To Glory We Steer by Alexander Kent

Mr Proby.” He heard a mumbled assent and wondered what the master would make of his order.
    The American captain would no doubt expect the smaller ship to turn again and try to slip downwind, and as soon as she turned he would pour a full broadside into the Phalarope ’s stern, as he had first intended. Bolitho’s manœuvre would bring the Phalarope round towards the other ship, and with luck Herrick might be able to get in the first blood.
    He saw the flash of sunlight on a telescope from the Andiron ’s quarterdeck and knew the other captain was watching him.
    â€œStand by, Mr Proby!” He lifted his hat and yelled along the main deck, “Right, lads! A broadside for old England!”
    With a protesting groan the yards came round, while overhead the canvas thundered like a miniature battle. Bolitho found that his mouth was as dry as sand, and his face felt chilled into a tight mask. This was the moment.
    John Allday crouched beside the second gun of the larboard battery and stared fixedly through the open port. In spite of the cool morning breeze he was already sweating and his heart pumped against his ribs like the beating of a drum.
    It was like being a helpless victim of a nightmare, with every detail clear and stark even before it happened. Somehow he imagined it would be different this time, but nothing had changed. He could have been sailing into battle for the first time, new and untried, with the agony of suspense tearing him apart.
    He tore his eyes from the open square of water and glanced back across his shoulder. The same men who had jeered Ferguson or ringed Evans in menacing silence now stood or crouched like himself, slaves to their guns, their faces naked and fearful.
    Standing a little apart from the battery, his back to the fore-mast, Lieutenant Herrick was watching the quarterdeck, his fingers resting on his sword, his bright blue eyes unwinking and devoid of expression.
    Allday followed the officer’s stare and saw the captain at the quarterdeck rail, his palms resting on the smooth wood, his head jutting slightly as he watched the other ship. The latter was almost hidden from Allday by the high bulwark and gangway and the other guns, but he could see her topmasts and straining sails as she bore down on the larboard quarter, until she seemed to hang over the Phalarope like a cliff.
    Pryce, the gun captain, slung the powder horn over his hip and squatted carefully behind the breech, the trigger line in his hands. Through his teeth his voice sounded strange and taut. “Now, lads, listen to me! We’ll be firing a broadside first.” He looked at each man in turn, ignoring the other gunners at the next port. “After that it will all depend on how quickly we load and run out. So move sharply, and as the cap’n said, take no notice of the din about you, got it?”
    Ferguson clung to the rope tackle at the side of the gun and gasped, “I can’t take it! God, I can’t stand this waiting!”
    Pochin on the opposite side of the breech sneered, “Just as I said! It takes more than pretty clothing to make men of the likes o’ you!” He jerked savagely at the tackle. “If you’d seen what I’d seen you’d die of fear, man.” He looked around at the others. “I’ve seen whole fleets at each other’s throats.” He let his words sink in. “The sea covered in masts, like a forest!”
    Pryce snapped, “Hold your noise!”
    He cocked his head as Herrick called, “Gun Captains! As soon as we engage on the larboard side send your best men to back up the other battery under Mr Okes!”
    The captains held up their hands and then turned back to watch the empty sea.
    Allday looked across at Okes and saw the officer’s face gleaming with sweat. He looked white. Like a corpse already, he thought.
    Vibart’s voice rang hollowly through his speaking trumpet. “Braces there! Stand by to