A Tradition of Victory by Alexander Kent Page A

opened the guard. Exactly eight in the morning. Even as the thought touched him the bells chimed out from the forecastle. Even there, a ship’s boy had managed to remember his part of the pattern which made a ship work.
    “The enemy is dividing into two flotillas, sir.” Pickthorn shook his head. “They’ll not outrun us now, and there are only rocks or the beach beyond them!” Even he sounded dismayed at the enemy’s helplessness.
    Kilburne jammed the big signals telescope against his eye until the pain made it water. Bolitho was barely two feet from him and he did not want to disturb his thoughts by making a stupid mistake. He blinked hard and tried again, seeing Phalarope ’s iron-hard canvas swoop across the lens, the bright hoist of flags at her yard.
    He was not mistaken. Shakily he called, “From Phalarope, sir.
    She’s made Rapid ’s number.”
    Bolitho turned. It was common practice for one ship to repeat another’s signal, but something in the midshipman’s tone warned him of sudden danger.
    “From Rapid, sir. Enemy in sight to the nor’-west! ”
    Browne murmured softly, “Hell’s teeth!”
    “Any orders, sir?” Neale looked at Bolitho, his face and eyes calm. As if he already knew, and accepted it.
    Bolitho shook his head. “We will attack. Alter course to larboard and head off any of the leaders who try to break past us.”
    He turned on his heel as once again the men dashed to the braces and halliards, most of them oblivious to the menace hidden below the horizon.
    Allday pushed himself away from the nettings and strode deliberately to Bolitho’s side.
    Bolitho eyed him thoughtfully. “Well, perhaps you were right after all, old friend. But there’s no getting round it.”
    Allday stared past him towards the converging array of sails A
    and low hulls, hating what he saw, what it might cost.
    But he said simply, “We’ll dish ’em up, sir. One way or the other.”
    Some muskets and a few swivels crackled from the leading vessels, their puny challenge blanketed by the roar of Styx ’s first broadside.
    Neale cupped his hands. “Mr Pickthorn! Shorten sail! Get the royals and t’gan’s’ls off her!” He watched as the studding-sail booms were hauled bodily inboard to their yards, men calling to one another as guns crashed out and recoiled below them, and a few musket balls and enemy canister scythed wickedly between the shrouds.
    Bolitho said, “Mr Browne. Make to Phalarope. Engage the enemy. ”
    There was still time. With Styx riding astride the channel to part and scatter the enemy’s neat columns, Phalarope ’s massive armament of carronades would demolish the van and centre and give them room to beat clear and join Rapid to seaward. But Phalarope was already making another signal.
    Midshipman Kilburne shouted in between the explosions from each battery, “Repeated from Rapid, sir! Estimate three enemy sail to the nor’-west. ” His lips moved painfully as the gun below the quarterdeck rail crashed inboard on its tackles, its crew already darting around it with fresh powder and shot. He continued,
    “Estimate one ship of the line.”
    Allday’s palm rasped over his jaw. “Is that all?”
    As if to add to the torment, the masthead lookout yelled,
    “Deck there! Land on th’ starboard bow!”
    Bundy nodded, his eyes like stones. The Ile d’Yeu. Like the lower jaw of a great trap.
    Pickthorn dropped his speaking trumpet as his topmen came swarming down the ratlines again. “ Phalarope ’s shortening sail, sir.”

    Bolitho glanced up at Styx ’s last hoist of flags. His order to Captain Emes to close with the enemy formation and engage them.
    He heard Browne snap angrily, “Has she not seen the signal, Mr Kilburne?”
    Kilburne lowered his glass only to reply. “She has acknowledged it, sir.”
    Browne looked at Bolitho, his face white with disbelief.
    “Acknowledged!”
    Canister screamed over the quarterdeck and punched the hammock nettings like invisible fists.
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