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  The foremast’s fighting-top loomed above him, reminding him of Allday’s joke about the futtock shrouds. Nimble-footed top-men could scramble out and around the top without interruption, those on the leeward side hanging out, suspended, with nothing but the sea beneath them. The fighting-top was a square platform protected by a low barricade, behind which marksmen could take aim at targets on an enemy’s deck. It matched the tops on the other masts, above which the shrouds and stays reached up to the next of the upper yards, and beyond.

  The foremast was perhaps the most important and complicated in the ship. It carried not only the bigger course and topsails, but was connected and rigged to the bowsprit, and the smaller, vital jib and staysails. Each time a ship attempted to come about and turn across the eye of the wind, the small jibsails would act like a spur or brake to prevent her floundering to a standstill, taken all aback with her sails flattened uselessly against the masts, unable to pay off in either direction. At the height of close action, the inability to manoeuvre could mean the death of the ship.

  He thought of York and men like him, the true professionals. How many people ashore would ever understand the strength and prowess of such fine sailors, when they saw a King’s ship beating down-Channel under a full press of sail?

  He dragged himself between the shrouds and took the easier way into the foretop by way of a small opening, the “lubber’s hole,” as the old Jacks derisively termed it.

  There were four Royal Marines here, their white crossbelts and the corporal’s chevrons on one man’s sleeve visible against the outer darkness.

  “Mornin’, sir! Fine day for a stroll!”

  Avery unslung the telescope and smiled. That was another thing about being a flag lieutenant, neither fish nor fowl, like an outsider who had come amongst them: he was not an officer in charge of a mast or a division of guns, nor a symbol of discipline or punishment. So he was accepted. Tolerated.

  He said, “Do you think it will be light soon?”

  The corporal leaned against a mounted swivel-gun. It was already depressed, and covered with a piece of canvas to protect the priming from the damp air. Ready for instant use.

  He replied, “’Alf hour, sir. Near as a priest’s promise!”

  They all laughed, as if this were only another, normal day.

  Avery stared at the flapping jib and imagined the crouching lion beneath it. What if the sea was empty when daylight came? He searched his feelings. Would he be relieved, grateful?

  He thought of the intensity in Bolitho’s voice, the way he and Tyacke had conferred and planned. He shivered suddenly. No, the sea would not be empty of ships. How can I be certain? Then he thought, Because of what we are, what he has made us.

  He tried to focus his thoughts on England. London, that busy street with its bright carriages and haughty footmen, and one carriage in particular …She was lovely. She would not wait, and waste her life.

  And yet, they had shared something deeper, however briefly. Surely there was a chance, a hope beyond this cold dawn?

  The corporal said carefully, “I sometimes wonders what he’s like, sir. The admiral, I mean.” He faltered, thinking he had gone too far. “It’s just that we sees him an’ you walkin’ the deck sometimes, and then there was the day when ’is lady come aboard at Falmouth.” He put his hand on his companion’s shoulder. “Me an’ Ted was there. I’d never ’ave believed it, see?”

  Avery did see. Replacing Catherine’s shoes and remarking on the tar on her stocking after her climb up this ship’s side. The flag breaking out, and then the cheers. Work them, drive them, break them; but these same men had seen, and remembered.

  He said, “He is that man, Corporal. Just as she is that lady.” He could almost hear Tyacke’s words. I would serve no other.

  One of the other marines, encouraged by his corporal, asked, “What will us do when th’ war’s over an’ done with?”

  Avery stared up at the great rectangle of sail, and felt the raw salt on his mouth.

  “I pray to God that I shall be able to choose something for myself.”

  The corporal grunted. “I’ll get me other stripe an’ stay in the Royals. Good victuals an’ plenty of rum, an’ a hard fight when you’re needed! It’ll do me!”

  A voice echoed down from the crosstrees. “First light a-comin’, sir!”

  The corporal grinned. “Old Jacob up there, he’s a wild one, sir!”

  Avery thought of Tyacke’s description of the seaman named Jacob, the best lookout in the squadron. Once a saddle-maker, a highly skilled trade, he had found his wife in the arms of another man, and had killed both of them. The Assizes had offered him the choice of the gibbet or the navy. He had outlived many others with no such notoriety.

  Avery withdrew the big telescope from its case, while the marines made a space for him and even found him something to kneel on.

  One of them put his hand on the swivel-gun and chuckled. “Don’t you go bumpin’ into old Betsy ’ere, sir. You might set ’er off by accident, an’ blow the ’ead off our poor sergeant. That’d be a true shame, wouldn’t it, lads?” They all laughed. Four marines on a windswept perch in the middle of nowhere. They had probably no idea where they were, or where bound tomorrow.

  Avery knelt, and felt the low barricade shivering under the great weight of spars and canvas, and all the miles of rigging that ruled the lives of such men as these. Of one company.

  He held his breath and trained the glass with great care, but saw only cloud and darkness. Old Jacob on his lofty lookout would see it first.

  He was shivering again, unable to stop.

  “’Ere, sir.” A hand reached out from somewhere. “Nelson’s blood!”

  Avery took it gratefully. It was against all regulations: they knew it, and so did he.

  The corporal murmured, “To wish us luck, eh, lads?”

  Avery swallowed, and felt the rum driving out the cold. The fear. He stared out again. You will be my eyes today. As if he were right beside him.

  And suddenly, there they were. The enemy.

  Captain James Tyacke watched the shadowy figures of Hockenhull, the boatswain, and a party of seamen as they hauled on lines and secured them to bollards. Every one of Indomitable’s boats was in the water, towing astern like a single unwieldy sea anchor, and although he could scarcely see them, he knew that the nets were already spread across the gun deck. The scene was set.

  Tyacke searched his feelings for doubt. Had there been any? But if so, they were gone as soon as the old lookout’s doleful voice had called down from the foremast crosstrees. Avery would be peering through his glass, searching for details, numbers, the strength of the enemy.

  York remarked, “Wind’s falling away, sir. Steady enough, though.”

  Tyacke glanced over at Bolitho’s tall figure framed against the pale barrier of packed hammocks, and saw him nod. It was time: it had to be. But the wind was everything.

  He said sharply, “Shake out the second reef, Mr Daubeny! Set fores’l and driver!” To himself he added, where are our damned ships? They might have become scattered during the breezy night; better that than risk a collision, now of all times. He heard the first lieutenant’s tame midshipman repeating his instructions in a shrill voice, edged with uncertainty at the prospect of something unknown to him.

  He considered his other lieutenants, and frowned. Boys in the King’s uniform. Even Daubeny was young for his responsibilities. The words repeated themselves in his mind. If I fall … It would be Daubeny’s skill, or lack of it, that would determine their success or failure.

  He heard Allday murmur something and Bolitho’s quick laugh, and was surprised that it could still move him. Steady him, like the iron hoops around each great mast, holding them together.

  The marines had laid down their weapons, and had manned the mizzen braces as the driver filled and cracked to the wind.

  He knew that Isaac York was hovering nearby, wanting to speak to him, to pass the time as friends usually did befor
e an action. Just in case. But he could not waste time in conversation now. He needed to be alive and alert to everything, from the men at the big double-wheel to the ship’s youngest midshipman, who was about to turn the half-hour glass beside the compass box.

  He saw his own coxswain, Fairbrother, peering down at the boats under tow.

  “Worried, Eli?” He saw him grin. He was no Allday, but he was doing his best.

  “They’ll all need a lick o’ paint when we picks ’em up, sir.”

  But Tyacke had turned away, his eyes assessing the nearest guns, the crews, some bare-backed despite the cold wind, standing around them, waiting for the first orders. Decks sanded to prevent men slipping, in spray or perhaps in blood. Rammers, sponges, and worms, the tools of their trade, close to hand.

  Lieutenant Laroche drawled, “Here comes the flag lieutenant.”

  Avery climbed the ladder to the quarterdeck, and Allday handed him his hat and sword.

  He said, “Six sail right enough, Sir Richard. I think the tide’s on the ebb.”

  York muttered, “It would be.”

  “I think one of the frigates is towing all the boats, sir. It’s too far and too dark to be sure.”

  Tyacke said, “Makes sense. It would hold them all together. Keep ’em fresh and ready for landing.”

  Bolitho said, “We can’t wait. Alter course now.” He looked at Tyacke, and afterwards he imagined he had seen him smile, even though his features were in shadow. “As soon as we sight our ships, signal them to attack at will. This is no time for a line of battle!”

  Avery recalled the consternation at the Admiralty when Bolitho had voiced his opinions on the fleet’s future.

  Tyacke called, “Alter course two points. Steer north-east by north!” He knew what Bolitho had seen in his mind, how they had discussed it, even with nothing more to go on than Captain Lloyd’s sighting report and his own interpretation of the extra boats carried by the enemy. Tyacke gave a crooked grin. Slavers, indeed.

  Men were already hauling at the braces, their bodies angled almost to the deck while they heaved the great yards round, muscle and bone striving against wind and rudder.

  Tyacke saw Daubeny urging a few spare hands to add their weight to the braces. But even with the Nova Scotian volunteers, they were still short-handed, a legacy of Indomitable’s savage fight against Beer’s Unity. Tyacke straightened his hat. It was unnerving when he considered that that was a year ago.

  Bolitho joined him by the rail. “The enemy have the numbers and the superior artillery, and will readily use both.” He folded his arms, and could have been discussing the weather. “But he is on a lee shore and knows it. Being a sailor, I am sure he was never consulted about the choice of landing places!” He laughed, and added, “So we must be sharp about it.”

  Tyacke leaned over to consult the compass as the helmsman called, “Nor’-east by north, sir! Full an’ bye!”

  Tyacke peered up at each sail, watchful and critical as his ship leaned over comfortably on the starboard tack. Then he cupped his hands and shouted, “Check the forebrace, Mr Protheroe! Now belay!” He said almost to himself, “He’s only a boy, dammit!”

  But Bolitho had heard him. “We were all that, James. Young lions!”

  “Chivalrous is in sight, sir! Larboard quarter!”

  Just an array of pale canvas riding high into the dull clouds. How did he know? But Tyacke did not question the lookout: he knew, and that was all there was to it. The others would be in sight soon. He saw the first feeble light exploring the shrouds and shaking topsails. So would the enemy.

  The wind was still fresh, strong enough, for the moment anyway. There would be no land in sight until the sun came out, and even then … But you could feel it all the same. Like a presence, a barrier reaching out to rid the approaches of all ships, no matter what flag they paraded.

  Tyacke touched his face, and did not notice Bolitho turn his head towards him. So different now, out in the open, to see and to be seen. Not like the choking confines of the lower gun deck on that day at the Nile, when he had almost died, and afterwards had wanted to die.

  He thought of the letter in his strongbox, and the one he had written in reply. Why had he done it? After all the pain and the despair, the brutal realization that the one being he had ever cared for had rejected him, why? Against that, it was still hard to believe that she had written to him. He remembered the hospital at Haslar in Hampshire, full of officers, survivors from one battle or another. Everyone else who had worked there had pretended to be so normal, so calm, so unmoved by the pervasive suffering. It had almost driven him crazy. That had been the last time he had seen her. She had visited the hospital, and he now realized that she must have been sickened by some of the sights she had seen. Hopeful, anxious faces, the disfigured, the burned, the limbless, and others who had been blinded. It must have been a nightmare for her, although all he had felt at the time had been pity. For himself.

  She had been his only hope, all he had clung to after the battle, when he had been so savagely wounded in the old Majestic. Old, he thought bitterly: she had been almost new. He touched the worn rail, laid his hand on it, and again was unaware of Bolitho’s concern. Not like this old lady. Her captain had died there at the Nile, and Majestic’s first lieutenant had taken over the ship, and the fight. A young man. He touched his face again. Like Daubeny.

  She had been so young …He almost spoke her name aloud. Marion. Eventually she had married a man much older than herself, a safe, kindly auctioneer who had given her a nice house by Portsdown Hill, from where you could sometimes see the Solent, and the sails on the horizon. He had tortured himself with it many times. The house was not very far from Portsmouth, and the hospital where he had wanted to die.

  They had had two children, a boy and a girl. They should have been mine. And now her husband was dead, and she had written to him after reading something about the squadron in the newssheet, and the fact that he was now Sir Richard Bolitho’s flag captain.

  It had been a letter written with great care, and without excuse or compromise: a mature letter. She had asked for his understanding, not for his forgiveness. She would value a letter from him, very much. Marion. He thought, as he had thought so often, of the gown he had bought for her before Nelson had led them to the Nile, and the way that Sir Richard’s lovely Catherine had given the same gown grace and meaning after they had lifted her from that sun-blistered boat. Had she perhaps given him back the hope that had been crushed by hatred and bitterness?

  “Deck there! Sail in sight to the nor’-east!”

  Tyacke snatched a glass from the rack and strode up to the weather side, training it across the deck and through the taut rigging. A glimpse of sunshine, without warmth. Waters blue and grey … He held his breath, able to ignore the marines and seamen who were watching him. One, two, three ships, sails filling and then flapping in an attempt to contain the wind. The other ships were not yet visible.

  We have the advantage this time. But with the wind as it was, their roles could quite easily change.

  He lowered the glass and looked at Bolitho. “I think we should hold our course, Sir Richard.”

  Just a nod. Like a handshake. “I agree. Signal Chivalrous to close on flag.” He smiled unexpectedly, his teeth white in his tanned face. “Then hoist the one for Close Action.” The smile seemed to evade him. “And keep it flying!”

  Tyacke saw his quick glance at Allday. Something else they shared. A lifeline.

  “Chivalrous has acknowledged, sir.”

  “Very good.”

  Bolitho joined him again. “We will engage the towing vessel first.” He looked past Tyacke at the other frigate’s misty sails, so clean in the first frail light. “Load when you are ready, James.” The grey eyes rested on his face. “Those soldiers must not be allowed to land.”

  “I’ll pass the word. Double-shotted, and grape for good measure.” He spoke without emotion. “But when we come about we shall have to face the others, unl
ess our ships give us support.”

  Bolitho touched his arm and said, “They will come, James. I am certain of it.”

  He turned as Ozzard, half-crouching as if he had expected to find an enemy engaged alongside, stepped from the companionway. He was carrying the admiral’s gold-laced hat, holding it out as if it were something precious.

  Tyacke said urgently, “Is this wise, Sir Richard? Those Yankee sharpshooters will be all about today!”

  Bolitho handed his plain sea-going hat to Ozzard, and after the slightest hesitation pulled the new one onto his spray-damp hair.

  “Go below, Ozzard. And thank you.” He saw the little man bob gratefully, with no words to make his true feelings known. Then Bolitho said calmly, “It is probably madness, but that is the way of it. Sane endeavour is not for us today, James.” He touched his eye and stared at the reflected glare. “But a victory it must be!”

  The rest was drowned out by the shrill of whistles and the squeak of blocks, as the great guns were cast off from their breechings and their crews prepared to load.

  He knew that some of the afterguard had seen him put on his new hat, the one he and Catherine had bought together in St James’s Street: he had forgotten to tell her of his promotion, and she had loved him for it. A few of the seamen raised a cheer, and he touched his hat to them. But Tyacke had seen the anguish on Allday’s rugged face, and knew what the gesture had cost him.

  Tyacke walked away, watching the familiar preparations without truly seeing them. Aloud he said, “And a victory you shall have, no matter what!”

  Bolitho walked to the taffrail where Allday was shading his eyes to peer astern.

  Like feathers on the shimmering horizon, two more ships of the squadron had appeared, their captains no doubt relieved that the dawn had brought them together again. The smaller of the two frigates would be Wildfire, of twenty-eight guns. Bolitho imagined her captain, a dark-featured man, bellowing orders to his topmen to make more sail, as much as she could carry. Morgan Price, as craggy and as Welsh as his name, had never needed a speaking-trumpet, even in the middle of a gale.