‘So there is some higher authority, eh?’ He had a soft accent, but it failed to conceal his anger.
‘I am Richard Bolitho, Commodore of this British squadron.’ He walked to the windows, adding, ‘I have been hearing about your refusal to heave-to.’
The American retorted hotly, ‘Heave-to be damned! I’ve a hard enough living to earn without being fired on by a bloody Englishman!’
Bolitho sat down and looked at him. A sturdy man with a neat brown beard, the Santa Paula’s master was about his own age.
‘And your name?’
‘Cap’n John Thurgood.’ He glared at him. ‘Of New Bedford.’
‘Well, Captain Thurgood.’ He smiled. ‘Of New Bedford. The shortage of seamen is a constant worry for a King’s officer in time of war.’
Thurgood sat down, ignoring Probyn completely.
‘That will have to remain your problem, Commodore. I am not at war, and my hands are not for King George.’ He relaxed slightly. ‘My government will make the strongest protest and take all the action needed once I have laid my complaint.’
Bolitho nodded. ‘That is your privilege, Captain. But you know as well as I that some of your crew will be no more American than Westminster Abbey.’ He held up one hand. ‘And I know what you will say to that. No matter. You are obviously a shrewd man, and I see no value in our arguing.’ He stood up. ‘I shall have you returned to your fine barquentine, Captain, and I will send you a gift of some excellent cheese which I brought from England. I hope it will ease if not remove the hurt we have done you.’
Thurgood was on his feet. ‘You mean I can go?’ He stared from Bolitho to Probyn’s fuming face with amazement. ‘Well, I’ll be . . .’
Bolitho added evenly, ‘Your cargo, Captain? May I enquire what it is?’
Thurgood replied, ‘Cheap red wine. A full hold of the stuff. In my home port they’d use it for paint!’ He chuckled, his eyes vanishing into crow’s feet. ‘By God, you sure know how to scatter a man’s anger!’
Probyn exclaimed, ‘I must protest!’
Bolitho said calmly, ‘Please leave us, Captain Probyn. And tell your midshipman to go away. I am not in danger of my life.’ He smiled at the American. ‘Am I?’
Thurgood grinned after the retreating Probyn. ‘By God, I’m glad you came, Commodore. I think he’d have liked me kicking at his mainyard.’
‘He was a prisoner in the last war.’
Thurgood shrugged. ‘So was I.’
Bolitho picked up his hat. ‘There is one thing, Captain. You sailed from Marseilles, no doubt.’ He shook his head. ‘It is not a trap. But it is unlikely you would have taken on a cargo like yours elsewhere, And you are bound for?’
Thurgood watched him with amusement. ‘Corfu. Then I’m off and away, back home to New Bedford. I’ve a wife and three boys there.’
‘I envy you.’ Bolitho did not see the look of warmth on the other man’s face. ‘I have a Spanish prize in company. We took her a while back.’ He looked Thurgood in the eye. ‘Now, if you were to exchange some of your seamen for, say, double the number of Spaniards.” He watched the man’s mind working busily. ‘Well, I’d have thought you could drop them off when you return westward after you have delivered your cargo? I am certain the Spanish authorities would be very glad to reward you.’
Thurgood sounded doubtful. ‘I ain’t sure.’
Bolitho smiled. ‘And they would not have to be paid. Nor would you have to share your profit with a larger crew than you need for the homeward voyage.’
Thurgood thrust out his hand. ‘If ever you need employment, Commodore, and I mean ever, just come asking for me.’ He shook his hand warmly. ‘I’ve got a few bully-boys you can have. Trained seamen, but I will not miss them.’
Bolitho smiled. ‘I dare say they will settle down.’
On deck it was oppressively hot, and the wind was rising and falling in gusts, making the ships lurch and stagger in a sickening motion.
Bolitho beckoned to Probyn. ‘Make a signal to Lysander. I want the prize, Segura, to close with us. After that, send a good officer across to the Santa Paula with Captain Thurgood. He will explain what is needed.’
Probyn looked as if he would burst. ‘If you say so, sir!’
Bolitho smiled at the American. ‘When they are ready, I will hail for my coxswain to bring a good ripe cheese across to you. It might make even cheap wine palatable.’
Thurgood watched a boat being lowered from the quarter davits.
‘I’ll be off then, Commodore.’ He studied him curiously. ‘Bolitho, eh? We had a privateersman of that name in the war.’
‘My brother.’ Bolitho looked away. ‘But he is dead now.’
Thurgood held out his hand. ‘Good luck with whatever you intend. I shall tell my wife and sons about this meeting.’ He grinned. ‘An’ the cheese.’
A lieutenant strode across the quarter-deck and touched his hat.
‘Jolly boat’s at the chains, sir.’
Thurgood made to leave but hung back, his face set in a frown.
‘I want no part of this, or any other war. I’ve had a belly-full.’ He dropped one eyelid in a wink. ‘But if I was in charge of a force as weak as yours I’d be thinking very seriously of hauling off.’
Bolitho tried to conceal his excitement. His anxiety.
‘You would?’
Thurgood grinned. ‘I’m told there’s a fleet at Toulon, and three hundred transports for good measure.’
‘Thank you, Captain.’ Bolitho walked with him to the rail. ‘And a safe voyage to you also.’
He waited until Thurgood was in the boat and then said, ‘Send for my barge.’
A fleet and three hundred transports. It was an armada.
Probyn’s voice cut into his racing thoughts. ‘I must lodge the strongest protest! I was humiliated in front of that Yankee!’
Bolitho swung on him, his eyes blazing. ‘Humiliated, were you? And how do you imagine I felt to see a ship of the line firing on an unarmed vessel? To know that one of my captains was prepared to risk unnecessary killing, a war if necessary, just to get what he wants for himself?’ He kept his voice low. ‘And all because you knew that I would take any blame, was that it?’
‘That was unjust, sir!’ Some of the bluster had gone.
‘I dare say.’ Bolitho regarded him evenly. ‘But do not take me for a fool. That I do find humiliating.’
He strode to the entry port, seeing his barge curtsying across the blue water towards him.
‘You’ll get your men, Captain. You would have probably been given them anyway, had you used common sense instead of a broadside.’ He nodded towards some seamen at the boat tackles. ‘Look at them, Captain. Would you fight for anyone who kept you in worse comfort than a dog?’ He did not wait for an answer. ‘Care for them. Or they’ll not fight for you.’
He leaned over the rail and cupped his hands. ‘Take your bundle to the barquentine, Allday! Then return for me!’
Allday waved one arm and steered the barge clear of the side.
An hour later Bolitho was back aboard his own ship, with Farquhar barely able to hide his curiosity.
Bolitho said, ‘Make a signal to Harebell to close with us immediately. I cannot wait for Javal. Commander Inch can carry my despatches to the admiral.’
He waited while Farquhar shouted for Luce, and the barge was hoisted, dripping, on to the boat tier.
Farquhar came back and asked, ‘May I enquire the nature of your plan, sir?’ He pointed to the Segura which had almost reached the other ships. ‘And what is she doing?’
‘I am sending some of the Spanish seamen to Captain Thurgood in exchange for the barquentine’s, er, non-Americans.’
Farquhar pouted. ‘It will leave us short-handed, sir.’
‘But it has provided us with information.’ He could hide his relief no longer. ‘The French have a great fleet here. Harebell must sail with all speed, before dusk if possible.’
Farquhar nodded. ‘Captain Probyn
will be happy about his good fortune.’
‘Perhaps.’ Bolitho recalled the captain’s face. He had made an enemy there. Maybe he had always been one. All those years.
He said, ‘Tomorrow, if nothing is changed, we will have a conference.’
He unbuckled his sword and handed it to Allday. He discovered that he was suddenly ravenously hungry. For the first time in many days.
As he made to walk aft he turned and looked at Farquhar again. ‘If you were a French general, and did not wish your transports to be involved in a battle before your main objective. And if that objective was North Africa, and beyond that to India perhaps.’ He watched Farquhar’s eyes. ‘Where would you go to prepare for the final assault?’
Farquhar rested both hands on the main bitts and frowned. ‘To avoid a battle?’ He looked up. ‘Sicily might be too dangerous. A point on the coast of Africa which was far enough away from my objective to avoid suspicion would equally be too far for men and horses to travel and be fit to fight at the end of it.’ He nodded slowly. ‘I think I would choose an island already under my country’s control.’ He paused. ‘Does that sound sensible, sir?’
Bolitho smiled. ‘Do you know of such an island?’
Farquhar looked surprised. ‘Yes, sir. Corfu.’
‘Exactly.’ He walked past the helmsmen and nodded to Grubb.
Farquhar crossed to the master’s side and said, ‘The commodore believes that the French may be gathering at Corfu.’
Grubb watched him warily. ‘Aye, sir. But if you’ll pardon the liberty, I thought it was your suggestion!’
Farquhar stared at him and then at the poop. ‘The devil, you say!’ He smiled tightly. ‘That was cleverly done!’
10
Committed
FOR A FURTHER two frustrating weeks Bolitho’s ships tacked back and forth, keeping to the south-west of Toulon’s approaches, an area which would give them maximum advantage should the enemy emerge. With Harebell making all possible speed to Gibraltar, the work of inshore patrol fell to Captain Javal’s frigate. While the seventy-fours and their prize wallowed unhappily under reduced canvas, Javal’s topsails were usually to be seen sneaking around a distant headland, or standing hove-to in direct view of the enemy.
But even Javal’s taunting manoeuvres had no effect. The French stayed where they were, and did nothing.
And then, on a hot, sultry evening, as Buzzard fetched off the land for the fortieth time, Javal took it upon himself to lower a cutter in the charge of his first lieutenant, Mr. Mears. It was more to ease the boredom than anything, for the French had showed no sign of sending out a frigate or corvette to chase the prowling Buzzard away.
On that particular night a French fisherman reacted in much the same way. Ignoring the instructions of the port admiral and garrison commander, he put to sea in his small boat, with his son and cousin for crew.
The first that Bolitho learned of these coincidences was when Buzzard’s cutter, complete with Captain Javal and three French fishermen, arrived alongside on the following morning.
The fisherman was elderly but defiant. He showed little concern for his life, and probably considered that as the English had rammed and sunk his little boat he had nothing left to live for.
Bolitho listened to Javal’s report before having the three Frenchmen brought to his cabin. It was strangely moving. The old, grey-bearded fisherman, his cousin, as red as a lobster with a belly like a puncheon of rum, and the son, straight-backed, angry. Afraid.
Bolitho explained through Farquhar, whose French was excellent, the he wanted information about Toulon. Not unnaturally, the fisherman told him to rot in hell. The son shouted ‘Death to the English!’ before being cuffed into a flood of tears by Sergeant Gritton.
The cousin, on the other hand, was more than practical. He explained that the boat had been all they owned. All they had to feed their families and eke out a poor living in a town where the military enjoyed the best of everything. It was very likely true.
Despite his great girth and his red, cunning face, the cousin was obviously the thinking member of the crew.
He suggested, warily at first, that if Bolitho provided another boat, and perhaps a little money or food, he would be prepared to tell him what he wanted to know.
Javal snapped, ‘I’ll have the varmint seized up and flogged, sir! I’ll give him boat!’
‘That way we will learn nothing useful.’ Bolitho walked to the windows and watched some low banks of pale cloud. A change in the weather perhaps. ‘Tell him, Captain Farquhar, that he can have the boat and some food. You can signal for a boat to be sent from the Segura.’ To Javal he added, ‘Those fishermen will be unable to confide what they have seen to their authorities. The fact they disobeyed a port-order by putting to sea and return with a strange boat is proof enough of treachery.’
Javal swallowed hard. ‘Then you intend to release them, sir?’
‘We may come this way again, Captain.’ Javal’s astonishment settled it. ‘You cannot choose your friends in war.’
And so, while the fisherman and his son were taken to examine the Spanish longboat, the fat cousin described what he had seen every day in Toulon.
The Santa Paula’s master had given Bolitho a fair description, but if anything it was a conservative estimate. A well-found fleet, consisting of ships of the line a’plenty, and one of which, according to the fisherman, was of one hundred and twenty guns or more. She, it appeared, wore the flag of Vice Admiral de Brueys, and another that of Rear Admiral Villeneuve. Bolitho had heard of them both many times, and respected them. Preparations went on daily to provision and service this great assembly of ships, and the local victualling officers were making a special effort to purchase every available kind of food. Which had been the main reason for the fishermen putting to sea. Even their meagre catch would have brought ready money from the navy.
Farquhar asked the man one careful question. Bolitho watched his reaction, his gestures above his head and towards the sea.
Farquhar explained softly, ‘The fleet is not yet ready to sail. It is said to be waiting for the right time. The leader of the expedition, too.’ His eyebrows lifted very slightly. ‘It could be so.’
Bolitho nodded. He did not speak much French, but knew enough to recognise the name Bonaparte.
Farquhar said, ‘He insists that one portion is ready to weigh, sir. Several storeships, and some kind of escort.’ He glanced meaningly at the man’s red features. ‘He is too much of a coward to lie, I think. He says that the ships will not sail because of our presence. Their cargo is probably very valuable.’
‘And their destination.’ Bolitho made his decision. ‘Send them off in their boat. Then signal the squadron to close on Lysander. We will stand further to the south’rd.’
‘Will they risk it, sir?’
‘I would.’ Bolitho looked at Javal. ‘I will report your first lieutenant’s part in all this. He did well. As did you.’
Risk, luck, coincidence, all had shared in this first real piece of vital intelligence. With his three seventy-fours staying well out to sea, and only Buzzard’s lookouts watching for the enemy’s dash from port, Bolitho was in the best position to act as the situation dictated.
And when Harebell reached the admiral, it would be just a matter of time before a fleet, and not a mere squadron, came to complete what they had begun.
On the day that he watched the fishermen put over the side to begin their long haul back to the coast, Bolitho ordered his ships to their new position, some twenty miles south-west of Toulon. He wrote his orders and had them passed to each captain. He discussed the final details with Farquhar and Grubb, and when dusk finally descended he went to his cabin and enjoyed a filling meal of boiled pork from the cask, and the last of his cheese which he had carried from England.
As he sat at his table drinking a cup of coffee and listening to the creak and rattle of ship’s gear, he thought of Falmouth and the empty house there. He thought, too, of the American capta
in, and the wife who was waiting for him in New Bedford. What a homecoming it would be. He could almost see it in his mind. How long would it be, he wondered, before he saw Falmouth again? He had been in Lysander for two months, and already it felt ten times as long. Perhaps now that luck was with them again time would pass more swiftly.
With that thought uppermost in his mind he went to his cot, and within minutes was in a deep, dreamless sleep.
It seemed as if his head had been on the pillow but a short while when he felt a hand on his shoulder. He awoke, staring into Allday’s anxious face which shone yellow in a lantern above the cot.
‘What is it?’
His senses returned and he struggled over the side of the cot. He had no further need to ask, and he cursed himself for sleeping so deeply. The night was alive with noise and violent motion, so that he almost fell as he groped his way to his chest.
Allday said, ‘It’s come on to blow, sir! Getting worse by the minute!’
Bolitho dragged on his breeches, staggering as the deck plunged and threw him against Allday.
‘In the name of heaven, why wasn’t I told of this?’
Allday said nothing, but turned as Ozzard appeared blinking in the door, another lantern above his head.
‘Get the commodore’s things, man!’
But Bolitho snapped, ‘Just a coat. I must go on deck!’
Even before he reached the quarter-deck he knew it was no mere gale. It was a full-scale storm, and as he ducked beneath the poop deck beams he saw that the wheel was doubly manned, the seamen clinging to the spokes while the deck heaved violently to leeward.
It took several more moments to accustom his eyes to the dark, to pitch his hearing above the moan of wind, the boom and thunder of canvas overhead.
Figures darted past him, crouching and groping for handholds as spray lifted above the nettings and doused them violently before gurgling away through the scuppers. Every stay and shroud seemed to be vibrating and humming, and he found time to pity the awakened watch below, who even now must be fighting out along the yards to fist and reef the treacherous canvas.
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