‘Well, that is, sir, I expect I could manage if . . .’ He looked at his captain for support.
Farquhar asked, ‘For what purpose, sir? I think if this fellow knew what you required, and I, too, for that matter, it would help him.’
Bolitho smiled at them. ‘If we join fo’c’sle to quarter-deck in this manner, then paint the canvas the same as the hull, with black squares at regular intervals,’ he leaned over the rail to gesture at the eighteen-pounder gun ports, ‘we can transform Osiris into a three-decker, eh?’
Farquhar shook his head. ‘Damn me, sir, it would do the trick. At any sort of distance we’d look like a first-rate, and no mistake! The Frogs will begin to wonder just how many of us there are.’
Bolitho nodded. ‘Inshore we may stand a chance. But we cannot afford a pitched battle in open waters until we have discovered the enemy’s real strength. I doubt that the French will have many ships of the line here. De Brueys will save them for the fleet and for protecting his transports. But I must know.’
‘Deck there! Sail on the larboard quarter!’
Bolitho said, ‘Our will-o’-the-wisp again. As soon as it is dusk we will begin the disguise. We can change tack during the night and maybe give our inquisitive friend the slip.’
Another hail made them look up. ‘Deck there! Sail on the lee bow!’
‘Company?’ Bolitho prodded the sailmaker with his fist. ‘Get your mates to work, Parker. You may be the first man in history to build a King’s ship out of canvas scraps!’
He saw Pascoe hurrying up the weather shrouds to join the lookout who had made the last report. He was hampered by a large telescope slung over his shoulder, but ran up the ratlines with the ease of a cat.
Moments later he shouted, ‘She’s the Buzzard, sir!’
Farquhar muttered, ‘About time, too.’
Bolitho said, ‘Make a signal to Buzzard. Take station ahead of the squadron.’
Farquhar replied, ‘She’ll not be in signalling distance for quite a time, sir. She’ll have to claw every inch of the way against the wind.’
‘She cannot see the signal, Captain. But the other vessel will. Her master will know there is another, maybe several ships close by. It may give him something to chew on.’
Bolitho thrust his hands behind him, seeing the boatswain and some seamen already broaching the paint, while others dragged the canvas across the upper deck.
He began to pace slowly along the weather side, willing Buzzard’s topsails to show themselves to him above the horizon.
Three ships now instead of two. He thanked God for Javal’s determination to find him. Weak they may be. But they were no longer blind as well.
While Osiris and her consort continued at a snail’s pace to the north-east, and Javal worked the frigate through countless zigzags to join them, the small blur of canvas which betrayed their follower was rarely out of sight.
All afternoon, as the sailmaker and his mates sat cross-legged on every spare piece of deck, heads bent, needles and palms flashing in the sunlight, Bolitho prowled about the poop or visited the cabin in a state of near exhaustion.
In the last dog watch, when the lookout shouted, ‘Land ho!’, he guessed that the pursuing brig would be satisfied that the squadron, large or small, was indeed making for Corfu.
Bolitho examined the purple shadow of land through the rigging and shrouds, and pictured the island in his mind. The brig’s master had been too faithful to his orders. Now, with night closing in more rapidly, he would have to bide his time and hold the information to himself. Under similar circumstances, Bolitho thought that he would have taken the risk of his admiral’s displeasure and called off the chase long ago. He would have been more use to his admiral alongside the flagship than riding out a long night off this dangerous coast. Curiosity had been the brig’s weakness. It was not much, but it might be vital.
He returned to the cabin and found Farquhar waiting for him with Veitch and Plowman.
Farquhar said, ‘You wanted these two, I believe, sir.’ He sounded disdainful.
Bolitho waited as a servant hung another lantern above the chart.
‘Now, Mr. Plowman. I need a good volunteer to spy out the land for me.’
The master’s mate looked at the chart and the marks which denoted cliffs and deep soundings along the western shore.
He gave a slow grin. ‘Aye, sir. I take your meanin’!’
Farquhar asked sharply, ‘Are you sending men ashore at night, sir?’
Bolitho did not reply directly. He looked at Plowman and asked simply, ‘Can you do it? If it was not important I would not ask.’
‘I’ve tackled worse. Once in West Africa . . .’ He sighed. ‘But that’s another story, sir.’
‘Good.’
Bolitho studied him gravely. He was probably asking far too much. Sending Plowman and others to their deaths. He toyed with the idea of going himself but knew it would be pointless either way. Conceit, desperation, anxiety, none came into it. He would be needed here, and very soon.
To Farquhar he said, ‘They will want a cutter and a good stout crew.’ He turned to Veitch. ‘I’m putting you in charge of the landing party. Choose your men carefully. Men used to the countryside, who’ll not fall headlong down a cliff.’
He saw the gravity on the lieutenant’s face giving way to something else. Satisfaction. Pride perhaps at being offered such a demanding task without restriction. If Bolitho had doubts they were in himself. Veitch had already proved his worth and his ability.
Plowman was still examining the chart. ‘This looks a likely place.’ He jabbed it with a thick finger. ‘An’ there’ll be a good moon tonight. We can run under sail till we’re close in, then pull the rest of the way.’
Bolitho said, ‘You can take all night. But tomorrow, try to discover what is happening. The island is about five miles across at the point you have selected, Mr. Plowman. The hills rise to a thousand feet or more. From there you should see enough for our purposes.’
Veitch said slowly, ‘It may be difficult to hide the cutter, sir.’
‘Do what you can.’ He looked at each of them. ‘Otherwise, you will have to sink it where you land. I will send another to take you off later.’
Farquhar coughed. ‘There is a fact to be faced, sir. The whole party may be taken prisoner within minutes of getting ashore.’
Bolitho nodded grimly. So even Farquhar was now accepting the reality of their situation. The enemy was fact, not shadows.
‘We will attack from the south’rd at dawn, the day after tomorrow. If Mr. Veitch can discover the whereabouts of shore batteries, and their strength, it will make our task less demanding.’ He smiled at their tense expressions. ‘Although I fear our arrival will not be welcome.’
Veitch breathed out noisily. ‘We’ll do our best, sir. Let us hope that the French have none of their new guns along the coast.’
‘That I doubt.’ Bolitho pictured the great cannon smashing his little force into submission before they had even got to grips. ‘They are being saved for something more important to Bonaparte.’
Veitch and Plowman left the cabin to gather their men and weapons, and he said, ‘I would like to see my signals officer. Tomorrow we will head northwards under our new guise, but hold Buzzard well to windward. Javal may get a chance to catch that brig or any other spy, if he’s in the right place. One more vessel under our flag would be welcome.’
He suddenly saw himself at Spithead, awaiting the boat which would carry him out to the frigate. To Gibraltar, to Lysander, and all those countless hours and miles sailed since. To here. A small cross on the chart. He shivered, despite the heavy air. It was almost symbolic. And this was when he needed Herrick most. His loyalty and devotion. He wondered what Farquhar thought about it. Really thought. Did he see this as his chance to add fame to his new status? Or did he see it only as an end to all his hopes?
They made light of risk. They always did beforehand. But he was asking much of every single man. Far to
o much. When battle was joined, causes and grand ideals counted for very little. It was the speed you could fire and reload. The strength you held to withstand the awful sights and sounds.
He shook himself from the lingering depression.
‘Well, Captain Farquhar.’ He saw him come out of his own thoughts. ‘We will do this together, or if one of us falls, the other will carry on with it. Either way, it must be done.’
‘Yes.’ Farquhar looked around the quiet cabin. ‘I can see that now.’
*
Within hours of full daylight the brig’s topsails appeared again, tipping the horizon, but taking care to stand off well to windward. Either her master had managed to send word ashore by boat during the night, or he was eager to learn more about Bolitho’s ships.
Bolitho made certain that their attendant spy had plenty to hold his attention. Pascoe’s signal party hoisted several meaningless flags, which were acknowledged with equal vigour by Nicator and Buzzard. Then, when Bolitho made a genuine signal, to call the other captains aboard for a discussion of their position, he played his other card. With sails aback, Osiris came round into the wind, displaying her broadside to the distant vessel, and her impressive new height above water.
When Javal arrived in his gig he exclaimed admiringly, ‘I thought I was seeing things, sir. Or that St. Vincent had arrived in his flagship. From my gig she looks every inch a first-rate!’
Probyn was less enthusiastic. ‘A novel idea, I agree. But we can’t shoot with painted canvas!’
Once more in the great cabin Bolitho looked at his captains. Javal seemed strained after his long fight against the sea and wind, but otherwise unworried. Farquhar, tight-lipped and pale, but neither a hair nor a gilt button out of place. Probyn was as untidy and as brooding as ever. He looked heavy-eyed, and his cheeks were redder than one would expect from wind alone. Drinking more than usual. It was strange, but Bolitho found he had forgotten how Probyn had used to drink when they had been lieutenants together. More than once he had stood a watch or a duty for him, when the first lieutenant had drawled, ‘See to it, Dick. Poor old George is in his cups again.’
He waited until each of them had a glass of Farquhar’s claret in his hand, then said calmly, ‘Tomorrow, gentlemen, we will make our play. I hope to pick up Mr. Veitch and his party tonight. What he tells me may alter our tactics, but cannot postpone an attack.’
Probyn kept his eyes on his lap. ‘What if he doesn’t come back?
‘It will keep us in the dark.’
He thought of Veitch out there on Corfu. The villagers, if he was unlucky enough to stumble on them, might take them as Frenchmen. He was not sure if that was good or bad. Veitch had shown himself to be a quick-thinking and intelligent man. Bolitho would make certain his name went forward for early promotion if he survived another night on the island. He had toyed with the idea of telling him beforehand, but had decided against it. Such a promise could make an ambitious man too careful, an eager one too reckless.
‘We have shown ourselves as preparing to attack. The enemy will still not know our full strength, but as they may now believe we have a three-decker supporting us, they must decide on their own plan of defence. Or attack.’
Probyn slammed his empty glass on the table and looked meaningly at the cabin servant.
Then he asked, ‘Why not wait, sir? Watch and wait, until we get more support.’ He looked from the corners of his eyes at Farquhar. ‘If Lysander had been here, then I might have said otherwise.’
Bolitho watched Probyn emptying another glass of claret.
‘We do not know enough to wait. At any day, the enemy might try to sail out of Corfu, and if their numbers are what I believe, we could not hope to contain them.’ He saw Probyn was unconvinced, and added, ‘Besides which, the French fleet may even now be steering in this direction to escort their precious supply ships elsewhere.’ He tapped the chart with his glass. ‘Caught on a lee shore, or worse, bottled up on the eastern side of the island, what chance would we have then?’
He kept his gaze on Probyn, willing him to accept, if not condone, the reasoning. For Captain George Probyn’s part could be the most important of all. Tomorrow, hours not days now, and his Nicator might be the sole survivor.
He said quietly, ‘Osiris will force the southern channel at dawn. The supply ships will be anchored anywhere from fifteen to twenty miles up the coast, and once amongst them it will be a busy time for us all.’ He saw Javal’s hard face break into a smile. ‘The French, I believe, see themselves in a strong position. They will know we are coming, and move what guns they have ashore to command our approach.’
Javal nodded. ‘Aye, it makes sense. A three-decker would be seen as the real threat.’
Bolitho thought of Grubb and wished he was here. Osiris’s sailing master seemed capable enough, but lacked Grubb’s knowledge and philosophy on the weather’s habits. He had been a mate in an Indiaman before joining a King’s ship, and his early service had been spent weighing the value of a fast passage against goods lost by poor navigation.
If so much depended on what his ships could do tomorrow, the wind was almost equal in importance.
He shut it behind him and said to Probyn, ‘You will leave us at dusk. Steer to the north’rd. When the time is ready you will enter the top channel, I am hoping, unopposed. The defenders should think the real menace is from us in the south. If “lady luck”,’ he hesitated, seeing Herrick’s blue eyes crinkling to his favourite talisman, ‘blesses us, and the wind holds, we will hit the enemy hard, and where it will do our cause most good.’
They all stood up, knowing it was over.
Bolitho added, ‘God be with you.’
They filed out in silence, then Bolitho heard Farquhar shouting for someone to recall the captains’ boats.
Allday entered the cabin by the other door and asked, ‘Can’t I get you a uniform coat from somewhere, sir?’ He sounded more worried by Bolitho’s appearance than the prospect of battle.
Bolitho walked to the quarter windows and saw Probyn’s barge pulling strongly away. He thought of this ship, Osiris, the men who would work her up that channel. Would fight and, if need be, die. It was not a happy ship. He frowned. Nicator. Judge of the Dead. He felt suddenly chilled.
He answered, ‘No matter, Allday. Tomorrow they may look aft, as you insist they do in action.’ He saw him nod. ‘I want them to see me. More like one of themselves than as one more oppressive uniform. This ship has no warmth about her. She carries all the marks of discipline and efficiency, but . . .’ He shrugged.
Allday said, ‘They’ll fight well enough, sir. You’ll see.’
But Bolitho could not shake off his feeling of foreboding.
‘If anything should happen.’ He did not turn from the windows but heard Allday tense. ‘I have made provision for you in Falmouth. You will always have a home there, and want for nothing.’
Allday could not restrain himself. He strode aft to the gallery and exclaimed, ‘I’ll hear none of it, sir! Nothing will happen, nothing can.’
Bolitho turned and looked at him. ‘You will prevent it?’
Allday stared at him wretchedly. ‘If I can.’
‘I know.’ He sighed. ‘Perhaps, like Thomas Herrick, I am here too soon after that other time.’
Allday insisted, ‘The surgeon was right, sir. Your wound is not properly healed yet, your health more set back by the fever than you’ll allow for.’ He added meaningly, ‘Cap’n Farquhar’s surgeon is no butcher. He’s a proper doctor. Cap’n Farquhar took good care of that!’
Bolitho smiled gravely. He would. ‘Ask Mr. Pascoe to lay aft. I have some signals to prepare.’
Alone again, he sat down at the table and stared unseeingly at his chart. He thought of Catherine Pareja, and wondered what she was doing now in London.
Twice a widow, yet with more life in her than most young girls just free of their mother’s arms. Never once had she mentioned marriage. Not even a hint. Something seemed to hold it back.
An unspoken agreement.
He opened the front of his Spanish shirt and examined the tiny locket which hung around his neck. Kate had never even shown resentment for that. He opened it carefully and examined the small lock of chestnut-coloured hair. It caught the sunlight from the stern windows and shone as brightly as the day he had met her. An admiral’s bride-to-be. Cheney Seton. The girl he had won and had married. He closed the locket and rebuttoned his shirt. It never changed. No wonder he had cried her name.
Pascoe entered the cabin, his hat beneath his arm, a signal book in one hand.
Bolitho faced him, concealing his sudden despair as best he could.
‘Now, Adam, let us see what other ideas we can invent, shall we?’
*
‘Course nor’-east by north, sir! Full an’ bye!’
Bolitho heard the master whispering with his helmsmen but hurried to the nettings, now packed with neatly stowed hammocks and starkly pale in the moonlight.
Farquhar joined him and reported, ‘Wind’s steady, sir. We are about twenty miles south-west of the island. Buzzard’s to windward, you can just make out her tops’ls in the moon’s path.’
‘No sign of a boat?’
‘None. I sent the other cutter away under sail three hours back. If Veitch saw it he made no signal with either lantern or pistol-shot.’
‘Very well. How long does the master think we can remain on this tack?’
‘An hour more at the most, sir. Then I’ll have to recall my cutter, and by that time I’ll be ready to come about. Otherwise, we’ll be too close to lie-to, and if we continue round in another great circle we’ll be further away from the southern channel than I care for when dawn comes.’
‘I agree.’ Bolitho added reluctantly, ‘Another hour then.’
Farquhar asked, ‘Are you certain you did right by sending Nicator to the northern channel, sir? It will be a disaster if Probyn fails to engage in time.’
‘The channel is narrow, I know, but with favourable winds Nicator will be able to manage.’
Signal, Close Action! Page 27
