'Damme, but that's six o' them - an' they're thumpers, Sir Edward!' The massive telescope the first lieutenant of HMS Indefatigable held swayed in the hard gale, but the grey waste of winter sea made it easy to see the pallid white sails of line-of-battle ships, even at such a distance.

Captain Pellew growled an indistinct acknowledgement. If it was the French finally emerging from Brest, it was the worst timing possible. The main British battle fleet had retired to its winter retreat at Portsmouth, and there was only a smaller force under Rear Admiral Colpoys away in the Atlantic, off Ushant to the north, and the two other frigates of his own inshore squadron keeping a precarious watch - and these an enemy of such might could contemptuously sweep aside. Heaven only knew when the grudging reinforcements from the Caribbean would arrive!

'Sir-' There was no need of words; straggling into the whole expanse of the bay more and more sails crowded. Silently, the officers continued to watch, the spiteful blast of the unusual easterly cold and hostile. The seas, harried by the wind, advanced towards them in combers, bursting against their bows and sending icy spindrift aft in stinging volleys.

The light was fading; the French admiral had timed his move such that by the time his fleet reached the open sea they could lose themselves in the darkness of a stormy night. 'A round dozen at least. We may in truth say that the French fleet has sailed,' Pellew said drily.

The lieutenant watched eagerly, for the French were finally showing after all these months, but Pellew did not share his jubilation. His secret intelligence was chilling; for weeks this concentration of force had stored and prepared - with field guns, horses and fodder - and if reports were to be believed, 18 000 troops. If the entire fleet put to sea, it could have only one purpose?

'Desire Phoebe to find Admiral Colpoys and advise,' he snapped at the signal lieutenant. However there was little chance that Colpoys could close on the French before they won the open sea. In the rapidly dimming daylight the swelling numbers of men-o'-war were direful.

'Sir! I now make it sixteen - no seventeen of the line!'

A savage roll made them all stagger. When they recovered it seemed the bay was filling with ships. At least the same number again of frigates, and with transports and others there were now forty or more vessels breaking out into the Atlantic.

'Amazon is to make all sail for Portsmouth,' Pellew snapped. It would reduce his squadron to a pitiable remnant, but it was essential to warn England while there was still time.

Yet the enemy sail advancing on them was not a line of battle, it was a disordered scatter - some headed south, shying away from the only frigate that lay across their path. Strings of flags rose from one of the largest of the French battleships, accompanied by the hollow thump of a gun. The gloom of dusk was fast turning to a clamping murk, and the signal was indistinct. A red rocket soared suddenly and the ghostly blue radiance of a flare showed on her foredeck as she turned to night signals.

'So they want illuminations - they shall have them!' Pellew said grimly. Indefatigable plunged ahead, directly into the widely scattered fleet. From her own deck hissed coloured rockets, gaily tracing across the windy night sky while vivid gunflash from her guns added to the confusion. A large two-decker trying to put about struck rocks; she swung into the wind, and was driven back hard against them. Distress rockets soared from the doomed ship.

'Can't last,' muttered Pellew at the general mayhem. The driving gale from the east would prevent any return to harbour and the enemy had only to make the broad Atlantic to find ample sea-room to regain composure.

The mass of enemy ships passed them by quickly, disdaining to engage, and all too soon had disappeared into the wild night - but not before it was clear they were shaping course northward. Toward England.

CHAPTER 1

'Bear a fist there, y' scowbunkin' lubbers!' The loud bellow startled the group around the forebitts who were amiably watching the sailors at the pin-rail swigging off on the topsail lift. The men moved quickly to obey - this was Thomas Kydd, the hard-horse master's mate whose hellish open-boat voyage in the Caribbean eighteen months ago was still talked about in the Navy.

Kydd's eyes moved about the deck. It was his way never to go below at the end of a watch until all was neatly squared away ready for those relieving, but there was little to criticise in these balmy breezes on the foredeck of the 64 gun ship-of-the-line Achilles as she crossed the broad Atlantic bound for Gibraltar.

Kydd was content - to be a master's mate after just some four years before the mast was a rare achievement. It entitled him to walk the quarterdeck with the officers, to mess in the gunroom, and to wear a proper uniform complete with long coat and breeches - no one could mistake him now for a common sailor!

Royal blue seas with an occasional tumbling line of white, towering fluffy clouds brilliant in southern sunshine. They were to enter the Mediterranean to join Admiral Jervis. It would be the first time Kydd had seen this fabled sea and he looked forward to sharing interesting times ashore with his particular friend, Nicholas Renzi who was now a master's mate in Glorious.

His gaze shifted to her, a powerful 74 gun ship-of-the-line off to leeward. She was taking in her three topsails simultaneously, probably an officer-of-the-watch exercise, pitting the skills and audacity of one mast against another.

The last day or so they had been running down the latitude of thirty-six south, and Kydd knew that they should raise Gibraltar that morning. He glanced forward in expectation. To the east there was a light dun-coloured band of haze lying on the horizon, obscuring the transition of sea into sky.

The small squadron began assuming a form of line. Kydd took his position on the quarterdeck, determined not to miss landfall on such an emblem of history. His glance flicked up to the fore masthead lookout - but this time the man snapped rigid, shading his eyes and looking right ahead. An instant later he leaned down and bawled, 'Laaaand ho!'

The master puffed his cheeks in pleasure. Kydd knew it was an easy enough approach, but news of the sighting of land was always a matter of great interest to a ship's company many weeks at sea, and the decks buzzed with comment.

Kydd waited impatiently, but soon it became visible from the decks, a delicate light blue-grey peak, just discernible over the haze. It quickly firmed to a hard blue and as he watched it spread. The ships sailed on in the fluky south-easterly, and as they approached the aspect of the land changed subtly, the length of it beginning to foreshorten. The haze thinned and the land began to take on individuality.

'Gibraltar!' Kydd breathed. As they neared, the bulking shape hardened, grew, reared up far above their masthead with an effortless immensity. Like a crouching lion it dominated by its mere presence, a majestic, never-to-be-forgotten symbol - the uttermost end of Europe, the finality of a continent.

He looked around; in an irregular blue-grey innocence across a glittering sea, Africa lay to the south - there, so close, was an endless desert and the Barbary pirates, then further south, jungle, elephants and pygmies.

Only two ships - shielding her eyes against the glare of the sea, Emily searched the horizon but could see no more. Admiral Jervis with his fleet was in Lisbon, giving heart to the Portuguese, and there were no men-o'-war of significance in Gibraltar. All were hoping for a substantial naval presence in these dreadful times?but she was a daughter of the army and knew nothing of sea strategy. Still, they looked lovely, all sails set like wings on a swan, a long pennant at the masthead of each swirling lazily, a picture of sea grace and beauty.

Flags rose to Glorious's signal halliards. They both altered course in a broad curve toward the far-off anonymous cluster of buildings half-way along at the water's edge. As they did so, the gentle breeze fluttered and died, picked up again and then dropped away to a whisper. Frustrated, Kydd saw why - even this far out they were in the lee of the great rock in the easterly; high on its summit a ragged scarf of cloud streamed out, darkening the bay beneath for a mile or more. He glanced at the master, who did not appear overly concerned, his arms folded in a limitless patience. The captain disappeared below, leaving the deck to the watch. Sails flapped and rustled, slackened gear rattled and knocked - and the ship ghosted in at the pace of a crawling child.

Kydd took the measure of the gigantic rock. It lay almost exactly north and south some two or three miles long, but was observably much narrower. There was a main town low along the flanks to seaward, but few other buildings on the precipitous sides. On its landward end the rock ended abruptly, and Kydd could see a long flat stretch of land connecting the Rock of Gibraltar to the nondescript mainland.

It wasn't until evening that the frustrating easterly died and a local southerly enabled the two ships to come in with the land. Kydd knew from the charts that this would be Rosia Bay, the home of the Navy in Gibraltar. It was a pretty little inlet, well away from the main cluster of buildings further along. There was the usual elegant, spare stone architecture of a dockyard, and higher, an imposing two storey building that by its position could only be the naval hospital.

Rosia Bay opened up, a small mole to the south, the ramparts of a past fortification clear to the north. There, the two ships dropped anchor.

'Do you see?'

Kydd had not noticed Cockburn appear beside him.

'Er, no - what is it y' sees, Tam?' The neat, almost academic looking man next to him was Achilles' other master's mate, a long promoted midshipman without the proper interest to make the vital step of commission as a lieutenant, but who had accepted his situation with philosophic resignation. He and Kydd had become friends.

'We're the only ones,' Tam said quietly, 'the Fleet must be in the Med somewhere.' Apart from the sturdy sails of dockyard craft and a brig-sloop alongside the mole in a state of disrepair, there were only the exotic lateen sails of Levant traders dotting the sea around the calmness of Gibraltar.

'Side!' The burly boatswain raised his silver call. The captain emerged from the cabin spaces, striding purposefully, all a-glitter with gold lace, medals and best sword. Respectfully, Kydd and Cockburn joined the line of sideboys at the ship's side. The boatswain raised his call again and as the captain went over the bulwark every man touched their hats and the shriek of the whistle pierced the evening.

The captain safely over the side, the first lieutenant remained at the salute for a moment, then turned to the boatswain. 'Stand down the watches, we're out of sea routine now, I believe.'

The boatswain's eyebrows raised in surprise - no strict orders to lose no time in readying the ship for sea again, to store ship, to set right the ravages of their ocean voyage? They would evidently be here for a long time. 'An' liberty, sir?' he asked.

'Larbowlines until evening gun.' The first lieutenant's words were overheard by a dozen ears, sudden unseen scurries indicating the news was being joyfully spread below.

At the boatswain's uneasy frown, the lieutenant added, 'We're due a parcel of men from England, apparently - they can turn to and let our brave tars step off on a well-earned frolic, don't you think?'

Kydd caught an edge of irony in the words, but didn't waste time on reflection. 'Been here before?' he asked Cockburn, taking in the long sprawl of buildings further along, the Moorish-looking castle at the other end - the sheer fascination of the mighty rock.

'Never, I fear,' said Cockburn in his usual quiet way as he gazed at the spectacle. 'But we'll make its acquaintance soon enough.'

Kydd noticed with surprise that Glorious, anchored no more than a hundred yards away, was in a state of intense activity. There were victualling hoys and low barges beetling out to the bigger ship-of-the-line - every sign of an outward bound vessel.

The old fashioned longboat carrying the senior hands ashore was good-natured about diverting, and soon they lay under oars off the side of the powerful man-o'-war, one of a multitude of busy craft.

'Glorious ahoy!' bawled Kydd. At the deck edge a distracted petty officer appeared and looked down into the boat. 'If ye c'n pass th' word f'r Mr Renzi, I'd be obliged,' Kydd hailed. The face disappeared and they waited.

The heat of the day had lessened, but it still had the effect of drawing forth the aromas of a ship long at sea - sun on tarry timbers, canvas and well-worn decks, an effluvia carrying from the open gunports that was as individual to that ship as the volute carvings at her bow, a compound of bilge, old stores, concentrated humanity and more subtle, unknown odours.

There was movement and a wooden squealing of sheaves and the gunport lid next to them was triced up. 'Dear fellow!' Renzi leaned out, and the longboat eased closer.

Kydd's face broke into an unrestrained grin at the sight of the man he had shared more of life's challenges and rewards with than any other. 'Nicholas! Should y' wish t' step ashore -'

'Sadly, brother, I cannot.'

It was the same Renzi, the cool and sensitive gaze, the strength of character in the deep lines each side of his mouth, but Kydd sensed something else, something unsettling.

'We are under Sailing Orders,' Renzi said quietly. The ship was preparing for sea, there could be no risk of men straggling and therefore no liberty. 'An alarum of sorts, we go to join Jervis I believe.'

There was a stir of interest in the longboat. 'An' where's he at, then?' asked Coxall, gunner's mate and generally declared leader of their jaunt ashore - he was an old hand and had been to Gibraltar before.

Renzi looked away, staring levelly at the horizon, his remote expression causing Kydd further unease. 'It seems that there is some - confusion. I have not heard reliably just where the Fleet might be.' He turned back to Kydd with a half-smile. 'But then these are troubling times, my friend, it can mean anything.'

A muffled roar inside the dark gundeck took Renzi's attention and he waved apologetically at Kydd before shouting, 'We will meet on our return, dear fellow,' and then withdrew inboard.

'Rum dos,' muttered Coxall, and glared at the duty boat's crew, lazily leaning into their strokes as the boat made its way around the larger mole to the end of the long wall of fortifications. He perked up as they headed toward the shore and a small jetty. 'Ragged Staff,' he said, his seamed face relaxing into a smile, 'where we gets our water afore we goes ter sea.'

They clambered out; like the others Kydd revelled in the solidity of the ground after weeks at sea, the earth was curiously submissive under his feet without the exuberant liveliness of a ship in concord with the sea. Coxall struck out for the large arched gate in the wall and the group followed.

The town quickly engulfed them, and with it the colour and sensory richness of the huge sunbaked rock. The passing citizenry were as variegated in appearance as any that Kydd had seen; here was a true crossing place of the world, a nexus for the waves of races, European, Arab, Spanish and others from deeper into this inland sea.

And the smells - in the narrow streets innumerable mules and donkeys passed by laden with their burdens, the pungency of their droppings competing with the offerings of open shops; smoked herring and dried cod, the cool bacon aroma of salted pigs' trotters and the heady fragrance of cinnamon, cloves, roasting coffee - each adding in the hot dustiness to the interweaving reek.

In only a few minutes they had crossed two streets and were up against the steep rise of the flank of the Rock. Coxall didn't spare them; leading them through the massive Southport gate and on a narrow track up and around the scrubby slopes to a building set on an angled rise. A sudden cool downward draught sent Kydd's jacket aflare and his hat skittering in the dust.

'Scud Hill - we gets ter sink a muzzler 'ere first, wi'out we has t' smell the town,' Coxall said. It was a pot-house, but not of a kind that Kydd had seen before. Loosely modelled on an English tavern, it was more open balcony than interior darkness, and rather than high-backed benches there were individual tables with cane chairs.

'A shant o' gatter is jus' what'll set me up prime, like!' sighed the lean and careful Tippett, carpenter's mate, and Coxall's inseparable companion. They eased into chairs, orienting them to look out over the water, then carefully spotted their hats beneath. They were just above Rosia Bay, their two ships neatly at anchor within its arms, while further down there was a fine vista of the length of the town, all cosy within long lines of fortifications.

The ale was not long in coming - this establishment was geared for a Fleet in port, and in its absence they were virtually on their own, with only one other table occupied.

'Here's ter us, lads!' Coxall declared, and upended his pewter. It was grateful to the senses on the wide balcony, the wind at this height strong and cool, yet the soft warmth of the winter sun gave a welcome laziness to the late afternoon.

Coins were produced for the next round, but Cockburn held up his hand. 'I'll round in m' tackle for now.' The old 64-gun Achilles had not had one prize to her name in her two years in the Caribbean, while Seaflower cutter had been lucky; Kydd considered how he could see his friend clear to another without it appearing charity, but before he could say anything, Coxall grunted. 'Well, damme - only a Spanish cobb ter me name. Seems yer in luck, yer Scotch shicer, can't let 'em keep m' change!'

Cockburn's set face held, then loosened to a smile. 'Why, thankee, Eli.'

Kydd looked comfortably across his tankard out over the steep sunlit slopes toward the landward end of Gibraltar. The town nestled in a narrow line below, stretching about a mile to where it abruptly ceased at the end of the Rock. The rest of the terrain was bare scrub on precipitous sides. 'So this is y'r Gibraltar,' he said, 'Seems t' me just a mile long an' a half straight up!'

'Aye, but it's rare val'ble to us - Spanish tried ter take it orf us a dozen years or so back, kept at it fer four years, pounded th' place ter pieces they did,' Coxall replied, 'But we held on b' makin' this one thunderin' great fortress.'

'So while we have the place, no-one else can,' Cockburn mused. 'And we come and go as we please, but denying passage to the enemy! Here's to the flag of old England on the Rock for ever!'

A murmur of appreciation as they drank was interrupted by the scraping of a chair and a pleasant faced but tough-looking seaman came across to join them. 'Samuel Jones, yeoman outa Loyalty brig.'

Tippett motioned at their table, 'We're Achilles 64, only this day inward bound fr'm the Caribbee.'

'Saw yez. So ye hasn't the word what's been 'n' happened this side o' the ocean all of a sudden, like.' At the expectant silence he went on, 'As ye knows - yer do? - the Spanish came in wi' the Frogs in October, an' since then?'

Kydd nodded. But his eyes strayed to the point where Gibraltar ended so abruptly; there was Spain, the enemy, just a mile or so beyond - and always there.

Relishing his moment, Jones asked, 'So where's yer Admiral Jervis an' his Fleet, then?'

Coxall started to say something, but Jones cut in, 'No mate, he's at Lisbon, is he - out there!' He gestured out to the west, to the open Atlantic. Leaning forward he pointed in the other direction, into the Mediterranean. 'Since December, last month, we had to skin out - can't hold on. So mates, there ain't a single English man-o'-war as swims in the whole Mediterranee!'

In the grave silence came Coxall's troubled voice. 'Yer means Port Mahon, Leghorn, Naples-'

'We left 'em all t' the French, cully; I tell yer, there's no English guns any further in than us!'

Kydd stared at the table. Evacuation of the Mediterranean? It was inconceivable! The great trade route opened up to the Orient following the loss of the American colonies - the journeys to the Levant, Egypt and the fabled camel trains to the Red Sea and India - all finished?

'But don't let that worry yez,' Jones continued.

'And pray why not?' said Cockburn carefully.

' 'Cos there's worse,' Jones said softly. The others held still.

'Not more'n a coupla weeks ago, we gets word fr'm the north, the inshore frigates off Brest.' He paused. 'The French - they're out!' There was a stirring around the table.

'Not yer usual, not a-tall - this is big, forty sail an' more, seventeen o' the line - an transports, as would be carryin' soldiers an' horses an' all.'

He sought out their faces, one by one. 'It's a right filthy easterly gale, Colpoys out of it somewhere t' sea, nothin' ter stop 'em! Last seen, they hauls their wind fer the north - England, lads?'