Alexander Kent - ENEMY IN SIGHT

He pulled his watch from his breeches pocket and flicked open the cover. It was exactly two o'clock, and even as he returned it to his pocket four bells chimed out from the forecastle belfry.

When he raised the telescope again he saw the Hermes growing larger and more distinct, and found time to thank God for the keen eyes of her masthead lookout. Later or earlier, and the two squadrons might have slipped past each other, or been lost in a rain squall in the vital moment of contact.

Lequiller would most likely have sighted the Hermes, but he had no choice but to engage. There were many hours of daylight yet, and with the open sea behind him he must fight and destroy the flimsy force across his bows, unless he was to become hunted and not the hunter.

Bolitho said, "Make to Hermes. Take station astern of me." He thought of Herrick again. The signal would disappoint him certainly, but if his sixty-four was to survive the first clash then he must allow the heavier twodeckers the opening broadsides. He added, "Then make a general signal, Mr. Canyon. Prepare for battle!"

"Deck there!" The masthead's call made every eye look up. "Sail fine on the lee bow!" The merest pause. "More'n one ship, sir!"

Bolitho nodded to Inch. "Beat to quarters and clear for action."

The two marine drummers hurried to the quarterdeck ladder and started their insistent tattoo. The rapid drumming seemed to act like the final confimation, and as more men swarmed up from below and ran to their stations those already on watch cheered and waved their neckerchiefs towards the Hermes as she started to tack steeply towards the centre of the line. Bolitho saw Fitzmaurice with his officers, and lifted his arm in response to the other captain's greeting.

Between decks he could hear the thuds and clatter of screens being torn down, the rush of feet as other men hurried aloft to rig the chain-slings to the yards and assist Tomlin's deck party with the protective net above the gunners.

He said to Inch, "Pass the order to sway out the boats for towing astern." He thought of the distance they were from land, the very hopelessness of survival should the worst happen.

Inch came back seconds later, his face pale with excitement. "Cleared for action, sir!" He managed to grin. "Six minutes exactly!"

"Very good." Bolitho found himself smiling. "Very good!"

He walked back to the rail and looked searchingly over the crowded main deck. Every gun was manned and ready, the captains facing aft, their bodies hung about with the tools of their trade. The decks were well sanded, and in the stiff breeze the men would need all the grip they could afford.

He said, "Signal the squadron to shorten sail." He looked up at the pendant and shivered. Soon now. Very soon. It was to be hoped the first sight of the enemy at full strength would not destroy this first determination.

"Deck there! Five sail o' the line an' one other, sir!"

G sett rumbled, "That'll be the Dons' treasure ship."

Bujitho made himself walk slowly aft, his hands behind him. As he passed the quarterdeck nine-pounders some of the gunners twisted round to watch him. As if by meeting his eye they could share his apparent calm and hold it like a talisman.

Captain Dawson clattered down from the poop. Above him and ranged around the nettings his marines were already swaying in neat lines, their muskets at their sides, their dressing faultless as usual.

Bolitho nodded to him. "Go forrard and speak with your lieutenant. The carronades will have plenty of work directly, and I want your sharpshooters to give them all the cover they can."

Dawson tugged at his collar. "Yes, sir." He glanced bleakly at the grey water. "I'll not fancy a swim today."

More seamen thudded down from the shrouds as the big mainsail was finally furled and the ship settled into a state of watchful tension. Apart from the hiss of spray and a steady thrumming tune from the rigging, all was silent once more.

Inch said, "Will we take the weather-gage, sir?"

"It is too soon to say." Bolitho reached out and snatched a glass from Canyon. As he steadied it against the nettings he saw the enemy ships for the first time. It was difficult to fix their formation at such a distance, and the overlapping topsails and streaming flags gave the impression of one huge nightmare creation, climbing up and over the horizon, intent on destruction and death.

He returned the glass. There had been no mistaking the ship at the van of the squadron. The big three-decker. Lequiller's own flagship, Tornade. She was a bare two years old, and mounted a hundred guns. It would be better to remember her at anchor with the wretched prisoners hanging from her mainyard then to contemplate the devastation of her massive artillery, he decided grimly.

But for her, the odds might have been acceptable, if unfair. Five to three. But the Tornade's overwhelming superiority in firepower made all the difference in the world.

He compressed his mouth into a firm line.

"Wind's droppin' a bit, sir." Gossett regarded him glumly. "There's the spite of the Bay an' no mistake."

Bolitho nodded. If it fell away altogether it would make the first embrace all the more devastating and reduce their chances of crippling Lequiller's ships enough to delay if not deter him.

He heard a ripple of voices below the rail and as he looked down he saw some of the seamen clinging to the gangways to watch the approaching ships, realising perhaps the magnitude of their foe.

That was bad. Waiting to close an enemy was always the worst part. It seemed to take an eternity, and all the while there was little to do but watch and consider, to lose confidence and find despair.

He beckoned to one of the drummers. "Here, boy!" He saw the lad staring up at him from beneath his shako; his tanned face pinched with growing fright. "Can you play that fife of yours, eh?" He forced a grin, feeling the skin cracking at the corners of his mouth with the effort.

"Yessir!" The boy blinked rapidly and removed the fife from his white crossbelt.

At that moment, as Bolitho tried to recall some tune or shanty which might attract the men's attention from the other ships, a terrible cry floated up from the poop. It seemed to go on and on, at one level, while the men at the guns around him stared past the wheel towards the dark passageway which led to the stem cabin. Even one of the helmsmen released his grip on the spokes to swing round in horror.

The dreadful cry stopped, but the sound still seemed to hang there as before.

Bolitho gritted his teeth and tried not to picture the gross, naked body being held across the table, that first frightful incision of Trudgeon's knife.

He said sharply, "Well?"

The drummer lifted the fife, his small, rough hands shaking badly as he placed it to his lips.

Then Gossett said gruffly, "How about Portsmouth Lass?" He glared at the gunners and the motionless marines. "Sing, you lily-livered swabs, or I'll be amongst you this minutel"

And as another horrifying scream rent the air the fife's feeble notes were picked up by the seamen on the quarterdeck, and then, slowly at first, by those at the twelve-pounders, and even by some high in the fightingtops.

Bolitho walked to the weather side and turned his face to the sea. The men's voices, strengthening and lifting above the wind, the mental picture of Pelham-Martin's agony, all were part of the unreality around him.

But almost worst of all were the words of the song which Gossett had suggested with such haste, and in order to drown the sounds from the stem cabin.

"I knew a lass in Portsmouth Town…"

The same shanty they had sung when Hyperion had worked clear of Plymouth Sound on that bitter winter's morning.

He turned his head as one of Trudgeon's mates walked from beneath the poop with a canvas bundle in his hands. The man paused to listen to the singing before hurling the bloodstained parcel over the lee rail.