TO GLORY WE STEER - ALEXANDER KENT

Bolitho continued steadily, `Over there, lads, lies the enemy!'

He watched each man in turn, his heart suddenly dreading what was to come. He had brought them all to this. For no matter what reason, or how justified his efforts might be seen by others, he had committed his ship and men to the inevitable.

He felt a sudden gust of warm wind at his neck, and as he watched the low, writhing bank of morning mist began to move clear. One minute the two frigates with the sinking wreck of the Witch of Looe between them made up their own small world. To one beam lay the sun-tinted mist, and to the other the open sea, where night had already crossed the hard horizon, and the topsails of the labouring Cassius showed above its edge, gleaming in the sunlight like a pink shell. Then, as the mist rolled away that small world broke up for ever.

Shrouded in haze to the south-east Bolitho could see the low wedge of Dominica, while away to the north the scattered islands which were called the Saintes. But between these two there was no horizon. It was a sight so vast and so terrible that nobody said a word. From side to side, as far as the eye could reach, the blue water was topped with an unbroken line of ships. There seemed to be no gap between each towering crop of sails, and as the growing sunlight reflected across the apparently motionless panorama of armed might, Bolitho was reminded of an old painting he had seen as a child. The armoured knights at Agincourt, their great horses bedecked in standards and glittering mail, the proud pennants and banners streaming from lances as they gathered to charge the flimsy line of English archers.

Almost desperately he looked down at his spellbound men. `Well, lads, what do you say?' He pointed towards the great shimmering line of ships. `Beyond that fleet lies England, across five thousand miles of open sea. At our back is Jamaica.' He pointed down between his feet. `And below us is a thousand fathoms to the bottom!' He leaned forward, his eyes flashing with sudden urgency. 'So which is it to be, lads?'

The new sound of distant gunfire was drowned in the sudden wave of wild and uncontrolled cheering which swept across the Phalarope's maindeck, to be caught and carried by those aboard the captured frigate. Even wounded men who were being carried below shouted with the rest, some not knowing why, or even having heard Bolitho's words. It was as if all the bitterness and pent-up frustrations were being swept away by their great chorus of voices.

Bolitho turned away, and Herrick who was nearest saw the strange sadness and disbelief in his eyes. He said quickly, `There's your answer, sir!' He was excited like the others, even jubilant.

When Bolitho turned to look at him he studied the lieutenant as if he was a stranger. `Tell me, Mr. Herrick, have you ever seen a sea battle?' He waved towards the horizon. `Like this one will be?' He did not wait for a reply. `I have. There is no dash and madcap victory. No hit-and-run when the game gets too rough.' He gripped his hands behind him and stated unseeingly past the other officers. `The sky is so dark with smoke that it is like hell. Even the ships cry out, did you know that?' His voice became harsher. `They cry because they are being torn apart, like the fools who man them!'

He swung round as Midshipman Maynard said hoarsely, `Flagship's signalling, sir.'

Bolitho walked to the weather side and stared down at the listing brig. The water was already lapping over her bulwark, and only discarded corpses lolled on her battle-torn deck. He, snapped, `Do not acknowledge, Mr. Maynard!' To Herrick he added, `Cast off from the brig and get under way.' He looked up at the masthead. `We will steer due east!'

Herrick asked, `What of the flagship, sir?’

'Sir Robert is a gallant gentleman, Mr. Herrick. But his seniority will have made him more careful than I. ' He gave a short smile. `And his men may not be so keen to die on this fine day!' His smile vanished. `Now get those men to their stations, and stop this damn cheering!'

The Phalarope idled clear from the wreckage, and as the captured frigate cast off her grappling irons the little brig rolled slowly on to her beam, the bursting air bubbles tinged with scarlet as the creeping water surged triumphantly across her battered hull.

Bolitho lifted his glass as the yards went round and the deck canted slightly to the wind. He could see the frigate Volcano's topmasts beyond the Cassius, and wondered how her captain would react to this awesome sight. Sir Robert Napier still had time to retire. One definite signal would take them all out of danger, mute witness's as the French burst from the battle and headed for their goal.

Bolitho made up his mind. 'Mr. Maynard, make a signal to the Flag.' He saw Herrick look at Rennie and shrug, as if his captain's actions were now quite beyond his ability to keep up. `Enemy in sight!'

He did not watch the flags soaring up the yards, but made himself walk back and forth across the quarterdeck, followed by the eyes of Rennie's square of marines. This was the decisive moment. Sir Robert was an old man, and past his best. To try to delay the French ships would give him nothing but glory he would never see. It might even be so futile that his action would be remembered with a scorn which could overshadow and despoil his whole career.

Maynard called, `Flag has acknowledged, sir!'

Bolitho bit his lip and continued his pacing. He could imagine the admiral's rasping voice as he dictated his signals, the uncertainty of the flag-captain, and the cautious confidence of Fox in the Volcano.

Maynard said suddenly, `I can just make out her hoist, sir!' His eye was pressed to the end of the big telescope. `Flag to Volcano. Prepare for battle!'

The word flashed along the quarterdeck and down to the men waiting by the guns. Again the cheering, and again the cheer taken up across the water aboard the French ship. Bolitho waved absently as he saw Lieutenant Dancer's limping figure by the taffrail as the captured ship braced her yards and spread her tattered sails abreast the low wind.

Herrick said excitedly, 'Cassius is making all sail, sir! My God, what a sight!' He seemed more impressed by the flagship's sudden activity than the fleet at his back.

Bolitho said, `Have every man armed, Mr. Herrick. Put cutlasses and tomahawks at each gun. There will be plenty of fighting before long!'

Maynard lowered his glass, his voice shaking as he stared across at his captain. `From Flag, sir! General signal.' He sounded as if he was trying to feel each word. `Form line of battle!'

Bolitho nodded slowly. `Shorten sail, Mr. Herrick. We will bide here and allow the Cassius to meet up with us.' He sniffed the air. `I feel we will lose the wind very soon. Dominica will act as a lee, I am afraid.'

He moved to the weather side and raised his glass across the nettings. Very slowly he moved the lens from side to side. In the small magnified picture he could see the dull flash of cannon fire, the brave flags and the gleam of sails as ship after mighty ship wheeled ponderously into line. He could feel the sweat at his spine, as he had after his nightmare. But this was real, yet harder to comprehend. God, there were threedeckers in plenty, perhaps sixty sail of the line, British and French, gliding together for a first, inexorable embrace.

He said sharply, `Pass the word for Mr. Brock!' He did not lower his glass until the gunner reached the quarterdeck.

`Mr. Brock, I want both carronades taken to the forecastle. Put your best hands in charge of them, and see that their slides are freshly smeared with tallow.' He closed the glass and studied the gunner's dour face. `The carronades are the only weapons we possess which the French lack.' He stared down at the nearest weapon, snub-nosed and ugly, and lacking either the grace or the proportion of a proper deck gun. Yet a carronade could throw a massive sixty-eight-pound shot at short range, the power of which was devastating. Each circular shot burst on impact to deluge everything nearby with murderous cast-iron balls. One shot had the lethal quality of grape, added to which was the weight of a much heavier weapon.

He walked slowly to the rail and looked down at the neat decks. Had he forgotten anything? He ignored Brock and his stripped working party struggling and cursing the heavy carronades. He had to concentrate his full being on the task ahead. He must trust each officer and man. If they failed now, it was his fault for some earlier lapse in judgement.

Suddenly the restless, crowded figures below each gangway took on another meaning. Bolitho felt the pain of loss, as if he was looking at faces already dead. Quintal, the boatswain, spitting on his hands and pointing aloft for the benefit of the men who waited to sail' the ship into action. Farquhar, slim and self-contained, walking abreast his battery of guns, his eyes moving over each weapon and every man in its crew. And the seamen themselves. Tanned and healthy in spite of their discomforts. Some faces standing out more than others. Here a man who had done well at Mola Island. There another who had fled from his station when they had met the Andiron.

He let his eyes move up the shrouds, to the men like Allday still at work aloft, and the marines kneeling in the tops with their long muskets loaded and ready.

Then aft, here to the quarterdeck. With its nine-pounders, and Neale's tiny figure dwarfed by that of a pigtailed gunner's mate. And Proby, old Proby, waving his arms like some fat scarecrow as he gave his instructions to the helmsmen. One of the men at the wheel Bolitho recognised as Strachan, the oldest sailor in the company. Too old to work a gun to Brock's satisfaction, he was still keen enough to stand his trick at the helm, and when the hell of battle swept this very deck, Bolitho knew a man like Strachan would never falter. Not because he wass brave or stupid, but because it was part of his life. The only life he had known, and had been trained for.

Bolitho saw Okes watching him, his fingers playing nervously with the scabbard of his sword. Inwardly he wished it was Herrick at his side, but the latter would have his work cut out handling the ship's firepower. And anyway, Bolitho thought with sudden irritation, Okes was now first lietuenant. Vibart was dead. Not even a memory any more.

By the cabin hatch Stockdale saw Bolitho's grave face and gave a slight nod. He saw the captain's eye catch the gesture and then move. But Stockdale was satisfied. Bolitho knew he was there. And that was enough.

Close hauled, and making heavy weather of the faltering breeze, the three ships tacked into line. Just as they had rehearsed it so many frustrating times under the pitiless sun and beneath the eye of this same querulous admiral.

Bolitho raised his hat as the Volcano's sails billowed with sudden power and the lean frigate took her station in the lead. Cassius followed heavily in her wake, and as more flags soared aloft, Bolitho said sharply,, 'Take station astern the Flag, Mr. Okes!'

He watched the men scampering to the braces, and then looked at the two-decker, as like an elderly but experienced warrior she opened her double line of ports and ran out her guns.

A voice pealed out suddenly, `Deck there! Ships on the starboard bow!' A pause while every eye peered up at the tiny figure in the main crosstrees. 'Two ship o' the line! An' two frigates!'

Bolitho tried to control his impatience. At the rear of the small line Phalarope would engage last. By then, it might all be decided, he thought bitterly.

The sails flapped dejectedly, and he heard the helmsmen curse as the wheel went slack. 'Wind is backing to the east, sir!' Proby looked mournful.

'Very well.' Bolitho lifted his glass and tried to see the nearest enemy ships. The gunfire was louder and unending, but the main battle fleets seemed stationary as before. It was of course an illusion.

Beyond the Cassius's flapping main course he saw a brief picture of the ships indicated by the lookout. Two big ones, very close in line. With two smaller sails, one on either beam.

But the falling wind was playing havoc with his own men, he thought angrily. They had cheered, expecting to fight or die in glory. But this waiting, this agonising waiting, while all the time that slowly advancing fleet grew and grew, until the once exuberant seamen seemed too stunned to move, or drag their eyes from the smoke-shrouded ships.

Bolitho-said, 'I am going aloft, Mr. Okes.' Without a glance at the sweating lieutenant he strode to the starboard gangway and made his way to the main shrouds. Even as a young midshipman Bolitho had never achieved a good head for heights,

but after a quick look at the listless sails he started on the long.climb to the main topmast.

As he swung through the lubber's hole of the maintop the waiting marines stared at him without speaking, and then turned their eyes back to the embattled fleets. The air was dinning with noise, and Bolitho's nostrils seemed full of the smell of powder and burned wood.

He found a solitary seaman perched in the crosstrees, and waited to regain his breath before opening his glass to stare over and beyond the slow-moving Cassius.

It was impossible to tell one line of battle from the other. The main British and- French squadrons were practically ship to ship, yardarm to yardarm, their masts and sails enveloped in a dense pall of trapped gunsmoke.

He shifted the glass and tried not to look at the deck far below his dangling. legs. Then he stiffened. The ships which this lookout had reported minutes earlier were breaking away from the main.battle. The two ships of the line were in fact linked by a stout cable, and as he peered through the forerigging he realised that the furthest vessel, a big three-decker, was partially disabled and without either bowsprit or foremast.

The towing ship, hampered by her massive consort, yawed from side to side, her sails puffing and then falling slack in the sluggish wind. As she swung the sunlight threw strange shadows on her tall side, and on the gleaming rows of guns already run out and prepared to fight.

Bolitho nodded to the lookout. 'Keep a good eye on them.'

The man grinned. 'Got nothin' else to do, zur!' He leaned over to watch Bolitho's careful descent and then settled down at his post. As Bolitho made his way down the rough, vibrating ratlines he heard the man humming.

He found Okes and Rennie waiting for him beside the wheel. Bolitho said flatly, `Two big ships right enough. But one of them is disabled. Probably in a collision during the night.' He rubbed his chin. `The towing ship is flying a. command flag. White over blue.' He forced a smile and called to Maynard, `What do you make of that, my lad?'

The midshipman lowered his glass for a moment. `Part of the French van, sir.' He looked uneasy.

`Right.' Bolitho walked to the rail. `De Grasse will be worried about his transports. To mount an attack on Jamaica he will need more than fighting ships. He'll have troops and supplies in other craft, like the ones we burned at Mola Island.'

Okes said, `While the fleet is engaged, de Grasse will try and force his transports this way!'

Bolitho nodded grimly. `Right again.' He snapped his fingers. `Part of the French van has been detached to clear the way for them!' He looked up at the listless sails. `And three ships only bar their way.' He turned to Rennie who was swinging his sword idly against his polished boots. `If we can turn the enemy's van, gentlemen, Sir George Rodney will do the rest!' He slapped his palms together. `Like rabbits in a trap!'