Bolitho smiled gravely, despite his inner ache.
“By all this, I take it you mean my indiscretion? My discovery that I could fall in love like other men?” He shook his head. “No, Thomas, I’ll not let anyone abuse that lady just to hurt me. I’ll see Raymond in hell before that!” He turned away. “Now you’ve made me abandon my self-control.”
Herrick replied heavily, “At the risk of offending you further, I still believe Commodore Sayer was right to,” he shrugged awkwardly, “to keep you occupied aboard ship.”
“Perhaps.” Bolitho sat down again and rubbed his eyes with the palms of his hands. “If only-”
He looked up sharply. “What was that?”
“A hail from the masthead.”
Herrick was already on his feet as the call floated down again. “Deck thar! Sail on the lee bow!”
They both hurried from the cabin and collided with Midshipman Romney who was on his way aft.
“Sir! Mr Keen’s respects and-”
Herrick brushed past him. “Aye. We know.”
Bolitho strode past the wheel, feeling the sun across his shoulders as if he were naked. A glance at the compass and to the trim of the sails told him all he needed. Eurotas was still on station, her big courses filling and deflating, depriving her of any beauty.
“Anything further?”
Keen looked at him. “Not yet, sir.” He trained his telescope. “Nothing.”
“Hmm.” Bolitho tugged out his watch. “Send another lookout aloft, if you please.” He searched round for Midshipman Swift. “Make a signal to Eurotas. Sail in sight to the nor’-east.” He looked at Herrick. “Though in God’s name they should have seen it themselves.”
Herrick held his peace. Merchantmen rarely maintained a good lookout, especially when they had a naval escort. But there was no point in mentioning it now. He could tell Bolitho’s anxieties were only just below the surface. One spark and…
Bolitho snapped, “In heaven’s name, what are our people doing?”
“Deck there!” It was the new lookout. “She be a man-o-war, zur!”
Bolitho turned to Herrick again. “What can she be about, Thomas?”
“One of ours maybe?”
“Bless you, Thomas!” He clapped him on the shoulder. “We are the only one of ours in this whole ocean! Even the Governor of New South Wales is having to plead for ships!”
Herrick watched him, fascinated. The prospect of action was making Bolitho react, no matter what he was enduring privately.
Herrick said, “And we’ve absolutely no idea what’s happening in the world. We may be at war with Spain or France, anybody!”
Bolitho walked aft to the wheel again and examined the compass. East-north-east, and the wind still comfortably across the starboard quarter. The stranger was on a converging tack, but it would take hours to come up with her. What would he do if the newcomer turned and fled at the sight of them? He could not leave Eurotas.
But as the hour ran out and another began the lookouts’ reports showed that the other vessel gave no sign of going about.
“Set the forecourse, Mr Herrick.” Bolitho crossed the quarterdeck and climbed into the mizzen shrouds. “I shall feel happier if we lie closer to our charge.”
The hands hurried to their stations, and a few minutes later the frigate’s big foresail filled to the wind and sent a tremor running through the shrouds and rigging like a message.
Bolitho steadied his glass, waiting for the long, undulating swell to lift the other ship long enough for him to examine her. Then he saw the ship with surprising clarity as with a freak of nature she and Tempest rose together.
For just a few moments he held her in the lens, then mist and distance distorted the picture, and he lowered himself to the deck.
“Frigate. French by the cut of her.”
He peered up at the masthead pendant. “Be up to her in two hours if this wind holds. Within range of a long shot before that.”
Lakey observed quietly, “We’re not at war with France, sir.”
“So I believe, Mr Lakey. But we’ll take no chances all the same.”
He glanced along his command, picturing her wreathed in smoke and flying iron.
But not this time. The Frenchman was taking his time and making no effort to change tack enough to grapple for the windgage.
He added, “Send the hands to quarters in good time, and make sure we have some experienced eyes at the masthead to see if the Frenchman does likewise.”
He took the glass again and trained it on the Eurotas. He saw the flash of a gown as she walked across the poop, one hand holding the big hat to prevent the wind taking it from her.
Oh God. He lowered the glass and she dropped into distance, leaving only the ship.
“Deck there! She’s run up ’er colours!” A pause. “Frenchie, right enough, zur!”
Even without a glass Bolitho could see the tiny patch of white breaking from the other ship’s peak as she tacked heavily to hold the wind, her yards braced round until they were all but fore and aft.
It was a strange feeling. Like many of the men aboard, Bolitho had rarely met a French ship other than across the muzzles of a broadside. He thought of Le Chaumareys and was suddenly sad for him and the waste of his life. Captains were like kings in their own ships, no matter how small. But to the powers which manoeuvred and used them they were expendable pawns.
He made himself leave the deck and return to his cabin, almost blind from staring across the shining blue water.
Allday entered the cabin. “I’ll tell Noddall to fetch your coat and hat, Captain.” He grinned. “Those breeches, patched or not, will do for a Frenchman!”
Bolitho nodded. If the French captain was new to these waters he would want to see every other captain he could. Would he come to Tempest, or would he go to him?
Noddall scuttled through from the sleeping cabin, carrying the coat over his arm, tutting to himself.
Bolitho had just finished transforming himself into some semblance of a King’s officer when he heard the pipe, “All hands! Hands to quarters and clear for action!”
The drums rolled, and he felt the hull quiver as her company rushed to obey.
By the time he had reached the quarterdeck it was done, even to the sanding of the planking around each gun. It would not be needed, he was quite certain, as he watched the other frigate’s approach. But sand was plentiful, and every drill gained experience for some.
“Load and run out, sir?”
“No, Mr Herrick.” He was equally formal.
He looked along the black guns and bare-backed men. He found he was wishing it was the pirate Mathias Tuke lifting and plunging across the water towards him.
Midshipman Fitzmaurice came running aft to the quarterdeck ladder and called, “Beg pardon, sir, but Mr Jury sends his respects and says that frigate is the Narval, thirty-six, and that he saw her in Bombay.”
Bolitho smiled. “Give my thanks to the boatswain.”
He looked at Herrick. It was always the same in a ship. Always someone who had seen or served in another. No doubt the French captain was receiving similar news about the Tempest. Thirty-six guns. The same as his own. Ball for ball, if so ordered.
He watched the other ship shortening sail with professional interest. A lighter, sleeker hull than Tempest, well-weathered, as if she had been at sea for a long time. Her sail-handling was excellent, another mark of long usage.
Bolitho shaded his eyes and looked up at the peak. Out here Tempest sailed under the white ensign, and he wondered if the French captain was looking at it. Remembering.
“She’s hove to!” Keen strode across the gundeck, ducking to peer over a twelve-pounder. “And dropping a boat!”
