ALEXANDER KENT - TO GLORY WE STEER

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!'

Okes stared at the slow-moving ships ahead of the Cassius. `In this case the rabbits are bigger than the hunters, sir!'

But Bolitho had already moved away. He paused beside the minute drummer boy and asked calmly, `Give us a tune on your fife, boy.' He spoke loudly, so that the men at the ninepounders could hear him.

The boy peered up from beneath his shako and swallowed hard. His lips were pale, and Bolitho could see his hands shaking against his tunic. 'Wh-what shall I play, sir?'

Bolitho looked around at the strained, watchful faces. `What about "Hearts of Oak"? We all know that, eh, lads?'

And so with the overwhelming roar of battle drumming in their ears, the Phalarope's sailors picked up the fife's feeble lilt.

Bolitho walked back to the weather side and lifted his glass. Even aboard the Cassius the men might hear the Phalarope's sailors singing the well-used words and gain some slight confidence.

`Come cheer up my lads,

Tis to Glory we steer…’

Bolitho watched the great rolling bank of black smoke as it moved steadily towards the three British ships. It was like a living thing, he thought coldly. Writhing, and alight with angry red and orange flashes. Yet he was grateful for its presence. At least it hid the horror and the gruesome scenes beyond.

He looked down at his men, their faces momentarily engrossed in their singing. They would not have much longer to wait.

John Allday tied his neckerchief tightly around his head and ears and then dashed the sweat from his face with one forearm. Right forward on the frigate's tapered forecastle he had an uninterrupted view of the Cassius, and ahead of her he could just see part of the Volcano's upper rigging. Deliberately he turned his back on them and on the smokeshrouded tangle of ships beyond. He looked down at McIntosh, the gunner's mate, who was on his knees beside one of the carronades as if in prayer.