He took the telescope from Midshipman Maynard and stared fixedly at the two-decker anchored in the centre of the bay. Her gunports were open to collect the offshore breeze, and there were awnings across her wide quarterdeck. His eye fastened on the rear-admiral's flag at her masthead, the gleam of blue and scarlet from watching figures at her poop.
'Mr. Brockl Stand by to fire salute! Eleven guns, if you please!' He closed the glass with a snap. If he could see them, they could see him. There was no point in appearing curious.
He watched the nearest point of land falling away and then added, 'Carry on, Mr. Proby!'
Proby touched his hat. 'Lee braces there! Hands wear ship!'
Bolitho glanced quickly at Okes and waited patiently. At length he said evenly, 'Clear those idlers off the side, Mr. Okes. That is a flagship yonder. I don't want the admiral to think I've brought a lot of bumpkins with me!' He smiled as Okes stuttered out his orders and the petty officers yelled at the unemployed men by the rail.
The salute began to pound and re-echo around the hills as the frigate swung slowly towards the other ship, and more than one man bit his lip as the saluting guns brought back other more terrifying memories.
'Tops'l sheets!' Proby mopped the sweat from his streaming face as he gauged the slow approach to the anchorage. 'Tops'l clew lines!' He looked aft. 'Ready, sir!'
Bolitho nodded, only half listening to the salutes and the staccato bark of orders.
'Helm a' lee!' He watched the quartermaster pulling steadily at the polished spokes and saw the nearest hillside begin to swing across the bows as the Phalarope turned into the wInd and began to lose way.
Now there was no sound but for the gentle lap of water as the ship glided slowly towards the shore.
Bolitho called, 'Let go!'
There was a splash from forward followed by the jubilant roar of cable as the anchor plunged into the clear water.
Maynard said excitedly, 'Signal, sir! From Cassius to Phalarope. Captain to repair on board.'
Bolitho nodded. He had been expecting it and was already changed into his best uniform. 'Call away the gig, Mr. Okes, and see that its crew is properly turned out!' He saw the harassed lieutenant hurry away and wondered momentarily what was worrying him. He seemed strained. His mind only half on his duty.
Vibart came aft and touched his hat. 'Any orders, sirT
Bolitho watched the boat being swayed out, the petty officer in charge using his cane more than usual, as if he too was well aware of the watching flagship.
'You can stand by to take on fresh water, Mr. Vibart. We will no doubt be warping through into English Harbour directly, and the men can go ashore and stretch their legs. They've earned it.'
Vibart looked as if he was going to argue but merely replied, 'Aye, aye, sir. I'll see to it.'
Bolitho looked across at the two-decker. The Cassius, seventy-four, flagship of Rear-Admiral Sir Robert Napier. He was said to be a stickler for promptness and smartness, al
though Bolitho had never actually met him before.
He climbed down the ladder and walked slowly towards the entry port. It was strange to realise that he had been in command for only five weeks. It seemed as if he had been aboard for months. The faces of the side party were familiar now, and already he was able to pick out the personalities and the weaknesses Captain Rennie saluted with his sword and the guard presented arms.
Bolitho removed his hat and then replaced it as the gig idled alongside with Stockdale glaring from the tiller. The Pipes twittered and shrilled, and as he stepped into the gig he looked up at the ship's side, at the fresh paint and neat repairs which hid the clawing scars of battle. Things might have been a lot worse, he thought, as he settled himself in the sternsheets.
The oars sent the little boat scudding across the calm water, and when Bolitho looked astern he saw that his men were still staring after him. He held their lives in his hands. He had always known that. But before the short battle some might have doubted his ability. They might even have thought him to be like Pomfret.
He thrust the thought to the back of his mind as the flagship grew and towered above him. They did not have to like him, he decided. But trust him they must.
Rear-Admiral Sir Robert Napier did not rise from his desk but waved Bolitho towards a chair by the broad stem gallery. He was a small, irritable-looking man with stooping shoulders and sparse grey chair. He seemed bowed down by the weight of his dress coat, and his thin mouthh was fixed in an expression of pernickety disapproval.
'I have been reading your reports, Bolitho.' His eyes flickered across the younger man's face and then returned to the desk. 'I am still not quite clear about your action with the Andiron.'
Bolitho tried to relax in the hard chair, but something in the admiral's querulous tone sparked off a small warning.
Bolitho had been met at the flagship's entry port with due ceremony and greeted courteously by the Cassius's captain. The latter had appeared uneasy and worried, as well he might with a man like Sir Robert aboard, Bolitho thought dryly. The first sign that all was not well had been when he had been ushered into a cabin adjoining the admiral's quarters and told to wait for an audience. His log and reports had been whisked away, and he had stayed fretting in the airless cabin for the best part of an hour.
He said carefully, 'We made a good voyage, in spite of the engagement, sir. All repairs were carried out without loss of sailing time.'
The admiral eyed him coldly. 'Is that a boast?'
'No, Sir,' Bolitho replied patiently. 'But I imagined that the need for frigates is still acute out here.'
The other man ruffled the documents with a wizened hand. 'Hmm, quite so. But the Andiron, Bolitho? How did she manage to escape?'
Bolitho staredd at him, caught off guard. 'Escape, Sir? She nearly laid us by the heels, as I have stated in my report.'
'I read that, dam,mit!' The eyes glowed dangerously. 'Are you trying to tell me that she ran away?' He looked aft through a window to where the Phalarope swung at her anchor like a carved model. 'I see little sign of combat or damage, Bolitho?'
'We were well supplied with spare spars, and canvas, sir. The dockyard foresaw such an eventuality when they fitted her out.' The admiral's tone was getting under his skin and he could feel his anger smouldering, ignoring the warning in the man's eyes.
`I see. Captain Masterman lost Andiron after engaging two French frigates four months back, Bolitho. The French gave the captured ship to their new allies, the Americans.' The contempt was clear in his voice. `And you state that although your ship was disabled and outgunned she made off without attempting to press home her advantage?' There was anger in his voice. `Well, are you?'
'Exactly, Sir.' Bolitho controlled his answer with an effort. `My men fought well. I think the enemy had had enough. If I had been able to give chase I would have done so.'
'So you say, Bolitho!' The admiral put his head on one side, like a small, spiteful bird. 'I know all about your ship. I have read Admiral Longford's letter and all that he had to say about the trouble there was aboard when with the Channel Fleet. I am not impressed, to say the least!'
Bolitho felt the colour rising to his cheeks. The admiral's insinuation was obvious. In his view the Phalarope was a marked ship and unacceptable, no matter what she achieved.
He said coldly, 'I did not run away, sir. It happened just as I stated in the report. In my opinion the privateer was unwilling to sustain more damage.' He had a sudden picture of the crashing broadside, the chain shot ripping away the enemy's sails and rigging like cobwebs. Then- another picture of the silent dead being dropped overboard. He added, 'My men did as well as I had hoped, sir. They had little time to defend themselves.’
'Please don't take that tone with me, Bolitho!' The admiral stared at him hotly. 'I will decide what standards your people have reached.'
`Yes, Sir.' Bolitho felt drained. There was-no point in argumg with this man.
'See that you remember it in future.' He dropped his eyes to the papers and said, 'Sir George Rodney has sailed to reorganise his fleet. He will be returning from England at any time. Sir Samuel Hood is away at St. Kitts, defending it from
the French.’
Bolitho said quietly, 'St. Kitts sir?' It was barely one hundred miles to the west of his chair aboard the flagship, yet the admiral spoke as if it was the other side of the world.
