ship, or merely to protect Coutts' credibility?
Buller grunted. 'She probably lost a man over the side.'
Bolitho did not answer. He hoped Cunningham was the kind of man who would waste valuable time to look for a man overboard. But that was as far as it went. He swung the telescope over his arm and pressed his shoulders against the shivering mast.
'I'll leave this with you, Buller. When I go down, give us a hail as soon as you can make out what she's up to.'
He tried not to think of the drop to the deck, how long it would take if the ship gave a lurch before he could use both hands to hold on again.
It was like looking through a dark bottle. A few hints of whitecaps, a glassiness on the sea's face to show that dawn was nearby. Then he saw the pale squares of canvas, barely clear as yet, but rising from the darkness like a broken iceberg.
Spite must have changed tack considerably, he thought. She was standing in well towards the hidden anchorage, but she should have been miles nearer by now. Buller was right, but there would be more than the devil to pay after this. There would be… he stiffened, momentarily forgetting his precarious position.
'Wot is it, zur?' Buller had sensed something.
Bolitho did not know what to say. He was wrong of course. Had to be.
He held the swaying blur of sails in his lens and then, straining every nerve until the wound on his forehead began to throb in time with his heart-beats, he lowered the glass just a fraction.
Still deep in shadow, but it was there right enough. He wanted it to be a dream, a fault in the telescope. But instead of Spite's rakish single deck there was something more solid, deep and hard like a double reflection.
He thrust the glass at the seaman and then cupped his hands to his mouth.
'Deck there! Sail on the starboard bow!' He hesitated a few moments longer, imagining the sudden tension and astonishment below him. Then, 'Ship o f the line!'
Buller exclaimed slowly, 'You done it proper now, zur!'
Bolitho was already slithering downwards, groping for a backstay, his eyes still holding that menacing outline.
Coutts was waiting for him, his head thrust forward as he asked, `Are you certain?'
Pears strode past them, his eyes everywhere as he prepared himself for the next vital hours.
Only once did he glance at Bolitho. Then to Coutts he snapped, 'He's certain, sir.'
Cairns said quietly, 'Now here's a fine thing, Dick. She'll not be one of ours.'
The admiral heard him and said curtly, 'I don't care what she is, Mr Cairns. If she stands against us, then damn your eyes, she's an enemy in my book!' He peered after the captain and raised his voice. 'Have the guns loaded, if you please!' He seemed to sense Pears' arguments from the opposite side of the deck. 'And let me see what this ship of yours can do today!'
Along either side of the upper gundedc the crews threw themselves on their tackles and handspikes and manhandled their heavy cannon up to the closed ports.
Bolitho stood by the boat tier, straining his eyes through the gloom as he watched one gun captain after another raise his fist to signify he was loaded and ready.
Midshipman Huss peered over the main hatch and yelled, 'Lower gundeck ready, sir!'
Bolitho pictured Dalyell down there with thirty great thirtytwo-pounders. Like everyone else in the wardroom, he had risen in rank, but his experience had altered little. Bolitho knew that if and when Trojan was required to give battle it would test everyone to the limit.
Quinn crossed from the opposite side and asked, `What is going on, Dick?' He was almost knocked from his feet as some ship's boys hurried aft with carriers of shot for the quarterdeck nine-pounders.
Bolitho looked up at the mainmast, through the shaking rigging and spread canvas, recalling his feelings such a short while back when he had watched the other ship through the telescope. It had been fifteen minutes ago, but the daylight seemed reluctant to reveal the newcomer, and only the look-outs, and perhaps the marines in the tops, could see the ship properly.
He replied, `Maybe that ship is here on passage for another port in the Caribbean.'
As he said it he knew he was deluding himself, or perhaps trying to ease Quinn's anxiety. The ship was no English manof-war. Every large vessel was being held within a squadron, just in case France openly joined in the fight. Unlikely to be a Spaniard either. They usually used their larger men-of-war to escort the rich treasure ships from the Main, through the pirate-infested waters and all the way to Santa Cruz and safety. No, it had to be a Frenchman.
Bolitho chilled with excitement. He had seen French ships in plenty. Well designed and built, they were said to be equally well manned.
He looked around the tiered boats and saw Coutts, hands behind his back, speaking with Pears and old Bunce. They all appeared calm enough, although with Pears you could never be sure. It was strange to see the quarterdeck so busy in the first light. Crouching gun crews on either side, and further aft, standing against the hammock nettings, D'Esterre's depleted ranks of marines. Near one battery of nine-pounders he could see Libby, one-time signals midshipman, now acting fifth lieutenant. What must he be thinking, Bolitho wondered? Seventeen years old, and yet if a blast of canister and grape raked the quarterdeck with its bloody furrows he might find himself in temporary command until someone else could reach him. Frowd was there, too. From master's mate to acting sixth lieutenant. It was mad when you considered it, he was even older than Cairns by a year or two. He was standing quite near Sambell, the other master's mate. But that was all. Before Sparke had been killed and Probyn captured it had been Jack and Arthur. Now it was sir and Mr Sambell.
He heard Cairns call, 'Let her fall off a point!'
Then later the helmsman's cry, 'Steady as she goes, sir! Sou'-east by sou'!'
The braces were manned, the yards trimmed for the slight alteration of course. Apart from the rustle and grumble of the sails, the ship's own private sounds, there was silence.
Bolitho pictured the chart, and beyond the bows the island as it must appear to those who could see. A headland sliding out towards the starboard bow, around which lay the entrance to the anchorage. Where Spite, presumably, was on station after all. God, she would get a surprise when the newcomer showed herself around the shoulder of land. Cunningham's look-outs would probably mistake her for the Trojan.
'Deck there!' Buller s hoarse voice. 'T'other ship's shortenin' sail, zur!'
Someone said, 'She's sighted Spite, 'tis my guess.'
The larboard battery dipped over slightly to the pressure of wind in the sails, and Bolitho saw the tethered guns glint suddenly as the daylight lanced through the shrouds and halliards.
Colour was returning to familiar things. Faces emerged as people, features became expressions again. Here and there a man moved, to adjust a gun tackle, or push loose equipment away from a carriage or breech, to brush hair from eyes, to make sure a cutlass or boarding axe was within reach.
The petty officers and midshipmen stood out at intervals, little blue and white markers in the chain of command.
Far above the deck, at the highest point, the long masthead pendant licked out ahead like a scarlet serpent. Wind was holding steady, Bolitho thought. Even so, there was no chance of heading off the other ship.
Quinn whispered, 'What will the admiral do? What can he do? We're not at war with France.'
Midshipman Forbes scurried along the deck, skipping over tackles and flaked halliards like a rabbit.
He touched his hat and said breathlessly, 'Captain's compliments, sir, and would you bring the French lieutenant aft?' Bolitho nodded. 'Very well.'
Forbes was really enjoying himself. Aft with the mighty, too excited and too young to see the teeth of danger. Quinn said, 'I'll fetch him.'
Bolitho shook his head, smiling at the absurdity of it. He had to bring the French officer because Cairns was busy on the quarterdeck and everyone else was too junior. Etiquette would be observed even at the gates of hell, he thought.
He found the Frenchman on the orlop deck, sitting with the surgeon outside the sickbay while Thorndike's assistants laid out the makeshift table with his instruments.
Thorndike asked irritably, 'What the hell are we doing now?' He glared at his helpers. 'Wasting time and dirtying my things. They must be short of work to do!'
