He closed the telescope with a snap. “Very well, Mr Okes. Beat to quarters and clear for action!”

His eyes held them a moment longer. “We must give well of ourselves today, gentlemen. If our people see us doing our best, they will be willing enough to do their duty!”

He half listened to the distant thunder of gunfire. “Carry on, Mr Okes!”

They all touched their hats and then looked at one another, as if each man realised that for some, maybe for all of them, it would be the last time.

Then the drum began to rattle, and the small moment was past.

17

FORM LINE OF BATTLE!

WITHIN ten minutes of the drum’s urgent tattoo the Phalarope was cleared for action. Decks were sanded and buckets of water stood within reach of every gun. Over the whole ship there had fallen a strange, gripping stillness, broken only by the uneasy slap of canvas and the steady sluice of water around the stem.

Bolitho shaded his eyes and watched the sun’s unearthly orange glow as it tried to filter through the unending wall of sea mist. The bang and clatter of gunfire had become more uneven and sporadic with each dragging minute, and now as the distance fell away between the Phalarope and the other ships there came new sounds, more vicious, and somehow more personal. Bolitho could hear the sharp cracks of muskets and pistols, the jarring scrape of steel against steel, and above all the mingling cries of men fighting for their lives.

Okes wiped his face with the back of his hand and said quickly, “This damn mist! I can’t see what’s happening!”

Bolitho glanced at him briefly. “It is a godsend, Mr Okes. They are too busy to see us!” He lifted his hand to the quartermaster. “Starboard a point!” Then he walked to the rail and looked down at Herrick’s upturned face.

“Have the guns loaded, but do not run out until I tell you.”

He saw the gunners push the fresh charges down the gaping muzzles, followed by the round, gleaming shot. The more experienced gun-captains took time to fondle each ball, weighing it almost lovingly to make sure that the first salvo would be a perfect one.

He heard Herrick shout, “Double-shotted and grape, lads! Let ’em feel it this time!”

A stronger breath of wind rolled aside the mist around the entangled ships, and Bolitho tightened his lips into a thin line. Almost stern on to the Phalarope’s swift approach was a French frigate, and alongside, listing and battered almost beyond recognition, was the little brig, Witch of Looe. One mast was already gone, and the other seemed to be held upright only by the remaining stays. He thought of her commander, the young Lieutenant Dancer he had met aboard the flagship, and marvelled at the man’s pluck or wasted courage which had made him match his ship against this powerful opponent. His little pop-guns against the still-smoking twelve-pounders.

Okes said, “They’ve seen us, sir!” He swallowed hard as something like an animal growl floated across the water. “My God, look at them!”