blamed for provoking a war.
He said, “Stand to, lads. Cast off the breechings!”
Maybe Stockdale was right. All you had to worry about was winning.
The following day the hands were sent to breakfast and then the decks swabbed down before the sun had crept fully over the horizon.
The breeze, though light, was steady enough, and had shifted during the night watches to south-westerly.
Dumaresq was on deck as early as anyone, and Bolitho saw the impatience in his thick-set figure as he strode about the deck glancing at the compass or consulting the master’s slate by the wheel. He probably saw none of these things, and Bolitho could tell from the way that Palliser and Gulliver gave him a wide berth that they knew the measure of his moods of old.
With Rhodes, Bolitho watched the boatswain detailing his working parties as usual. The fact that a larger man-of-war than their own was trailing astern, and that the little known Fougeaux Island lay somewhere beyond the lee bow made no difference to Mr Timbrell’s routine.
Palliser’s brusque tones made Bolitho start. “Rig top-chains before all else, Mr Timbrell.”
Some of the seamen looked up at the yards. Palliser did not explain further, nor did he need to for the older hands. The chains would be rigged to sling each yard, as the cordage which normally held them might be shot away in any sort of battle. Then the nets would be spread across the upper deck. The slings and the nets were the only protection to the men below from falling spars and rigging.
Perhaps it was the same aboard the Spaniard, Bolitho thought. Although he had seen little evidence so far. In fact, now that she had caught up, the San Augustin seemed content to follow and watch events.
Rhodes turned abruptly and headed for his own part of the ship, hissing quickly, “Lord and master!”
Bolitho swung round and came face to face with the captain. It was unusual to see him away from the quarterdeck or poop, and the seamen working around him seemed to press back as if they too were awed by his presence.
Bolitho touched his hat and waited.
Dumaresq’s eyes examined his face slowly, without expression.
Then he said, “Come with me. Bring a glass.” tossing his hat to his coxswain, he added, “A climb will clear the head.”
Bolitho stared as Dumaresq began to haul himself out and on to the shrouds, his broad figure hanging awkwardly as he peered up at the spiralling masthead.
Bolitho hated heights. Of all the things which had encouraged him to work for advancement to lieutenant, he thought it was probably that. No longer needed to swarm aloft with the hands, no ice-cold terror as the wind tried to cut away your grip on frozen ratlines, or throw you out and into the sea far below.
Perhaps Dumaresq was goading him, provoking him, if only to relieve his own tension.
“Come along, Mr Bolitho! You are in stays today!”
Bolitho followed him up the vibrating shrouds, foot by foot, hand over hand. He told himself not to look down, even though he could picture Destiny’s pale deck tilting away beneath him as the ship drove her shoulder into a steep roller.
Disdaining the lubber’s hole, Dumaresq clawed his way out on the futtock shrouds so that his misshapen body was hanging almost parallel to the sea below. Then up past the main-top, ignoring some startled marines who were exercising with a swivel gun, and towards the topgallant yard.
Dumaresq’s confidence gave Bolitho the will to climb faster than he could recall. What did Dumaresq know about love, or whether he and Aurora could have overcome all the obstacles together?
He barely noticed the height and was already peering up towards the main-royal yard when Dumaresq paused, one foot dangling in space as he observed, “You can get the feel of her from here.”
Bolitho clung on with both hands and stared up at him, his eyes watering in the fierce sunlight. Dumaresq spoke with such conviction, and yet with a warmth which was almost akin to love itself.
“Feel her?” Dumaresq seized a stay and tugged it with his fist. “Taut and firm, equal strain on all parts. As she should be. As any good vessel ought to be, properly cared for!” He looked at Bolitho’s upturned face. “Head all right?”
Bolitho nodded. In his mixture of resentment and anger he had forgotten about his wound.
“Good. Come on then.”
They reached the cross-trees where a lookout slithered down to make room for his betters.
“Ah.” Dumaresq unslung a telescope, and after wiping the lens with his neckcloth trained it across the starboard bow.
Bolitho followed his example, and then felt a touch of ice at his spine, despite the sun and the wind which hissed through the rigging like sand.
It was like nothing he had ever seen. The island seemed to be made entirely of coral or rock, obscenely stripped bare like something which was no longer alive. In the centre was a ridge, rather like a hill with the top sliced off. But misty in distance, it could have been a giant fortress, and the low island there merely to support it.
He tried to compare it with the sparse details on the chart, and guessed from the bearing that the sheltered lagoon was directly beneath the hill.
Dumaresq said hoarsely, “They’re there right enough!”
Bolitho tried again. The place appeared deserted, stamped in time by some terrible natural disaster.
Then he saw something darker than the rest before it was lost in the heat-haze. A mast, or several masts, while the vessels lay hidden by the protective wall of coral.
He looked quickly at Dumaresq and wondered how differently he saw it.
“Little pieces of a puzzle.” Dumaresq did not raise his voice above the murmur of rigging and canvas. “There are Garrick’s ships, his little armada. No line of battle, Mr Bolitho, no flagship with the admiral’s proud flag to inspire you, but just as deadly.”
Bolitho took another look through his glass. No wonder Garrick had felt so safe. He had known of their arrival at Rio, and even before that at Madeira. And now Garrick had the upper hand. He could either send his vessels out at night or he could stay put like a hermit-crab in a shell.
Again Dumaresq seemed to be speaking to himself. “All the Don cares about is the lost bullion. Garrick can go free as far as he is concerned. Quintana believes that he will excise those carefully selected vessels and what booty remains without firing a shot.”
Bolitho asked, “Perhaps Garrick knows less than we think, sir, and may try to bluff it out?”
Dumaresq looked at him strangely. “I am afraid not. No more bluff now. I tried to explain Garrick’s mind to the Spaniard at Basseterre. But he would not listen. Garrick helped the French, and in any future war Spain will need an ally like France. Be certain that Don Carlos Quintana is mindful of that, too.”
“Cap’n, sir!” The lookout beneath sounded anxious. “The Don’s makin’ more sail!”
Dumaresq said, “Time to go.” He looked at each mast in turn and then at the deck below.
Bolitho found he could do the same without flinching. The foreshortened blue and white figures of the officers and midshipmen on the quarterdeck, the changing patterns of men as they moved around the double line of black cannon.
For those few moments Bolitho shared an understanding with this devious, determined man. She was his ship, every moving part of her, every timber and inch of cordage.
Then Dumaresq said, “The Spaniard may attempt to enter the lagoon before me. It is dangerous folly because the entrance is narrow, the channel unknown. Without hope of surprise he will be depending on his peaceful intentions, with a show of force if that fails.”
He climbed with surprising swiftness down to the deck, and when Bolitho reached the quarterdeck Dumaresq was already speaking with Palliser and the master.
Bolitho heard Palliser say, “The Don is standing inshore, sir.”
Dumaresq was busy with his telescope again. “Then he stands into danger. Signal him to sheer off.”
Bolitho saw the other faces nearby, ones he had come to know so well. In a few moments it might all be decided, and it was Dumaresq’s choice.
Palliser shouted, “He ignores us, sir!”
“Very well. Beat to quarters and clear for action.” Dumaresq clasped his hands behind him. “We’ll see how he
