Keen walked to the weather side and tried to empty his mind. He took a telescope from the midshipman-of-the-watch and steadied it on the ships astern.
The three seventy-fours were somehow managing to hold their positions. The fourth, Merrye’s Capricious, was almost invisible in spray and blown spume. She was far astern of the others, while work was continued to replace the main-topgallant mast which had carried away in a sudden squall before they could shorten sail.
He smiled. A captain’s responsibility never ceased. The man who was seen by others as a kind of god, would nevertheless pace his cabin and fret about everything.
A lookout yelled, “Deck there! Tybalt is signallin’!”
Keen looked at the midshipman. “Up you go, Mr Furnival. Tybalt must have news for us.”
Later, Keen went down to the cabin and reported to Bolitho.
“Tybalt has the rest of the squadron in sight to the east’rd, Sir Richard.”
Bolitho glanced across his scattered papers and smiled. He looked and sounded tired.
“That is something, Val.” He gestured to a chair. “I’d ask you to join us, but you’ll be needed on deck until the ships are closer.”
As he left, Sir Piers Blachford said, “A good man. I like him.” He was half-lying in one of Bolitho’s chair. The heron at rest.
Yovell gathered up his letters and the notes he would add to his various copies.
Ozzard entered to collect the empty coffee cups, while Allday, standing just inside the adjoining door, was slowly polishing the magnificent presentation sword. Bolitho’s gift from the people of Falmouth for his achievements in this same sea and the events which had led up to the Battle of the Nile.
Bolitho glanced up. “Thank you, Ozzard.”
Blachford slapped one bony fist into his palm.
“Of course. I remember now. Ozzard is an unusual name, is it not?”
Allday’s polishing cloth had stilled on the blade.
Blachford nodded, remembering. “Your secretary and all the letters he has to copy must have brought it back to me. My people once used the services of a scrivener down by the London docks. Unusual.”
Bolitho looked at the letter which he might complete when the others had left him. He would share his feelings with Catherine. Tell her of his uncertainty about what lay ahead. It was like speaking with her. Like the moments when they had lain together, and she had encouraged him to talk, had shared those parts of his life which were still a mystery to her.
He replied, “I’ve never asked him about it.”
But Blachford had not heard. “I don’t know how I could have forgotten it. I was directly involved. There was the most dastardly murder done, almost opposite the scrivener’s shop. How could one forget that?”
There was a crash of breaking crockery from the pantry and Bolitho half-rose from his chair.
But Allday said quickly, “I’ll go. He must have fallen over.”
Blachford picked up a book he had been reading and remarked, “Not surprised in this sickening motion.”
Bolitho watched him, but there was nothing on his pointed face to suggest anything other than passing interest.
Bolitho had seen Allday’s expression, had almost heard his unspoken warning.
Coincidence? There had been too many of those. Bolitho examined his feelings. Do I want to know more?
He stood up. “I am going to take my walk.”
He could feel Blachford’s eyes following him as he left the cabin.
It was not until the next day that Herrick’s three ships were close enough to exchange signals.
Bolitho watched the flags soaring aloft, Jenour’s unusual sharpness with the signals midshipmen, as if he understood the mood which was gripping his vice-admiral.
Bolitho held on to a stay and studied the new arrivals, the way they and his own seventy-fours lay about haphazardly under reduced canvas, as if they and not their captains were awaiting instructions.
The weather had not improved, and overnight had built the sea into a parade of steep swells. Bolitho covered his damaged eye with one hand. His skin was wet and hot, indeed like the fever which had brought him and Catherine together.
Keen crossed the slippery planking and stood beside him, his telescope tilted beneath his arm to keep the lens free of salt spray.
“The wind holds steady from the nor’-east, Sir Richard.”
“I know.” Bolitho tried not to listen to the clank of pumps. The old ship was working badly, and the pumps had continued all through the night watches. Thank God Keen knew his profession and the extent of his complete authority. Haven would have been flogging his luckless sailors by now, he thought bitterly. Hardly an hour had passed without the hands being piped aloft to make or shorten sail. Manning the pumps, lashing loose gear in the uncomfortable motion—it took patience as well as discipline to keep men from flying at each other’s throats. The officers were not immune to it. Tempers flared out of all proportion if a lieutenant was just minutes late relieving his opposite number; he had heard Keen telling one of them to try and act up to the coat he wore. It was not easy for any of them.
Bolitho said, “If it gets any worse we’ll not be able to put down any boats.” He studied his scattered ships. Waiting for his lead. He saw Benbow swaying steeply as she hove-to, her sails billowing and cracking, shining in the filtered glare like buckled breastplates.
Herrick was coming to see him. Face to face. It was typical of him.
Herrick’s barge had to make three attempts before the bowman could hook on to the main-chains.
In the cabin the sounds faded, and only the sloping horizon, blurred by the thick glass of the stern windows, appeared to be swaying, as if to tip the weatherbeaten ships into a void.
Herrick got straight to the point.
“I wish to know what you intend.” He shook his head as Ozzard hovered nearby with a tray in his hand. “No, but thank you.” To Bolitho he added, “I’d not want to be marooned here, away from my flagship.” He glanced at the spray running down the glass. “I don’t like this at all.”
Bolitho said, “No sign of La Mouette, Thomas?” He saw Herrick shake his head. “I sent Phaedra to hunt for her.”
Herrick leaned forward in his chair. “Captain Sinclair knows what he is about. He will find the squadron.”
Bolitho said, “I will use every vessel which can scout for us. It was not a criticism.”
Herrick settled back again. “I think we should stand towards Toulon. Then we shall know, one way or the other.”
Bolitho rested his hands on the table. He could feel the whole ship shivering through it, the rudder jerking against helm and wind.
“If the enemy intend to re-enter the Mediterranean, Thomas, we could lose them just as easily as Nelson lost contact when they ran to the west.” He made up his mind. “I intend to head for Gibraltar. If we still have no news we shall proceed through the Strait and join the fleet. I see no other choice.”
Herrick eyed him stubbornly. “Or we can stay here and wait. No one can blame us. We shall certainly be damned if we miss the enemy when they break through to Toulon.”
“I would blame myself, Thomas. My head tells me one thing, instinct directs me otherwise.”
Herrick cocked his head to listen to the pumps. “Is it that bad?”
“She will stand more of it.”
“I sent Absolute into harbour because she was too rotten.”
Bolitho retorted, “I could use her too, rotten or not.”
Herrick stood up and walked to the stern windows. “I should leave. I mean no disrespect, but my barge will have a hard pull as it is.”
Bolitho faced him. “ Listen to me, Thomas. I don’t care what you think about my private life, for private it is not apparently. I need your support, for fight we shall.” He clapped his hand to his heart. “I know it.”
Herrick watched him as if seeking a trap. “As your second-in-command I will be ready if we are called to battle. But I still believ
e you are misguided.”
Bolitho said despairingly, “You are not listening, man! I am not commanding you, I am asking for your help!” He saw Herrick’s astonishment as he exclaimed, “In God’s name, Thomas, must I plead? I am going blind, or did that piece of gossip rouse no interest amongst you?”
Herrick gasped, “I had no idea—”
Bolitho looked away and shrugged. “I will trouble you to keep it to yourself.” He swung round, his voice harsh. “But if I fall, you must lead these men, you will make them perform miracles if need be—are you listening now?”
There was a tap at the door, and Bolitho shouted, “Yes?” His anguish tore the word from his throat.
Keen entered and glanced between them. “Signal from Phaedra, sir, repeated by Tybalt.”
Herrick asked quickly, “What of La Mouette?”
Keen was looking only at Bolitho. He guessed what had happened, and wanted to share it with him.
He answered abruptly, “She is down.”
Bolitho met his gaze, grateful for the interruption. He had almost broken that time.
“News, Val?”
“There is an enemy squadron on the move, Sir Richard. Heading west.”
Herrick asked, “How many?”
Still Keen avoided his eyes. “ Phaedra has not yet reported. She is damaged after a stern-chase.” He took a step towards him, then let his arms fall to his sides. “They are Spanish, Sir Richard. Sail of the line, that we do know.”
Bolitho ran his fingers through his hair and asked, “How many ships does Nelson have?”
Keen looked at him, and then his eyes cleared with understanding.
“It was last reported as two dozen of the line, Sir Richard. The French and their Spanish ally are said to have over thirty, which will include some of the largest first-rates afloat.”
Bolitho listened to the moan of the wind. Divide and conquer. How well Villeneuve had planned it. And now with this new formation of ships, discovered only accidentally by Phaedra, Nelson’s fleet would be overwhelmed and hopelessly outnumbered.
He said simply, “If they slip through the Strait we may never catch them in time.” He looked at Keen. “Signal Phaedra to close on the Flag.” He caught his arm as he made to leave. “When that brave little ship draws close enough, spell out well done. ”
When Keen left Herrick said with sudden determination, “I am ready. Tell me what to do.”
Bolitho stared through the stained windows. “Minimum signals, Thomas. As we discussed.”
“But your eyesight?” Herrick sounded wretched.
“Oh no, not any more, Thomas. Little Phaedra has lifted my blindness. But hear me. If my flag comes down, Benbow will take the van.”
Herrick nodded. “Understood.”
Bolitho said, “So hold back your conscience, my friend, and together we may yet win the day!”
He turned to look at the breaking wave-crests, and did not move until he heard the door shut.
Bolitho put his signature to his final letter and stared at it for several minutes.
The swell was as steep as before, but the wind had lessened, so that the hull seemed to rise and fall with a kind of ponderous majesty. He glanced at the quarter windows as a pale shaft of sunlight penetrated the sea-mist and showed up the salt stains on the glass like ice-rime. He hoped the sun would break through completely before the day ended. The air was heavy with damp; hammocks, clothing, everything.
He reread the last of the letter which Phaedra would carry to the fleet. He tried to picture Nelson eventually reading it, understanding as a sailor, better than any other, what Bolitho’s ships and men were trying to do.
He had finished with, “And I thank you, my lord, for offering my nephew, who is most dear to me, the same inspiration you have given to the whole fleet.”
He pushed it aside for Yovell to seal and turned the other letter over in his fingers, while he imagined Catherine’s dark eyes as she read the words, his declaration of love which now can never die. There would be many letters going in Phaedra. What would Herrick say to his Dulcie, he wondered? Their parting yesterday had left a bad taste. Once, such a thing would have seemed impossible. Maybe people did change, and he was the one who was mistaken.
Keen would have written to his Zenoria. It was a great comfort that she would be with Catherine. He stood up, suddenly chilled to the marrow despite the damp, humid air. Nothing must happen to Val. Not after what they had shared. The pain and the joy, the fulfilment of a dream which had been snatched from Keen and had left him like half a man. Until Zenoria. The girl with the moonlit eyes; another whose love had been forged from suffering.
Keen looked in. “ Phaedra’s captain is come aboard, Sir Richard.”
Bolitho faced the door as Dunstan almost bounded into the cabin.
A young man of tireless energy, and certainly one of the scruffiest captains Bolitho had ever laid eyes on.
“It was good of you to come.” Bolitho held out his hand. “I believe it was intended we should pass the despatches over by line and tackle.”
Dunstan beamed and looked around the cabin. “I thought, damn the sea, Sir Richard. I’ll go myself.”
Bolitho gestured to the letters. “I place these in your hands. There is one for Lord Nelson. When you have run him to ground I would wish you to present it to him personally.” He gave a quick smile. “It seems I am fated not to meet him in person!”
Dunstan took the letter and stared at it as if he expected it to look different from all the others.
Bolitho said, “I am told that you had some casualties.”
“Aye, Sir Richard. Two killed, another pair cut down by splinters.”
For just a moment Bolitho saw the young man behind the guise of captain. The memory and the risks, the moment of truth when death sings in the air.
Dunstan added, “I’m only sorry I could not linger to estimate the full array of Spanish vessels.” He shrugged. “But that damn frigate was at my coat-tails, and the mist hid many of the enemy.”
Bolitho did not press him. Keen would have laid all of his findings and calculations alongside his own on Hyperion’s charts.
Dunstan said, “It struck me that war is an odd game, Sir Richard. It was just a small fight by today’s standard, but how strange the contestants.”
Bolitho smiled. “I know. A captured British frigate fighting under Spanish colours against a French prize beneath our own flag!”
Dunstan looked at him squarely. “I would ask that you send another to seek out Lord Nelson. My place is here with you.”
Bolitho took his arm. “I need the fleet to know what is happening, and my intention to prevent these ships of yours from joining with Villeneuve. It is vital. In any case I can spare nobody else.”
He shook his arms gently. “ Phaedra has done enough. For me, and for us all. Remember that well and tell your people.”
Dunstan nodded, his eyes searching Bolitho’s face as if he wanted to remember the moment.
He said, “Then I shall leave, Sir Richard.” Impetuously he thrust out his hand. “God be with you.”
For a long while afterwards Bolitho stood alone in the cabin, watching the sloop-of-war as she went about, her gunports awash as she took the wind into her courses and topsails.
He heard distant cheers, from Phaedra or the other ships he could not tell.
He sat down and massaged his eye, hating its deception.
Allday clumped into the cabin and regarded him dubiously.
“She’s gone then, Sir Richard?”
“Aye.” Bolitho knew he must go on deck. The squadron was waiting. They must assume their proper formation long before dusk. He thought of his captains. How would they react? Perhaps they doubted his ability, or shared Herrick’s opposition to his intentions.
Allday asked, “So, it’s important?”
“It could well be, old friend.” Bolitho looked at him fondly. “If we head them off, they must fight. If they have already outrun us then we sh
all give chase.”
Allday nodded, his eyes faraway. “Nothin’ new then.”
Bolitho grinned, tension slipping away like soft sand in a glass.
“No, nothing new! My God, Allday, they could do with you in Parliament!”
By the next morning the weather had changed yet again. The wind had veered and stood directly from the east. That at least put paid to any hope of beating back to Toulon.
The squadron, lying comfortably on the starboard tack, headed north-west with the Balearic Islands lying somewhere beyond the starboard bow.
Sixth in the line leading his own ships, Rear-Admiral Herrick had been up since dawn, unable to sleep, and unwilling to share his doubts with Captain Gossage.
He stood in one corner of Benbow’s broad quarterdeck and watched the ships ahead. They made a fine sight beneath an almost clear sky, broken only by fleecy patches of cloud. His face softened as he remembered his mother, in the little house where he had been born in Kent.
Watch the big sheep, Tommy! She had always said that.
Herrick looked around at the busy seamen, the first lieutenant in a close conversation with several warrant officers about today’s work.
What would that dear, tired old lady think of her Tommy now?
Captain Gossage crossed the deck, his hat tilted at the jaunty angle which he seemed to favour.
Herrick did not wish to pass the time in idle conversation. Each turn of the log was taking his ships further westward. He felt uneasy, as if he had suddenly been stripped of his authority. He shaded his eyes to peer across the starboard nettings. Their one remaining frigate was far away from the squadron. Tybalt would be the first to sight any enemy shipping. He bit his lip until it hurt. If the enemy had not already slipped past them. Slamming a door after the horse had bolted.
Gossage remarked, “I suppose that Phaedra’s captain was not mistaken, sir?”
Herrick glared. “Well, somebody sunk La Mouette, he did not imagine that!”
Gossage grunted. “Had we been relieved from the Maltese station we would have been at Gibraltar anyway, sir. Then our ships would have had the honour—”
Honour This Day Page 26
