Farquhar bit his lip. ‘Coastal batteries.’
‘At last, Captain.’ Bolitho looked at him coldly. ‘The pieces begin to fit for you also.’
There was a tap at the door and the sentry bawled, ‘Officer of the watch, sir!’
Farquhar said, ‘Pass him in.’ He was probably relieved at the interruption.
The lieutenant stood just inside the door. ‘We have just sighted Buzzard, sir. Coming from the north.’
‘Thank you, Mr. Guthrie.’
Bolitho sat down and massaged his eyes. ‘Get my clerk. I will dictate a despatch for Inch to carry to Gibraltar.’ He could not hide his anger. ‘Somewhat different from yours.’
Farquhar was expressionless. ‘I will send for my clerk, sir. I am afraid yours is still in Lysander.’
‘He will suffice for the present.’ He walked to the door. ‘I will get mine back when I recover my flagship.’
Farquhar stared after him. ‘But I have had your broad pendant hoisted aboard Osiris, sir!’
‘So I see.’ He smiled gravely. ‘Yours or mine? Were you that sure I was dead?’
He walked to the companion without waiting for an answer.
He found Mrs. Boswell on the poop talking with Pascoe. Seeing his nephew had brought home to him how desperately he needed to find Herrick, how much they needed each other.
If he understood Herrick too well, it was his own fault. Probably more so than Herrick’s. He had been searching for something different in Farquhar, when Herrick’s real value was so obvious that neither of them had seen it.
The woman turned and smiled shyly. ‘I came over in the boat to say goodbye, Commodore.’ She slipped her hand through Pascoe’s arm. ‘We have been getting along very well.’
Bolitho nodded. ‘I’m certain of it.’ He saw through her cheerful tone and added, ‘As soon as I have met with Buzzard’s captain I will order the squadron, or what is left of it, to weigh.’
She understood and walked with him to the poop ladder. ‘I will leave you now. I am glad you are recovered. I know something of medicine, as fever killed my late husband. It is always hotter in these climates aboard ship than on the shore. In Sicily it has been quite cool until these last weeks.’ She faced him sadly. ‘If your men had left you in Malta, or worse, taken you ashore where you anchored, I fear you would have perished.’
A boat was waiting at the chains, and Bolitho saw the Osiris’s froglike first lieutenant peering impatiently from the entry port.
He said quietly, ‘I have one piece of advice, Mrs. Boswell.’ He guided her across the sun-warmed deck, oblivious to watching eyes and his own strange appearance. ‘If you feel something for Thomas Herrick, I beg you to speak it.’ He felt her tense as if to pull away from his hand.
But instead she asked, ‘Is it so obvious?’
‘There is nothing wrong in that.’ He looked away towards the green slopes of land. ‘My own love was too short, and I begrudge every second of it which was wasted. Also,’ he forced a smile, ‘I know that if you say naught, Thomas will remain as tongue-tied as a nun in a room full of sailors!’
‘I shall remember.’
She looked at Pascoe. ‘Take care of yourselves. I have the strangest feeling that something great is about to happen.’ She shivered. ‘I am not sure I like it.’
Bolitho watched her being lowered into the boat by boatswain’s chair, and then strode aft to watch Buzzard’s topsails edging slowly, so painfully slowly, around the northern headland.
Pascoe said, ‘A nice lady, sir. A bit like Aunt Nancy.’
‘Aye.’ Bolitho thought of his sister in Falmouth, and her pompous husband. He had always been very close to Nancy, who, though younger than he, had always tried to ‘mother’ him.
Pascoe continued, ‘They say that Nelson is coming to the Mediterranean, sir?’
‘I’m thankful that somebody at last believes there is a real threat here. The battle, and battle there will be, may be decisive. Which is why we have work to do before that day dawns.’
He saw Pascoe’s face and smiled. ‘What’s the matter, Adam? Don’t you want Nelson to come? He is the best we have, and the youngest. That alone should please you!’
Pascoe dropped his gaze and smiled. ‘One of the foretopmen said it for me. We’ve got our own Nelson already.’
‘I never heard such nonsense!’ Bolitho made for the ladder, adding, ‘You’re getting as bad as that cox’n of mine!’
That night as Bolitho sat in Osiris’s unfamiliar cabin, writing his report on his conclusions, he listened to the creak and mutter of the hull around him. The wind was rising slightly, and had already veered more to the north-west. The sloop Harebell, which had set sail just before darkness, would be making heavy going, tacking back and forth, back and forth, merely to stay in the same place.
He thought of Javal’s swarthy face as he had come aboard, surprised at seeing the broad pendant above Osiris, relieved to discover that Farquhar was not yet the commodore.
He had explained bluntly that after failing to discover the ships at the pre-arranged rendezvous, and hearing from a fisherman that they were at anchor in Syracuse, he had made a second patrol of the Messina Strait, and with the wind backing, had gone farther north in search of news. He had explained, ‘I make no excuses, sir. I’m used to independence, but I don’t abuse it. I put into Naples and visited the British Minister there. I had to come back with something.’ His hard face had eased slightly. ‘Had I known that you were off on your own, er, expedition, sir, I’d have sailed right into Valletta and brought you out, Knights or not!’
Javal knew his weak spot. As an ex-frigate captain, Bolitho had acted rashly by going to see Yves Gorse, but in keeping with his old calling. Perhaps Javal had used the point to dilute his own guilt.
Javal had explained, ‘Sir William Hamilton may be old, sir, but he has a vast knowledge of affairs, and the communications to inform him.’
Bolitho signed his report and stared at the opposite bulkhead. His tarnished sword looked out of place against the ornate panelling.
Javal had delivered only one piece of news. To be more precise, he had brought a name.
Sir William had been informed through his chain of associates and spies that the one man who could determine the next weeks and months was known to be making for Toulon. That man would not be prepared to waste time on empty gestures.
His name was Bonaparte.
14
Run to Earth
ANY HOPES OF a quick passage to Corfu, or of Javal’s lookouts sighting Lysander far ahead of the depleted squadron, were dashed within days of weighing anchor. The wind veered violently to the north, and as all hands worked feverishly to shorten sail, even Osiris’s master expressed his surprise at the intensity and speed of the change. Swooping down from the Adriatic, the wind transformed the gentle blue swell into a waste of steep, savage crests, while above the staggering mastheads the sky became one unbroken cloud bank.
Day after day, the two ships of the line used their bulk and strength to ride out the storm, while behind shuttered gun ports their companies fought their own battles against the sickening motion, and waited for the call, ‘All hands! Hands aloft and reef tops’ls!’ Then to a more perilous contest against the wind, clinging to dizzily swaying yards and fighting each murderous foot of canvas.
Buzzard, unable to withstand such a battering, had been made to run ahead of the storm, so that to the remaining ships it seemed as if the whole world was confined to this small arena of noise and drenching seas. For the visibility dropped with the hours, and it was hard to tell spray from rain, or from which direction the wind would attack next.
For Bolitho, the endless days made him feel remote from Osiris’s own struggle. The faces he met whenever he went on deck were unfamiliar, shouted opinions as yet carried no weight. He saw Farquhar in a different light as well. Several times he had given way to displays of anger which had made even the urbane Outhwaite quail, and once he had reprimanded a bosun’s mate
for not striking a man hard enough when he protested at being sent aloft in a full gale. The bosun’s mate had tried to explain that the culprit was not a proper seaman,but a cooper’s assistant. So many hands had been hurt in the storm that, like the officers, the bosun’s mate was trying to gather as much extra muscle as he could.
Farquhar had shouted, ‘Don’t you dare argue! You’ve had to flog men! You know what it will feel like if you cross words with me again!’
The man had been driven aloft, and had fallen outboard without even a cry as he had lost his hold in the futtock shrouds.
Bolitho wondered how Herrick was managing to ride out the storm, and where he was during each sickening day.
Farquhar had said, ‘But for this bloody weather, I’d have caught up with Lysander!’
‘I doubt it.’ Bolitho had reached beyond empty agreement. ‘Lysander is a faster ship. And she is well handled.’
It was unfair on Farquhar, but he had shown such indifference to Herrick’s possible fate that it was all he could do to restrain some more biting comment. Like a nagging conscience, a small voice seemed to repeat, It was your decision. You drove Herrick too hard, too soon. It was your fault.
And then, a week after leaving Syracuse, the gale eased and backed to the north-west, but as the sky cleared and the sea regained its deep blue, Bolitho knew it would take several more days to recover lost ground. To beat back through time and distance which they had surrendered to the storm.
Whenever he went on deck he was aware that the officers on duty were careful to avoid his eye, and stayed well clear of his lonely pacing on the poop. His chosen solitude gave him time to think, although without fresh information it was like re-ploughing old land with nothing to sow.
During the forenoon on the ninth day he was in the cabin, studying his chart and drinking a tankard of ginger beer, something which Farquhar had stored in some quantity for his personal use.
How Farquhar would laugh, if after all there was nothing in Corfu to sustain his theories. He would not show it, of course, but it would be there just the same. It would not merely prove Farquhar correct in his actions, but also that he was far more suited to hold this or some other command.
Sir Charles Farquhar. It was strange that he should be so irritated by the man’s title. He was getting like Herrick perhaps. No, it went deeper than that. It was because Farquhar had not earned it, and now would never want for anything again. You only had to look at the Navy List to see where the promotion went. He thought of Pascoe’s words and smiled. The ‘Nelsons’ of this world gained their rewards and even titles on the battlefield, or facing an enemy’s broadside. Their precarious advancement was often admired but rarely envied by those more fortunate ashore.
Bolitho walked restlessly around the cabin, hearing the seamen working on deck and in the yards above it. Splicing and re-rigging. After a storm each job was doubly essential. He smiled again. Those more fortunate ashore. In his heart he knew he would fight with all his means to avoid a post at the Admiralty or in some busy naval port.
He returned to the chart and stared at it once more. Corfu, a long, spindly island which seemed about to lock itself snugly to the Greek mainland. A narrow approach from the south, about ten miles across for a ship under sail. From the north, much less. Inviting self-destruction if the French had shore batteries along the high ground. Although the island was separated from the mainland by what was to all intents a small, private sea, some twenty by ten miles in size, the two real hazards were the narrow channels north and south. Also, the one good anchorage was on the eastern shore, so any sort of surprise there was out of the question. Herrick would know it, too. He was stubborn and determined, but he was no fool, and never had been.
He thought suddenly of the young widow, Mrs. Boswell. Strange he had never pictured Herrick being married. But she was exactly right for him. She would not stand by and let others step on his good nature. She would never have allowed him to admit that he could not sustain the posting of flag captain.
Bolitho straightened his back and marvelled that he could even consider such things. He had two ships, and might never find Lysander at all. But whatever happened, he was about to penetrate the enemy’s defences in a sea area which was almost unknown to him beyond his charts and available hints on navigation.
There was a tap at the door and the sentry called cautiously, ‘Midshipman of the watch, sir!’
It was the red-headed Breen.
‘Well, Mr. Breen?’ Bolitho smiled at him. It was the first time he had spoken with him since being rescued by Harebell.
‘The captain sends his respects, sir. The lookout has reported a sail to the nor’-west. Too far off to recognise.’
‘I see.’
Bolitho glanced at the chart. Even allowing for their drift and loss of way during the storm, they could not be that far out in their calculations. Osiris’s beakhead was pointing approximately north-east, and with luck they would sight the highest range of hills to the southernmost end of Corfu before nightfall. Buzzard had run with the storm, and although Javal would be quick to rejoin the squadron, and might appear even today, he would come from the south and not the north-west where this newcomer had shown herself.
He asked, ‘How d’you like being temporarily attached to Osiris’s gunroom?’
The boy looked past him towards Nicator’s tall outline some three cables astern.
‘N-not much, sir. They treat me well enough, but . . .’
Bolitho watched him gravely. Like the lieutenants, most of the midshipmen in this ship were of good family stock. Farquhar had evidently planned his wardroom and his midshipmen with great care. It was quite common for a captain to take a boy to sea as midshipman, the son of an old friend perhaps, or as some special favour. Farquhar appeared to have taken the custom right through his command.
Breen seemed to think he was expected to add something. ‘I keep thinking about the seaman, sir, Larssen. But I’m all right now. I-I’m sorry about the way I acted.’
‘Don’t be. A sword must bend. If it is made too hard it will snap when it is most needed.’
He wondered why he was trying to save Breen from the inevitable. It came to all of them sooner or later. He recalled his own feelings after a sea fight when he had been a young lieutenant. The guns working so hard and the battle so fierce that there had been no time to treat the dead, even the wounded, with care or respect. The corpses had been pushed overboard from friend and enemy alike, and the wounded had added their cries to the thunder of battle. When the firing had ceased, and the ships had drifted apart, too damaged and hurt to claim victory or offer defeat, the sea had been covered with drifting corpses. Because the wind had dropped during the battle, as if cowed by its savagery, they were made to watch them for two whole days. It was something he often thought about and could never forget.
He said quietly, ‘Have some ginger beer.’
Poor Breen, with his rough, scrubbed hands and grubby shirt, he was more a schoolboy than a King’s officer. But who in his town or village had seen Malta? Had been in a sea fight? And how many would ever know the full extent of naval power as it really was, and the men and timbers which made it?
Farquhar appeared in the door and stared coldly at the boy with a glass in his fist.
To Bolitho he said, ‘That sail has sheered off, sir.’
‘Not Lysander?’
‘Too small.’ Farquhar nodded curtly to Breen as he hurried away. ‘Brig, according to the masthead lookout. A good man. He’s usually right.’
Farquhar seemed much more controlled now that the storm had gone. A waiting game perhaps. Standing aside to see what Bolitho would do.
Bolitho walked to the open stern windows and leaned out above the small bubbling wash around the rudder. A good clear sky, and the horizon astern of Nicator’s fat hull was hard and empty. The brig would see more of these two ships than they would of her.
‘Tell the lookouts to take extra care. Send telescopes aloft, too.’
<
br /> ‘You think the brig was French, sir?’ Farquhar sounded curious. ‘She can do us little harm.’
‘Maybe. In Falmouth my sister’s husband owns a large farm and estate.’ He looked impassively at Farquhar. ‘He also has a dog. Whenever a poacher or vagrant comes near his land, the dog tracks him, but never attacks or barks.’ He smiled. ‘Until the stranger is within range of a fowling-piece!’
Farquhar stared at the chart, as if he expected to see something there.
‘Following us, sir?’
‘It is possible. The French have many friends here. They would be willing and eager to pass information which might ease their lot once the tricolour has extended its “estates”.’
Farquhar said uneasily, ‘But supposing that is so, the French cannot know our full strength.’
‘They will see we have no frigates. If I were a French admiral, that would be very valuable news indeed.’ He walked to the door, an idea emerging from the back of his mind. ‘Fetch your sailmaker, will you?’
On the quarter-deck, several hands paused to watch him before returning to their work with added vigour. They probably thought him unhinged by the fever. Bolitho allowed the light wind to cool him and smiled to himself. He was still wearing his Spanish shirt, and had declined any of Farquhar’s spare clothing. His own was still aboard Lysander. He would get it when he found Herrick. And find him he would.
‘Sir?’ The sailmaker was at his side, watching him with a mixture of caution and interest.
‘How much spare canvas do you have? That which is useless for making new sails and the like?’
The man glanced nervously at Farquhar, who snapped, ‘Tell him, Parker!’
The sailmaker launched into a long list of stores and fragments, item by item, and Bolitho was impressed that he retained so much in his memory.
‘Thank you, er, Parker.’ He moved to the starboard gangway and stared along it towards the forecastle. ‘I want a strip of canvas sewn and lashed along the gangway nettings on either side of the ship. Hammock cloths, unwanted scraps which you may have been keeping for repairing awnings and winds’ls.’ He faced him calmly. ‘Can you do that?’
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