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  His mouth was bone dry, but he must not think about it. The Marie had a company of seven hundred men. She had in addition upwards of two hundred soldiers aboard and a hundred terrified horses.

  There was a direct orange flash from the hillside and then a loud slap overhead. Bolitho looked at the smoking hole in the mizzen topsail and then at the admiral.

  Moresby gritted his teeth as he said, 'We must attack, Bolitho! What else can we do?'

  Bolitho looked away as another ball screamed past the mainyard and ricocheted across the water like a crazed serpent.

  He said, 'We must withdraw, sir. With all respect, this move is lost to us.' Again he was amazed at his own calmness. Yet every second carried his ship nearer and nearer to the entrance. Fifteen more minutes and he would have to tack. One way or the other. He added doggedly, 'The Frogs can pound us to fragments, sir. Even if we reach the other part of the harbour they'll be waiting for our boats to try and land.'

  He saw Moresby's features twisting with doubts and fears he could only guess at. Whatever he did now he would see his future in ruins. An eighty-gun ship destroyed and her company burned or captured, and above all the French flag over Cozar, untouched and unreachable. Then he pushed the feelings of pity from his mind and said harshly, 'For God's sake, sir! We cannot fight those guns!'

  Then Moresby looked up at his flag rippling from the foremast and said with his old abruptness, 'Handle your ship as you will, Bolitho! But we'll not give in to those treacherous dogs!' He glared. 'Not now! Not ever!'

  Bolitho eyed him squarely and coldly, then walked to the rail. 'Larboard batteries to full elevation, Mr. Quarme! We will engage as we round the headland!' He glanced up quickly as a shoulder of hillside lifted to blind the enemy gunners. But respite was only temporary. Once round the point and at least seven big guns would bear on the Hyperion.

  He listened to the bosun's mates piping his orders between decks and heard the scrape of metal as the double line of guns pointed their muzzles skyward.

  Then as the ship threw her shadow almost to the foot of the cliffs a great silence fell over the decks, unbroken even by distant gunfire.

  Ashby's marines had clumped aft and now lined the quarterdeck and poop nettings, their muskets loaded and ready. Lieutenant Shanks, Ashby's second-in-command, stood by the poop rail, his heavy curved hanger still in its scabbard, as if to condemn the hopelessness of muskets against stone and heated shot.

  Caswell called, 'Sir! The Princesa's hauled off!'

  It was true. Horrified or fearful at the sight of the Hyperion driving right inshore to the foot of the cliffs, the other Spanish captain had obviously decided to use his own discretion rather than obey Moresby's last desperate signal.

  Moresby said thickly, 'That cowardly dog! I'll see him in chains for this!'

  Bolitho ignored him. It was easy to do with death so close at hand. His usual fear of mutilation and agony under the surgeon's knife at the approach of battle gave way to a dull acceptance. It was strange that but for his own single mindedness he would still be in Kent. He thought of Moresby's determination and felt violently angry. To think that such eager men, and others swept up by an impartial Press, should trust their lives to men like him! When all else failed, when he was proved wrong, all he could think of was dying bravely! And when Hyperion's old timbers lay rotting beside those of the Spaniard's the French flag would still be there.

  A shaft of sunlight lanced across the quarterdeck and with something like shock he realised that his ship was already moving into the calmer waters of the harbour approach. There across the bow was the far side of the opening, an unfinished stone jetty shining in the sun like giant's teeth. He could seethe small sloop anchored around a bend in the steep hills which surrounded the protected bay like a green wall. There were some tiny figures rowing a longboat across the sloop's bows, untroubled by the horror below the fortress.

  They were so confident that as the Hyperion's bowsprit crossed the opening they ceased rowing, and one man even stood up to watch.

  Bolitho grasped the quarterdeck rail, feeling his heart against his ribs like drum beats. 'Mr. Rooke!' He saw the lieutenant turn his face up from the maindeck, shading his eyes against the glare. 'You will control the firing! I want the guns fired in succession, two by two as they bear! Aim for the parapet and fire on the uproll!' He saw Rooke nod and then turn back to his crouching gunners.

  Hyperion was cutting the entrance more finely than the carefree Marte had done, so the French battery would have to wait a moment longer. As the ship glided slowly past an outthrust spit of rocks Bolitho heard cries of shocked despair from the tops, and when he leaned over the nettings he saw what was left of Anduaga's flagship.

  She was still burning fiercely, but some internal explosion must have blasted out her bottom, so that she lay like a flaming pyre across a ridge of hard sand, her masts all gone, her hull gutted almost to the lower gundeck. She was surrounded by a drifting carpet of ashes and charred woodwork, amongst which the wounded and flayed survivors jostled each other, splashing and screaming, clutching even at the many corpses which moved with them in a macabre dance.

  Rooke's voice was crisp. 'Open fire!'

  The broadside rippled unhurriedly down the Hyperion's side, each upper gun firing in unison with its larger consort on the lower deck.

  Bolitho felt the ship quiver as if being shaken by a jagged reef. He watched narrowly as the balls struck the top of the stone walls below the smoking mil-les and saw a few chips fly in the air like pebbles. As if from far off he heard his gun captains yelling like madmen, `Reload! Run out!', and the trucks squealing again like pigs as they raced each other for the open ports.

  Then the first two guns fired from the battery. One ball whipped overhead and crashed into the far side of the harbour. The second hit the ship hard below the quarterdeck, the shock vibrating up through the planking even as the men ran with their buckets to quench the eager twist of smoke from the embedded iron.

  'Fire!' Again the guns lurched back on the tilting deck, their own smoke eddying back through the ports, acrid and blinding, as the gunners feverishly sponged out the hot muzzles and rammed home their charges.

  They were past the entrance now. More guns joined in from the battery, and Bolitho's iced mind recorded at least two more hits below decks. Somewhere a man was screaming, the noise going on and on, so that some of the boys running from the magazine with powder seemed terrified by its persistent discord.

  'Larboard a point, Mr. Gossett!' Bolitho watched the helm going over and saw the seaman nearest him gripping the' worn spokes with all his strength.

  A solitary horseman cantered over the crest of the hill and paused to open his telescope. He seemed to stare down at the ship like a bored spectator, and Lieutenant Shanks snarled, 'A guinea for the first man to bring him down!' The marines responded eagerly, each man glad to be doing something at last, although everyone knew that the muskets would not reach half that distance. But the horse shied and the mounted soldier hurriedly withdrew. The marines cheered and grinned at each other through the smoke, as if they had vanquished an army.

  Bolitho turned away as another ball screamed down from the battery and hammered into his ship. But this one passed through a gunport and clanged against the metal of a twentyfour-pounder before smashing into the press of men on the opposite side. He could hear the desperate shouts of the officers and the awful screams from the wounded, but when he looked at Moresby the latter was staring straight ahead, one hand resting on his sheathed sword, the other tapping a tattoo against his thigh.

  'Fire on the lower gundeck, sir!' Midshipman Piper skidded to a halt, his monkey face black with smoke. 'Ten men wounded, too!' He swallowed hard. 'There's a bloody gruel down there, sir!'

  Bolitho found time to marvel at the boy's calm. Later he would break. If he lived long enough.

  'Detail more fire parties, Mr. Quarme!' He tore his eyes from the thin plume of smoke from the forehatch. 'Lively there!'

 
It was hopeless. As the ship moved further into the harbour so she made a better target. Bolitho could see the landing place now,-and that too was crammed with soldiers and the glint of weapons. Here and there a musket flashed, and he knew they were shooting at some of the Marte's men who had been strong enough to swim that far.

  A kind of throbbing madness pulsed through Bolitho's head, so that he felt half dazed. He could stand no more of it. To throw his ship and his men away for nothing.

  He swung round to face Moresby, but as he turned he felt something akin to a hot, sandy wind pass his face, and as he opened his mouth to cry a warning the ball struck the nearest gun and exploded in a screech of splinters. Three marines fell writhing from the nettings, and the helmsman whom Bolitho had noticed earlier dropped gasping to his - knees, his fingers tearing at his stomach as if to contain the entrails which spewed out on to the planking.

  Quarme was yelling, 'The admiral is hit!' He ran from the rail and stooped down beside him calling, 'Fetch the surgeon! Hurry, man!'

  Bolitho crossed the deck in two strides. 'Return to your station, Mr. Quarme!' From the corner of his eye he saw Gossett -pushing the agonised man from the wheel and guiding another through the smoke. He heard cries all around him, but as the smoke eddied and swirled over the bulwarks his world was momentarily contained on this small patch of sunlit quarterdeck. And all -the time Moresby was staring up at him, unable to speak, for a splinter had gouged into his throat, tearing it away like a blow from a great talon.

  Midshipman Caswell faltered, swallowing hard to control his nausea, then forcing himself from the bulwark dropped down to support the admiral's head on his lap.

  Still looking at Moresby's stricken face Bolitho rapped, 'Stand by to go about, Mr. Gossett!'

  Some sort of understanding showed on Moresby's face, and he feebly tried to move, so that the blood poured from his wound and across his white waistcoat.

  Bolitho shouted, 'Now! Helm alee!' Down in the smoke he could hear men cursing and struggling, and disembodied above the fog the yards began to swing round. The guns were still firing, and as a freak down-draught cleared the smoke from the bows Bolitho saw the fortress swinging across the forecastle as if on a pivot. He felt a sudden prick of pride for this tired old ship. She was answering well in spite of the fools who manned her.

  He knelt at Moresby's side and saw the man's tongue bobbing as if to tear itself free. Over his head Caswell's face was torn with fear and pity as his tears ran unheeded, making pale lines through the grime of gunsmoke.

  Moresby whispered, 'You were right, Bolitho, damn you!' He shook as a ball whimpered above the poor and severed a backstay like thread. 'I should have seen-should have realised .. .' He was choking in his own blood.

  Bolitho said quietly, 'Rest easy, sir. I am taking the ship away from this.'

  Moresby closed his eyes. 'Running from them!' He groaned. 'In all my years I've never run...'

  Bolitho wanted to go back to his ship, but his sudden compassion for Moresby made him stay. He said, 'Not running, sir. We will come back and take that battery for you!'

  A gunner's mate ran to the quarterdeck his eyes wild. 'Captain, sir!' He stopped. dead as he saw the admiral and then continued in a calmer voice, 'The fire's out, sir!'

  Moresby seemed to hear him and muttered, 'Of course, you are a Cornishman, Bolitho. Never did like 'em. Too damn independent, too-too . . .' The blood gushed across his chest and neck and his head lolled against Caswell for the last time.

  Bolitho stood up. 'Are we clear? He saw Gossett staring at him. 'Well?'

  The master licked his lips and then nodded. 'Look, sir!'

  The entrance was gliding past once more. Abeam lay the burning hulk of the Marte and her attendant corpses. Dead men and horses floated across the Hyperion's bows and unwillingly parted to let her through.

  Only a few shots followed her out, for the gunsmoke and that of the burning flagship made a very effective screen. Or maybe the French gunners were too jubilant to care. As well they might be, Bolitho thought bitterly.

  He said, `Wear ship, Mr. Gossett. Steer due east once you clear the approaches.' To the quarterdeck at large he added coldly, 'I told the admiral we will return.'

  He caught sight of the unharmed Princesa still hove to and standing far out from the battery's reach. He heard himself say, `Signal the Princesa. I want her captain aboard within the hour.' He looked around the stained deck, at the protesting wounded who were being dragged below to meet the surgeon's knife. At the splintered deck where Moresby had fallen, and at the admiral himself. He said aloud, 'If the Spanish captain refuses to obey my orders I will open fire on him!'

  Gossett saw his face and turned away. He knew Bolitho meant what he said. There was no relief on the captain's face as he might have expected. He had saved his ship and had shown honour in the face of stupidity. But in his eyes there was a wildness which Gossett in all his experience had not seen before. Like that in the eyes of an injured animal. In his heart he knew the look would stay there until Hyperion lay at anchor in the harbour and the battery's guns were made harmless.

  Bolitho heard some of the men cheering and snapped, 'Secure the guns, Mr. Quarme, and report to me on all damage and casualties. There will be time for cheering later perhaps.' He stared astern towards the drifting bank of smoke which followed the- ship like a curtain. 'But now there is work to do.'

  Quarme mopped his sweating face with the back of his sleeve. 'Will we be returning to the squadron, sir?' He faltered as Bolitho eyed him coldly then hurried on, 'I mean, sir, both admirals are dead and ...'

  Bolitho turned away. Then we will just have to manage on our own, won't we, Mr. Quarme?'

  4

  PLAN OF ATTACK

  Lieutenant Ernest Quarme tucked his hat beneath his arm and stepped into the captain's cabin, squinting his eyes against the fierce glare which was thrown upwards through the stern windows to paint the deckhead and furniture in a strange green light.

  'You sent for me, sir?'

  Bolitho was leaning out over the sill staring down at the Hyperion's tiny wake as it bubbled sluggishly from the weedencrusted rudder. For a moment his eyes were blinded by the darkened cabin, then he sat down on the bench seat and gestured towards a nearby chair. He knew the first lieutenant was watching him intently, his features betraying nothing of his inner thoughts, and Bolitho hoped that his own face was equally devoid of expression.

  Around the cabin the ship creaked and murmured as she wallowed heavily on a slow south-easterly course, her sails hardly filling, and showing more use as shelter for the sun for the men working about her decks. Like muffled drumbeats he could hear the thud of hammers and the occasional rasp of saws as Cuppage, the carpenter, and his mates completed the repairs and hid the last remaining scars left from the brief and savage action.

  Bolitho rubbed his eyes and tried to clear the tiredness from his mind. If only the other scars were as easily erased. But the anger and relief, the jubilation of escape and the excitement of battle had soon given way to gloom and depression, which hung over the ship like a stormcloud. For that short, onesided fight had been two long days ago. Two days of monotonous tacking and patrolling back and forth, with the island and its mocking flag a constant reminder of their failure.

  Bolitho had searched his mind again and again for some method of attack, so that as the hours drew into days each plan became more dangerous and every hope of success more doubtful, Then this morning the final blow had fallen. The dawn light load found the Hyperion some seven miles to the southwest of the island, an area which he had selected as the most suitable for making a quick dash down on the protected harbour, making use of the prevailing offshore winds.

  He had placed the Spanish sixty-four, Princesa, on the othei side of the island, where she had the best chance of catching the captured sloop Fairfax should she try and escape by that route.

  And the sloop was yet another essential link in the overall plan. The French garrison had no other ship avail
able to carry the news of Moresby's attack and the patrolling British squadron, and unless some sort of storeship was sent from the mainland they would remain in a state of siege. Bolitho had toyed with the idea of a cutting-out operation, but had instantly rejected it. He knew in his heart that it was more as a balm to his hurt pride than a plan with any true value. Moresby's attack had cost Hyperion more than enough already. Eight killed and sixteen wounded. The damage to morale was beyond measure.

  Then as the morning light had strengthened the news had broken. The lookout at the mainmast head had reported no sign of the Fairfax. She had somehow slipped out during the night, and now, as the midday sun beat down relentlessly on the dried decks, she was probably entering St. Clar and screaming the news abroad. The defences would be altered, but even worse, the French would now know the 'strength of the vanquished squadron. It was more than likely that along the French coast in inlets and harbours there were ships of the line just waiting the chance to dash out and avenge the indignity of Hood's blockade. Several such ships were known to have slipped past the British patrols, and others were probably in the vicinity already.

  Bolitho blamed himself bitterly for the sloop's escape, although he knew well enough it was what he had expected. No ship of the line was fast enough to find her in the dark, and the hill-top battery made sure that the Hyperion stayed clear during daylight.

  He looked across at Quarme and asked slowly, 'How is the visibility now?'

  Quarme shrugged. 'It varies by the hour, sir. But just now it was less than two miles.'

  Bolitho nodded. From first light the wind had dropped more and more, so that now the sea's milky surface was hardly ruffled by pitifully light airs which hardly gave the ship steerage way. And as the day drew on a strange mist had gathered, ebbing and writhing like steam, and even the island was lost from sight for quite long periods. Not that it mattered now, he thought heavily. The garrison knew they were there just the same. And the sloop had escaped.