Alexander Kent - ENEMY IN SIGHT

Bolitho asked, "How was it?"

The surgeon's mate grimaced. "A small splinter, sir. No bigger than me fingertip." He shrugged heavily. "But there was enough pus and muck around it fer ten men."

"I see." It was pointless to question him further. He was merely an extension of Trudgeon's arms, the strength to hold still a victim, and one so hardened by the horrors of his trade that he was beyond compassion of any kind.

Bolitho walked past him and raised the telescope once more. How quickly the French ships had tacked into line and how utterly indestructible they looked. Under reduced sails, with their hulls gleaming dully in the strange light, they seemed to be moving along an invisible thread, on a converging tack with the three English ships. Much further astern, her high poop just visible beyond the formidable line, he could see _the San Leandro, where no doubt Perez and his advisers were waiting to see the way opened for his return to power and wealth.

De Block had told him that the governor of Las Mercedes was over seventy years old. It was unlikely he would live long enough to enjoy his return, even if the French allowed him to.

He slammed the telescope on its rack. He was already thinking in terms of defeat. Lequiller would not succeed, and Perez would only live to see his new ally's destruction!

Barely three miles separated the two squadrons now, but it was still impossible to tell which ships would keep to windward. It was better to retain the present controlled approach than to lose station in some last-minute manoeuvre.

The singing had stopped, and as he looked along the ship's length he saw the men standing beside their guns, staring aft towards him.

He nodded. "You may load and run out, Mr. Inch. It is time we showed our teeth!"

Inch grinned and hurried away. Minutes later the port lids swung upwards, and to the accompaniment of squealing trucks the guns trundled against the bulwarks, the captains gripping the trigger lines and speaking quietly to their own men.

Midshipman Pascoe dashed through the main hatch and ran aft to the foot of the quarterdeck ladder.

"Lower battery loaded and ready, sir!" He turned to hurry back but paused as Bolitho called, "Come here, Mr. Pascoe!"

The boy ran on to the quarterdeck and touched his hat. He looked bright-eyed and there were patches of colour on his cheeks.

Bolitho said quietly, "Look yonder." He waited as the boy blimbed on to a bollard to peer above the hammock nettings.

Pascoe stared for a full minute at the great array of sails stretching towards the starboard bow. Then he climbed down and said, "There are a lot of them, sir." He lifted his chin, and without effort Bolitho could see his face pictured with all those others hanging in the empty house at Falmouth.

Impulsively he reached out and gripped his arm. "Take care Mr. Pascoe. No heroics today, eh?" He thrust his hand into his pocket and took out the small carved ship which de Block had given him. "Here, take this. A souvenir of your first voyage."

The boy turned it over in his hands and said, "It's beautiful!" Then he placed it inside his coat and touched his hat again.

Bolitho watched him go, his heart suddenly heavy with concern.

"He'll be safe down there, Captain."

He turned to find Allday standing behind him, the sword and his best dress coat draped across his arm.

Several men watched him as he slipped out of his faded seagoing coat and thrust his arms into the one with the white lapels and bright gold lace. The coat which Cheney had admired so much.

Allday adjusted the swordbelt around his waist and stood back with a critical glance.

Then he said quietly, "It is going to be fierce work before we're done today, Captain. There's many a man who'll be looking aft when things get bad." He nodded, apparently satisfied. "They'll want to see you. To know you're here with them."

Bolitho lifted the old sword a few inches from its scabbard and touched the blade with his finger. Old, maybe, but the man who. had forged it had known a thing or two. It was lighter than most of the modern ones, but the blade was like a razor. He let it drop into the scabbard and thrust his hands beneath his coat.

He said, "If I fall today, see that the boy is safe."

Allday stood at his back, a heavy cutlass naked in his belt. If you fall it will be because I am already pulped, he thought. Aloud he replied, "Never fear, Captain." He showed his teeth in a grin. "I'll be an admiral's cox'n yet!"

There was a dull bang, and seconds later a thin waterspout rose lazily across the larboard bow. Bolitho watched the brown smoke being whipped away from the three-decker's forecastle by the wind.

He imagined Lequiller and his captain watching their slow approach and felt his breathing becoming more controlled, even relaxed. The last calm before madness began. The moment when there was no more room for conjecture or regret.

Another ball ploughed through the white-tipped rollers and ricocheted towards the horizon.

He found that he was smiling, his skin tight like a mask. You will have to get closer than that, my friend. Much closer.

Then he drew his sword and laid it flat along the quarterdeck rail.

The waiting was done. The time was now.

Bolitho turned his back on the approaching ships and raised his glass to study the Spartan. With the little sloop close astern of her she was plunging through steep swells about a mile to windward. He caught a brief glimpse of Farquhar's elegant figure, his face turned towards him, and then lowered the glass again.

"Make a signal to Spartan and Dasher." He saw Carlyon's hands shaking as he picked up his slate and pencil. "Attack and harass the enemy's rear."

The suddenness of Farquhar's acknowledgement and the instant activity on the frigate's deck and yards told him of the relief his signal had unleashed. Unlike the twodeckers, Farquhar had no need to wait to be pounded blow for blow. As his sails filled to the wind and more canvas billowed from his topgallant yards Bolitho knew he would give of his best. At any other time it would have been sheer lunacy to despatch such frail vessels headlong into the fray, but as Farquhar had observed, the enemy had no frigates left, and feint attacks around the French rear might help to cause some momentary diversion.

Inch whispered, "The Dasher too, sir?"

Bolitho glanced at him. "There can be no spectators today."

There was a sporadic rumble of cannon fire, and he saw the Tornade's upper battery light up in a long ripple of orange tongues. But the Spartan was already thrusting past and ahead of Hyperion's larboard bow, her ensign streaming from the gaff as she spread more sail and headed towards the opposite end of the French line. Some of the balls ripped through the water and raised more spray beyond her, but she was a difficult target, and it was obvious that the sudden move was quite unexpected.

Flags soared up the Tornade's yards, and the two rearmost two-deckers began to idle clear of the line, their topsails flapping as they tacked slowly and ponderously towards the oncoming frigate.

Bolitho smiled tightly. The treasure ship meant more to Lequiller than anything. Without her and her cargo of men and wealth this would be a battle of no value, either to him or his, country.

Some of te other ships were firing now, the sounds intermingled and jarring as their gunners tried to wing the two spray-shrouded vessels before they could sail past.

Bolitho held his breath as the sloop rocked violently, her low hull completely bracketed with leaping columns of water. But she sailed on, her driver and maintopsail punctured in a dozen places. One of those balls from the French line would smash her delicate timbers to boxwood, and her commander needed no encouragement to spread more sail and clap on speed.