Bolitho pursed his lips. 'That is clever.'
'It takes a rogue to recognize one, Dick.'
'In that case, what is the real reason?'
Cairns frowned. 'I suspect because he wants the flagship on her proper station. That would make sense. Also, he despatched Vanquisher as escort, and because she will be sorely needed elsewhere with the growth of privateers everywhere.'
He dropped his voice as Sambell, master's mate of the watch, strolled past with elaborate indifference on his tanned face.
'He will want to follow this plan to the end. Reap the reward, or cover the flaws as best he can. He would not trust our captain to act alone. And if things go disastrously badly, then he will need a scapegoat other than his own flag captain.' Cairns watched Bolitho's eyes. 'I see that you see.'
'I'll never understand this kind of reasoning.'
Cairns winked. 'One day, you'll be teaching it!'
More feet thudded on the sun-dried planking, and Bolitho saw Pears and the sailing master leaving the chart room, the latter carrying his leather satchel which he used to stow his navigational notes and instruments.
He looked much as usual, turning briefly to examine the compass and the two helmsmen, his eyes glittering in the sunlight beneath the great black brows.
Pears, by comparison, appeared tired and in ill humour, impatient to get whatever it was over and done with.
'We'll soon know where this blessed spot is to be, Dick.' Cairns loosened his neckcloth and sighed. 'I hope it is not another Fort Exeter.'
Bolitho watched the first lieutenant continue on his daily rounds, wondering if Cairns was still brooding over the chances of leaving Trojan and getting a ship of his own.
So far, Trojan's lieutenants had not fared very well away from her protection. Sparke killed, Probyn a prisoner of war, while Bolitho had returned each time like a wayward son.
He saw Quinn without his coat, his shirt sticking to his back like another skin, stepping between the busy sailmaker and his mates, his face still pale and strained. Eighteen years old, he looked far more. Bolitho thought. The savage slash across his chest still troubled him. You could see it in his walk and the tightness of his mouth. A constant reminder of other things, too. That moment at the fort when his nerve had failed, and by the guns when he had almost gone mad because of Rowhurst's scorn.
Midshipman Weston shouted suddenly, 'Spite's signalling, sir!'
Bolitho snatched a telescope from its rack and climbed swiftly into the weather shrouds. It took a few moments to find the little sloop-of-war, their only companion on this 'adventure', as Cairns had described it. The glass steadied on Spite's pale topgallant sails and the bright hoist of flags at her yards.
Weston was saying, 'From Spite. Sail in sight to the south'rd.'
Bolitho turned and looked at him. Weston was now the senior midshipman, and probably smarting at Pears' advice to promote Mr Frowd to acting lieutenant instead of him. Advice from a captain was as good as a command.
Bolitho felt almost sorry for Weston. Almost. Ungainly, overweight, belligerent. He would be a bad officer if he lived long enough.
'Very well. Keep watching Spite. I'll not inform the captain
yet.,
Bolitho continued his measured pacing. The air seemed fresh, but when you paused for too long you felt the sun's power right enough. His own shirt was sodden with sweat, and the scar across his shoulder stung like a snakebite.
The sloop's captain would be fretting and eager to be off on his own, he thought. Right now he would be watching the unknown sail, considering, translating details into facts to relay as well as he could with his signal book for his admiral's decision.
Half an hour passed. Smoke gushed from the galley funnel, and Molesworth, the purser, and his clerk appeared en route for the spirit store to check the daily issue of rum or brandy.
Some marines, who had been drilling on the forecastle, holding off imaginary boarders, marched aft and returned their pikes. There was also a small contingent of marines from the flagship to help fill the gaps until proper replacements could be obtained. Bolitho thought of all the little mounds on the island. Who would care?
Weston called, 'From Spite, sir. Disregard.'
Another small encounter. Most likely a Dutchman on her lawful occasions. Anyway, Cunningham of the Spite was satisfied. In fact, the strange sail had probably made off at full speed at the first sign of the sloop's topsails. It paid to be careful these days. The margin between friend and foe changed too often for over-confidence.
Stockdale crossed the quarterdeck on his way aft to the starboard battery.
As he passed he whispered, 'Admiral, sir.'
Bolitho stiffened and turned as Coutts walked out of the poop and into the glare.
Bolitho touched his hat, wondering briefly if Weston had deliberately failed to warn him.
Coutts smiled easily. 'Morning, Bolitho, Still on watch, I
see.' He had a pleasant, even voice, unaffected.
Bolitho replied, 'A moment more, sir.'
Coutts took a glass and studied the far-off Spite for several
minutes.
'Good man, Cunningham. Should be posted soon with any luck.'
Bolitho said nothing, but thought of Cunningham's youth. His luck. With Coutts' blessing he would be made a full captain, and with the war going as it was he would make post rank within three years. Safe from demotion, on the road to higher things.
'I can hear your mind at work, Bolitho.' Coutts tossed the glass to Weston. Again, the action was casual, yet timed to the second. 'Do not fret. When your time arrives you will discover that a captain's life is not all claret and prize-money.' Just for a moment his eyes hardened. 'But the opportunities are there.
For those who will dare, and who do not use their orders as substitutes for initiative.'
Bolitho said, 'Yes, sir.'
He did not know what Coutts was implying. That there was hope for him? Or that he was merely revealing his feelings for Pears?
Coutts shrugged his shoulders and added, 'Dine with me tonight. I will have Ackerman invite a few others.'
Once more, Bolitho discerned the youthful devilment and touch of steel.
'In my quarters of course. I feel certain the captain will not object.'
He strolled away, nodding to Sambell and Weston as if they were yokels on the village green.
The hands were already gathering on the upper gundeck for the afternoon watch, and Bolitho knew that Dalyell would soon be here to relieve him. Unlike George Probyn, he was never late.
Bolitho was confused by what he had heard. He felt excited at Coutts' interest, yet uneasy because of it. It was like disloyalty to Pears. He smiled at his confusion. Pears probably didn't even like him, so what was the matter?
Dalyell appeared, blinking in the sunlight, some crumbs sticking to his coat.
'The watch is aft, sir.'
Bolitho eyed him gravely. 'Very well, Mr Dalyell.'
They both winked, their faces hidden from the men, their good spirits masked by the formality.
Quinn, on the larboard gangway, watched the two lieutenants as they supervised the usual milling confusion of changing watches. He had seen, and had felt, the ache of longing rising to match the pain of his wound. Bolitho had come out of it, or if not, had managed to put his memories behind him. While all he could do was to measure each step, calculate every action as he went along. He kept telling himself that his momentary defiance, his stand at the causeway had not been a fluke. That he had failed once, but had fought to retrieve and hold on to his pride again.
He felt that the ship's company were watching him, rating his confidence. It was why he was lingering on the gangway, waiting for Bolitho before he went below for the noon meal. Bolitho was his strength. His only chance, if
