Bolitho eyed him sadly. ‘With men like these I could do just about anything, Thomas.’
Allday walked past, his bare feet held painfully away from ring-bolts and gun tackles.
Bolitho unbuckled his tarnished sword and handed it to him. ‘Here, Allday. I’ll be down directly.’
Allday looked at him, the strain coming back to his face. ‘Aye, sir.’
Bolitho added quietly, ‘I’ll take it amiss if the level in my decanters is still high when I examine them.’ He watched him fondly. ‘I’m grateful for your safety.’
Herrick waited until Allday had vanished through the cabin hatch before saying, ‘It is the first time I have known him robbed of a reply, sir.’
Bolitho watched the marines climbing or being hauled bodily through the port, the looks of bewilderment, pain and sheer pleasure at being safe and alive. He could feel his own wildness ebbing away, and imagined what it had been like for Pascoe and Allday.
He shook himself from his thoughts. ‘Well, Captain Herrick, get the boats secured and signal our prize to up-anchor and take station to lee’rd.’ He clapped him lightly on the shoulder, his smile returning. ‘We will rejoin the squadron directly.’
*
Bolitho waited in silence until Herrick had completed his examination of the chart. Through the stern windows he could see the captured Spanish transport wallowing heavily in Lysander’s wake, and wondered for the hundredth time at his decision not to send her to Gibraltar as another prize.
Herrick straightened his back and looked at him. ‘I agree, sir. According to our calculations we are standing into the channel between Spain and the island of Ibiza. Mr. Grubb assures me that Cape San Antonio is some twenty-five miles off the larboard beam.’
Bolitho leaned across the chart and studied the scattered bearings and soundings along the Spanish coastline. Two days since Herrick had sailed into the bay to rescue them before ordering Inch’s Harebell in hot pursuit of the remaining brig. Either the brig was faster than she had appeared, or Inch had lost his sense of direction. The latter was more than likely, he decided.
Herrick said bluntly, ‘I can discover no reason why we have not met with the squadron, sir.’ His eyes remained steady as he added, ‘Captain Farquhar knew very well that we might need support.’
Bolitho walked to the stern windows and watched the Spanish ship’s foresail billowing in the uncertain wind. She was a strange catch. Filled to the deck seams with powder and shot, with fodder for horses and mules, and enough tents to shelter an army, she remained a mystery. She was named Segura, and once clear of the land he had sent for her master, a squat, furtive looking man who had been openly dumbfounded by Bolitho producing a letter which Javal’s men had brought from the captured schooner.
The Spanish master had insisted in halting English that he did not know his ultimate destination. Indeed, there was nothing in his quarters to prove otherwise, and unless he had hurled his orders overboard at the first sign of danger, he was as much in the dark as his captors.
He did not seem like a clever liar. He had admitted that he had been told to take his cargo to a rendezvous in the Gulf of Valencia where he could expect an escort and maybe other merchant vessels under charter for the military. He had pleaded that he was a poor sailor who had no wish to become involved in war. The Spanish commandant who had been in charge of loading his vessel had given him instructions which would place him under French control. There were many vessels, the master had said, which the French were using throughout the Mediterranean to support their newly-founded outposts.
Should he ignore this unexpected catch? If some sort of rendezvous did lie ahead, it would be better to re-form the squadron before making a new intrusion into enemy waters.
But Farquhar was not here. There was little variation in wind, nothing in fact which should have prevented the other ships from making contact.
He said slowly, ‘Perhaps Captain Farquhar was involved with the enemy.’
‘Perhaps.’ Herrick sounded doubtful. ‘But the fact remains, sir, Harebell has not returned, with or without a prize, and we are alone. Very much so.’
Bolitho nodded. ‘True. I think we will maintain the present course. Farquhar may decide for reasons of his own to rejoin us closer to our final destination.’ He ran his fingers over the chart and the area marked Golfe du Lion. ‘The French are stirring up an ants’ nest, Thomas. They have more in mind than invading England, I think.’ He moved his hand to the shores of Africa. ‘I am certain it will be here.’
He thought suddenly of the vivid flash above the ramparts as Leroux’s men had fired a glowing ball into the Spanish powder store. In this short while how his men had changed. They had rarely hesitated, and he had been moved by their efforts even when the attack had seemed hopeless.
The news must have reached higher authority by now. Even as far ahead as France. If the squadron was feeling its way, so, too, the enemy must be wondering at its intentions.
He walked aft yet again and stared at the prize ship. Lieutenant Fitz-Clarence was in command, no doubt relishing his unexpected promotion.
Herrick said, ‘If Harebell doesn’t return within a day, I fear we must assume her lost.’ He rubbed his chin. ‘And that’ll mean we will be without “eyes”.’ He added with sudden bitterness, ‘Damn that Javal! I’ll wager he’s away after some fat capture to line his pockets!’
Bolitho watched him thoughtfully. ‘That is as may be. Or perhaps the whole squadron is destroyed?’ He touched his arm and smiled. ‘That was a joke, Thomas. But do not imagine I am untroubled.’
He turned as a tap came at the screen door. It was Pascoe, a stranger almost in his proper uniform.
‘You sent for me, sir?’
‘Yes.’ Bolitho gestured to a chair. ‘Have you had any more time to think about your ordeal?’ He saw the youth’s dark eyes go distant and added, ‘It could be important, Adam.’
Pascoe stretched his legs. ‘I had the impression that the Spaniards are so willing to aid their ally that they will do anything but fight. They were using galley slaves, felons, anyone who could lift and carry to build defences and prepare ways of loading all manner of vessels.’
Bolitho looked at them and smiled. ‘With the Earl of St. Vincent’s ships watching Cadiz and the Biscay ports, I think it unlikely that all this is for England’s benefit.’ He nodded firmly. ‘This is what I intend. On to Toulon and the smaller French ports close by where, with luck, we shall meet with our other ships. Then south-east to Sicily where we can water our vessels and make discreet enquiries.’ His smile broadened as he watched Herrick’s doubt. ‘I know, Thomas, the Kingdom of the Two Sicilies is at peace with France. It does not follow it is at war with us, eh?’
He looked at the open skylight as he heard the lookout’s hail, ‘Deck there! Sail on the larboard bow!’
Herrick stood up. ‘If you will excuse me, sir.’ He gave a shy grin. ‘Though I fancy you still find it hard not to run on deck with the rest of us!’
Bolitho waited for him to leave and then said, ‘And you, Adam, how are all the aches and pains?’
Pascoe grinned. ‘I never knew a body had room for so many bruises.’
Feet padded overhead, and Bolitho could picture the midshipman of the watch being chased to the shrouds with the biggest telescope available. Harebell was obviously alone. No matter. One more prize might have helped their esteem with the admiral, it would not have been worth risking their only sloop.
Pascoe asked quietly, ‘I would wish to ask something, sir?’
Bolitho faced him, seeing the determination, a touch of anxiety. ‘You’ve earned the right to ask as you will.’
Pascoe did not return his smile. ‘The lady, Uncle. Catherine Pareja. The one you –’ He faltered. ‘You knew in London.’
‘Well?’ He waited. ‘What of her?’
‘I was wondering. Did you take her home, I mean, to your house in Falmouth?’
Bolitho shook his head slowly. Seeing her face. Feel
ing her warmth, her need of him. ‘No, Adam. Not to Falmouth.’
Pascoe licked his lips. ‘I did not mean to pry.’
‘It is all right.’ Bolitho crossed the chequered deck and gripped his shoulder. ‘It is important to you, I can see that. But my feelings mean a lot to me, too.’
Pascoe tossed the hair from his eyes. ‘Of course.’ He smiled. ‘I understand.’ He hesitated again. ‘I liked her. Which was why I –’
Bolitho eyed him gravely. ‘Which is why you crossed swords. For my name.’
‘Yes.’
Bolitho walked to his desk and took out the broken sword.
‘Take this. It was a comfort to me when everyone else thought you were dead.’ He saw him holding it as if it was red-hot. ‘But save it for the enemy, not for those who try to hurt you with words.’
He looked round as feet clattered down a companion ladder and seconds later Luce, who was apparently midshipman of the watch, hurried into the cabin and reported, ‘Captain Herrick’s respects, sir. It is Harebell in sight, and she will be in signalling distance within the half-hour.’ His eyes flickered towards Pascoe. ‘No other sail in sight, sir.’
‘Thank you, Mr. Luce.’ Bolitho compared the pair of them. Pascoe was a year older than Luce, if that. He was glad they had each other’s friendship in the teeming and often heartless world of a ship of the line. ‘My compliments to the captain.’
He needed to go on deck, up to the foretop if necessary, despite his hatred of heights, to see what was wrong with Inch and his overdue sloop. He sighed. It was quite useless. While his own broad pendant remained above this or any ship he was bound to stay immovable, to keep his energies for decisions beyond ship-handling.
The others were watching him, and Pascoe asked, ‘May I go with Mr. Luce?’
‘Of course.’ He watched them leave. Nothing changed.
He had just completed writing his notes on the raid when Herrick came to the cabin again, his face relaxed into a smile.
‘Harebell has signalled, sir. Two sail to the nor’-west. If I wronged Captain Farquhar, then this is the moment to admit it.’
Bolitho moved quickly to the chart, recalling the change of wind, the feel of sand and dust on his cheek as he had listened wretchedly to the Cornish marine’s news about the impassable gully.
He said, ‘Admit nothing, Thomas. Not even Farquhar could drive his ships that fast to get them to the nor’-west of us!’
He snatched up his hat. ‘Inch must have lost his brig, but by God he’s brought bigger fish to us today!’
Herrick hurried after him, his face working with fresh doubt and apprehension.
It was very bright on the quarter-deck, and the sun was almost directly above the main yard. Bolitho nodded to Veitch, who had the watch, and then strode to the weather side, his eyes reaching out beyond the forecastle to the glittering horizon and its attendant haze.
Herrick yelled, ‘Make to Harebell. Investigate. Keep station to lee’rd.’
Bunting slipped and slithered in colourful confusion across the deck until to Luce’s satisfaction it was properly bent on to the halliards and was soon breaking to the wind.
‘Harebell’s acknowledged, sir.’
Herrick said sourly, ‘Should damn well think so. Francis Inch always was too quick off the mark.’ He grinned despite his anxiety. ‘The idiot!’
Minutes dragged by, and groups of seamen, who moments earlier had thought of nothing but their midday meal, poor though it was, were thronging to shrouds and gangways to stare towards the sloop’s small outline.
Luce had swarmed halfway up the weather shrouds and had his glass steadied against the ship’s easy plunge and roll.
Below him, Pascoe was looking up, his eyes slitted against the fierce glare, hands on his hips. Remembering perhaps, Bolitho thought, when he had been a signals midshipman.
Grubb said mournfully, ‘If they’re to be two more prizes, we’ll be ’ard put for trained ’ands to manage this ship.’
Luce’s cry brought sudden silence to the quarter-deck gossip. ‘From Harebell, sir! Enemy in sight!’
Bolitho walked slowly to the cabin hatch and leaned against the handrail. In his mind he could already see them, beating down the coast towards him. He had seen them long before the sloop’s confirmation, perhaps when Luce had come to the cabin.
He said, ‘Signal Inch to close on the Segura.’ He waited, seeing their mingled expressions of doubt and excitement. ‘When he draws nearer you can signal him to keep the prize under his lee. We’ll not lose her if we can help it.’
Herrick asked flatly, ‘And us, sir?’
Luce called again, ‘From Harebell, sir. Two sail of the line.’
‘Us, Thomas?’
Herrick moved closer, shutting out the watching officers nearby. ‘Will we take on the pair of them?’
Bolitho pointed slowly along the bare horizon. ‘Unless you can see anyone else, Thomas.’
Gilchrist came hurrying aft, his feet tapping in his strange bouncing gait. He looked straight at Herrick.
‘Orders, sir?’
Bolitho said calmly, ‘Beat to quarters, Mr. Gilchrist. And I want the ship cleared for action in ten minutes.’
Gilchrist strode away, his long arms beckoning urgently to the marine drummer boys.
Bolitho turned to Herrick again. ‘And get the t’gallants on her, Thomas. I want the enemy to see how eager we are.’ He held him back, adding softly, ‘No matter how we feel, eh?’
He walked to the poop ladder and started to climb. At his back he heard the staccato beat of drums and the immediate stampede of hurrying men as Lysander’s company answered the call.
Bolitho leaned on the poop rail and shaded his eyes to watch the sloop’s outline changing yet again as she heeled on another tack, trying to fight her way across the wind to rejoin her flagship. Soon now the enemy would show his face.
Bolitho examined his own feelings. It was his first sea action since last year.
He watched the haze around Harebell’s masts, remembering the other times. Was that why he had ordered more canvas to be set? To get it over with, if only to discover his own strength or weakness?
Below decks he heard the screens being torn down, the clatter of gear being dragged free of guns and hatchways. From the age of twelve he had been a part of this life, shared it, endured all it could offer and threaten.
He looked at the men darting around their guns on the upper deck, the marines marching stolidly along either side of the poop as if on a routine parade.
Now he was the commodore. He smiled grimly. But without a squadron.
7
One Company
CLEARED FOR ACTION, sir.’ Gilchrist’s face was inscrutable. Nine minutes exactly.’
Bolitho did not hear Herrick’s reply and walked unhurriedly to the weather side of the deck. With her great mainsail brailed up and every visible gun manned and ready, the ship had taken on an air of tension and of menace.
Herrick came towards him and touched his hat. ‘Apart from seven sick or injured men, sir, the ship’s company is at quarters.’ He watched him enquiringly. ‘Shall I pass the order to load and run out?’
‘Later.’
Bolitho took a telescope from its rack and trained it towards the larboard bow. The sea’s face glittered painfully in the glare. Like a million tiny mirrors. More silver than blue. He stiffened as first one and then the other of the ships swam across his lens.
Herrick was still watching his face. Searching for something. Their fate, perhaps.
Bolitho said, ‘Seventy-fours, at a guess. This wind is making it heavy going for them.’
He held the glass on the leading ship. She was turning away, displaying her length, the twin lines of chequered gunports. Her sails were in disarray, he could see them criss-crossing with shadows as her master tried to hold the wind until he had completed his change of course.
He said, ‘She handles badly, Thomas.’ He bit his lip, trying to picture his own ship from
the enemy’s viewpoint. It would take an hour before they were at grips. To have a chance against two powerful seventy-fours he must hold on to the wind-gage. At least until he could rake one, or pass between the pair of them. He added slowly, ‘Too long in port maybe. Like us, they need all the drill they can manage.’
Bolitho watched Harebell’s slender hull passing across the bows on a converging tack, her officers steeply angled on the small quarter-deck. He thought he saw Inch waving his hat, but forgot him as Luce’s men hoisted the signal for Harebell to take up her new station. As a mere spectator, at worst a survivor who would carry the news to the admiral or Farquhar.
He walked to the gangway and ran his eyes along the upper deck. The worst part. The waiting. It was a pity only half the company had found time to eat before the call to quarters.
He asked, ‘Do we have any beer left, Thomas?’
Herrick nodded. ‘I believe so. Though I doubt that the purser will be pleased to broach it at this moment.’
‘But he will not be fighting.’ Bolitho saw his remark rippling along the nearest group of gun crews. ‘Pass the word for it to be issued directly.’
He turned away. It was a cheap way of raising their morale. But it was all he had.
He returned to the quarter-deck and stood with one foot balanced on a nine-pounder. Its captain peered up at him and knuckled his forehead. Bolitho smiled at him. The man was old, or looked it. His hard hands covered with tar, his arms entwined with fierce, blue-coloured tattoos.
He asked, ‘And who are you?’
The man showed his uneven teeth. ‘Mariot, sir.’ He hesitated, doubtful at prolonging a conversation with his commodore. Then he said, ‘Served with your father, sir, in the old Scylla.’
Bolitho stared at him. He wondered if Mariot would ever have told him had he been on another gun in some other part of the ship.
He asked, ‘Were you there when they took off his arm?’
Mariot nodded, his faded eyes far away. ‘Aye, sir. He were a fine man, I served none better.’ He grinned awkwardly. ‘Savin’ your presence, sir.’
Herrick stopped beside him, his face questioning.
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