The twenty-six gun frigate La Mouette was completely shrouded in a heavy sea-mist. The lookouts could barely see more than a few yards on either beam, and from the deck the upper shrouds and limp sails were invisible.
There was a slow, moist breeze, but the mist kept pace with the ship to add a sense of being motionless.
Occasionally the disembodied voice of a leadsman floated aft, but the water was deep enough, although if the mist suddenly lifted the ship might be close inshore, or completely alone on an empty sea.
Aft by the quarterdeck rail the first lieutenant, John Wright, stared at the dripping maincourse until his eyes smarted. It was eerie, like thrusting into something solid. He could picture the jib-boom feeling the way like a blind man's stick. There was nothing beyond the pale patch of the figurehead, a fierce-looking seagull with its beak wide in anger.
Around and behind him the other watchkeepers stood about like statues. The helmsman, the sailing master close by. The midshipman of the watch, a boatswain's mate, their faces shining with moisture, as if they had been standing in a rainfall.
Nobody spoke. But that was nothing new, Wright thought. He longed for the chance of a command for himself. Anything. It had meant the next step on the ladder just being first lieutenant. He had not bargained for a captain like Bruce Sinclair. The captain was young, probably twenty-seven or so, Wright decided. A man with fine cheekbones, his chin always high, like a haughty pose, someone who was always quick to seek out slackness and inefficiency in his command.
A visiting admiral had once praised Sinclair for the smartness of his ship. Nobody ever walked on the upper deck, orders were carried out at the double, and any midshipman or petty officer who failed to report a man for not doing so would also face punishment.
They had been in several single-ship actions with privateers and blockade runners, and Sinclair's unyielding discipline had, on the face of it, worked well enough to satisfy any admiral.
The master joined him at the rail and said in a low voice, 'This mist can't last much more, Mr Wright.' He sounded anxious. 'We could be miles off course by now. I'm not happy about it.'
They both looked at the gundeck as a low groan made the men on watch glance uneasily at each other.
Like all the other ships in the squadron La Mouette was short of fresh water. Captain Sinclair had ordered it to be severely rationed for all ranks, and two days ago had cut the ration still further. Wright had suggested they might call at some island provided there was no sign of an enemy, if only to replenish a portion of the water supply. Sinclair had studied him coldly. 'I am ordered to seek information about the French, Mr Wright. I cannot spare any time for spoonfeeding the people merely because their lot is not to their taste!'
Wright stared at the man by the larboard gangway. He was quite naked, his legs braced apart by irons, his arms tied back to a gun so that he looked as if he had been crucified. The man occasionally rolled his head from side to side, but his tongue was too swollen in his blistered mouth to make sense of his pleas.
Aboard any King's ship a thief was despised. The justice meted out by the lower deck against such an offender was often far harsher than that of a proper authority.
The seaman McNamara had stolen a gallon of fresh water one night, when a Royal Marine sentry had been called away by the officer-of-the-watch.
He had been caught by a boatswain's mate, drinking the rancid water in secret while his messmates had slept in their hammocks.
Everyone had expected his punishment to be severe, especially as McNamara was a regular defaulter, but Sinclair's reaction had taken even the most hardened sailor aback. For five days he had been in irons on the upper deck, in blazing sunlight, and in the chill of the night. Naked, and in his own filth, he had been doused with salt water by other hands under punishment, to clean up the deck rather than afford him any relief from his torment.
Sinclair had turned up the hands to read the relevant sections of the Articles of War, and had ended by saying that McNamara would be awarded three dozen lashes when the example of his theft was completed.
Wright shivered. It seemed unlikely that McNamara would live long enough to face the flogging.
The master hissed, 'Cap'n's comin' up, Mr Wright.'
It was like that. Whispers. Fear. Smouldering hatred for the man who ruled their daily lives.
Sinclair, neatly dressed, his hand resting on his sword hilt, strode first to the compass, then to the quarterdeck rail to study the set of any visible sails.
'Nor'-west-by-west, sir!'
Sinclair waited as Wright made his report, then said, 'Direct a boy to fetch your hat, Mr Wright." He smiled faintly. 'This is a King's ship, not a Bombay trader!'
Wright flushed. 'I'm sorry, sir. This heat -'
'Quite.' Sinclair waited until a ship's boy had been sent below for the hat and remarked, 'Deuced if I know how much longer I can waste time like this.'
The wretched man on the gundeck gave another groan. It sounded as if he was choking on his tongue.
Sinclair snapped, 'Keep that man silent! God damn his eyes, I'll have him seized up and put to the lash here and now if I hear another squeak from him!' He looked aft. 'Bosun's mate! See to it! I'll have no bleatings from that bloody thief!'
Wright wiped his lips with his wrist. They felt dry and raw.
'It is five days, sir.'
'I too keep a log, Mr Wright.' He moved to the opposite side and peered down at the water as it glided past. 'It may help others to think twice before they follow his miserable example!'
Sinclair added suddenly, 'My orders are to rendezvous with the squadron.' He shrugged, the dying seaman apparently forgotten. 'The meeting is overdue, thanks to this damnable weather. Doubtless Rear-Admiral Herrick will send someone to seek us out.'
Wright saw the boatswain's mate merge with the swirling mist as he hurried towards the naked man. It made him feel sick just to imagine what it must be like. Sinclair was wrong about one thing. The anger of the ship's company had already swung to sympathy. The torture was bad enough. But Sinclair had stripped McNa-mara of any small dignity he might have held. Had left him in his own excrement like a chained animal, humiliated before his own messmates.
The captain was saying, 'I'm not at all sure that our gallant admiral knows what he is about.' He moved restlessly along the rail. 'Too damn cautious by half, if you ask me.'
'Sir Richard Bolitho will have his own ideas, sir.'
'I wonder.' Sinclair sounded faraway. 'He will combine the squadrons, that is my opinion, and then -' He looked up, frowning at the interruption as a voice called, 'Mist's clearin', sir!'
'God damn it, make a proper report!' Sinclair turned to his first lieutenant. 'If the wind gets up, I want every stitch of canvas on her. So call all hands. Those idlers need work to keep their fingers busy!'
Sinclair could not restrain his impatience and strode along the starboard gangway, which ran above a battery of cannon and joined quarterdeck to forecastle. He paused amidships and looked across at the naked man. McNamara's head was hanging down. He could be dead.
Sinclair called, 'Rouse that scum! You, use your starter, man!'
The boatswain's mate stared up at him, shocked at the captain's brutality.
Sinclair put his hands on his hips and eyed him with contempt.
'Do it, or by God you'll change places with him!"
Wright was thankful as the hands came running to halliards and braces. The muffled stamp of bare feet at least covered the sound of the rattan across McNamara's shoulders.
The second lieutenant came hurrying aft and said to the master, 'Lively, into the chartroom. We shall be expected to fix our position as soon as we sight land!"
Wright pursed his lips as the master's mate of the watch reported the hands ready to make more sail.
If there was no land in sight, God help them all, he thought despairingly.
He watched some weak sunshine probing through the mist and reaching along the topsail yards, then down into the milky water alongside.
The leadsman cried out again, 'No bottom, sir!'
Wright found that he was clenching his ringers so tightly that he had cramp in both hands. He watched the captain at the forward end of the gangway, one hand resting on the packed hammock nettings. A man without a care in the world, anyone might think.
'Deck there! Sail on the weather bow!'
Sinclair strode aft again, his mouth in a thin line.
Wright ran his finger round his neckcloth. 'We'll soon know, sir.' Of course, the lookout would be able to see the other ship now, if only her topgallant yards above the creeping mist.
The lookout shouted again, 'She's English, sir! Man-o'-war!'
'Who is that fool up there?' Sinclair glared into the swirling mist.
Wright answered, 'Tully, sir. A reliable seaman:'
'Hmph. He had better be.'
More sunlight exposed the two batteries of guns, the neatly flaked lines, the pikes in their rack around the mainmast, perfectly matched like soldiers on parade. No wonder the admiral had been impressed, Wright thought.
Sinclair said sharply, 'Make sure our number is bent on and ready to hoist, Mr Wright. I'll have no snooty post-captain finding fault with my signals.'
But the signals midshipman, an anxious-looking youth, was already there with his men. You never fell below the captain's standards more than once.
The foretopsail bellied out from its yard and the master exclaimed, 'Here it comes at last!'
'Man the braces there!' Sinclair pointed over the rail. 'Take that man's name, Mr Cox! God damn it, they are like cripples today!'
The wind tilted the hull, and Wright saw spray lift above the beakhead. Already the mist was floating ahead, shredding through the shrouds and stays, laying bare the water on either beam.
The naked seaman threw back his head and stared, half-blinded, at the sails above, his wrists and ankles rubbed raw by the irons.
'Stand by on the quarterdeck!' Sinclair glared. 'Ready with our number. I don't want to be mistaken for a Frenchie!'
Wright had to admit it was a wise precaution. Another ship new to the station might easily recognise La Mouette as French-built. Act first, think later, was the rule in sea warfare.
The lookout called, 'She's a frigate, sir! Runnin' with the wind!'
Sinclair grunted, 'Converging tack.' He peered up to seek out the masthead pendant, but it was still hidden above a last banner of mist. Then like a curtain rising the sea became bright and clear, and Sinclair gestured as the other ship seemed to rise from the water itself.
She was a big frigate, and Sinclair glanced above at the gaff to make certain his own ensign was clearly displayed.
'She's hoisting a signal, sir!'
Sinclair watched as La Mouette's number broke from the yard.
'You see, Mr Wright, if you train the people to respond as they should -'
His words were lost as somebody yelled, 'Christ! She's runnin' out!'
All down the other frigate's side the gunports had opened as one, and now, shining in the bright sunshine, her whole larboard battery trundled into view.
Wright ran to the rail and shouted, 'Belay that! Beat to quarters!'
Then the world exploded into a shrieking din of flame and whirling splinters. Men and pieces of men painted the deck in vivid scarlet patterns. But Wright was on his knees, and some of the screams he knew were his own.
His reeling mind held on to the horrific picture for only seconds. The naked man tied to the gun, but no longer complaining. He had no head. The foremast going over the side, the signals midshipman rolling and whimpering like a sick dog.
The picture froze and faded. He was dead.
Commander Alfred Dunstan sat cross-legged at the table in Phaedra's cramped cabin and studied the chart in silence.
Opposite him, his first lieutenant Joshua Meheux waited for a decision, his ear pitched to the creak and clatter of rigging. Astern through the open windows he could see the thick mist following the sloop-of-war, heard the second lieutenant calling another change of masthead lookouts. In any fog or mist even the best lookout was subject to false sightings. After an hour or so he would see only what he expected to see. A darker patch of fog would become a lee shore, or the topsail of another vessel about to collide. He watched his cousin. It was incredible how Dunstan was able to make his ship's company understand exactly what he needed from them.
He glanced round the small cabin, where they had had so many discussions, made plans, celebrated battles and birthdays with equal enthusiasm. He looked at the great tubs of oranges and lemons which filled most of the available space. Phaedra had run down on a Genoese trader just before the sea-mist had enveloped them.
They were short of water, desperately so, but the mass of fresh fruit which Dunstan had commandeered, as he had put it, had tilted the balance for the moment.
Dunstan glanced up from the chart and smiled. 'Smells like Bridport on market day, don't it?'
His shirt was crumpled and stained, but better that than have the ship's company believe that water rationing did not apply to the officers as well.
Dunstan tapped the chart with his dividers. 'Another day, and I shall have to come about. We are sorely needed with the squadron. Besides, Captain Sinclair will have an alternative rendezvous. But for this mist, I'd wager we would have sighted his ship days ago.'
Meheux asked, 'Do you know him?'
Dunstan lowered his head to peer more closely at his calculations. 'I know o’him.'
The lieutenant smiled to himself. Dunstan was in command. He would go no further in discussing another captain. Even with his cousin.
Dunstan leaned back and ruffled his wild auburn hair. 'God, I itch like a poxed-up whore1' He grinned. 'I think Sir Richard intends to join the fleet under Nelson. Though he will take all the blame if the French outpace him and slip back into port in these waters.'
He reached under the table and then produced a decanter of claret. 'Better than water anyway.' He poured two large glasses. Til bet that our vice-admiral will be in enough hot water as it is! God damn it, any man who can accept the wrath of Admiralty and that of the dandified Inspector General must be made of stern stuff.'
'What was he like as a captain?'
Dunstan looked at him, his eyes distant. 'Brave, courteous. No conceit.'
'You liked him''
Dunstan swallowed the claret; the casual question had slipped through his guard.
'I worshipped the deck he walked on. All of us in the gunroom did, I believe.' He shook his head. 'I'd stand beside him any day.'
There was a tap at the door and a midshipman, dressed in an even grubbier shirt than his captain's, peered in at them.
The second lieutenant's respects, sir, and he thinks the mist may be clearing.'
They looked up as the deck quivered very slightly, and the hull murmured a gentle protest at being disturbed again.
'By God, the wind is returning.' Dunstan's eyes gleamed. 'My compliments to the second lieutenant, Mr Valliant. I shall come up presently.' As the boy left he winked at Meheux. 'With a name like his he should go far in the navy!'
Dunstan held up the decanter and grimaced. It was almost empty.
He remarked, 'It will be a drier ship than usual, I fear.' Then he became serious again. 'Now this is what I intend -'
Meheux stared at the decanter as the glass stopper rattled for several seconds.
Their eyes met. Meheux said, 'Thunder?'
Dunstan was groping for his shabby hat. 'Not this time, by God. That came from iron guns, my friend!'
He slipped his arms into his coat and climbed up the companion ladder to the deck.
He glanced through the drifting mist, seeing his seamen standing and listening. Such a small vessel, yet so many men, he thought vaguely. He tensed as the booming roar sighed through the mist and imagined he could feel the sullen vibration against the hull. Faces had turned aft towards him. Instantly he remembered Bolitho, when they had all stared at him as if expecting salvation and understanding, because he had been their captain.
Dunstan tucked one hand into his old seagoing coat with the tarnished buttons. I am ready. Now they look to me.
Meheux was the first to speak.
'Shall we stand away until we are sure what is happening, sir?'
He did not reply directly. 'Call all hands. Have the people lay aft.'
They came running to the pipe, and when they were all packed from side to side, with some clinging to the mizzen shrouds and on the upturned cutter, Meheux touched his hat, his eyes curious.
'Lower deck cleared, sir.'
Dunstan said, 'In a moment we shall clear for action. No fuss, no beat of a drum. Not this time. You will go to quarters in the manner you have learned so well.' He looked at those nearest him, youngsters like their officers, grizzled old hands such as the boatswain and the carpenter. Faces he had taught himself to know and recognise, so that he could call any one of them by name even in pitch darkness. At any other time the thought would have made him smile. For it was often said that his hero Nelson had the same knack of knowing his people, even now that he had reached flag rank.
But he did not smile. 'Listen!' The booming roar echoed through the mist. Each man would hear it differently. Ships at war, or the sound of enraged surf on a reef. Thunder across the hills in a home land which had produced most of these men.
'I intend to continue on this tack.' His eyes moved over them. 'One of those ships must be a friend. We shall carry word of our finding to Sir Richard Bolitho and the squadron.'
A solitary voice raised a cheer and Dunstan gave a broad grin. 'So stand-to, my lads, and God be with you all!'
He stood back to watch as they scattered to their various stations, while the boatswain and his own party broke out the chain slings and nets for the yards to offer some protection to the gun crews should the worst happen.
Dunstan said quietly, 'I think we may have found La Mouette.' He kept the other thought to himself. That he hoped Sinclair was as ready for a fight as he was with the lash.
The thuds of screens being taken down, stores and personal belongings being lowered to the orlop deck, helped to muffle the occasional sound of distant thunder.
Lieutenant Meheux touched his hat and reported, 'Cleared for action, sir.'
Dunstan nodded and again recalled Bolitho. 'Ten minutes this time. They take fairly to their work.' But the mood eluded him and he smiled. 'Well done, Josh!'
The sails billowed out loudly, like giants puffing their chests. The deck canted over and Dunstan said, 'Bring her up a point! Steer nor'-nor'-west!'
He saw Meheux clipping on his hanger and said, 'The people are feeling this.' He looked at the crouching gun crews, the ship's boys with their buckets of sand, the others at the braces or with their fingers gripping the ratlines, ready to dash aloft when the order was piped to make more sail.
Dunstan made up his mind. 'Load if you please, I -'
There was a great chorus of shouts and Dunstan stared as the mist lifted and swirled to one violent explosion.
He said sharply, 'Load, Mr Meheux! Keep their minds in your grasp!'
Each gun captain faced aft and raised his fist.
'All loaded, sir!'
They looked aloft as the mist faded more swiftly and laid bare the rippling ensign above the gaff.
Dunstan plucked his chin. 'We are ready this time anyway.'
All eyes turned forward as the mist lost its greyness. Something like a fireball exploded through it, the sound going on and on until eventually lost in the beat of canvas, the sluice of water alongside.
'Ship on the starboard bow, sir!'
Dunstan snatched a glass. 'Get aloft, Josh. I need your eyes up there today.'
As the first lieutenant swarmed up the mainmast shrouds a warning cry came from the forecastle.
'Wreckage ahead!'
The master's mate of the watch threw his weight onto the wheel with that of the two helmsmen but Dunstan yelled, 'Belay that! Steady as you go!' He made himself walk to the side as what appeared to be a giant tusk loomed off the bow. It was always best to meet it head on, he thought grimly. Phaedra did not have the timbers of a liner, nor even a frigate. That great pitching spar might have crashed right through the lower hull like a ram.
He watched the severed mast pass down the side, torn shrouds and blackened canvas trailing behind it like foul weed. There were corpses too. Men trapped by the rigging, their faces staring through the lapping water, or their blood surrounding them like pink mist.
Dunstan heard a boatswain's mate bite back a sob as he stared at one of the bobbing corpses. It wore the same blue jacket with white piping as himself.
There was no more doubt as to who had lost the fight.
Some of the small waves crumpled over as the rising wind felt its way across the surface.
Dunstan watched the mist drawing clear, further and further, leaving the sea empty once again. He stiffened as more shouts came from forward.
Something long and dark which barely rose above the uneasy water. There was much weed on it. One of the vessels which should have been released for a much needed overhaul. Surrounded by giant bubbles and a great litter of flotsam and charred remains, it was a ship's keel.
Dunstan said, 'Up another point. Hands aloft, Mr Faulkner! As fast as you like!"
High above it all, Lieutenant Meheux clung to the mam crosstrees beside the lookout and watched the mist rolling away before him. He saw the other ship's topgallant masts and braced yards, and then as the mist continued to outpace the thrust of the sails, the forepart of the hull and her gilded figurehead.
He slid down a backstay and reached Dunstan in seconds.
Dunstan nodded very slowly. 'We both remember that ship, Josh. She's Consort- in hell's name I'd know her anywhere!'
He raised his telescope and studied the other vessel as more sails broke to the wind, and her shining hull seemed to shorten while she leaned over on a fresh tack. Towards Phaedra.
The midshipman was pointing wildly. 'Sir! There are men in the water!' He was almost weeping. 'Our people!'
Dunstan moved the glass until he saw the thrashing figures, some clinging to pieces of timber, others trying to hold their comrades afloat.
Dunstan climbed into the shrouds and twisted his leg around the tarred cordage to hold himself steady.
The masthead lookout yelled, 'Ships to the nor'-east!'
But Dunstan had already seen them. With the mist gone, the horizon was sharp and bright; it reminded him of a naked sword.
Someone was shouting, 'It'll be th' squadron! Come on, lads! Kill them buggers!'
Others started to cheer, their voices broken as they watched the survivors from La Mouette. Men like themselves. The same dialects, the same uniforms.
Dunstan watched the ships on the horizon until his eye ached. He had seen the red and yellow barricades around their fighting-tops in the powerful lens, something the lookout had not yet recognised.
He lowered the glass and looked sadly at the midshipman. 'We must leave those poor devils to die, Mr Valhant.' He ignored the boy's horrified face. 'Josh, we will come about and make all haste to find Sir Richard.'
Meheux waited, dazed by the swiftness of disaster.
His captain gestured towards the horizon. The Dons are coming. A whole bloody squadron of them.'
The air cringed as a shot echoed across the sea. The frigate had fired a ranging ball from one of her bow chasers. The next one -
Dunstan cupped his hands. 'Hands aloft! Man the braces! Stand by to come about!' He bit his lip as another ball slammed down and threw up a waterspout as high as the topsail yard. Men ran to obey, and as the yards swung round Phaedra's lee bulwark appeared to dip beneath the water.
Another shot pursued her as the frigate made more sail, her yards alive with men.
Meheux was waving to his topmen with the speaking trumpet. He shouted breathlessly, 'If they reach our squadron before we can warn them -'
Dunstan folded his arms and waited for the next fall of shot. Any one of those nine pounders could cripple his command, slow her down until she reeled beneath a full broadside as Sinclair had done.
'I think it will be more than a squadron at stake, Josh.'
A ball crashed through the taffrail and seared across the deck like a furnace bar. Two men fell dead, without even uttering a cry. Dunstan watched as two others took their place.
'Run, my beauty, run\' He looked up at the hardening sails, the masts curving like coachmen's whips.
'Just this once, you are the most important ship in the fleet!'