Around his table the other captains sat watching him, each wrapped in his own thoughts, all weary from the storm’s anger and the battle for survival.
Throughout the scattered squadron seventeen men had been killed. By falls from aloft, or being swept overboard. Some had vanished without trace. As if they had never been.
It was mid-afternoon, and with the ships sailing in a loose formation once again Bolitho had ordered all his captains to gather for a conference.
He looked at Javal’s dark features. His news had been expected, and yet perhaps even to the last he had still hoped. But as they had sighted Buzzard’s topsails shortly after dawn the signal had been shouted down from the maintop. The French had put to sea. A dozen ships, maybe more, had sailed with the stiff north-west wind under their coat-tails, while Javal and his men had watched helplessly while they fought to keep the enemy in view. The French commander had even allowed for such an eventuality. Two frigates had swept out of the storm and had raked Buzzard’s rigging before standing off to follow the convoy into the darkness.
For a fighter like Javal it must have been terrible. With his rigging slashed and the storm mounting every minute, he had been forced to watch the French slipping away. He had tried to make contact with the squadron by firing signal guns and loosing off a flare. But while Gilchrist had waited too late and the ships of the line had steered comfortably along their allotted course the storm had made even that contact impossible.
Bolitho said slowly, ‘The admiral should have examined the despatches sent in Harebell. He will assume that we are capable of standing watch over Toulon, or of shadowing any vessels which try to elude us.’
Overhead he heard the stamp of feet as Leroux’s marines completed another drill. Hammers and adzes added their own sounds to show that the carpenter’s crew were also busy completing storm repairs.
He looked at Herrick, wondering what he was thinking.
Probyn said heavily, ‘Now that the French have avoided your er, ambush, it must leave us all in some doubt. Perhaps we placed too much value in hearsay, in rumour. Who knows where those French ships may be now?’ He looked slowly round the table. ‘Let alone what we can hope to do without information?’
Bolitho watched him impassively. Probyn had been careful to use ‘we’. He had meant ‘you’.
Javal shrugged and yawned. ‘I could detach from the squadron, sir. I might be able to find some if not all of the Frenchmen. After all, the storm will not have made their passage an easy one.’
Bolitho felt them looking at him. Some would understand, perhaps share his dilemma.
If he sent the Buzzard in pursuit he would be without ‘eyes’. The two-deckers and the prize ship would have their visibility reduced to the vision of the best masthead lookout. So, with little agility or speed to investigate, he had to hold on to his one and only frigate.
Probyn added, ‘Of course, we could return to Gibraltar, sir. Better to add our strength to any fleet which may be assembling than to wander blindly to no purpose.’
Herrick spoke for the first time. ‘That would be an admission of failure! It would be the wrong decision, in my opinion.’ He looked at Bolitho, his eyes level. ‘We know how you must feel, sir.’
Farquhar snapped abruptly, ‘It is the devil’s own luck!’
Javal said, ‘It’s the devil’s own choice.’ He looked at Bolitho curiously. ‘For you, sir.’
‘Yes.’
Bolitho let his gaze move along and down across the chart of the Mediterranean. All those miles. Even if he were right in his guesswork, and it was no more than that as Probyn had stated, he might still fail to make contact with the enemy. Ships could pass one another in the night or in foul weather and be none the wiser. An empire could fall because of a wrong choice, a hasty decision.
He said, ‘This is what we will do.’ It had come out as if it had been there in his mind from the beginning. ‘Our present position, as far as we can estimate, is about sixty miles west of Corsica’s north coast.’ He tapped the chart with his dividers. ‘Cape Corse. The storm carried us too far to the east’rd to make another passage profitable.’ He saw them crane forward above the table. ‘So we will continue, and once around the north cape of Corsica we will steer south-east.’ He watched his dividers moving remorselessly further and further down the Italian coastline. ‘We will put into Syracuse to take on water and land our badly injured people. The Sicilians may have news for us. They are at peace with the French, but have little love for them.’
He looked up sharply. ‘While we are at anchor, Buzzard will sail independently, around the eastern side of Sicily, by way of the Messina Strait, and make a rendezvous with the squadron off Malta. I will be able to give you better information, Captain Javal, once we have made some progress.’ He eyed them separately. He was committed. And he had committed each one of them, and every man-jack in the squadron.
Herrick cleared his throat. ‘And then, sir?’
‘Then, Captain Herrick.’ He held his gaze, seeing the worry building up on his face. ‘We will know what to expect.’ He smiled briefly. ‘I hope.’
Probyn spread his heavy hands on the table. They were like pink crabs. ‘If we fail there also, sir, I’d not be happy to face the admiral.’
Bolitho faced him calmly. ‘It is support I want, Captain Probyn. Not sympathy.’
Spray pattered against the stern windows, and he added, ‘I think it best if you return to your ships. The wind is freshening, by the feel of it.’
The chairs scraped back from the table and they looked at each other like strangers.
Probyn gathered up his hat and sword and said, ‘I trust that new orders will be passed to us, sir?’ He did not look at him as he spoke.
Herrick snapped, ‘There is no need for that, surely?’
‘I think there is.’ Probyn fiddled with his sword belt. ‘I would not wish to insist upon it.’
Bolitho nodded. ‘It will be done.’
Farquhar rapped on the screen door with his knuckles, and when the sentry appeared he said, ‘Signal for the boats. Tell the first lieutenant to assemble the side party.’
Probyn asked, ‘How is your first lieutenant, by the way?’
‘Adequate.’ Farquhar watched him coldly.
Bolitho turned away. ‘You know him then?’
Probyn coughed. ‘Not really, sir. Perhaps a passing acquaintance.’
They took their leave, as boat by boat they were pulled back to their various commands.
Herrick was the last. He said simply, ‘The fore t’gallant mast, sir. When I knew of Lysander’s difficulties in the storm, I got to thinking. Maybe she took a ball through the fore-rigging and the rope woolding around the mast hid the damage. It is not unknown.’
Bolitho smiled. ‘Perhaps. But it was none of your doing.’
Bolitho saw him looking around the decks and tried to read his mind. Loss, anxiety, or merely curiosity?
‘And you, Thomas. Is everything satisfactory?’
Herrick turned to watch his barge pulling for the main chains.
‘Osiris is a smart ship, sir. I’ve no complaints. But she’s no heart, no zest.’
Bolitho wanted to reach out for him. To make him know that the sense of loss went both ways. But it was not yet time, and he knew it.
He said, ‘Take care, Thomas.’
The marine guard shuffled to attention and the bosun’s mates raised their silver calls in preparation to see Herrick over the side. But he hung back, his face lined with emotions.
Then he said, ‘If you take the squadron to the Turkish forts and beyond, you’ll not find me far astern.’ He faltered, his eyes pleading. ‘I just wanted you to know. To understand.’
Bolitho held out his hand. ‘I do, Thomas.’ He gripped it tightly. ‘Now.’
He watched Farquhar and Herrick exchange salutes, and then walked slowly across the quarter-deck to the weather side.
The sails were booming in confusion while the ship lay hove-to to rid her
self of her visitors, and Bolitho did not hear the footsteps beside him.
It was Pascoe, his dark eyes heavy with strain. He had been standing watches and carrying out his duties throughout the storm, but at every available moment he had been below with his friend.
Bolitho asked, ‘Is something wrong?’
Pascoe lifted his arms and let them fall again. ‘Sir, I –’ He shook his head. ‘He is gone. He died a minute ago.’
Bolitho watched him, seeing his distress. Sharing it.
‘He was a fine boy.’
He touched his arm, turning him slightly so that some passing marines should not see his face.
‘And it is often harder to accept that sailors give their lives to the sea as much as they do in battle.’
Pascoe shivered. ‘He never complained. Not after that first terrible cut. I held his hand. And just today I thought he was a little better. And then –’ He broke off, unable to finish.
Farquhar strode to the rail and touched his hat. ‘Permission to get the squadron under way, sir?’ He glanced at Pascoe, his eyes without compassion. ‘The wind is certainly freshening.’
‘If you please. And signal Buzzard to take station to lee’rd and ahead of the squadron. He knows what to expect.’ He stepped in front of Pascoe. ‘I think this officer might be excused from duty for the present.’
Farquhar nodded. ‘Very well.’
But Pascoe said, ‘I’m all right now, sir.’ He adjusted his hat and moved towards the ladder. ‘I’d like to attend to my work, if I may.’
Farquhar’s lips twisted in a smile. ‘Then it is settled.’
Bolitho followed them to the rail, seeing the seamen manning the braces and halliards, waiting to execute the first part of his new orders.
Pascoe hesitated, his foot in the air above the gun deck.
‘There is one thing, sir. When will we be burying him?’
‘At dusk.’ He watched the pain in Pascoe’s eyes.
‘I just thought. My sword. I’d like it to go over with him. I’ve not much else.’
Bolitho waited until Pascoe had joined his division and then returned to the poop ladder.
Grubb remarked quietly, ‘A fine young officer ’e’ll be one day, sir.’
Bolitho nodded. ‘He suits me very well as he stands.’
‘Aye.’ The master shaded his red-rimmed eyes to watch the flapping pendant high above the deck. ‘There’s some ’oo can give orders, but never learn nuthin’. Thank God ’e’s not one o’ them.’
Bolitho continued up the ladder and walked right aft to the gilded taffrail.
Below the poop he heard the helmsman’s cry, ‘Course due east, sir! Steady as she goes!’
He watched the lithe frigate forging swiftly ahead of her bulky consorts, but for once felt no envy of her freedom. This was his place, and only the rights of his decisions would decide if he should hold it.
He thought of Pascoe and Herrick, and Allday who was moving about in the cabin below.
And this time he had to be right, if only for men such as these.
11
The Letter
‘WILL THAT BE all for now, sir?’ Moffitt, the clerk, regarded Bolitho gloomily, his weedy frame angled to the deck.
‘Yes. Thank you.’ Bolitho leaned back in his chair and loosened his neckcloth. ‘Tell Ozzard to light some lanterns.’ He looked astern through the great windows at the fiery orange sunset.
One more dragging day. It was two weeks since he had committed his ships to the passage south, and to all intents they had the sea to themselves. Day after day, using the light winds to steer south-east along the Italian coastline, and then tacking around to the westward to follow the hazy shores of Sicily. Now they were heading east again, with the island of Sicily lying about thirty miles off the larboard bow. And apart from a few Arab craft with their strange lateen rig, they had been unable to make contact with another living soul. They had sighted some isolated sails, but they had made off before the slow-moving seventy-fours could draw near enough to examine them.
Bolitho stared at the empty desk, wondering why he bothered to dictate another empty day’s report for Moffitt’s benefit. It was unlikely to carry much weight, unless as additional evidence at his own court martial.
He wondered what the Buzzard was doing, and if she had had any luck in finding information about the vanished Frenchmen. Or if, once free of his commodore’s eye, and his needs blurred by distance, Javal had gone off to seek gains of his own. He knew he was being unfair to Javal, just as he understood that it was his own desperation which was causing it.
He stood up and strode to the door. It had been his custom for as long as he could remember to find peace, if not answers to his doubts, while watching sunsets. He ran quickly up the ladder and on to the poop deck, allowing the north-westerly to play through his shirt, to ease away the heat and staleness of the day. He walked to the weather side and gripped the nettings, watching the vast spread of copper and gold strengthening as it hardened along the horizon. It was very beautiful, even awesome, and he was not surprised to find he was still moved by it. He had watched the sun’s parting display from every sort of deck, from the chill wastes of the Atlantic, to the scorching magnificence of the Great South Sea.
Bolitho saw Nicator’s fore topsail flapping and then refilling as she changed course slightly astern of Osiris. How untroubled the three ships must appear. If there had been anyone to see them pass. Nothing to reveal the teeming life within their rounded hulls, or the work of repairing storm damage which even now was still going on. Changing watches, sail and gun drill, eating and sleeping. It was their world. His world.
And yet, even after a full day of it, probably a twin of the one before, and the next beyond it, these men could still find time to escape from each other in their own way. Bone carving, and scrimshaw work, intricate designs made out of rope and scraps of metal, it was difficult to understand how such delicate and finely made objects could come from the hands of British seamen. Snuff-boxes, too, much prized in the wardroom by less experienced officers, which had been worked and polished from chunks of salt beef. Such boxes were as hard and as brightly polished as mahogany, and said much for their maker’s skill as well as for their digestion under normal circumstances.
‘Deck there! Land on the lee bow!’
Bolitho walked to the opposite side and peered towards the other horizon, already deep purple as the sky followed the retreating sun like a curtain. That would be a part of Malta, he thought, Gozo most likely.
Below the poop rail he heard a master’s mate bark, ‘You, what’s yer name? Larssen, is it?’ A mumbled reply and then the same voice. ‘I told yer, I told yer, an’ I told yer! Watch the compass and watch the set of the sails. Don’t just stand a’gawpin’ until the ship pays off under yer! Jesus, you’ll never rate quartermaster, not in a ’undred years!’
Another voice this time. Bolitho recognised the haughty lilt of Lieutenant Fitz-Clarence. ‘What’s the fuss, Mr Bagley?’
The master’s mate replied, ‘Nuthin’ much. Just that the poor old ship is so full of furriners I ’ave to tell ’em everythin’ twice!’
Bolitho began to walk loosely back and forth across the empty poop. Bagley was right of course. Like many King’s ships, Lysander had gathered a good portion of foreign seamen into her belly. Swedes and Spaniards, Hanoverians and Danes. There were eleven Negroes, and one Canadian who spoke better French than Farquhar.
He thought suddenly of the American captain, John Thurgood. He would have dropped his cargo and be on his return run by now. His would not be the only happy homecoming. The Spanish sailors whom Bolitho had sent to the barquentine from the prize ship Segura would make their wives and mothers weep and laugh when Thurgood sent them ashore in their own country.
He paused by the rail again and looked astern. But the Segura was too well hidden by the other ships to be seen. He sighed. He had sent some of her crew to an American barquentine, and one of her boats he had given to some
French fishermen in exchange for information. Information which he had been unable to transform into results. Because of the storm? Or because he had failed to grasp the situation completely, and by so doing had failed his squadron?
Feet clattered on a ladder and the midshipman of the watch approached him warily.
‘Well, Mr. Glasson?’
The midshipman touched his hat. ‘Mr. Fitz-Clarence’s respects, sir. The masthead has reported sighting land to the south-east. The master confirms it is Malta, sir.’
‘Thank you.’
Bolitho looked at him gravely. Glasson was seventeen, and had taken over as signals midshipman following Luce’s death. There was no other similarity. Glasson was hard and sharp-featured, with a tongue and a sense of discipline to match. He would make a bad lieutenant, if he lived that long. It was strange and pitiful how many there were like Glasson. Who never learned from the frightful stories of mutiny, when the power of the quarter-deck became a small and isolated community in the twinkling of an eye. Between the wars there has been Bligh’s Bounty, which had captured the nation’s imagination. Civilians were ever eager to seek out the good or evil of happenings in which they were not involved, and where they suffered no threat or inconvenience. Then the great uprisings at the Nore and Spithead, both caused by grievances long-outstanding by the men of the fleet. And just before he had sailed for Gibraltar to hoist his broad pendant in Lysander Bolitho had listened, shocked and appalled, to the latest evidence of what could happen when men and their resources were pressed beyond limits. H.M. frigate Hermione had sailed into the Spanish port of La Guaira and surrendered herself to the enemy. Her officers had been butchered in the most horrible manner, and some of her loyal hands had suffered a similar fate. The mutineers had offered their ship to an enemy in exchange for their own freedom. Bolitho did not know much more of the mutiny, other than that the frigate had been under the command of a tyrant. As he looked at Glasson, much of whose confidence was fast departing under his commodore’s stare, he marvelled that the lesson still went unheeded.
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