Maulby returned the clasp. “I, too.” He grinned. “But at least you will be spared the sight of Fawn as she makes Colquhoun both rich and famous in one blow.”
Stockdale stood up in the gig as Bolitho descended the frigate’s side, his eyes puzzled.
As the boat shoved off and the oars picked up the stroke, he hissed, “Then we’re not fightin’, sir?”
Bolitho sighed. Secret orders, plans of battle, meant nothing to the lower deck. Stockdale had not left the gig, but he and probably every Jack in the flotilla knew what was happening.
“Not this time, Stockdale.”
He had already forgotten Colquhoun’s snub, the calculated attempt to drive a rift between him and Maulby. He was thinking of Fawn’s task, the chances of success without prolonging the attack so that Colquhoun could blame Maulby for the delay.
“It ain’t right, sir.” Stockdale was muttering from the tiller.
Bolitho glared at him. “Just attend to your work! I have had a bellyful of strategy for one day!”
Stockdale studied the captain’s squared shoulders, the way he was gripping his hanger so that the fingers showed white through his tan. It ain’t no use you blowin’ off at me, my lad, it still ain’t right, an’ wot’s more, you knows it!
With his secret rebuff held firmly in his mind Stockdale eased the tiller bar and headed straight for the Sparrow .
As the bowman hooked on to the chains Bolitho turned abruptly and said, “But thank you for your concern.”
Stockdale stood and removed his hat while Bolitho reached for the sloop’s side.
He grinned broadly at his back. “Thankee, sir!”
Tyrrell was no less ready to speak out. “But that’s a strange choice! Commander Maulby’s a fine officer, but . . .”
Bolitho swung round. “Prepare to get the ship under way. Rig the royal yards as soon as we are under command, for I want to make all speed with what wind there is!” He relented again. “Just do as I ask, Mr. Tyrrell, and let us have no more of it.”
Buckle ambled across the deck as Bolitho hurried below to rid himself of his heavy dress coat.
“What d’you make of it, Mr. Tyrrell?”
Tyrrell frowned. “That damn Colquhoun! I never took to th’ man. Like bloody Ransome, his eyes are slits for the Devil to peer through!”
Buckle shook his head. “Cap’n’s worried, there’s no doubt on that.”
“Not for himself.” Tyrrell watched the men hauling at the boat tackles as the gig bobbed above the gangway. “That is equally certain.”
Bolitho’s voice rose sharply through the skylight. “When you have finished, gentlemen, I would be obliged if you would attend to my orders!”
Buckle looked at Tyrrell and grinned sheepishly.
“That’s more like it! Our Dick’s not the one to brood too long!”
Within the hour Sparrow was ghosting slowly to the northwest, her yards alive with canvas, as with all sail set she left her consorts further and still further astern.
The wind rose very slightly, and by the time the first stars appeared above the raked masts they had logged nearly fifty miles back along the same course they had used to join Colquhoun with such haste the previous night.
But there was nothing anyone could do about it, and there were some who were inwardly pleased to be spared Fawn’s uncomfortable passage through the shoals.
On the quarterdeck Lieutenant Graves leaned against the rail, half watching the loosely flapping sails, partly listening to the creak of the wheel, an occasional voice from his seamen on watch. He was thinking about his home in Chatham and the news he had received in a rare letter from England. His was not a seafaring family, and his father had owned a small but flourishing grocer’s shop where Graves and his sister had been born and had grown up together. His mother, a sickly woman, had died a year before Sparrow had sailed from the Thames, and in the past years his father had apparently taken to drink. The business had fallen into debt, and his sister, probably out of desperation, had married an impoverished lieutenant in the army garrison.
She had written asking for money, for herself and to try to keep their father from a debtors’ prison. Graves had sent all he had, which had been little enough. His share of Sparrow’s prize money would help considerably, but until he received more news from home he was unwilling to sign it over when it had been so hard to come by. If only he had been better moulded to dealing with the ways of the Navy. Like the captain, whose seafaring background and famous ancestors put him apart from men like himself. Or even Tyrrell, who seemed indifferent to all authority, although God knew he could ill afford to be so. He remembered exactly when Tyrrell’s sister had come aboard. They had been in Kingston, Jamaica, where she had been living with friends, waiting until the troubles, as she called them, in America were over. A vivacious, lively girl, with none of Tyrrell’s casual attitudes. To Graves she had appeared like some sort of angel, an answer to everything he had ever dreamed. She came from a settled, prosperous family, and as a wife would have given him the chance to better himself, find his rightful place in the world instead of remaining unsure and cautious. Tyrrell had seen his intentions clearly enough, but had neither encouraged nor come out directly against him. Then, the fool had had an argument with Captain Ransome over a man being punished. Graves could no longer remember if the punishment was just or not, nor did he care. All that remained clear was that Ransome had acted swiftly and had used all his charm, which was considerable, and his obvious skill on the girl’s defences to break his own chances as well as alienating her brother completely. But Graves still blamed Tyrrell, hated him whenever he thought of her and the way she had looked when Ransome had finally put her ashore in Antigua.
He gripped the rail until the pain steadied him. Where was she now? Someone said she had sailed for America again, others mentioned a passing Indiaman which had gone south to Trinidad. Would she ever think of him? He turned away, angry with himself for daring to hope after so long. Why could he never be confident when it was most needed? Perhaps he had been too long in that damned grocer’s shop, hearing his father grovelling to the quality, bowing and scraping to customers who ran up bills far greater than his own debts.
The worry about his sister, the uncertainty about himself, had taken their toll in other ways, too. He had sensed it after the fight with the Bonaventure, even though he had been aboard Sparrow with the rescued passengers. Suppose the captain had failed to grapple her long enough to carry out his wild plan? Would he have had the strength to turn Sparrow against orders and attempt to rescue Bolitho and his men? But for Buckle and some of the others he doubted if he would have done so even when both grappled ships had burst into flames. They had seen the great pall of smoke from the horizon itself.
And later, when they had closed with the other prizes and had exchanged shots with privateers, he had felt the fear spreading inside him like some loathsome disease. Nobody had noticed. Yet. He shook himself and crossed to the weather side, trying to clear his mind in the cool breeze.
The two midshipmen were standing by the lee nettings, and Bethune said quietly, “Mr. Graves seems worried.”
The new midshipman, Fowler, ignored the comment. “Now look here.” He had a lisp, which became more evident whenever he was trying to appear innocent before his superiors. Now it was barely noticeable. “I have to supervise swabbing the cable tier tomorrow.”
Bethune was watching the lieutenant. “I know. It’s your turn.”
Fowler showed his small teeth. “You do it for me. When we rejoin the fleet I will speak with the admiral.”
Bethune gaped at him. “For me?”
“Perhaps.”
Bethune’s gratitude was pathetic. “Oh, if only . . .” He nodded firmly. “Yes, I will take charge of the cable party. Anything else I can do . . .”
The youth regarded him coolly. “I will let you know.”
Throughout the ship the company lived out their hopes and dreams in their own way.
&nbs
p; In his tiny cabin Tyrrell was sitting on his sea-chest massaging his wounded thigh, while on the other side of the bulkhead Bolitho finished his letter to his father.
In the dimly lit wardroom Dalkeith was drowsing over a glass of rum, hearing Buckle re-telling a yarn about some woman or other in Bristol, while young Heyward listened to him with his eyes closed.
Right forward above the plunging beakhead, his hair blown by wind and drifting spray, Yule, the gunner, squatted with his back against a stanchion, a bottle between his knees, his blurred mind thinking of Tilby, the good times they had shared together.
Deep in the hold, a lantern above his narrow head, Lock, the purser, inspected a cask of lemons, examining each one like some robber with his booty, while he made notes in a ledger.
And below her pale canvas Sparrow held them all. Oblivious to their various troubles and pleasures, indifferent even to the sea. For she needed none of them, and seemed content.
As soon as Bolitho reached the quarterdeck, he knew the wind was changing against them, and rapidly. He had been in a deep sleep when a master’s mate had groped into the cabin to tell him that Lieutenant Heyward was requesting advice.
It was only halfway through the middle watch, and the stars still very bright above the mastheads, but as he hurried across the deck, his bare feet soundless on the damp planking, he heard the topsails shaking violently, the responding chorus from stays and shrouds.
Buckle was beside the wheel, and like himself was wearing only his breeches, evidence, if it was still needed, of Heyward’s unwillingness to call for help until it was almost too late.
“Well?” He peered at the slanting compass bowl, seeing the helmsmen’s eyes glowing faintly in the binnacle light. “I’m waiting, Mr. Heyward.”
He did not wish to fluster the young lieutenant, and at another time could appreciate his wishing to control his own watch without showing uncertainty. But this was not the time, and in such dangerous waters they would have to act fast.
Heyward explained, “The wind backed a point or so, and I had my watch trim the yards.” He gestured vaguely above his head. “But now it has backed at a faster rate, I fear maybe from the north-east.”
Buckle muttered, “We’ll never be able to change tack in time to reach the head o’ the shoals, sir.” He glared at the compass. “Never!”
Bolitho rubbed his chin, feeling the wind playing across his bare shoulders. Heyward had been foolish to let Sparrow have her head like this. Maybe he expected the wind to veer again, as it often did hereabouts, but whatever he thought or hoped, the ship’s bow was now pointing almost north-west by north, and she was not holding that course very well either. Every minute was taking them further from the chain of shoals, and it would waste hours of wearing and tacking to fight round again towards their station as Colquhoun had directed.
Heyward said miserably, “I’m sorry about this, sir. I—I thought
I could hold her.”
Bolitho was thinking busily. “You cannot help the wind. But in future you must learn to call me the moment you are unsure of anything. I’ll not think worse of you.” He looked at Buckle. “What is your opinion? We have four hours before dawn.”
Buckle was adamant. “Impossible.” He sighed. “I’m afraid we must remain close-hauled and try to wear ship in perhaps three hours or so.”
Bolitho pictured the chart in his mind, recalling vividly the nearest sandbars, the set of the tide.
“Call all hands, Mr. Heyward. We will wear ship directly.”
“But, sir!” Buckle sounded anxious. “We’ll never be able to take up our proper course! With the wind staying steady from the nor’-east it’s not possible.”
Bolitho heard the shrill of calls below decks, the sudden stampede of feet on gangways and ladders. “I agree, Mr. Buckle.” He paused as Tyrrell came out of the gloom, dragging his leg badly as he tried to buckle his belt. “I intend to pass through the bars.” He looked at Tyrrell. “If we stay as we are we will be unable to offer assistance if it is needed when daylight comes. Once inside the bank we will at least be able to use the wind if an opportunity presents itself.”
Graves ran to the quarterdeck, his feet very loud above the hushed voices. He had evidently found time to put on his shoes.
Bolitho said, “Very well. Leadsmen in the chains, and then get the royals and t’gallants off her.” He was speaking fast in time with his thoughts. “Tell the bosun to unleash the sweeps in case the wind drops altogether.”
Tyrrell nodded. “Aye, aye, sir. I reckon we stand a fair chance of getting through. Th’ set of th’ tide is in our favour.” He hesitated. “When it drops a piece we may find it bothersome.”
Bolitho smiled in spite of his thoughts. “Well spoken!”
Shouts came along the gun deck where petty officers completed their count of topmen and hands for the braces. So well did most of them know the ship that darkness made little or no difference to them.
Bolitho nodded. “Shorten sail, Mr. Tyrrell.” He lowered his voice. “Quick as you can.”
Within minutes all canvas had vanished from the upper yards, and with her topsails and courses thrusting noisily to the wind Sparrow lifted and staggered in an uncomfortable swell.
Bolitho gripped the weather nettings, watching the thin slivers of spray darting across the gangway, the extreme angle of the yards as with sail and helm Buckle tried to hold her as close to the wind as he dared.
And all the while he was thinking rapidly. Once the ship had gone about the nearest strip of sandbar and shoal would lie some ten miles across the bows. A false estimate of speed and distance, a wrong or careless description on the chart, and he might drive her hard aground. But in his heart he knew the risk was worthwhile. No one could blame him for keeping to his original orders and thereby allow the wind to carry him away from the area. Colquhoun would probably be pleased to have him as far off as possible if only to deny Sparrow even the role of spectator for the final act. By ignoring the rigid span of his orders he might lay himself open to reprimand, but with luck he would be better placed to give Fawn assistance if the Frenchman decided to fight. With the wind backed to the north-east, Colquhoun would be hard put to remain in his own sector when the time came, and that in itself would offer some excuse for Bolitho’s action.
“Ready, sir!”
He tightened his jaw. “Put the helm down!”
He tensed, feeling the sea dragging against the weeded keel in a strong undertow.
“Helm’s a’lee, sir!”
Through the darkness he saw the headsails shaking wildly, heard the tramp of feet as the men hauled steadily at the braces to get the yards round.
“Off tacks and sheets!” Graves’s voice was hoarse above the din of canvas and blocks.
“Mainsail haul!”
A man fell in the darkness and a voice yelled harshly to restore calm on the gun deck.
Bolitho gripped the nettings, his body tilting with the hull as Sparrow lifted her jib-boom, hesitated and then sliced heavily across the wind.
“Braces there!” Tyrrell was leaning over the rail as if to seek out individual seamen in the gloom. “Heave, lads! Harder!”
Sparrow resisted awhile longer, then with sails filling and booming again she heeled over on the opposite tack, the spray sluicing up over the gangways and drenching the men beneath.
Bolitho had to shout to make himself heard above the noise. “Close as you can, Mr. Buckle!”
“Aye, sir.” He sounded breathless. “Full an’ bye!”
More uncomfortable minutes while men scampered above and along the gangways. A pull here and belay. Men hauling busily at halliards, while in the bows the selected hands took their leads and lines to the forechains in readiness to begin sounding.
Eventually even Buckle seemed satisfied. “Sou’ by east, sir!”
“Very good.”
Bolitho peered tip at the hard-braced yards. Not even a frigate could sail this close to the wind. Nothing could.
Tyrrell staggered towards him, his shirt plastered to his body. “You wanted this, didn’t you, sir?” He was shouting, but his voice was matched by the surge of water alongside. “You were worried about Fawn ?” He cursed as his foot slipped and then clapped his hands to his thigh.
Bolitho supported him and waited for the hull to sway upright again.
“Easy, Jethro! Is it painful?”
Tyrrell showed his teeth. “Dalkeith said there might be some small splinters left in th’ bone. Them pistol balls can split open when they cut into a man.” He stood up gingerly and grimaced. “Not too bad.”
Bolitho watched the topmen slithering down stays and shrouds and then said, “Yes. I suppose I did want it. I cannot explain my fears.” He shrugged and added, “So I will not try.”
He pushed his uncertainties away. “Now, Jethro, I want our people to have breakfast and a tot of blackstrap. No sense in waiting for daylight, and I imagine they are too well drenched to sleep just now.” He ticked off the points on his fingers. “Then have the fires doused, and muster the hands at quarters. We will not clear for action, but I intend that every available man is on deck when we cross the bar.”
Tyrrell was watching him intently. “What about Heyward? Are you going to log him?”
Bolitho shook his head. “He’s learned his lesson, so there’s no harm done. When I was a junior lieutenant I once fell asleep on watch.” His teeth showed white in the darkness. “I’m not proud of the fact, but by God I never did it again!”
He moved to the hatch cover and paused. “I will go below and get into some clothes. It’ll never do for our people to see their captain like this in daylight.” He laughed, the sound carrying up to a solitary man working on the mainyard. “I may live like a savage, but I see no cause to look like one!”
Tyrrell turned back to the rail, easing his leg as the pain lanced through it. He had just seen yet another Bolitho. Naked to the waist, his black hair plastered over his forehead, he had looked as young, if not younger than Heyward. In such a moment Tyrrell had been touched by his concern for the hands as he had been impressed by his cheerful recklessness over the approaching sand-bars.
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