He heard tackles taking the strain as the gig was hoisted in readiness for lowering. The seamen at the tackles were waiting for Jago, the captain's coxswain, to give the order, and he was standing by the gig, one hand on the gunwale.
But he was looking up, through the rigging, watching the flags as they ran up the halliard and broke to the wind.
Enemy in Sight! The pretense was over.
Adam felt the sun, a sudden hot bar across his shoulder, as the ship leaned more steeply from the wind. Only the shadows and the sea alongside were moving, and even the sounds of rope and canvas seemed subdued.
At the guns, the crews waited in silence like groups of statuary, with only an occasional movement as some one hurried with a message or climbed on the gangway to look for Nautilus.
She was almost directly ahead now, and had displayed her full broadside when she had changed tack, sails in confusion as she had clawed into the wind. If any doubts had remained, they had gone from that moment. Adam saw Midshipman Deacon standing by his flag locker, with little Walker beside him. He could still see his expression when he had come aft to report on the other frigate's course and bearing. He had described the moment when the French flag had been lowered. Cut down. The young face and voice so deeply serious as he had motioned with his hand.
'It fell, sir. Like a dying bird.'
Vincent had said, 'They're trying to beat to wind'rd, and take the advantage.'
Adam moved slightly and saw a sliver of blue water open and widen through the shivering rigging. Almost bows-on again, sails filled and braced on her new tack, her shadow reaching over and ahead of the hull.
What kind of men were these? Rebels, renegades, maybe deserters from the old enemies, even from their own fleet. It was not unknown for men who had broken the yoke of one life of discipline and danger, only to find it was the only thing they knew and understood.
He looked away from the other ship. What will he do? What would I do?
He walked to the rail again and could feel the group around the wheel staring at his back.
They are all in my hands.
Nautilus would try and hold the wind-gage and remain on the same tack. Once abeam, she would open fire and attempt to dismast and cripple Onward, regardless of the range when they passed. He realized that he had punched one hand into the other. Then reload while she crosses our stern with another full broadside. The death of any ship which was cleared for action, decks open from bow to stern when the iron thundered through.
He said, 'Cast off the breechings and open the ports. 'He turned to look directly at Vincent. 'Larboard side only!'
He saw him nod, and perhaps smile. 'Warn the starboard crews to standby.'
He saw Julyan turn aside from the quartermaster as if to confirm his own thoughts about a trick which could so easily turn into disaster. He had been looking up at the masthead pendant, feeling the wind like a true sailor.
Adam did not. Instead he looked along the deck, the gun captains signalling that they were prepared. Breeching ropes cast off, the ports along one side open, the sea sliding briskly beneath them.
But if the wind drops? He took the telescope and realized that Jago had joined him, grim-faced, watching the distant frigate. As for most fighting sailors, waiting was the worst part. Or so they told themselves.
But he said, 'Ready to cast off the boats, Cap'n. Just give the word.'
Adam opened the telescope. Another hour? Less, if the wind holds steady.
'Do it now, Luke. I'll lay odds that every available glass is trained on us at this very moment.'
He looked at Vincent. 'Run out!'
He could see it in his mind. All along one side, the black muzzles were poking into the sunlight. Like one of the drills, with extra hands from the starboard side to add their muscle and run the guns up the sloping deck.
Vincent said, 'With permission, sir? 'He did not finish it, but touched his hat formally before walking to the gangway.
Squire was already making his way aft to take his place.
Opposite ends of the ship… Like hearing a voice from the past.
Don't display all your eggs in the same basket.
He saw Lieutenant Gascoigne, his face almost as scarlet as his tunic, moving slowly along the front rank of his Royal Marines, eyes noting every detail, making a comment from time to time. As if they were mounting guard in the barracks ashore.
Napier had come aft with Squire, calm enough, but he glanced round, startled, as the two cutters were cast adrift and were soon falling astern.
Then he stopped by the companion and said deliberately, 'I shall be here, sir. 'He seemed to nod. 'I'm not afraid. Not this time.'
Adam held his arm, and thought he flinched.
'Keep on the move, David.'
Napier bit his lip, feeling the bruise left by Fowler's starter, but no longer caring. This was the closest they had been; had been allowed to be.
'You, too. 'Then he did smile. 'Sir!'
Jago had returned, and Adam saw that he was wearing his broad-bladed dirk. Like Athena and Unrivalled.
He said only, 'Gig's gone adrift, Cap'n.'
Adam loosened his belt and moved the old sword into the glare. Jago gave a crooked grin.
'Now we'll have the bastards!'
There was a sudden explosion, a solitary gun, probably a ranging shot, the sound echoing and re-echoing across the water like something trapped in a tunnel or shaft.
Adam watched the sunlight touching the open port-lids of the oncoming frigate, then the line of guns. He thought he saw the flash of reflected sun: some one training a glass on Onward. Perhaps on me.
He dragged off his hat and waved it toward the men below him at the guns.
Too soon! Or too late? 'Stand by to come about!'
Calls shrilled and men who had been crouching at braces and halliards shouted to one another as they ran to obey.
'Helm a-lee! Hard over!'
'open the ports! Run out!'
Some one even gave a wild cheer as the eighteen-pounders squealed against the side, the gun captains racing one another to sight and lay on the target even as Onward thrust into and across the wind, topsails flapping and booming while the yards braced round, as if responding to a single hand.
At that moment, Nautilus opened fire.
Only seconds, but it seemed forever: the intermittent flash of gunfire and the shuddering onslaught through canvas and rigging overhead, the shock of iron slamming into the hull.
Adam stood quite still, his eye fixed on the bowsprit and jib boom as it continued to swing, like a giant pointer, as if to reach out and touch the bulging canvas. Nautilus seemed to loom closer, as if she and not Onward was swinging to engage.
His muscles tensed as he felt the deck shake under his feet, expecting the sounds of broken spars, anticipating the agony that would end everything.
The ship was still answering the helm, while the headsail sheets were let go to allow her to swing unheeded through the wind.
He saw Nautilus, shrouded in her own gunsmoke, but no longer free to sail past and deliver another broadside. Onward's agility and sudden, seemingly reckless change of tack and direction had caught her gun crews unawares. Most of the shots had passed overhead.
Here and there small scenes leaped out at him. A seaman seizing one of his companions at the gun below the quarterdeck, and throwing him aside as a massive block, severed from the rigging high above, smashed down beside them. Shock, obscenities, then a grin. Midshipman Hotham, the clergyman's son, face screwed up in concentration as he loaded and examined a long pistol, flinching as more debris fell clattering nearby. Then he handed the pistol to Monteith, who took it with a curt nod.
And the men at the braces, stiff with crouching, waiting and willing the ship to complete her tack. And hit back. One of them, naked to the waist, was sharing his handhold with another, younger sailor, who was not even daring
