But Adam said only, 'Stay with me, David. Get down if I tell you.' He saw the youth nod, and then bite his lip as he took the weight on his injured leg.
'The surgeon said…'
Adam gripped his shoulder. 'I can imagine what he saidmuch as he did to me, I have no doubt!'
Some seamen at the quarterdeck nine-pounders watched and nudged one another. The captain passing the time of day with his servant, as if they were still at Plymouth. It could not be that bad.
Galbraith was here. He looked very alert, no more time left for mistakes.
'Ready, sir. I'm taking Rist as my secondin-command-he's a good hand. Williams has made up the charges. I already know what he can do!'
Adam did not look away as a ragged broadside crashed and echoed across the anchorage.
Bellairs exclaimed, 'Halcyon's hit, sir!'
Adam shut it from his mind and concentrated on Galbraith. A good officer who was used to taking risks. Who was about to lay his life on the line yet again. Who wanted his own command, and was watching Halcyon's fore- topmast stagger and then pitch down into the water alongside. As if he was seeing his own ship under fire.
'I shall come about as soon as you slip the boats. If everything goes against us, then make your own way to the fleet. As you see fit, Leigh. I already know what you can do, too!'
Galbraith touched his hat and ran lightly down the ladder, shouting orders as he went. He paused only once, to stare across at Halcyon as she was raked by another full broadside. Then he, too, was gone.
Adam saw Partridge turn and wave his arm; the boats had cast off, and they were already pulling like madmen towards the anchorage.
He measured the distance as if he were studying a giant chart.
Varlo would remain up forward to direct the guns when Unrivalled came about. That inner voice persisted. If'the wind holds. He could also be called to command if the worst happened and the quarterdeck became a bloody shambles. He looked around, at Bellairs with the afterguard, Captain Luxmore with Sergeant Bloxham and his marines. He had already sent his lieutenant, Cochrane, to cover and protect the carronade crews on the forecastle. He saw Midshipman Deighton staring at him over his signal locker, and his unexpected smile when Adam tossed him a casual wave. Casual? It was like raising the dead.
'Stand by on the quarterdeck!'
Cristie was waiting, slightly hunched as if anticipating a stray shot. Beside him the boy Ede, who had been spared the rope for an attempted murder, made an unlikely companion on the threshold of battle. Cristie had proclaimed that none of his navigational equipment had ever been in such good hands. It was praise indeed.
He counted seconds, all else but the narrowing triangle of smoke-hazed water thrust aside.
Another quick glance aloft: the masthead pendant was lifting and falling as before. But steady. The wind held.
His hand had found the folded note he had crammed into his breeches pocket.
Lowenna. In the old Cornish tongue it meant 'joy.'
He swallowed, but his mouth was dry. So it will be.
'Ready ho.! Put the helm down!'
He had to shout, above the noise of wind and canvas, and the continuous thunder of the distant battle. And because of his heart, which surely those around him must hear.
'Helm a-lee, sir!'
They were beginning to turn, to swing the jib-boom across the anchored shipping as if they and not Unrivalled were moving.
'Off tacks and sheets!'
Adam stared above the heads of running men, while the ship continued to answer the wheel until she was pointing directly into the wind.
'Run out the larboard battery.' I le drew his sword, and found time to imagine Unrivalled as she exposed her opposite side to the anchored frigate. They would have been expecting an immediate challenge, and they would have been ready.
'Run out!'
He gripped the boy's shoulder and knew he must he hurting him badly.
He saw the guns lurch against the side, muzzles lifting to the thrust of wind and wheel, as if to sniff out their old enemy.
The sword was above his head. All else was forgotten. Even the tearing crash of iron slamming into the hull meant nothing.
Not a voice he recognised.
'As you bear, lads! Fire!'
Lieutenant Leigh Galbraith half rose from his place in the gig's sternsheets as another ragged broadside crashed across the water. He saw the flashes reflected in the stroke oarsman's eyes, but forced himself not to turn. It seemed so much deadlier, more personal, in spite of the unbroken thunder of heavier weapons which, as far as he could tell, had not stopped since the opening shots.
He had seen Unrivalled's topgallants, taut and filling again as she came fully round on to the opposite tack, had heard the squeal of blocks, and imagined the shouted commands and stamping feet while men threw the full weight of their bodies and souls on braces and halliards.
Then the broadsides, Unrivalled's, and the sharper bark of the brig Magpie's nine-pounders as she sailed deliberately amongst the anchored shipping.
Here in the gig it was all so different, like being a spectator, or a victim, without the usual stealth and cunning of a boat attack.
He felt the heavy pistol at his side, the hanger already loosened in its scabbard. Puny against the thunder of battle, ships of the line matched against the Dey's batteries. The smoke over the town was thicker than ever, the fires rising through it, the gun crews probably half blinded and too dazed even to be afraid.
He said, 'Ease the stroke, cox'n. We'll lose the jollyboat if we're not careful!' He thought he heard Jago grunt, and saw the quick exchange between him and the stroke oar. The jollyboat was abeam, heavier and slower because of Williams' explosives and some extra hands to allow for opposition, and sudden death.
He twisted round as another broadside cracked through the smoke. The anchored frigate was still firing, but the rate was slower; Unrivalled's sudden attack had worked. There were more shots on a different bearing, probably Halcyon. Wounded or not, she was well able to hit back.
Galbraith peered ahead as two anchored barges loomed through the haze. He found he was gripping the hanger as if to steady himself. The schooner lay directly beyond them.
He saw the bowman on his feet with the swivel gun on the stemhead. There would only be time for one shot. After that… Jago muttered, 'There she is!'
The schooner's counter seemed to loom through the smoke. Galbraith measured the distance. One grapnel would suffice. Each man was hand-picked. They all knew what to do. How to die without complaint if their officer made a mistake. He knew Jago was looking at him. Probably thought him mad anyway, if he could actually grin in the face of death.
Someone hissed, `Boat, sir! Larboard bow.'
It should not have been there. A major battle was in progress. Nobody sane or sober would venture out from a safe mooring.
There were wild shouts, and a sudden crack of musket fire. Galbraith heard and felt the balls smacking into the hull, saw the stroke oarsman throw up his hands and fall across his thwart, the oar trailing outboard like an extra rudder.
He shouted, 'Fire, man! Rake the bastards!'
So close to the water, the bang of the swivel gun was deafening, the packed canister smashing into the other boat at almost point-blank range. The oars were in total confusion, the boat slewing round in a welter of spray, the air torn apart by the screams of men scythed down by the blast.
The bowman stumbled aft to help push the stroke oarsman over the gunwale and take his place. It all took time. Galbraith glanced at the corpse as it floated astern, turning slightly on one shoulder as if to watch them press on without him.
More shots now, from overhead.
