Then he said simply, 'If I never lived beyond this day I have still known true happiness. Nothing can take that away.'
Allday clipped on the old sword and loosened it in its scabbard.
He said gruffly, 'Amen to that, I says, Cap'n.'
Bolitho looked at both of them. 'Very well. Have the marines beat to quarters.' He touched his pocket and felt the fan inside. Her presence. 'You may clear for action, Captain Keen!'
They faced each other, and Keen formally touched his hat.
He smiled, but it did not reach his eyes. 'So be it.'
The stark rattle of drums, the rush of feet from every hatch and along both gangways made further speech impossible. Bolitho watched the gun crews throwing themselves around their charges, topmen swarming aloft to rig the slings and nets, ready to whip or splice their repairs even in the carnage of a broadside.
Jenour appeared on deck, his hat tugged well down on his forehead, the beautiful sword slapping against his hip. He looked stern, and somehow older.
As the ship fell silent once more, Parns strode aft and faced up to the captain. He wore a pair of fine hessian boots.
'Cleared for action, sir. Galley fire doused. Pumps manned.'
Keen did not take out his watch but said, 'Nine minutes, Mr Parns. The best yet.'
Bolitho smiled. Whether it was true or not, those who had heard Keen's praise would pass it on to each deck. It was little enough. But it all helped.
Keen came aft. 'Ready, Sir Richard.'
Bolitho saw him hesitate and asked, 'What is it, Val?'
'I was wondering, Sir Richard. Could we have the fifers strike up' Like we did in Tempest''1'
Bolitho looked at the sea, the memory linking them once again. 'Aye, make it so.'
And as the old Hyperion leaned over to the same starboard tack, and while the edge of the horizon broke into more silhouettes and mastheads, the Royal Marine fifers struck up a lively march. Accompanied by the drums from the poop, and the seamen's bare feet stamping on the sanded planking, they strode up and down as if they were on parade at their barracks.
Bolitho met Keen's glance and nodded. Portsmouth Lass. It was even the same tune.
Bolitho raised his telescope and slowly examined the Spanish line from end to end. The two rearmost ships were well out of formation, and Bolitho suspected that the very end vessel was standing away so that the other one could complete some repairs as Olympus had done.
He shifted his gaze to the solitary frigate. It was easy to see why La Mouette's captain had been deceived. It took much more than a foreign ensign to disguise an English-built frigate.
He knew that Consort had been launched on the Medway, near Hernck's home. Would he be thinking of that now, he wondered5
Twelve sail-of-the-lme. The flagship in the van had already been identified by Parns, who had met with her before. She was the ninety-gun San Mateo, flagship of Almirante Don Alberto Casares, who had commanded the Spanish squadrons at Havana.
Casares would know all about Hyperion's part in the attack on Puerto Cabello. Some of these very ships had probably been intended to escort the treasure galleons to Spain.
Bolitho watched the Intrepido. At least the two squadrons had something in common, two frigates between them.
He heard Parris saying to the signals midshipmen, 'It will be a while yet.'
Bolitho glanced at the two youths, who could barely drag their eyes from the enemy. How much worse for anyone who had never faced a line of battle, he thought. It could take hours to draw together. At the Saintes it had taken all day. First the few mastheads topping the horizon, then they had risen and grown until the sea's face had seemed to be covered.
A lieutenant who had written home after the Saintes had described the French fleet as 'rising above the horizon, like the armoured knights at Agincourt '. It had been a fair description.
Bolitho walked forward to the rail and looked along the maindeck. The men were ready; the gun captains had selected the best-fashioned balls and grape for the first, double-shotted broadside. This time they would need to fight both sides of the ship at once, so there would be no extra hands to spare. They had to break through the line – after that, it was every ship for herself.
The Royal Marines were in the fighting tops, the best marksmen Major Adams could find, with some others to man the vicious swivels. The bulk of the marines lined the poop, not yet standing to the packed hammock nettings to mark down their targets, but waiting in gently swaying ranks, Sergeant Embree and his corporals talking to each other without appearing to move their mouths.
Penhahgon and his master's mates were near the wheel, with two extra hands at the helm in case of casualties.
Apart from the sea noises and the occasional slap of the great driver sail above the poop, it seemed quiet after the fifers had stopped playing. Bolitho raised his glass yet again and saw a seaman turn from a maindeck eighteen-pounder to watch him.
The enemy flagship was much nearer. He could see the glint of sunlight on swords and fixed bayonets, men swarming up the ratlines of her foremast, others rising from their guns to watch the approaching squadron.
The Spanish admiral might expect his opposite number to fight ship-to-ship. His ninety guns against this old third-rate. Bolitho smiled grimly. It would even be unwise to cross San Mateo's ornate stern in the first stage of the engagement. To be crippled breaking the line would throw the following ships into disorder, and Hernck would be left to attack on his own with just three ships.
Bolitho said, 'Signal Tybalt to take station astern of Olympus. It might add some weight to Herrick's line.' He heard the flags rushing aloft but continued to watch the big Spanish flagship.
Keen must have read his thoughts. 'May I suggest we break the line astern of the third or fourth ship, as it may present itself?'
Bolitho smiled. 'The further away from that beauty the better. Until we have lessened the odds anyway.'
Jenour was standing near the signals party and heard Bolitho's casual comment. Was it all a bluff, or did he really believe he could win against so many? Jenour tried to concentrate on his parents, how he would word his next letter. His mmd reeled when he realised that the concept eluded him. Perhaps there would be no more letters. He felt a sudden terror and stared up at the wispy clouds directly above Bolitho's flag at the foremast truck. He was going to be killed.
Midshipman Spnngett, who was the youngest in the ship, appeared on deck. His station was on the lower gundeck, to relay messages back and forth to the poop. In the bright sunlight he had to blink several times after the gloom of the sealed gundeck.
Bolitho saw the boy turn, watched his expression as he gazed at the enemy ships, seeing them probably for the first time.
For those few moments his uniform and the proud, glinting dirk at his belt meant nothing. He drove his knuckles into his mouth as if to hold back a cry of fear. He was a child again.
Jenour must have seen him, and strode across. 'Mr Spnngett, isn't it? I could do with you assisting me today.' He gestured to the two signals midshipmen, Furmval, the senior, and Mirrielees, who had red hair and a face covered with freckles. 'These old men are getting past it, I fear!' The two m question grinned and nudged one another as if it were all a huge joke.
The boy stared at them. Mesmerised. He whispered, 'Thank you, sir.' He held out a paper. 'Mr Mansforth's respects, sir.' He turned and trotted back to the ladder without once looking at the imposing ranks of sails.
Keen said quietly, 'Your flag lieutenant just about saved that lad from bursting into tears.'