quarterdeck rail again.
The gun crews were still at their stations, the tension gone as daylight laid bare an empty sea. The second and third lieutenants were chatting together, swords sheathed, their attitudes of men at ease in a park.
Neale was moving his telescope across the larboard nettings, studying the undulating, slate-coloured slopes of the mainland.
They were standing some five miles out, but many eyes would have seen them.
Neale tossed his glass to a midshipman and commented glumly, “Not a damn thing.”
Browne joined Bolitho by the rail. “She’s really flying, sir.”
Bolitho looked at him and smiled. Browne was more stirred by the lively ship beneath him as she lifted and plunged through the white-horses than he was troubled by the inaction.
“Yes. My nephew will have his hands full but will enjoy every second, no doubt.”
“I don’t envy him that, sir!” Browne was careful never to mention Phalarope ’s captain. “A raw company, lieutenants no more than boys, I’ll be content with my duties here!”
Bundy called, “Mist ahead, sir!”
Neale grunted. He had seen it already, seeping low down like pale smoke. The fact the master had mentioned it implied he was troubled. In a moment or so the lookouts would see the southern headland of the Loire Estuary. After that, the next report would be sighting the Ile d’Yeu. Right back where they had started, except that they were much closer inshore.
He looked over at Bolitho, who stood with his hands behind his back, his legs apart to take the deck’s uneven roll. He will never turn back. Not in a thousand years.
Neale felt strangely sorry for Bolitho at this moment. Disturbed that what had started as a daring piece of strategy had seemingly gone wrong.
“Deck there! Sails on the larboard bow!”
Neale climbed into the shrouds and beckoned urgently for his telescope.
Bolitho folded his arms across his chest, certain that if he did not everyone around him would see them shaking with anxiety.
The mist dipped and swirled as the wind found it and drove it inshore. And there they were, like a phalanx of Roman soldiers A
on the march, six lines of small vessels under sail. In the bright glare even the pendants and ensigns looked stiff, like lances.
Browne breathed out slowly. “In daylight there look even more of them.”
Bolitho nodded, his lips suddenly like dust. The fleet of small vessels was making hard going of it, tacking back and forth in an effort to retain formation and to gain some progress against the wind.
Neale exclaimed, “What will they do now? Scatter and run?”
Bolitho said, “Make more sail, Captain Neale, every stitch you can carry, and let us not give the enemy a chance to decide!”
He turned and saw Browne smiling broadly while men dashed past him to obey the shrill pipe to loose more canvas. The great studding-sails would be run out on either beam like huge ears to carry them faster and still faster towards the mass of slow-moving hulls.
Across the starboard quarter Bolitho saw Phalarope ’s pyramid of pale canvas tilt more steeply as she followed suit, and he thought he could hear the scrape of a fiddle as her seamen were urged to greater efforts to keep station on the rear-admiral’s flag.
Midshipman Kilburne, who had managed to keep his glass trained on the other frigate in spite of the bustle around him, called, “From Phalarope, sir! Sail to the nor’-west! ”
Neale barely turned. “That’ll be Rapid, most likely.”
Bolitho gripped the rail as the ship slid deeply beneath him.
The decks were running with spray, as if it was pouring rain, and some of the bare-backed gun crews looked drenched as Styx plunged towards the widening array of vessels.
The bearing would be right for Rapid. She must have found Sparrowhawk and was coming to join the fight. He bit his lip.
Slaughter, more likely.
“Load and run out, if you please. We will engage on either beam.”
Bolitho tugged out his watch and
The gun crews were still at their stations, the tension gone as daylight laid bare an empty sea. The second and third lieutenants were chatting together, swords sheathed, their attitudes of men at ease in a park.
Neale was moving his telescope across the larboard nettings, studying the undulating, slate-coloured slopes of the mainland.
They were standing some five miles out, but many eyes would have seen them.
Neale tossed his glass to a midshipman and commented glumly, “Not a damn thing.”
Browne joined Bolitho by the rail. “She’s really flying, sir.”
Bolitho looked at him and smiled. Browne was more stirred by the lively ship beneath him as she lifted and plunged through the white-horses than he was troubled by the inaction.
“Yes. My nephew will have his hands full but will enjoy every second, no doubt.”
“I don’t envy him that, sir!” Browne was careful never to mention Phalarope ’s captain. “A raw company, lieutenants no more than boys, I’ll be content with my duties here!”
Bundy called, “Mist ahead, sir!”
Neale grunted. He had seen it already, seeping low down like pale smoke. The fact the master had mentioned it implied he was troubled. In a moment or so the lookouts would see the southern headland of the Loire Estuary. After that, the next report would be sighting the Ile d’Yeu. Right back where they had started, except that they were much closer inshore.
He looked over at Bolitho, who stood with his hands behind his back, his legs apart to take the deck’s uneven roll. He will never turn back. Not in a thousand years.
Neale felt strangely sorry for Bolitho at this moment. Disturbed that what had started as a daring piece of strategy had seemingly gone wrong.
“Deck there! Sails on the larboard bow!”
Neale climbed into the shrouds and beckoned urgently for his telescope.
Bolitho folded his arms across his chest, certain that if he did not everyone around him would see them shaking with anxiety.
The mist dipped and swirled as the wind found it and drove it inshore. And there they were, like a phalanx of Roman soldiers A
on the march, six lines of small vessels under sail. In the bright glare even the pendants and ensigns looked stiff, like lances.
Browne breathed out slowly. “In daylight there look even more of them.”
Bolitho nodded, his lips suddenly like dust. The fleet of small vessels was making hard going of it, tacking back and forth in an effort to retain formation and to gain some progress against the wind.
Neale exclaimed, “What will they do now? Scatter and run?”
Bolitho said, “Make more sail, Captain Neale, every stitch you can carry, and let us not give the enemy a chance to decide!”
He turned and saw Browne smiling broadly while men dashed past him to obey the shrill pipe to loose more canvas. The great studding-sails would be run out on either beam like huge ears to carry them faster and still faster towards the mass of slow-moving hulls.
Across the starboard quarter Bolitho saw Phalarope ’s pyramid of pale canvas tilt more steeply as she followed suit, and he thought he could hear the scrape of a fiddle as her seamen were urged to greater efforts to keep station on the rear-admiral’s flag.
Midshipman Kilburne, who had managed to keep his glass trained on the other frigate in spite of the bustle around him, called, “From Phalarope, sir! Sail to the nor’-west! ”
Neale barely turned. “That’ll be Rapid, most likely.”
Bolitho gripped the rail as the ship slid deeply beneath him.
The decks were running with spray, as if it was pouring rain, and some of the bare-backed gun crews looked drenched as Styx plunged towards the widening array of vessels.
The bearing would be right for Rapid. She must have found Sparrowhawk and was coming to join the fight. He bit his lip.
Slaughter, more likely.
“Load and run out, if you please. We will engage on either beam.”
Bolitho tugged out his watch and
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