Tyler was speaking to the master’s mate. ‘We’ll overreach him at this pace, Ned.’ He looked at Penrose. ‘We shall have to come about, sir!’
‘I know. Take in the mains’l!’ He moved the glass again as a tiny patch of colour appeared at the frigate’s yard.
‘She’s made her number, sir!’
Tyler was yelling to his men, and the air was alive with banging canvas and the squeal of blocks.
Penrose did not move. He could not.
He shouted, ‘Belay that order!’ He did not recognise his own voice, hard and desperate.
He ran up the slippery planking and stared at the compass. ‘Let her fall off, steer due south! She can take it!’
He seized the lieutenant’s arm and saw him staring at him like a stranger.
‘Why should he make his number to us, for God’s sake?’
‘Look, sir!’ The seaman was almost incoherent. ‘Christ Almighty!’
The telescope in Penrose’s wet fingers felt like ice. He had just seen it. A moment later when they would have been wallowing round on to a new tack, they would have been close enough to hear it: the sound of trucks, even as the line of ports opened along the frigate’s side to reveal the guns, and the men who had been crouching there, prepared to fire them.
The great sails filled again, and the taut rigging rattled and hummed in protest. But nothing carried away.
Penrose watched the other ship, his mind as cold as the glass in his hands; everything was clear. Huntress had been taken, and within minutes it would have been too late. Someone had tried to warn them, in the only way a seaman would know and recognise.
He felt a muscle jerk in his throat as smoke billowed from the frigate’s side to blow instantly inboard again, so that the long tongues of fire looked solid, like furnace bars.
He heard voices crying out as iron crashed across the schooner’s deck, and a length of the larboard bulwark was shivered to fragments. Men had fallen, how badly injured Penrose could not tell. But the masts were still standing, and the sails as hard as steel. Only a topsail had been punctured by a shot fired too soon, the wind tearing the canvas to ribbons like a giant ripping paper.
He levelled the glass again, shutting his mind to the pitiful cries, and to the fear which would follow if he allowed it.
The Huntress was changing tack; no wonder she had left it so late. Even in the spray and fading light, he could see the battering she had taken on her opposite side. They had not surrendered without a fight, although that was little enough, for what they had given in exchange.
He swung round and saw the master’s mate tying the lieutenant’s wrist with his neckerchief.
He strode to his friend, and steadied him. ‘Hold on, Jack.’ He did not blink as another ragged broadside exploded somewhere. As if it were happening in a dream, and to somebody else.
‘We must find the flagship, Jack. The admiral must be told.’
Tyler tried to speak but the pain made him gasp.
Penrose persisted, ‘Huntress was the last patrol. The guardship.’
Tyler tried again, and managed to say one word. ‘Elba.’
It was enough.
Bolitho leaned back in his chair, his shirt clinging damply to the warm leather. Beyond the stern windows there was only darkness, whilst here in the cabin the shaded light from a solitary lantern threw shadows across the paintwork and the chequered deck covering, like strange dancers keeping time with Frobisher’s uneven movements.
How could a ship so large be so silent? There was only an occasional sound of feet overhead, or cordage being manhandled to trim a yard, or take the slack out of a sail.
He knew that he should sleep, just as he knew that he would be unable to do so. He covered his blind eye and looked at the unfinished letter which lay open on top of his chart.
Writing to Catherine always gave him a sense of conversing, of sharing the days and nights with her. Frobisher might be on passage for England before this particular letter was concluded.
He stood up and moved about the cabin, his hand brushing against one of the tethered guns. Even the metal felt warm, as if it had been fired only hours earlier.
They had not met with Huntress, and in his heart he knew Tyacke had been humouring him with the belief that they would make a final contact before Bolitho handed over his command.
At first light they would come about and head for Malta. But until then ….
Allday was taking great care not to intrude upon his thoughts, but he was unable to conceal his relief that they were finally going home.
How would Allday settle down, what would he do? Proprietor of a small country inn, seeing the same faces every day, in a world where men discussed crops, livestock and the weather with equal authority. Not the sea…. But he would have Unis and little Kate. He would have to begin learning all over again. A different life. Like me.
He thought of going on deck, but knew that his presence would worry the watchkeepers. On the same tack and under reduced canvas, it would be hard enough for some of them to stay awake without their admiral pacing up and down. Tyacke would be in his cabin, planning, preparing for his ship’s immediate future, and his own. Tyacke was probably the one person who had never expected hope to hold out its hand to him; the one man who so richly deserved it.
And what of Avery; would he remain in the navy or reconsider his uncle’s offer? It was hard to imagine any one of his little crew in any life but this.
In fact Avery was on deck, clinging to the empty hammock nettings, and listening to the ship shuddering and groaning above and around him. Alan Tollemache, the third lieutenant, had the watch, but he had retreated to the poop after two attempts to open a conversation.
It was not that Avery disliked him, even though he tended to brag about himself and his family; it was simply that he wanted to be alone, to have only his thoughts and memories for company. It was difficult enough for any flag lieutenant to fit completely into wardroom life with its rules and traditions, and where every thought and idea was shared. It had to be that way; the lieutenants were a group apart, us and them. It was natural enough, but Avery had never been able to be anything but himself, and solitary.
He had been thinking deeply about the future, and what he might do when Bolitho’s flag came down. Promotion, and perhaps a small command of his own? He could sense a hundred arguments before he could even consider it. He served Sir Richard; to be appointed aide to some other flag officer was out of the question. His powerful uncle, Baron Sillitoe of Chiswick, then? He admired Sillitoe for having offered him a future, one of substance and prosperity, partly because he sensed what it had cost him to bend so far. He smiled, and tasted the raw salt on his lips. The prospect would certainly attract the beautiful Susanna. But even poor luffs had pride, and pride pulled in both directions.
With a sigh, he walked aft, tossing a casual wave to the dark group of figures around the compass box, and pausing as the poop’s black outline loomed over him to glance again at the sky. No moon, and only an occasional star. It was a fine night after all, even during the hated middle watch. He was about to feel his way to the companion ladder when something caused him to hesitate, and to turn, as if someone had called his name.
But there was nothing. It was an intrusion into thoughts which had been quiet, meditative, and for some reason he was troubled by it.
When he climbed into his swaying cot the disquiet remained with him, and sleep was denied him.
As in all men-of-war, shorthanded or not, Frobisher’s company were turned-to when there was barely enough light to mark sea from sky. It was always a time of bustle and purpose, and on this day there was not a man jack aboard who did not know that the ship, which was their home, their way of life, their reason for being, would soon be turning her jib boom towards the west, and eventually to England.
Kellett, the first lieutenant, was in charge of the morning watch, as the decks were washed down and the water casks filled with some of their last supply. The laz
y breeze was heavy with greasy smells from the galley funnel.
Kellett saw the signals midshipman watching him, and said, ‘Aloft with you, Mr Singleton, and see if you can be the first to sight the wretched Huntress! And cling to the thought while you climb: after this, you may be the one giving orders to some snotty midshipman, if your wits serve you well in your examination!’
The midshipman ran to the shrouds and began the long climb up the ratlines.
Someone whispered, ‘Cap’n, sir.’
Tyacke strode to the compass and glanced at the topsails, then his eyes found Singleton clawing his way past the maintop.
‘He’ll see nothing, I daresay.’
Kellett was watching the working parties being dismissed, and thought of the tasks he had detailed for the day.
Tyacke was saying, ‘If the wind holds steady, we should make a fair passage.’
Kellett listened with some curiosity. The captain rarely made idle observations, any more than he ever showed uncertainty in the presence of his officers. He had been in awe of Tyacke when he had suddenly accepted this command, and resentful also. Now he could not imagine Frobisher without him.
Tyacke was observing Singleton’s progress, remembering how Bolitho had once confided in him, and told him how the fear of heights had disturbed him as a ‘young gentleman’. He had heard Kellett’s remarks to the youth concerning promotion, and, reluctantly, he had concluded that Singleton might make a good officer, provided he had a captain to drive him.
Oblivious to all of them, the midshipman had reached the crosstrees, where a tanned and scarred seaman was already on duty. Singleton had seen him fumbling with a packet when he had appeared beside him, and guessed that the man had been chewing tobacco, a punishable offence while on watch.
Singleton unslung his telescope, pleased that he was not out of breath. He would not report the offender, and he knew that the seaman, an old hand, would remember him for it. He trained the glass with great care, recalling the admiral’s words to him. My eyes.
There was an horizon at last, very thin and hard, like polished silver.
It would be strange to leave this ship, he thought, to take that once unimaginable step from midshipman’s berth to wardroom. To be able to speak openly with fellow lieutenants, who, up until now, had seemed bent on making every midshipman’s life a perfect misery.
The old seaman was studying him, the seriousness on his young features. With one or two of the others, he would have remained silent, but the signals midshipman had always seemed fair enough.
He said calmly, ‘There’s a ship out yonder, Mr Singleton.’
Singleton lowered the heavy glass and stared at him. ‘If I can’t see it with this, then I….’ He grinned, and raised it again. ‘Where away?’
‘Larboard bow, very fine.’
Singleton tried again. Nothing. He knew about some of the older lookouts; it was a second sense, someone had told him.
He held his breath and waited for Frobisher to lift again. And there it was. How could he not have seen it?
He screwed his eye closer and saw the image strengthen. Catching the light from somewhere. A sail, touched with yellow gold, standing up from the hard horizon; like a feather, he thought.
He looked at his companion. ‘I see her.’ He smiled. ‘My thanks.’
On the quarterdeck, every face was raised as Singleton’s voice echoed down from the mainmast.
‘Deck there! Sail, fine on the larboard bow!’
Tyacke exclaimed, ‘Well, I’ll be damned!’
Kellett said, ‘Shall I inform the admiral, sir?’
Tyacke looked at him. ‘When we know a bit more.’ As Kellett hurried away, he added, ‘He won’t need telling.’
It was another hour before the masthead could recognise the newcomer. Tyacke watched Bolitho’s face keenly as he told him.
‘Tireless, James? Not Huntress after all?’ He smiled, but the mood seemed to elude him. ‘Well, she may have news for us, although from that direction I doubt it.’
When admiral and flag lieutenant joined the others on the quarterdeck, Tyacke noticed that Bolitho was dressed in a clean shirt and breeches. He looked rested and alert now, even though there had been a light burning in his cabin throughout the night watches.
Avery said, ‘May Tireless not have seen Huntress, Sir Richard?’
Bolitho did not answer, trying to gauge the depth of his feelings. He could feel nothing but a sense of inevitability, of destiny. As if his reluctance to return to Malta had been justified. He saw Allday watching him; even Yovell was here on this bright morning.
Singleton yelled down, ‘Tireless has hoisted a signal, sir!’
Lieutenant Pennington murmured, ‘We are all agog, sir.’ Nobody laughed.
Singleton must have been very aware of the signal and its importance, even though he would not understand it. But his voice did not break or quiver.
‘From Tireless. Enemy in Sight!’
Bolitho looked at Tyacke, ignoring or detached from the babble of disbelief and astonishment which separated them.
‘So now we know, James. The trap is sprung. All else was delusion.’
He turned away, one hand on his shirt, and Tyacke thought he murmured, ‘Don’t leave me.’
Then he smiled, as if he had heard her voice.
18
Final Embrace
BOLITHO PRESSED HIS face against the thick glass of the quarter-gallery, and watched the little schooner’s distorted shape as she clawed her way across the wind.
When he turned he saw the stains of salt water on the deck covering, where Tireless’s captain had stood after a hasty pull to the flagship.
So young, so earnest, perhaps not able to grasp the magnitude of these events. He had almost pleaded, ‘I can stay in company, Sir Richard. We’re no match for close action, but surely we could do something?’
Bolitho had said, ‘You have done enough. The signal, for instance.’
Penrose had forced a smile. ‘I heard it said that you used the same ruse to deceive a more powerful enemy, so that he should believe you had sighted friendly ships.’
How could Penrose have known? It was beyond trickery now.
Bolitho had said, ‘They will not run. They dare not. There is too much at stake.’ He had taken his hand. ‘Go to Malta with all haste. Tell the senior officer. I shall rely on it.’
Tyacke was standing by the table now, Avery by the fine wine cooler, his hand touching it as if to reassure himself. Beyond the screen there was utter silence except for the muffled sounds of sea and rigging. A ship holding her breath.
Tyacke said, ‘Shall I remain on this course, Sir Richard?’
Bolitho walked to the table and lifted a corner of the chart. His unfinished letter still lay there; it had been hidden by the chart. Lieutenant Penrose could have picked it up, put it inside his spray-dappled coat before returning to his little command. And, sooner or later, she would have read it ….
He recalled what Tyacke had asked him; he had not questioned or even doubted him. So much trust. It was like a betrayal, and he was suddenly angry.
‘Those fools in London, what do they know or even care, until all at once it is too late! All they can think about is grand receptions, peerages and self-congratulation! Men have died because of their arrogance and complacency! And will go on dying!’
Avery had stepped away from the cooler, his eyes very bright in the filtered sunshine. He had never seen Bolitho reveal his anger before, even though, many times, he had guessed it was there.
Bolitho said, ‘Huntress was taken, a vital link in the chain of an overstretched squadron! What did their lordships expect? Perhaps that the tyrant would remain passive, indifferent? This is not merely a man, but a colossus, one who has cowed and conquered every force that stood against him, from Egypt to the snows of Russia, from the Indian Ocean to the Spanish Main. What in hell’s name did they expect?’
He calmed himself with an effort. ‘There are hundreds,
perhaps thousands of men who owed their power and influence to Napoleon. Without him to direct them, they are nothing.’ He thought of Penrose again, and his signal. ‘Oh, they will come, and we shall be ready for them.’ He plucked his shirt from his body. ‘But the trap is sprung. The maybes and the if onlys have no place here.’
He looked at Tyacke, his eyes very clear. ‘You thought, perhaps, that nobody but a fool would challenge a ship of the line?’
Tyacke glanced at the chart, and saw the letter beneath it.
‘Frobisher will dish them up, Sir Richard, you have my word on it!’
Yovell had appeared silently, and ventured, ‘Then it will be war, Sir Richard?’
Bolitho said, ‘We shall soon know.’
They all looked at the open skylight as the lookout’s voice pealed, ‘Deck there! Sail to the nor’east!’
Bolitho turned to Avery. ‘Take a glass, George. I need your experience today.’
Avery snatched up his hat. ‘Could it be Huntress, Sir Richard?’
Another voice reached down to the great cabin. It was Midshipman Singleton this time.
‘Deck there! Another sail to the nor’east!’
Bolitho pushed the lock of hair from his forehead. ‘I think not, George.’ Then he smiled, and Avery was very conscious of the warmth in it. ‘And fetch down Mr Singleton, or he’ll have no lungs left!’
The door closed and Tyacke waited, blue eyes watching every movement, every changing mood, like reflections on the sea’s face.
Bolitho nodded slowly. ‘Yes, James, the two we saw in Algiers. Privateers, renegades, pirates, who can say? They will fight. They cannot afford to fail.’
Tyacke glanced around the cabin, imagining it stripped of all things personal, precious to this unbreakable man. A place of war.
‘I would like to speak with the people, Sir Richard.’
Bolitho touched his arm as he walked to the opposite side. ‘Good. It is their right.’
Tyacke understood. What you would do in my place. What so many would not.
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