away, as if he might see in the boy’s eyes the folly of his own decision. “Get the hands aloft, Mr Galbraith! T’gallants and royals!” He grinned, the strain and doubt recoiling like beaten enemies. “The stuns’ls too, when we may!” He strode over to Cristie and his mates. “How so?”
“West-by-north, sir.” The master gave a wintry smile, as if the madness was infectious. “It’ll give ’er room to run down on the bugger!”
“Stand by, on the quarterdeck! Man the braces there!”
Another squall moaned through the stays and shrouds, and the canvas cracked as if it would tear itself from the yards as the helm went over.
“Flag is repeating our number, sir!” Cousens’ words were almost drowned by the distant reverberating crash of mortars. The bombardment had begun.
Galbraith shook his head. “Hoist another ensign, Mr Cousens,” and attempted to smile, to share what the captain was doing. “That will be duty enough for you today!”
He watched the seamen running from one task to the next, not one tripping over a gun tackle or snatching up the wrong line or halliard. All the training and the hard knocks had paid off. It was insanity, and he could feel it driving away his reserve and his concern at the captain’s deliberate misinterpretation of the admiral’s signal. He had even found time to note it and sign the log, so that no one else could be officially blamed.
Galbraith saw Napier handing his captain a clean shirt, laughing at something he said as he pulled it over his unruly hair. The sunlight was stronger now, enough to shine briefly on the locket the captain was wearing, the one he had seen in the cabin with the letters.
He felt a sudden chill as the boy handed Captain Bolitho his coat, not the one he had been wearing when he had first appeared on deck, if he had ever left it, but the gold-laced dress uniform coat with the bright epaulettes. A ready target for any marksman. Madness again, but Galbraith could imagine him wearing no other this day.
“West-by-north, sir! Steady she goes!”
Adam looked along his ship, hearing the intermittent crash of gunfire. Halcyon was under fire already, long- range shots, like the ones laid on Aranmore.
He thought of Avery, his comments concerning the infamous Captain Martinez, and touched the locket beneath the clean shirt, and said aloud, “You were right, George, and nobody saw it. The face in the crowd.”
He turned to see the other ensign breaking to the wind, seeming to trail on the dark horizon as the ship heeled over, knowing that his mind must be empty now of everything which might weaken his resolve. But a memory of his uncle came, as he had seen him all those other times.
“So let’s be about it, then!”
Luke Jago stood by the mainmast’s great trunk and looked along the frigate’s main deck. So many times; different ships and in all weathers, but always the same pattern. The whole larboard battery of eighteen-pounders had been run in, hauled up the tilting deck by their sweating crews, held in position by their taut tackles and ready for loading. Each crew was standing by with the tools of their trade, rammers and sponges, handspikes and
