ALEXANDER KENT - TO GLORY WE STEER

He tried again to put himself into the position of an attacking captain. He would 'make a slow approach, just to make sure that the information about the Andiron was not suspect, and in order that the lookouts ashore should not see any sign of a masthead before sunset. Then under cover of darkness he would close the shore and drop a full boarding party of perhaps three or four boats. It would not be easy, but a ship foolish enough to anchor away from the defended base might be expected to fall after a swift struggle. He closed his eyes tightly and tried to blot out the picture of the attacking ship at the moment of truth end realisation.

There was a hidden battery of artillery already sighted and ranged across the whole area below the headland. And although to all outward appearances the Andiron was resting confidently below a friendly island, Bolitho had seen the preparations and the care his brother had gone to, to make sure of a victory.

Guns were loaded with grape and depressed behind their closed ports. Boarding nets were already slung, suitably slack to prevent a quick inrush of any who lived through the first holocaust of fire. The Andiron's men slept at their stations, each one armed to the teeth and eager to complete his captain's strategy.

Rockets were rigged on the quarterdeck, and as soon as the boarderss were engaged the rockets would be fired. From further inshore the signal would be passed to a waiting French frigate and the battle would be all but over. The attacking ship would stand no chance if caught without the best part of her crew. And if she closed to give the boarding party support the shore artillery would pound her to fragments before she realised her mistake.

And if it was the Phalarope there was one further despairing thought. Vibart would be in command. It was hard to see his mind working fast enough to deal with such a situation.

Bolitho gritted his teeth and walked slowly to the side. The island looked at peace. The defenders had settled down now and were waiting like himself. Except that when the time came he would be battened below, helpless and wretched as he listened to the death of his own ship. Or worse, her capture, he thought for the hundredth time.

He felt a fresh pang of inner pain as he saw one of the Andiron's cutters unloading fruit alongside. There was no mistaking the bulky shape of Stockdale straddle-legged on the gunwale tossing up the nets of fruit as if they were weightless.

Strangely, that had been almost the hardest thing to bear.

Stockdale of all people. Whether he had been eager or reluctant, Bolitho did not know, but he had gone over with the privateer's crew, and like sheep the other men from his raid ing party had followed suit. He knew he could not blame them. If Stockdale, the captain's trusted coxswain, could change colours, why not they?

Stockdale looked up, squinting against the sun. Then he threw a mock salute, and some of the men laughed delightedly.

The American officer of the watch said dryly: `Sometimes I think there's no such thing as loyalty, Captain! Just a price!'

Bolitho shrugged. `Perhaps.'

The officer seemed glad of a chance to break Bolitho's brooding silence. `I can't get over your being our captain's kin. It makes it kind of unnerving. But then I guess it's that way with you?'

Bolitho glanced quickly at the officer's tanned features. It was a friendly face. And that of a man lonely and tired by war, he thought. He said evenly, `Have you been with him long?'

'A year or so.' The man frowned. 'It seems longer now. He came aboard as first lieutenant, but soon got command when the-skipper was killed in a fight with one of your ships off Cape Cod.' He grinned. 'But I hope I'll be able to go home soon. I've a wife and two boys waiting for me. I should be tending my farm, not fighting King George!'

Bolitho recalled his brother's firm promise that he was returning to Cornwall to claim his rightful inheritance, and felt the same savage bitterness as when he had heard the words the first time.

He controlled his rising emotion and asked quietly, `Do you really think it will be that simple?'

The man stared at him. `What could happen now? I don't mean to add insult to injury, Captain, but I don't really think the British stand much of a chance to regain America.'

Bolitho smiled. `I was thinking more of the French. If as you say American independence will be ratified by all those concerned, do you imagine the French will be prepared to sail away and leave you alone? They have done most of the fighting remember. Without their fleet and supplies do you think you would have succeeded thus far?'

The American scratched his head. `War makes strange allies, Captain.'

'I know. I have seen some of them.' Bolitho looked away. `I think the French will want to stay out here, as they tried to do in Canada.' He shook his head. `You could easily exchange one master for another!'

The officer yawned and said wearily, `Well, it's not for me to decide, thank the Lord!' He shaded his eyes and peered towards the dark shadow below Saddle Hill. A white and blue dot was moving rapidly down the rough track from the summit in a cloud of dust.

The officer looked meaningly at Bolitho and said briefly, `Horse and rider! That means one thing, Captain. The bait has been accepted. It will be tonight, or not at all!'

There was a shout from the forecastle as a blinding needle of light stabbed out from the bleak headland. Someone was using a heliograph, and from further inland Bolitho heard the eager beating of drums.

He asked, `How did they get a signal?'

The officer closed his mouth and then said not unkindly, `There is a chain of fishing boats out there, Captain. They pass the sighting reports from boat to boat. The nearest one is well in sight of the hill lookouts.' He looked embarrassed. 'Why not try and forget it? There's nothing you can do now. Any more than I could do if the situation were reversed!'

Bolitho looked at him thoughtfully. `Thank you. I will try to remember that.' Then he resumed his pacing, and with a shrug the officer returned to the opposite side of the poop.

The short truce was over. They were no longer fellow sailors. The flashing heliograph had made them enemies once more.

`It'll be sunset in one hour!' Daniel Proby, the Phalarope's master, scribbled slowly on his slate and then ambled across to join Herrick by the weather rail. `But in all my experience I've not seen one like this!'

Herrick brought his mind back to the present and followed Proby's mournful gaze across the vast glittering waste of open sea.

For most of the afternoon and early evening the frigate had pushed her way steadily north-east, and now as she lay closer hauled on the port tack, every mast and spar, every inch of straining canvas shone with the hue of burnished copper. The sky, which for days had remained bright blue and empty, was streaked with long cruising clouds, 'streaming like trails of glowing smoke towards the far horizon. It was an angry sky, and the sea was reacting to the change in its own way. Instead of short, choppy whitecaps the surface had altered to advancing lines of hump-backed rollers, one behind the other in neatly matched ranks which made the ship heave and groan as her figurehead lifted to the sky and then plunged forward and down in drawnout, sickening swoops.

Herrick said, `Maybe a storm is coming through from the Atlantic?'

The master shook his head, unconvinced. `You don't get much in the way of storms at this time of year.' He glanced aloft as the sails thundered as if to mock his words. `All the same, we will have to take in another reef if it don't improve a bit.'

In spite of his gloom Herrick was able to smile to himself. He could not see Vibart being happy about that. For two days, since he had received his new orders, he had been driving the ship like a madman. He thought back again to the moment a lookout had sighted the distant sail. For an instant they had all imagined it was a patrolling frigate or the Cassius herself. But it had been a fast-moving brig, her low hull smothered in spray as she had gone about and run down towards the Phalarope.

Her arrival had been an unexpected but welcome diversion as far as Herrick was concerned. The tension aboard the frigate was getting bad enough to feel, like something with a soul of its own. In a matter of days there had been seven floggings, but instead of settling the crew into dumb- servility it had only helped to drive° a firm wedge between quarterdeck and forecastle. There was little chatter or laughter any more between decks, and when an officer passed close by a group of seamen, the latter would lapse into sullen silence and turn their faces away.

Midshipman Maynard had reported, `The brig is Witch of Looe, sir! She has despatches for us!'

Vibart had waited importantly on the quarterdeck, alone and aloof, saying nothing and watching everything.

A boat had skipped across the choppy water, and soon a young lieutenant had climbed aboard carrying the inevitable canvas envelope.

Herrick had been standing nearby, straining his ears and trying to imagine what was happening. He had heard Vibart asking about the flagship and the lieutenant's brief reply.

`These orders are from the admiral, sir. I have nothing to add.'

The reply had been too brief, almost insolent, and Herrick had guessed that the young lieutenant was high enough on the admiral's list of favourites to afford such rudeness.

Vibart had started to tell the brig's messenger about the raid on Mola Island and had then clamped his jaw tightly shut. He had turned on his heel, merely adding for Herrick's benefit, `Get the ship under way again, Mr. Herrick. I have work to do!'

He was always the same now, Herrick pondered. Fluctuating between ponderous self-importance and fits of blind rage. From one hour to the next you could never be sure of his reactions, and it was doubly bad because he was always in evidence. Watching and criticising and bawling out fresh orders to overrule those of his subordinates.

Herrick had stopped the lieutenant at the entry port and had tried to get more information.

The officer had regarded him thoughtfully. 'St. Kitts has fallen. The fleet is falling back and regrouping. I am on my way to Antigua now.' He had stared across at his own ship. `But Rodney is said to be on his way back from England with twelve ships; of the line. I hope to God he will be in time.' Then he added quickly, 'Where is your captain?'

'Dead.' Herrick's tongue had lingered on the word. 'We lost him at Mola Island.'

'Well, I don't care much for your new commander, my friend.' The lieutenant had paused above his swaying boat. 'We have been searching for the Phalarope for two days! The admiral will not be pleased that you were off your station, Mola Island or not!' He had rolled his eyes. 'Sir Robert is a stickler for routine.'

Herrick's mind shifted to the next part in the sequence of events which had sent the Phalarope on her new course towards the islands. Vibart had called a meeting in the stem cabin. Every officer and warrant officer had been present, and it was somehow typical of Vibart that while he sat comfortably in his chair, all the others were kept standing.

'Sir Robert Napier has received information that the Andiron is lying off Nevis.' He had plunged into what sounded I very like a carefully rehearsed speech. 'She is apparently carrying out repairs and awaiting fresh orders, but there is no saying how long she will remain there: He had looked slowly around their faces. `Sir Robert requires that we make our way to Nevis forthwith to sink or cut-out the Andiron.' His words had dropped in the cabin like stones in a pool. 'We will make as quick a passage as possible.' He had glared meaningly. 'So make sure there are no mistakes, Mr. Proby!'