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!'
17. Prepare For Battle!
Captain Valentine Keen walked up the slanting deck and hunched his shoulders against the wind. How quickly the Mediterranean could change her face at this time of year, he thought. The sky was hidden by deep-bellied clouds, and the sea was no longer like blue silk.
He stared at the murky horizon, at the endless serried ranks of short, steep white horses. It looked hostile and without warmth. There had been some heavy rain in the night and every available man had been roused on deck to gather it in canvas scoops, even in humble buckets. A full glass, washed down with a tot of rum for all hands, seemed to have raised their spirits.
The deck heaved over again, for Hyperion was butting as close to the wind as she dared, her reefed topsails glinting with spray as she held station on the other ships astern.
For as Isaac Penhaligon, the master, had commented, with the wind veered again to the nor'-east, it was hard enough to dawdle until Herrick's ships joined them, without the additional problem of clawing into the wind, watch in and watch out. For if they were driven too far to the west, they would find it almost impossible to steer for Toulon should the enemy try to re-enter that harbour.
Keen pictured the chart in his mind. They were already at that point right now, another cross, a new set of bearings and the noon sights. With such poor visibility they could be miles off their estimated course.
Keen walked to the quarterdeck rail and stared along the maindeck. As usual it was busy despite the weather. Trigge the sailmaker with his assistants, squatting on the deck, their needles and palms moving intricately like parts of a mill as they repaired heavy-weather canvas brought up from below.
Trigge was experienced enough to know that if they entered the Atlantic in search of the enemy, every spare sail would be needed.
Sheargold the purser, his unsmiling features set in a permanently suspicious frown, was watching as some casks of salt-beef were hoisted through another hatch. Keen did not envy anyone in that trade. Sheargold had to plan for every league sailed, each delay or sudden change of orders which might send the ship in an opposite direction without time to restock his provisions.
Hardly anybody ever felt grateful to Sheargold. It was generally believed between decks that most pursers retired rich, having won their fortunes by scrimping on the sailors' meagre rations.
Major Adams was up forward, standing at an angle on the tilting deck while he studied a squad of marines being put through their paces. How bright the the scarlet coats and white cross belts looked in the dull light, Keen thought.
He heard the boatswain, Sam Lintott, discussing the new cutter with one of his mates. The latter was the villainous-looking one named Dacie. Keen had been told of his part in the cutting-out of the Spanish treasure-ship. He could believe all that he had heard. With his eye patch, and crooked shoulder, Dacie would frighten anybody.
Lieutenant Parris approached the rail and touched his hat.
'Permission to exercise the quarterdeck guns this afternoon, sir?'
Keen nodded. 'They will not thank you, Mr Parris, but I think it a good idea.'
Parris looked out to sea. 'Shall we meet the French, sir?'
Keen glanced at him. Outwardly easy and forthcoming with the sailors, there was something else within the man, something he was grappling with, even in casual conversation. Getting his command? Keen did not know why he had lost it in the first place. He had heard about Haven's animosity towards him. Maybe there had been another superior officer with whom he had crossed swords.
He replied, 'Sir Richard is torn between the need to watch the approaches to Toulon, and the strong possibility we will be called to support the fleet.' He thought of Bolitho in the cabin, dictating letters to Yovell or his clerk, telling young Jenour what might be expected of him if they met with the enemy. Keen had already discussed the possibility with Bolitho.