ALEXANDER KENT - TO GLORY WE STEER

Okes stared at the slow-moving ships ahead of the Cassius. `In this case the rabbits are bigger than the hunters, sir!'

But Bolitho had already moved away. He paused beside the minute drummer boy and asked calmly, `Give us a tune on your fife, boy.' He spoke loudly, so that the men at the ninepounders could hear him.

The boy peered up from beneath his shako and swallowed hard. His lips were pale, and Bolitho could see his hands shaking against his tunic. 'Wh-what shall I play, sir?'

Bolitho looked around at the strained, watchful faces. `What about "Hearts of Oak"? We all know that, eh, lads?'

And so with the overwhelming roar of battle drumming in their ears, the Phalarope's sailors picked up the fife's feeble lilt.

Bolitho walked back to the weather side and lifted his glass. Even aboard the Cassius the men might hear the Phalarope's sailors singing the well-used words and gain some slight confidence.

`Come cheer up my lads,

Tis to Glory we steer…’

Bolitho watched the great rolling bank of black smoke as it moved steadily towards the three British ships. It was like a living thing, he thought coldly. Writhing, and alight with angry red and orange flashes. Yet he was grateful for its presence. At least it hid the horror and the gruesome scenes beyond.

He looked down at his men, their faces momentarily engrossed in their singing. They would not have much longer to wait.

18. A TRADITION OF VICTORY

John Allday tied his neckerchief tightly around his head and ears and then dashed the sweat from his face with one forearm. Right forward on the frigate's tapered forecastle he had an uninterrupted view of the Cassius, and ahead of her he could just see part of the Volcano's upper rigging. Deliberately he turned his back on them and on the smokeshrouded tangle of ships beyond. He looked down at McIntosh, the gunner's mate, who was on his knees beside one of the carronades as if in prayer.

As Allday had slithered to the deck from the mainyard, Brock, the gunner, had halted him with a sharp, `Here you!' For a moment they had faced each other once again. Allday, the pressed seaman, whose skin still bore the scars of Brock's cane, and who had nearly hanged because of another's treachery and cunning. And the gunner, hard-faced and expressionless, who rarely showed any trace of his inner feelings, if he had any.

Brock had gestured with his cane. 'Up forrard, you! Join the crews on the carronades!'

Allday had made to run off but Brock had added harshly, `1 was wrong about you it seems!' It was not an apology. Just a statement of fact. `So get up there and do your best!' His thin mouth had moved in what might have been a smile. `My God, Allday, your sheep would be proud of you today!'

He smiled at the recollection and then looked round with surprise as Ferguson scrambled up beside him. His eyes were bright with fear, and he clung to the hammock nettings as if he would fall without their support.

McIntosh grunted, `What do you want here?'

'I-I was sent, sir.' Ferguson licked his lips. `I'm no use for anything else.'

McIntosh turned back to his inspection of the training tackles. `Christ Almighty!' was his only comment.

`Don't look at the ships, Bryan.' Allday picked up his cutlass and ran it through his belt. The hilt felt warm against his naked back. `Just don't think about 'em. Keep down behind the nettings and do as I do.' He forced a grin. `We have a fine view from here!'

Ritchie, the stolid Devon seaman, ran his fingers over the shot rack and asked vaguely, 'Wot are we to shoot at, Mr. McIntosh?'

The gunner's mate was edgy. 'The captain hasn't told me yet! When he does, I'll tell you!'

Ritchie shrugged. 'Us'll roast they devils!' He peered at the Cassius. `The Frogs'll turn an' run!'

Kemp, one of the loaders, grimaced. `When they sees you they will!'

Ferguson lowered his head against his arm. `It's madness! We'll all be killed!'

Allday studied him sadly. He is right, he thought. Nothing can live against such a force. He said kindly, `It's April, Bryan. Just think how it looks in Cornwall, eh? The hedgerows and the green fields..

Ferguson stared at him. `For God's sake, what are you talking about?'

Allday replied calmly, `Have you forgotten already what nearly happened to us, Bryan?' He hardened his voice, knowing that Ferguson was at breaking point. `Remember Nick Pochin?' He saw Ferguson flinch, but carried on. `Well, he's dead, hanged aboard the Cassius with the other fools!'

Ferguson hung his head. `I-I'm sorry.'

Allday said, `I know you're afraid. And so am I. And so is the captain, I shouldn't wonder.'

At that moment Lieutenant Herrick stepped on to the forecastle and walked briskly to the carronades. `Everything well, Mr. McIntosh?'

The gunner's mate stood up and wiped his palms on his trousers. `Aye, sir.' He studied the lieutenant and then added, ' Mola Island seems a long time ago now, Mr. Herrick.'

Herrick stared aft along the maindeck to the raised quarterdeck where Okes stood stiffly beside the captain. Would Okes crack this time? he wondered. Which way would his private shame make him react? He replied, 'It does indeed.'

Okes' voice, distorted by his speaking trumpet, echoed above the rumble of gunfire. `Another pull on the weather forebrace there! Mr. Packwood, take that man's name!'

Herrick hid hiss dismay from McIntosh. Okes was so much on edge that he had to say something. Anything.

McIntosh said dryly. `Promotion does not seem to solve everything, Mr. Herrick!'

Herrick swung round as flags broke from the Cassius's yards. A moment later he heard Maynard yell, `Engage the enemy, sir!' Then, in a slightly steadier voice, `Tack in succession!'

The pipes trilled. `Lee braces. Jump to it!'

Keeping time with the ponderous two-decker the frigates tacked slowly to the south-east. Herrick shaded his eyes as the sun lanced down between the sails, and saw the nearest enemy ships less than a quarter of a mile away. They were in no apparent order, but with their yards braced round were tacking on a converging course with the British squadron. The big three-decker hid her gaping ranks of guns in deep shadow as she swung slightly up wind. The tow had been cast off, and the leading ship of the line, unhampered by her massive consort, heeled easily in the breeze, her command flag pointing directly at the Cassius.

Herrick tried to clear the dryness from his throat. 'Carry on, Mr. McIntosh. I must attend my duties!'

He had to force himself to walk slowly down to the maindeck. As he passed, an open hatch where a marine sentry leaned on his musket he saw the surgeon's scarlet face grinning up at him.

'Yer 'ealth, Mr. 'Errick!' He waved a tankard.

Herrick felt slightly mad. 'Damn you, Tobias! You'll not have my body today!'

Some of the men at the nearest guns chuckled. 'That's right, sir! You tell 'im!'

Herrick strode on to take up his position in the centre of the deck. Farquhar was below the quarterdeck, his haughty features slightly pale but determined. Herrick gave him a nod, but Farquhar did not seem to see him.

There was a crashing boom, all the more startling because every man had been expecting it. It was followed instantly by a ragged salvo, and another.

Bolitho's voice broke through Herrick's stricken thoughts. 'Note it in the log, Mr. Proby! We have engaged the enemy!' His voice was muffled as he turned away. 'Cut those boats adrift, Mr. Neale! They'll act like a damn sea anchor in this poor wind!'

Herrick looked at his hands. They were quite steady, yet he felt as if every bone and muscle was quivering uncontrollably. He could imagine the Phalarope's boats drifting astern, and thought of Bolitho's earlier words to the crew.

.. below us it is a thousand fathoms to the bottom!' Herrick winced as another thunderous broadside sent a dull vibration through the planks at his feet. A thousand fathoms, and now not even a boat to save the survivors!

He looked up and saw that Bolitho had returned to the quarterdeck rail and was staring at him. He did not speak, but gave a strange, lingering smile, as if he was trying to convey some personal message to him.

Then Bolitho called sharply, 'Mr. Neale, do not run like that! Remember our people are watching you today!'

Herrick turned away. The message could have been for him, he thought. He felt strangely calmed by this realisation and walked to the larboard battery and looked down the line of guns. In a few minutes every one of them would be firing. In a few minutes. He studied the faces of the men beside them and felt suddenly humble.

`Well, lads, this is better than practice, eh?’

Surprisingly they laughed at his stupid joke, and in spite of the cold fingers around his stomach Herrick was able to join them.

Bolitho blinked in the reflected sunlight and peered across the weather rail. Ahead of the Phalarope the flagship was holding her course, but the frigate Volcano which had been leading the line was pulling away to larboard, breaking the pattern as two French frigates drove down towards her.

Rennie gasped, 'He's done for! We cannot give him any help!'

The sea's surface shimmered as another crashing broadside rippled along the Volcano's gunports. Gun by gun, each one carefully aimed and fired in rapid succession.

Undeterred the two frigates, with the wind in their favour, swept down on either beam.

Proby said sharply, 'Volcano's luffing!'

Bolitho breathed out painfully. Fox was no fool, and as wily as his name. As the two enemy frigates swept downwind for a quick kill the Volcano swung lazily into the wind, her sails slapping in violent protest. The nearest French ship realised her mistake just too late. As her yards started to swing, the Volcano presented her opposite side and fired a full salvo. The French ship seemed to stagger as if dealt a body blow. Across the water Bolitho could hear the crash of falling spars and the sliding thunder of overturned cannon. All else was hidden in the billowing clouds of smoke, but above it he could see Volcano's ensign and all three masts still standing.

'Flagship signalling! "Close on Flag!"' Maynard ran to hoist an acknowledgement.

Bolitho tore his eyes from Captain Fox's lithe frigate as it went about to take the wind's advantage from the two Frenchmen. Cassius was heading straight for the powerful two-decker with the command flag. She would need all the help she could get. Fox would have to manage for himself for a while.

`Starboard a point!' Bolitho ran to the rail and leaned out as far as he could. Then he saw the towering sails of the ship of the line as it drove down on a converging course with the flagship. They should pass port to port, he thought. He shouted to the maindeck, `Stand by, Mr. Herrick!'

Okes yelled, `The Frenchman's changing his tack, sir!' He was jumping with agitation. `God in hell, sir! He's turning across the Cassius's bows!'

Either the French captain was unwilling to face a gun for gun contest, or he hoped to rake the Cassius's bows and masts as he crossed her course, Bolitho was not quite sure which. But either way he had not allowed for the extra sail carried by Admiral Napier's elderly flagship.

Instead, the two ships crossed their bowsprits and then met at right-angles with a sickening crash. As they locked together both ships opened fire, the arrowhead of water between them erupting in a great sheet of flame and black smoke.

Bolitho watched in chilled silence as Cassius's foremast and main topgallant leaned drunkenly and then smashed down into the all-enveloping smoke. He could see rigging and spars ripping away the sails and scattering men from the tops like dead fruit.

Another broadside split the air apart, and Bolitho knew that the Cassius's forward guns were within feet of the enemy's. Yet still they stayed locked together, their splintered bowsprits and jib-booms entangled like the tusks of two crazed beasts from a nightmare.

Bolitho cupped his hands. `Both carronades to starboard!' He waved his hand at Proby. `We will put her across the enemy's stern, if we can!' He half ducked as a ball screamed overhead and slapped through the driver leaving a ragged tear. A stray shot from the giants, but just as deadly, he thought grimly.

All around him men were coughing and wiping their eyes as the smoke reached out and over the frigate's decks.

The helmsman cursed as the Cassius's torn sails loomed over the fog like some great spectre. But Bolitho gauged the set of the flagship's masts and knew he was on the right course. The fog closed in again, and he saw the double lines of flashes as both fired salvo after salvo at pointblank range. He could hear the two hulls grinding together, the screams and cries of the wounded and dying, mingled with the unbelievable sound of the admiral's drum and fife band. It was impossible to tell what they were playing, or how a man could live, let alone think of an empty tune in that holocaust.

But Bolitho shouted, `A cheer, lads! Give a cheer to the Flag!'

Muskets banged through the smoke, and Bolitho heard the balls thudding into the bulwarks and whining against the ninepounders.

Rennie bellowed, `Marksmen! Shoot down those bastardsl' And from aloft came an answering volley.

The wind seemed to have gone altogether, although in the dense smoke it was impossible to gauge either speed or distance. Then out of the flickering, choking fog Bolitho saw the stern of the two-decker. It seemed to hang above the Phalarope's starboard bow like an ornate cliff, and he could see the flash of musket fire from her stem windows as marksmen directed their attention to the frigate's forecastle.

Bolitho banged the rail with his hands, ignoring the whining balls and the cries from forward. In his mind he was picturing the enemy ship'ss lower gundeck. Cleared for action it was one long battery which ran from one end of the ship to the other. Bolitho had been a midshipman in a ship of the line, and he knew that there must be upwards of three hundred men in there, stooping in semi-darkness, choking in the acrid fumes, and firing their guns more from familiarity than accuracy.

He shouted, `The carronades, Mr. McIntosh! Fire as we cross her stern!'

Rennie grinned and wiped his face with his sleeve. `That'll kill a few, sir!'

Bolitho bit his lip as the sound of a mast thundering across smashed and broken rigging broke through the roar of combat. Cassius was a very old ship. Much -more of this punishment and she would either break up or sink as she fought!

He wondered what had happened to the Volcano, and worse, the crippled three-decker. If the latter was able to engage, it would be over in minutes. Her lower gundeck was crammed with thirty-two-pounders. One of those could smash through two and a half feet of solid oak at maximum range. Bolitho tried not to picture what would happen to the Phalarope's frail timbers.

`Ready, sir!' McIntosh was yelling like a madman.

Bolitho drew his sword. `Larboard a point, Mr. Proby!' He watched the jib flapping and dropped his sword.

`Fire!'

Herrick felt the deck shudder beneath him as both carronades fired almost together. As the thick muzzle smoke eddied clear he stared up at the French ship's stern, momentarily forgetting the battle which raged around him. A few seconds earlier he had watched the tall stern emerge from the fog of gunfire and had seen the great cabin windows with their life-sized figures on either quarter, full-breasted nymphs carrying tridents with the vessel's name, Ondine, in scarlet and gilt across the wide counter between them, and had marvelled at the ship's overpowering appearance of grandeur and indestructibility. As the smoke moved clear he gaped at the black jagged holes which left the stem like the entrance of a fire-scarred cave. At the horror and chaos beyond he could only briefly imagine, for as a fresh gust of wind moved busily through the Phalarope's sails the deck tilted, and with her helm hard over she swung in a tight arc around the enemy ship's larboard quarter.