Alexander Kent - THE INSHORE SQUADRON

'By the mark seven!'

The ship's marine lieutenant cleared his throat nervously and one of the quarterdeck seamen jumped with alarm. 'By the mark five!'

Bolitho heard the master whispering to Neale. Thirty feet of water. It was not much with the shelving bottom so close. 'Deep four!' The leadsman sounded quite unperturbed again.

As if he was convinced he was about to die and there was nothing he could do about it.

Bolitho levelled the glass again. Two isolated dwelling houses, like pale bricks on the hillside. Drifting smoke, too, or was it? The snow made it hard to see anything clearly. Smoke from an early morning hearth? Or some forewarned battery heating shot to give the impudent Styx a hot reception?

He saw the surf boiling below the headland, the sharp glitter of ice caught in the reflected glare.

`Bring her up two points, Captain Neale.'

He shut the glass with a snap and handed it to a midshipman.

The seamen had been poised for the order like athletes, and as the braces squealed and the yards added their confidence to the rudder, the frigate headed up further to windward, the headland moving back like a great stone door.

The leadsman called, 'By the mark ten!'

Somewhere a man gave an ironic cheer.

'Nor'-east, sir! Full an' bye V

Bolitho gripped the quarterdeck rail as he had done so many times in so many ships.

Any moment now. The wind was right, with the ship sailing as dose to it as she could and still keep the canvas drawing. Once round the headland it must be quick and definite, the shock of surprise like ice water across a sleeping sailor.

`Run out, if you please.'

Bolitho looked away from the little group of officers. If the bay was empty they would laugh at his pitiful preparations. But if they lost precious minutes to save his pride they would curse him with justification.

As the second lieutenant dropped his hand the guns trundled to the ports, trucks squealing as the crews controlled their downhill advance with tackles and handspikes. It was no easy task with the planking so treacherous.

Almost together the black muzzles of the twelve-pounders thrust through the ports, while here and there a gun captain reached out to brush snow from his charge.

'Starboard battery run out, sir!'

'Deck there!' The tension was broken momentarily as the masthead lookout yelled excitedly, 'Ships at anchor round the point, sir!'

Bolitho looked at Neale, and beyond him where Allday was moving his big cutlass back and forth through the air like a wand.

Then forward again, to where his nephew had climbed on to a gun truck to see beyond the nettings.

If every other man-jack aboard had doubted him, these three had not.

'Stand by to wear ship!'

'Hands to the braces there!'

As topmen and others employed at each mast dashed to obey, only the gun crews remained motionless, each captain watching his small world which was held in a square port like a picture.

Neale held up his hand. 'Be easy, lads! Easy now!'

Bolitho heard him. It was like someone calming a nervous horse.

He stared hard across the nettings, barely able to control his feelings. It was all there. Half a dozen merchantmen anchored close together. Somehow dejected in their coatings of white snow, their crossed yards devoid of movement or life.

Allday had moved up to his shoulder, as he always did. To be near. To be ready.

Bolitho could hear his heavy breathing as he said, 'English ships, sir. No doubt about it.' His thick arm shot forward. 'And look yonder! The damn Frenchie!'

Bolitho snatched the glass again and trained it through the masts and rigging. There she was, the Ajax, as he remembered her. Further inshore was a second man-of-war, larger and more cumbersome. Probably a cut down two-decker. The escort for the seized merchantmen, waiting to ride out the weather or await orders.

The paler outline of the fortress walls were almost lost in drifting snowflakes, but somewhere a trumpet gave a strident blare, and Bolitho pictured the startled, cursing soldiers as they ran to man their defences. No man thought too well when roused from a warm bunk to face this kind of weather.

'Now, Captain Neale! Alter course and cut astern of the merchantmen! '

A long way off a gun boomed out, the sound without menace in the snow. A testing shot? A call to arms? Bolitho could feel the excitement welling up like madness. It was too late, whatever it was.

He put his hand down to steady himself as the wheel went over and the Styx changed tack towards the anchorage. His palm touched- the brilliantly gilded hilt of his presentation. sword, and with something like shock he remembered he had left his old blade in the Benbow.

Allday saw his uncertainty and felt the same anxiety.

Bolitho turned and looked at him. He knew that Allday understood and would be blaming himself.

'Never fear, Allday, we did not know our visit to the Danes would end here.'

They both smiled, but neither was deceived. It was like an. omen.

'The Ajax has cut her cable, sir!' A midshipman was dancing with excitement. 'They are in a real confusion!'

Bolitho watched the first scrap of canvas appear on the other frigate's yards, the steep angle of her masts as wind and current carried her towards the shore.

Neale had drawn his sword and was holding it above the nearest gun crew as if to restrain them. The French ship was standing higher through the snow now, taking on shape and personality. More sails had appeared, and above the din of spray and canvas they heard the rumble of gun trucks, the urgent shrill of a whistle.

Across his shoulder Neale called, 'Don't let -her fall off too much! We'll hold the Frenchman 'twixt us and any shore battery!'

Bolitho studied the enemy frigate as she appeared to move astern. Neale had forgotten nothing. From the corner of his eye, even as the Styx completed her slight change of tack, he saw the captain's sword slice down.

'As you bear! Fire!'

Bolitho felt his eyes smarting painfully as a freak breeze brought some of the gunsmoke down across the quarterdeck. He watched the guns hurling themselves inboard on their tackles, the fiery orange tongues ripping through the swirling snow, his ears half-deafened by the noise. Then the quarterdeck six-pounders added their sharper notes, the balls falling short or beyond the other, ship, some even hitting her.

Like madmen the crews were already sponging out their weapons, ramming home fresh charges and balls before throwing their weight on the tackles once again.

And still the French captain had failed to fire a single shot in reply.

The hands of the gun captains were raised in a ragged line, and the first lieutenant yelled, `Stand by! Fire!'

Bolitho shaded his eyes to watch the dense smoke being driven downwind towards the other ship. They were on a converging tack, the slightly heavier Ajax spreading even her topgallants to fight her way into more open water.

There was a cheer as the Ajax 's topsails danced and shook to the onslaught, the wind exploring the shot holes and ripping the maincourse apart like an old sack.

Then the enemy replied. At a range of perhaps a cable, the broadside was ill-timed and badly aimed, but Bolitho felt the iron smashing into the Styx 's hull, and a stray ball striking further aft beneath his feet. The deck rebounded as if being struck by a great hammer, but Neale's gun crews did not even seem to notice.

'Stop your vents! Sponge out! Load!'

All the drills, the training and the threats had paid off. `Run out!'

The smoke writhed between the two ships, its heart bright with red and orange as if it contained life of its own. Then the balls crashed into the Styx 's side once more even as she returned the broadside.