itself and the crumbling fortifications, and weathered towers built of sand-coloured stone, which looked older than time itself.
He swung the glass across the quarter. Halcyon was holding on station, a second ensign hoisted now, clean and very bright above the tanned sails and scarred hull. Their other companion, the 14-gun brig Magpie, was further astern, tiny against the great array of sails where the fleet was on its final approach.
Adam returned to the quarterdeck rail, and saw several of the seamen look up at him from the nearest eighteenpounders. So many times, and yet you were never certain. He ran his eyes along the length of the ship. The decks had been sanded to prevent men slipping in the height of battle, and to soak up the blood of the first to fall. That was always the hardest to accept. Not that men would die, but that they were faces and voices you knew, of which you had become a part. He saw the slow-matches, each in a bucket of sand beside every gun. It was still not unknown for the modern flintlock to fail because of a gun captain's haste, or over eagerness to beat the others to a first broadside.
The nets were spread overhead, and the boat tier was empty, so that the deck seemed more spacious than it should. The gig and jollyboat were towing astern; the rest were well away by now, drifting to a canvas sea anchor. Waiting for the victor to recover them, no matter which flag was still flying.
The land was curving away again, like the neck of a poacher's bag. He trained the glass ahead, moving to avoid shrouds and stays, or faces, intent as they leaped into the lens. He could see the main anchorage, exactly as it was described in the orders, and as his uncle's flag lieutenant, Avery, had reported after that first visit.
Adam lowered the glass and stared into the distance. There were ships at anchor, some no doubt waiting to attack and harry the slow-moving vessels of Lord Exmouth's fleet once his intentions were recognised. He had heard four bells chime, but precisely when, he could not remember. It was a wonder that the seaman had kept his head and was able to mark the hour.
Sullivan had been right. They had closed the land at noon. That was two hours ago.
He looked at the gun crew directly below him. Stripped and ready, their bodies shining with sweat, neckerchiefs tied around their ears, cutlasses freshly sharpened at the grindstone and within reach. Another glance aloft. The big yards were braced so tightly that they appeared almost fore-and-aft; she was as close-hauled as she would come. He heard the wheel creak sharply, and one of the helmsmen mutter something as if to silence it.
He saw Galbraith by the starboard ladder, speaking with Rist, master's mate, and Williams, the gunner's mate who had been with him on the chebeck raid. He dabbed his lips with his sleeve. A 1 fetime ago.
Bellairs called, 'Flagship is altering course, sir!'
Adam moved the glass. It was impossible to imagine the strength and effort now responding to Exmouth's signal. Ponderous, slow, and some badly out of station, but the ships were moving as one, their shapes lengthening as they tacked like floating leviathans towards the shore.
It was still too far, but he could imagine the lines of guns running out, the muscle and sweat of hundreds of men like these around him, preparing to match their skills against the enemy. If Lord Exmouth had been expecting some lastminute submission he would be disappointed. The Dey was relying on his massive armament. Adam thought of that brief meeting. Trick for trick. Exmouth was still a frigate captain at heart.
There was a dull bang, the sound dragged out by echoes from the land, then they saw the ball splash down before ripping across the water like an enraged dolphin.
Cristie had his watch in one hand, but his voice was almost indifferent.
'Make a note in the log, Mr Bremner. At half past two o'clock, the enemy opened fire.'
Adam turned away. Nothing seemed to unsettle the old sailing master. He had even remembered the name of the midshipman who had only recently joined the ship. Like a rock. The man who had been born in the next street to Collingwood.
Perhaps the watchers on the shore had expected the fleet to sail directly into the anchorage, loose off a few shots at long range, and then go about without risking the mauling of close action. If so, they were wrong. A flag dipped above the Queen Charlotte and the air was split apart by the crash of gunfire. Unlike any broadside, it went on without cease, guns firing and reloading with barely a pause, the bay and the land already covered by drifting smoke.
What the gun crews must have trained for, all the way from Plymouth, and from Gibraltar to this mark on the chart.
Adam gripped the rail and felt the vibration of the bombardment jerking at the wood, as if some of the shots had smashed down alongside.
He thought of his own service in a ship of the line, and knew that Halcyon's captain would be remembering it also. The incredible din, which scraped the inner walls of a man's mind, so that only drill and discipline saved him from madness. Down on those gun decks, the overhead timbers brushing your hair, the confined space thick with smoke and the stench of burning powder, and only an open port beyond each crew, a hazy outline or shadow which had to be the enemy.
Sponge out! Load.' Run out! Ready! Nothing else existed.
Adam called, 'Two points, Mr Cristie! Steer sou' by west!' It was impossible, but he could feel his mouth fixed in a grin. 'That'll give her more freedom!'
He swung round to watch a twisting column of sparks rising far beyond the nearest ships. Perhaps one had blown up, or a random shot had found its mark in one of the citadel's magazines. Nobody could survive that.
lie beckoned to Jago. 'We shall be up to the anchorage directly. Keep with Mr Galbraith.' lie lifted the glass again and held his breath until he had found the vessel in question. A schooner, moored apart from all the others. He moved the glass slightly and saw the frigate, anchored fore-and-aft, a floating battery, another man-of-war lying just beyond her. Guarding the anchorage, the ships which were the 1Jey's lifeblood. 'You know what to do, yes?'
lie realised that Jago had remained silent. IIe looked at him, his ears cringing to yet another tremendous explosion, and saw the expression he had come to recognise since that day, when they had settled on a handshake.
Jago said flatly, 'My place is 'ere. With you.' He saw Lieutenant Varlo hurry past with a party of seamen. 'Let 'irn go!'
Adam contained his sudden anger. 'I did not hear that, Luke.' He waved his hand towards the anchored ships. 'That schooner is our weapon. The wind is right. Boat action, over quickly. Trust me.'
Jago touched the double-bladed weapon at his belt. 'Burn the bastards out, before they can cut an' run.'
Adam nodded. 'Or get amongst the fleet. Some of our ships will be in a had way by now.'
Jago frowned, his eyes elsewhere. Recalling another battle perhaps.
He said shortly, 'Gig an' jollyboat. Might leave you short-anded.' He glanced at somebody below the rail. 'Some still wet behind the cars. If you gets boarded…' lie looked at him and shrugged. 'You command, sir.' Adam felt his limbs shaking. Not fear. It was worse. The madness. just being here. It made no sense, and never would.
Jago was staring around, already seeking faces, names. 'I'm ready.'
He swung himself down the ladder, his eyes still lifted to the quarterdeck, to the helmsmen barely moving as the sails filled again to the wind. Even that was full of acrid smoke. And when you looked astern it seemed the whole fleet had been swallowed up in it, broken here and there by flashes of gunfire, and the lasting patterns of burning timbers. Like a scene from hell.
This deck was quiet by comparison: Cristie beside his small rigged table, his eyes moving restlessly from masthead pendant to compass, from individual sails to his master's mates and assistants, Midshipman Deighton at the flag locker, Bellairs waiting to make more sail, and the marines in position behind the hammock nettings, their only protection when the time came.
Jago said, 'Watch yer back, sir.' Then he was gone.
More flashes darted through the smoke. From the anchorage this time. Adam winced as iron thudded into the lower hull. Not dangerous. He tried not to move, or to wipe his face. Even the slightest change in behaviour might be seen as doubt, or loss of confidence.
The frigate which was anchored fore-and-aft fired again, but the shots were haphazard, the gun crews perhaps confused by the spreading barrier of smoke. Adam crossed to the side and looked for the brig. She was holding on station. It was only too easy to close on one another, if only for a false sense of security.
He heard Cristie say, 'That's the same ship, sir! No Yankee colours this time, God rot him!'
Adam felt someone beside him. It was Napier, his eyes defiant as if he expected the worst.
