‘I was not referring to the channel or the danger, sir.’ Farquhar’s face was in the moon’s shadow, his epaulettes very bright against his coat. ‘I have to admit, I feel no faith in Nicator’s captain.’
‘When he sees our dependence on his support, Captain Farquhar, he will do his duty.’
He recalled Probyn’s reddened features, his indirect manner. His caution. But what could he do? If things happened as he had predicted, Osiris would take the worst of it, and would need the most tenacity. He could not ask Javal to thrust his frail ship into the teeth of a bombardment, although his part in the attack was bad enough anyway. Without Lysander’s support, the surprise would have to be left to Nicator. There was no other way. He wondered if Farquhar was cursing himself now for letting Herrick go unaided, for failing to act as a squadron against the enemy when he believed himself in overall command.
‘Deck there! Light on th’ weather bow!’
Bolitho ran to the larboard gangway and peered above the painted canvas.
He heard Farquhar snap, ‘The signal, by God! Mr. Outhwaite! Heave-to, if you please, and prepare to hoist boats inboard!’
The ship came alive, the hurrying seamen like phantoms in the eerie moonlight as they ran without hesitation to halliards and braces.
Someone raised a cheer as first one and then the second cutter bumped alongside, and men scrambled down to them to bear a hand.
Sailing and pulling at the oars, it must have been an unnerving job for the crews, Bolitho thought.
He waited by the quarter-deck rail, gripping his hands behind him to prevent his impatience from sending him down to the entry port with the others.
He saw a sturdy figure limping aft and recognised him instantly.
‘Mr. Plowman! Come over here!’
The master’s mate leaned against the hammock nettings and tried to regain his breath.
‘Glad to be ’ere, sir.’
He waved his arm towards the invisible land, and Bolitho saw that his hand was wrapped in a stained bandage, the blood soaking through it like black oil.
‘’Ad to lie low, even when we saw t’other boat standin’ inshore. Place was alive with pickets. We run into one of ’em. Bit of a fight.’ He examined his bandaged fist. ‘But we done for ’em.’
‘And Mr. Veitch?’ He waited for the inevitable.
But Plowman said, ‘’E’s fine, sir. I left ’im ashore. ’E ordered me to find you an’ report.’
Even the cabin lanterns seemed too bright after the strange moonscape on deck, and Bolitho saw that Plowman was filthy from head to toe, his face and arms scarred from rock and gorse.
‘Have a drink.’ Bolitho saw Farquhar and his first lieutenant, and behind them Pascoe, coming into the cabin. ‘Anything you like.’
Plowman sighed gratefully. ‘Then I’d like a measure o’ brandy, if I may dare ask, sir.’
Bolitho smiled. ‘You deserve a cask.’ He waited in silence, watching Plowman’s expression as he drank a complete goblet of Farquhar’s brandy. ‘Now tell me the news.’
Plowman wiped his mouth with his wrist. ‘It ain’t good, sir.’ He shook his head. ‘We did like you said, and Mr. Veitch was fair amazed by what we saw. Just like you told us it would be, only more so.’
Farquhar snapped, ‘Ships?’
‘Aye, sir. Thirty or more. Well-laden, too. An’ there’s a ship o’ the line at anchor offshore, a seventy-four. An’ two or three smaller ships. A frigate, an’ a pair o’ corvettes, like the Frenchie we done for with Segura.’
Farquhar said softly, ‘What a find! A small armada, no less!’
Plowman ignored him. ‘But that ain’t all, sir. They’ve hauled a pair o’ them new guns to the ’eadland.’ He leaned heavily across the chart and jabbed it with his thumb. ‘There. We thought for a bit they was unloadin’ all the ships, but they just ferried these two beauties ashore. We met up with a shepherd at dawn. One of the lads won ’is confidence like, speaks a bit of the language. The locals don’t care for the Frogs. They’ve bled the island white. An’ the women, too, by th’ sound of it. Anyway, he said that the ships are preparin’ to leave. Goin’ to Crete or somewhere, to wait for more ships.’
‘De Brueys.’ Bolitho looked at him gravely. ‘Why did Lieutenant Veitch stay behind?’ He had already guessed the answer.
‘Mr. Veitch told me that ’e thinks you’ll attack, sir. Said you’d not let the Nicator go in on ’er own.’ He scowled. ‘But for this mangy fist I’d ’ave stayed there with ’im.’
Bolitho said, ‘Your return is of greater value to me. And I thank you.’
Veitch had seen it, right from the beginning. That without more ships they could not keep in contact with Nicator, nor could they reach her before dawn and the moment of attack.
Plowman added wearily as Bolitho refilled the glass, ‘Mr. Veitch said ’e would try to ’elp, sir. He got three volunteers with ’im.’ He gave a sad grin. ‘All as mad as ’im, if you’ll pardon the liberty, sir, so I can’t tell you no more.’
His head lolled with fatigue, and Bolitho said quietly, ‘Tell Allday to help him to the sickbay and have his hand dressed. And see that both boat crews are rewarded in some way.’
He looked at their faces. Farquhar’s set in a grim frown. Outhwaite’s liquid eyes watching him with quiet fascination. And Pascoe, his black hair falling across one eye, as if he, too, had a scar to hide.
Bolitho asked, ‘Well, Captain Farquhar, what is your opinion on this?’
He shrugged. ‘But for Nicator’s safety, I’d advise you to withdraw, sir. There is no sense in putting your honour before the loss of a squadron. We gambled on the French keeping all their precious artillery stowed in their holds, and relying on more “conventional” weapons.’ He glanced briefly at Plowman’s sagging shoulder. He had fallen into an exhausted sleep. ‘But if fellows like Plowman here, and Lieutenant Veitch, are prepared to throw their lives down the hawse, I suppose I will do the same!’
He looked calmly at his first lieutenant. ‘Commodore’s instructions, Mr. Outhwaite. One hot meal and a double ration of rum for all hands. After that, you may douse the galley fires, and then clear for action. Our people will sleep beside their guns tonight.’ He looked at Bolitho. ‘If sleep they can.’
Farquhar nodded curtly. ‘Now, if you will excuse me, sir. I have some letters to write.’
Bolitho looked at Pascoe. ‘I wish you were in almost any other ship, Adam. In any place but here.’
Pascoe regarded him searchingly. ‘I am content, sir.’
Bolitho walked to the windows and stared at the silver glow across the water. Like rippling silk, the patterns changing endlessly. He thought of Farquhar writing his letters. To his mother? To the Admiralty?
He said, ‘In my steward’s keeping at Falmouth, Adam, there is a letter. For you.’
He felt Pascoe step beside him, and saw his reflection in the thick glass. Like brothers in the strange glow.
‘Don’t say anything.’ He reached out and put his arm round his shoulder. ‘The letter will tell you everything you must do. The rest you will decide for yourself.’
‘But, Uncle.’ Pascoe’s voice sounded unsteady. ‘You must not speak like that!’
‘It must be said.’ He turned and smiled at him. ‘As it was once said to me. And now,’ he forced the pain out of his thoughts, ‘we must help Mr. Plowman below.’
But when they turned from the windows, Plowman had already gone,
15
Disaster
‘STEER NOR’-NOR’-east.’ Farquhar remained near the wheel, looking towards Bolitho. ‘We will weather the headland as close as we dare.’ He glared at the master. ‘Do you understand, Mr. Bevan?’
‘Aye, sir.’ The master shifted under his stare. ‘It’s a bad entrance. Shoals below the headland. Some others offshore, but the charts can’t fix them exactly.’
Farquhar walked down to the quarter-deck rail. ‘No sign of life yet, sir.’
Bolitho raised a telescope
and moved it slowly along the uneven summit of the headland. About a mile across the larboard bow. But it was still resting in deep shadow, with only the paling sky to give some indication of height and depth. But he could see the writhing movement at the bottom of the nearest point, to mark the sea breaking and sluicing over a steep, stony beach, and jagged reefs, too. He heard Farquhar’s sudden impatience with the sailing master, and guessed it had been as much to relieve the tension as anything. But he had been wrong to vent his feelings on him. Bevan, the master, ex-mate of an Indiaman, needed all his wits about him now, and the complete confidence of his three helmsmen, without his captain throwing his temperament to all and sundry.
‘I expect none.’
Bolitho stiffened as something passed above the nearest hump of land. For a moment he thought it was smoke, but it was a solitary feather of cloud, moving diagonally towards the water beyond the headland which was still in semi-darkness. He saw that the forepart of the cloud was pale gold, holding the sun which was still hidden to the men in both ships.
He strode to the nettings and climbed on the top of a nine-pounder to peer across the quarter. Buzzard was right on station. Two cables astern, with her mainsail and topgallants clewed up and her big forecourse braced round to contain the light south-westerly wind. She looked very slender and frail in the dim light, and he pictured Javal with his officers watching the same jutting land, and willing time to pass. To get on with it.
But it would be some while yet, he thought. The French would bide their time and not risk their enemy’s escape by opening fire too early.
He stepped down from the gun and almost fell. Despite the liberal scattering of sand along every gun deck, the planks were damp with night dew and treacherous underfoot. A seaman caught his elbow and grinned at him.
‘Easy sir! We’ll not ’ave ’em sayin’ it was our gun which downed the commodore!’
Bolitho smiled. As in every part of the ship, the guns were fully manned and loaded. All it needed to complete her preparedness was to open the ports and run out. But if there was some watcher on the land, there was no point in showing that Osiris’s upper line of gun ports was only black squares painted on canvas.
He said, ‘Nor that I was too drunk to stand upright, eh?’
They laughed, as he knew they would. The air around the guns, even in the cool wind, was heavy with rum, and he guessed that far more than a double tot had found its way to each man. Or that some had used their issue to pay old debts, or to purchase something better. Most likely, some had held back their rum to cover bets. What had they bet on? Who would live or die? How much prize money they would receive? Which officer would hold his nerve the longest? He had no doubt that the bets would be many and varied.
He walked forward again to the rail and stared along the shadowed gun deck. Figures moved restlessly around each black barrel. Like slaves as they tested each piece of tackle and equipment for their trade. The gun captains had done their part. Had made certain that the first balls to be fired were perfect in shape and weight, that each charge was just right. After the opening shots, it was usually too desperate, too deafening to pause for such niceties.
He looked up and saw the marine marksmen in the tops, while right forward on the forecastle there were more of them, standing loosely beside their long muskets, or chatting with the carronade crews.
Bolitho heard Allday say, ‘I’ve brought the sword, sir.’
He slipped off the boat cloak he had been wearing since three hours before dawn and allowed Allday to buckle on his sword.
Allday said softly, but with obvious disapproval, ‘You look more like a buccaneer than a commodore, sir! I don’t know what they’d say in Falmouth!’
Bolitho smiled. ‘One of my ancestors was a pirate, Allday.’ He tightened the belt buckle. He had lost some weight during his fever. ‘When it was a respectable calling, of course.’
He turned as Farquhar hurried past. ‘Have you extra hands on pumps and buckets?’
‘Yes, sir.’ Farquhar ran a finger around his neckcloth. ‘If they use heated shot on us, I’m as ready as I can be.’ He looked at the nets spread above the gun deck, at the looser ones draped along the shrouds to prevent a sudden rush of boarders. To the sentries at each hatch and companion, and the boatswain’s party who waited to hack away fallen spars, or clear corpses from an upended gun.
Bolitho watched him, seeing his mind examining each part of his command for a flaw or a weak point. Under their feet, and beneath the crowded gun deck, the lower batteries of thirty-two-pounders would be ready and waiting. And below them, standing like ghouls in a circle of lanterns, the surgeon and his assistants, watching the empty table, the glittering knives and saws. Bolitho recalled Luce’s pale face, his pleading. His one frantic scream. He looked across at Pascoe who stood on the lee side by the main shrouds, talking with a petty officer and a midshipman. Was he thinking about Luce, he wondered?
Aft, on the poop, the bulk of the marines waited by the nettings, in three lines, for if Osiris was to engage from her larboard side, they would have to fire rank by rank, like soldiers in a square.
Bolitho tried to pick out faces he knew, but there were hardly any. Anonymous, yet familiar. Typical, but unknown. Marines and seamen, lieutenants and midshipmen. He had seen them in a dozen ships, in as many fleets.
A marine lieutenant’s silver shoulder-plate gleamed suddenly as if heated from within. As Bolitho turned his head to starboard he saw the sun’s rim on the horizon, the rays filtering down across the ruffled water towards him like molten metal.
Allday remarked, ‘Going to be a fine day.’
Lieutenant Outhwaite was standing by the main companion way, his eyes glowing like little stones as he stared towards the sunrise. Like his captain, he was impeccably dressed, his hat set exactly square on his head, his long queue straight down his spine.
Farquhar wore no hat, but a midshipman stood near him, carrying it, and his sword, as if for an actor waiting to begin his most difficult role. In fact, Bolitho saw that Farquhar’s mouth was moving. Speaking to himself, or rehearsing a speech for his men, he did not know.
His hair was very fair, and he had it pulled back to the nape of his neck and tied with a neat black bow. Whatever happened in the next hours, Farquhar was dressed for it.
He seemed to sense Bolitho’s scrutiny and turned towards him. He gave a slow smile. ‘A new uniform, sir. But I recalled your own custom before a fight of consequence.’ He gave a brief shake of the head. ‘And as your tailor is elsewhere, I thought I would set the example.’
Bolitho replied, ‘A kind thought.’
He peered along the deck again, seeing the land-mass growing and looming towards the bowsprit, as if they were touching.
‘The enemy will not fire until he has a sure target. His gunners will have the sun in their eyes directly, but once we are standing well up the eastern shore it will not help us much. There is a dip behind the bay I have in mind. A good site for long-range guns.’
He strained his eyes beyond the bows as a voice yelled, ‘Surf! Fine on the larboard bow!’
The master said tightly, ‘That’ll be the damned reef, sir.’
‘Let her pay off a point, Mr. Bevan. Steer nor’-east by north.’ Farquhar looked at his first lieutenant. ‘D’you have a good leadsman in the chains?’
‘Aye, sir.’ The frogface watched him questioningly. ‘I have stressed the importance of his task this morning.’
Bolitho found he could smile, in spite of the gnawing uncertainty of waiting. Farquhar and Outhwaite were well matched. So maybe Farquhar was right in his methods of selection. After all, they said of West Country ships that they were foreign to all but the Cornish and Devonians who manned them. The ways of St. James’s and Mayfair were as hard to learn.
The light was spreading and filtering on to small beaches now and winkling out shadows from hillsides and coves. The sea’s face, too, was clearer, the tiny white cat’s-paws moving away to starboard to merge in the
colourful horizon and the sun.
Maybe the real Lysander has seen such a sea, Bolitho thought. When the fleets of triremes and galliasses had smashed into each other and the sky had been dark with arrows and darts of fire.
From astern he heard the sudden squeak and rumble of guns being run out, and knew that Javal was getting ready.
Farquhar snapped, ‘Alter course three points. Steer north.’
He craned over the nettings to watch a hump of sand or rock edging past the quarter. Some gulls rose squawking from their little islet, very white against the land’s backdrop. They circled above the mastheads, hoping for food, noisy in their greed.
Bolitho looked up at his pendant as one gull dipped near it, screaming angrily. It was flapping less persistently, for the land was creeping past, dampening down the wind. He thought of Probyn. It was to be hoped he had worked his ship into position early, to allow for adverse winds, the treacherously narrow channel.
He pulled his watch from his breeches and examined it. He could see it well now, even the beautiful lettering on the face, Mudge and Dutton of London. He closed the guard with a snap and saw Midshipman Breen jump with alarm.
He said, ‘Very well. We are past the headland.’
Outhwaite swung round, his speaking trumpet to his mouth. ‘Mr. Guthrie! Pass the word! Run out!’
As the port lids squeaked open there was a brief pause, and down on the lower gun deck the seamen, stripped and ready, would be seeing the land for the first time. A whistle shrilled, and with a mounting tremble Osiris ran out her artillery.
‘Brail up the forecourse!’
Farquhar watched the great sail being subdued and brailed to its yard, and snapped his fingers. The midshipman gave him his sword and then his hat. He adjusted his hat with care, and after a moment walked forward to the weather gangway.
The forecourse had completed the illusion. The stage was set. The actors were prepared.
Bolitho drew his sword and laid it flat on the rail, feeling the steel, cool under his palms.
‘Run up the Colours.’
He heard the squeak of a block and saw the flag’s great shadow rippling across the gangway and above the gentle bow wave.
Signal, Close Action! Page 28
