‘What are your hopes for the future?’
Glasson drew himself up. ‘To serve my King, sir, and to gain my own command.’
‘Very commendable.’ Bolitho added dryly, ‘Did you learn anything from duties aboard our prize?’
The midshipman relaxed slightly. ‘The Dons who man her are dolts. They know nothing, and their vessel is in a filthy state.’
Bolitho did not hear him, he was thinking of the letter, the French agent named Yves Gorse. He could feel the blood rushing through his brain like fire. Suppose the Frenchman did not know which vessel should be bringing instructions from Toulon? With communications so difficult, and the final French intentions still a well-guarded secret, it was likely he would know little about the form of delivery.
He turned to Glasson. ‘My compliments to the flag captain. I should like him to join me on the poop.’
Farquhar arrived five minutes later to find Bolitho striding from side to side, hands clasped behind him, as if he were in a state of trance.
Farquhar suggested, ‘You have come upon a fresh idea, sir?’
Bolitho stopped and looked at him. ‘I think maybe others gave it to me. I was too involved with my anxieties to heed the obvious.’
‘Sir?’
‘I heard the master’s mate, Bagley, reprimanding one of the helmsmen. Because he did not understand him immediately.’
Farquhar frowned. ‘That would be Larssen, sir. I can have him removed.’
‘No, no.’ Bolitho faced him. ‘It was not that. And something Glasson said about the Segura just now.’
‘I see, sir.’ Farquhar was lost. ‘At least, I think I do.’
Bolitho smiled. ‘Segura. We have been keeping her without knowing why. Vanity perhaps? Evidence that we did not fail at everything? And as time went on we forgot she was there.’
Farquhar watched him doubtfully, his eyes glowing in the sunset. ‘She’s too slow for scouting, sir. I thought we’d agreed on that.’
Bolitho nodded. ‘Have a new prize crew detailed, and send the remaining Spaniards into the squadron. Tell a lieutenant of your choice that I want the prize crew to be as foreign as he can find!’
‘Aye, sir.’ There was not even surprise now. Farquhar probably believed the strain and responsibility had at last driven him mad.
‘And I want it done immediately. Signal the squadron to heave-to before the light goes completely.’
Farquhar made to hurry away. ‘What will the lieutenant be required to do, if I may venture to ask, sir?’
‘Do, Captain?’ He turned away to conceal his sudden excitement. ‘He will sail the Segura into Malta under false colours, American, I think. And there he will deliver a letter for me.’
Farquhar exclaimed, ‘The French agent?’
‘Just so.’ He started to pace. ‘I suggest you start at once.’
Farquhar waited a moment longer. ‘It’s a great risk, sir.’
‘You told me that before. As did Thomas Herrick. Have you never taken risks?’
Farquhar smiled. ‘The men will most probably desert once they are in Malta. And the officer in charge will be seized and likely hanged. The Knights of Malta are only too aware of the danger in incurring France’s displeasure. They have been friendly to us in the past.’ He shrugged. ‘But the French army and navy are much nearer than they were then.’
‘I agree. Nor would I expect a junior lieutenant to be used in this way.’
Farquhar watched him with new interest. ‘You intend to go with Segura?’
‘Under all circumstances. Yes.’
*
Midshipman Glasson had been right about one thing, Bolitho decided. The prize ship Segura was not only dirty, but also contained so many smells of varying ages and strength that it was hard not to retch when between decks.
It was pitch-dark by the time the new prize crew were ferried across in exchange for the remaining Spaniards, and with two good hands on the wheel and canvas reduced to a minimum for the night Segura was left to her own devices.
Bolitho sat in the tiny cabin and munched some salt pork and iron-hard biscuits which he tried to dissolve in the ship’s plentiful supply of red wine.
Farquhar had picked Lieutenant Matthew Veitch to accompany him, and he had already proved that he was as good aboard an unfamiliar vessel as he had been directing Lysander’s eighteen-pounders during their fight against the two Frenchmen. In his middle-twenties, Veitch appeared a good deal older and more experienced than his age suggested. He came from the north of England, from Tynemouth, and his hard accent, added to his normally stern features, made him seem too advanced for his years. But he could wipe it away with a ready smile, and Bolitho had noticed that his seamen liked and respected him.
Plowman, the senior master’s mate, was again selected to join the expedition, and Mr. Midshipman Arthur Breen, a carrot-headed sixteen-year-old whose face was a mass of freckles, completed the vessel’s senior authority.
They had been so busy settling into their new ship that the shadowy topsails of the three seventy-fours had vanished into the gathering darkness before anyone had found time to comment.
Bolitho looked up as Veitch entered the cramped cabin.
‘Watch yourself!’
But it was too late. Veitch gave a gasp as his head cracked violently against a deck beam.
Bolitho pointed to a chest. ‘Sit down and save your skull.’ He pushed a wine bottle towards him. ‘Is everything secure?’
‘Aye, sir.’ Veitch threw back his head and drained a metal goblet. ‘I’ve got ’em standing watch and watch. It keeps ’em busy, and makes sure we don’t get pounced on by some enemy patrol.’
Bolitho listened to the vessel’s unfamiliar sounds, the rattle of rigging, the very near movements of the rudder. Segura was roundly-built, probably Dutch originally, whenever originally had been. Her holds were spacious for her size, and packed to the seams with cargo and gunpowder. Her sail plan was austere, and manageable with the minimum amount of hands. Again, it made her almost certain to be Dutch-built. Profitable, both in space and size of crew, she had doubtless worked every coastline from the Baltic to the African shores. But she was old, and her Spanish masters had let her go badly. Plowman had already reported on the poor quality of her standing rigging and topping lifts, some of which he described as being ‘as thin as a sailor’s wallet’.
But Plowman was Grubb’s right-hand man. Like the master, he was not content with unreliable workmanship.
Bolitho smiled to himself. If Plowman was bothered, the seamen selected for the prize crew appeared quite the opposite. Even aboard the Lysander, as he had spoken to them briefly before they had clambered into the boats, he had noticed their grins and nudges, the cheerful acceptance of their surprise role. Escape from boredom, something to do to break the daily routine, or maybe the fact that each was hand-picked helped to extend this carefree atmosphere. The notion they had been chosen mostly for their foreign tongues had not apparently arisen.
He could hear someone singing a strange, lilting song, and a regular chorus of voices as the watch below joined in. There was an unusual smell of cooking in the damp air between decks, too, further evidence of their new identity.
Veitch grinned. ‘They’ve settled in well, sir. That’s Larssen singing, and the one detailed to cook is a Dane, so God knows what we’ll be eating tonight!’
Bolitho looked round as Plowman entered the cabin. He said, ‘I’ve left Mr. Breen with the watch, sir.’ He took the wine and regarded it gratefully. ‘Well, thankee, sir.’
Bolitho glanced at them approvingly. Each, including himself, wore a plain blue coat, and a scruffier trio it would be hard to find. Typical, he hoped, of the countless hundreds of trading captains who sailed under every flag and carried any cargo they could find for a profit.
‘Tomorrow we’ll run for Malta.’ Bolitho watched as Plowman tamped black tobacco in a long clay pipe. ‘I am Captain,’ he smiled gravely, ‘Richard Pascoe. You can keep your own names. Mr
. Veitch will be first mate. Mr. Plowman, second. My cox’n, Allday, will be filling the part of boatswain.’
Plowman hesitated and then thrust a great pot of tobacco across the rickety table.
‘If you’d care to try it, sir? It’s, well, it’s fair.’
Bolitho took a pipe from a sandalwood box above the small chart table and handed another to Veitch.
‘Anything once, Mr. Plowman!’
He became serious. ‘I will go ashore with Allday and a boat’s crew. You will appear to be preparing to open hatches. But be ready to cut the cable and put to sea if anything goes wrong. If this should happen, you can stand inshore for a further two nights. Where I have marked on the chart. If there is still no signal from me, you must rejoin the squadron at Syracuse. Captain Farquhar will act accordingly.’
The air thickened visibly with smoke, and Bolitho said, ‘Fetch some more wine from the locker. Like our people up forrard, I feel strangely at peace. Tonight anyway.’
Shoes clicked overhead and Veitch smiled. ‘Young Mr. Breen is alone up there. He is feeling like a post-captain, no doubt!’
Bolitho let the drowsiness move over him. He thought of Pascoe, his dark eyes eager and pleading as he had asked to be allowed to join him. He touched the old sword which lay against the table. Perhaps he should have left it in Lysander. If anything happened to him, the sword would probably disappear forever. And it was important in some strange way that Pascoe should have it. One day.
He did not see Veitch give a wink to Plowman, who rose and said, ‘I’d better go an’ relieve Mr. Breen, sir.’
Veitch nodded. ‘And I must go forrard and see that all is well.’
He stood up and cracked his head again.
‘Damn these stingy shipbuilders, sir!’ He grinned ruefully. ‘A ship of the line maybe is crowded, but she keeps a man’s head on his shoulders!’
Alone once more, Bolitho leaned over his chart and studied it beneath a spiralling lantern. He removed his blue coat and loosened his neckcloth, feeling the sweat running freely down his spine. It was stiflingly hot, and the wine had not slaked his thirst.
Allday entered the cabin. ‘I’m bringing something to eat in a minute, sir.’ He wrinkled his nose. ‘This hull stinks like Exeter market!’
‘The heat is no help to us.’ Bolitho threw down his dividers. ‘I will go on deck for a breath of air directly.’
‘As you will, sir.’ Allday watched him pass. ‘I will send word when your meal is ready.’
He looked round the untidy cabin and shrugged. Damp, dirty and smelly it certainly was. But after the oppressive heat of the day it felt almost cool. He saw the empty wine bottles and chuckled. The commodore’s heat was probably an inner one.
*
‘Brail up the fores’l.’
Bolitho shaded his eyes to examine the untidy sprawl of sand-coloured fortifications which protected every entrance to Valletta harbour. As they had made their slow approach, and had watched the sun rise behind Malta’s weather-worn defences, it had been hard for some of the seamen to see it for anything but a fortress.
‘Steady as you go.’ Plowman shifted his sturdy frame around the helmsmen, a pipe jutting from his jaw.
Bolitho knew that he, like most of the others, was finding it difficult to act in this casual and slack fashion after the rigid discipline of a King’s ship. And at no other time was there anything more important about a ship’s appearance than when entering harbour.
Bolitho ran his eye along the littered deck. Seamen lounged against either bulwark, pointing at landmarks, some with genuine interest, others with elaborate pretence.
Midshipman Breen said, ‘I’ve heard of this island many times, sir. I never thought I’d ever see it.’
Plowman grinned. ‘Aye. Valletta was so named after the Grand Master of the Knights in honour of ’is defence of it against the Turks.’
‘Were you here then?’ Breen watched the master’s mate with undisguised awe.
‘’Ardly, Mr. Breen. That was over two ’undred years back!’ He looked at Veitch and shook his head. ‘Was I ’ere indeed!’
The nearest fortress was gliding abeam now, its upper rampart crowded with colourful figures. It was apparently used as much as a thoroughfare as a bastion. Beyond it, Bolitho saw the glittering water opening up to receive the Segura. The harbour was busy with shipping and tiny oared boats which scurried back and forth from vessels to jetties like water-beetles. There were a few schooners, gaunt Arab dhows, and the more common feluccas with their huge lateen sails. Two painted and gilt-encrusted galliasses lay beside a flight of stone steps. Like things from the past. They might have looked not too much out of place when the Romans had conquered England, Bolitho thought. The Knights of Malta had used them very successfully over the centuries for harrying Turkish ports and shipping, and had done much to drive the Turks’ influence away from the West, it was hoped for good.
But now, Malta’s role had changed again. It had withdrawn on to its own resources, combing revenue and trade from ships which came to the harbour, or anchored out of sheer necessity through storm or attack by corsairs.
‘Stand by the anchor.’
Bolitho strode to the foot of the mainmast and watched for any sign of a challenge. In fact, there was little interest, so he guessed that Segura was not the first vessel to enter wearing the American flag.
Allday whispered, ‘By God, it will take Mr. Gilchrist a year to get these lads to jump like seamen again.’ He grinned as one of the men spat deliberately on the deck and then grinned somewhat sheepishly at his companions. Such an act would have cost him a dozen lashes in Lysander.
Veitch called, ‘Hands wear ship!’
Bolitho took a brass telescope and trained it on the longest stone jetty. Boats were already shoving off, laden to their gunwales with fruit, basketware and probably women as well. For despite the original Christian standards and guidance within these stout walls, the core had long since deteriorated, and it was hinted that even the Knights themselves looked more to personal enjoyments than to heaven.
‘Helm a’lee!’
The Segura tilted above her shadow, the patched sails barely moving as she headed into the wind, and her rusting anchor splashed into clear water.
‘Mr. Veitch. If you allow these bumboats alongside, I suggest you make certain their occupants stay in them. You can let a few aboard at a time. They’ll get out of control otherwise.’
Veitch gave a rare smile. ‘Aye, sir. It’d be a powerful combination, eh? A hold full of wine, some British tars and whatever mischief these traders are about to offer!’
Allday was already mustering a small but fearsome-looking anchor watch. Each man was armed with a cutlass, and in addition a heavy wooden stave.
‘Lower the boat.’
Bolitho wiped his face and throat. It was more stifling in the harbour than below decks.
The first craft were already alongside, the merchants and boatmen standing upright to display their wares, and vieing with each other in a variety of tongues.
Veitch came aft again. ‘All done, sir. I’ve got two swivels loaded with canister, and a stand of muskets hidden under the fo’c’sle. I noticed that the harbour batteries face seaward, so we’ll be all right for the present.’
Bolitho nodded. ‘People who build fortresses often make that mistake. They never expect an attack from the rear.’
He thought of the charge down a Spanish hillside, the crackle of musket fire, and the marines cheering like fiends as they went in with their bayonets fixed.
‘Just as well.’
‘Boat’s lowered, sir.’
Allday strode to the bulwark by the main shrouds as a dark-skinned little man wearing a turban and hung about with beads, bottles and gaudy daggers tried to climb on to the deck. ‘Wait for the order, Mustapha!’ Allday cupped his hand under the man’s chin and sent him pitching back into the water. It raised a chorus of laughter and jeers from the unfortunate bumboatman’s companions, who probabl
y considered that this vessel’s master, if hard-hearted, was at least going to be fair to all.
Veitch followed Bolitho to the rail. ‘If an official comes aboard, sir, shall I bluff it out?’
Bolitho had been in Malta before. He smiled grimly. ‘Be guided by Mr. Plowman. I suspect he has visited here on other unorthodox missions. The port officers may decide to wait until you show signs of unloading. But if they come and ask for your papers, tell them what I told you to say. That we had to throw them overboard when chased by an unknown ship. You will find a bag of gold coins in the cabin to grease the hawse for you.’
Plowman grinned at the lieutenant’s uncertainty. ‘Love you, Mr. Veitch! Port officials are the same everywhere, an’ with more an’ more Yankee ships finding their ways into the Mediterranean they’ll not want to lose a new sort of trade!’
Bolitho threw one leg over the rail. ‘And watch our people. There may be French spies amongst these bumboatmen. It’ll do no harm to spread the notion anyway!’
He clambered down into the Segura’s remaining longboat. ‘Shove off.’
As the boat pulled away he saw one of the traders tap smartly on a pile of rugs, and from beneath it he also saw a smooth, rounded arm pushing the covering aside. It was no man’s arm. With Segura’s captain out of the way, the real trading was about to begin.
Allday murmured, ‘Top of the stairs, sir. Two officers of some kind.’
But the officers paid them little attention, other than a courteous nod, and continued to watch the anchored newcomer, possibly judging the right moment to board her.
Bolitho stood on the hot stonework and waited for Allday and one other to climb up beside him. The seaman was the Swede, Larssen. He had a cheerful, trusting expression, and one of the broadest pairs of shoulders Bolitho had seen.
Allday remarked, ‘In case we run into a spot of trouble.’ He paused and looked at him. ‘You all right, sir?’
Bolitho replied, ‘Of course. Don’t fuss.’ He turned away. ‘Send the boat away. We will attract as little attention as possible.’
Signal, Close Action! Page 21
