Bolitho saw Seton- crouching by his knees and wondered what he was thinking about. It would be different from his last visit. he thought grimly.
When he looked astern he could hardly see his ship, and apart from a white cream of surf under her beakhead she was already 'merged with the dark sky.
The gig was pulling strongly in their wake, the oars rising and falling as one, the black heads of the seamen moving like part of a machine. Of the other boats there was no sign, and he found himself willing them to be heading for their proper objectives, with neither panic nor uncertainty to drive them ashore under some French guard post.
He heard Allday bark. 'Get bailing there! She'll ship more water than you've ever sailed on otherwise!' Then to Bolitho he added, 'It will take the best part of two hours to get into positon, Captain.'
'It will.' Bolitho sat forward and swayed loosely with the pitching boat. 'If what Mr. Inch says is correct, we shall be hearing the church clock chiming as soon as we round the headland.' He lifted his voice so that the oarsmen could hear. 'It will keep us company all the way up the harbour, lads. If you were in England you'd not be out of your beds as late as this.'
He turned away to study the darker shadow of land as some of the men chuckled at his remark. Please God they live to hear that clock in the morning, he thought.
Below his knees he heard Seton retching uncontrollably. He at least bad something worse than fear to contend with…
12. NIGHT ACTION
It took over an hour to reach the more sheltered water between the two headlands, and by then the jolly- boat's oarsmen were gasping from sheer fatigue. The necessity of constant baling and the regular relief of oarsmen by the extra hands made it difficult to maintain a perfect trim, so that it was all Piper could do to keep the boat on a steady course or to stop the stroke from becoming ragged and noisy.
Bolitho peered astern and saw the gig's dark shape keeping within fifty feet of his own boat. Lieutenant Fowler had more. oarsmen, but his boat was proportionally heavier, and no doubt he was staring after his captain hoping and praying for a short rest.
But there was still a long way to go, and as the boat swayed and tossed in a sudden surge of offshore currents he wondered how Rooke and his party was getting on. As they had passed between the headlands at the entrance of the inlet he had seen the faint white outline of the beacon standing at the top of the cliff like a portly ghost, and had prayed that Rooke would be able to seize it without raising an alarm. He had also seen Inch in the second cutter for just a few moments before it had vanished into a tiny cove at the foot of the southern headland. The men in the jolly boat had found time and breath to curse and envy the lot of Inch's party. They would at least be able to loll across their oars while the cutter rode to her anchor and Inch waited for his moment to act.
The bowman hissed sharply, 'There it is, Cap'nl' He was pointing with his boathook, his crouching shoulders outlined against the dark water like a figurehead. 'The boom, sirl'
Bolitho snapped, 'Easy, ladsl Get ready to hook on!'
Allday lifted the shutter of his lantern for just two seconds and trained it astern, and they heard the gig's muffled oars rise dripping from the sea and fall silent.
Gratefully the two boats glided to the makeshift boom and squeaked against it while the bowmen dropped their grapnels snugly into place. The boom consisted of a massive cable which stretched away in a black crescent on either beam to vanish into the darkness. It was buoyed by great casks at regular intervals, and although hastily constructed would be more than' ample to prevent a ship from entering the harbour.
Bolitho climbed across the boated oars, resting his hands on the wheezing seamen as he scrambled forward into the bows. The boom was waterlogged and greasy with sea slime, and as he looked to either beam he could see it bending with the force of the current. It was as he had expected and hoped. The rainfall had been as heavy as it was rare, and the small river must be swollen to twice its size as it poured down from the hills to gush into the inlet towards the waiting sea.
He looked up startled, realising at that moment the rain had stopped. Even the clouds seemed finer and less menacing, and for a few seconds he felt something like panic. Then the distant church clock chimed once. It was either one o'clock or half past the hour, amid the sounds of spray and creaking timbers it was hard to tell which. But it helped to steady him, and without speaking he returned to the sternsheets. There was still plenty of time, and his men had to be rested.
Lieutenant Fowler leaned across the gunwale from the gig and asked in a strained whisper, `Can we cross it, sir?'
Bolitho nodded. 'We will cross first. You follow as soon as we are clear. That boom is practically submerged between the buoys. It will not be difficult.'
He froze as a man gasped, `Boat, sir! Starboard bowl'
They sat quite motionless, the seamen holding the two boats apart to deaden the sounds, while vaguely in the distance and then more insistently they heard the splash and creak of oars.
Bolitho said softly, 'Guardboat.'
Against the water and cruising wavelets it was impossible to see the actual boat, but the regular slice of oars, the low, white moustache around the stem were clear enough. Bolitho heard a man whistling softly, and more unexpected and frightening, a great, satisfied yawn.
Piper whispered, 'They're following the boom, sir.' He was shivering violently, but whether from fear or the fact that he was soaked to the skin, Bolitho could not be sure.
He saw the guardboat's splashing progress drawing across the bows and becoming more indistinct with each stroke. Naturally the French coxswain would try and stay away from the boom itself with this current running. Caught beam-on to that cable it would take a lot of sweat and effort to get back on course, and without harsh supervision no sailor would bother too much, provided the boom was still intact. After all, nothing could get over it, and as it was guarded at either end it would be simple to detect any effort to cut it.
Bolitho relaxed his muscles very slightly as the guardboat vanished into the darkness. It would probably rest awhile on the other side of the inlet before rowing back again. With luck, fifteen minutes at the very least. And by that time… He twisted in his seat and snapped, `Right, lads! Over we go!'
Squeaking and scraping the two boats slithered over the sagging cable, the oars used like flails as the seamen poked and prodded the protesting hulls clear of the snare and into the harbour. Bolitho watched the nearest cask bobbing astern and half-expected a sudden challenge or an alarm flare to show that he was discovered. Nothing happened, and with renewed vigour the men lay back on the oars, and by the time the church clock chimed two they were on their way up the centre of the narrowing inlet, the current opposing them more and more with each dragging minute.
Even in the darkness it was possible to see the pale houses rising on either side of the harbour on tiers, the lower windows of one peering over the roof of the next. For all the world like a fishing port in his own Cornwall, Bolitho thought. He could without effort picture the tiny, narrow streets linking the tiers of houses, the nets hung to dry, the smell of raw fish and tar.
Allday said hoarsely, 'There she is, Captain! The Saphir'
The anchored two-decker was just a deeper shadow, but against the lightless houses her masts and yards stood out like black webbing. Allday eased the tiller very gently, and followed by the gig they edged out further into midstream and away from the sleeping ship.
Bolitho twitched his nostrils as the wind carried the acrid scent of charred wood and burned paintwork across the choppy water to remind him of that last meeting. It was possible too to see the break in her outline left by her missing topmast. Here and there he could see a shaded lantern or the soft glow of a skylight from the forecastle. But there was no challenge or sudden cry of alarm.
The captured sloop-of-war Fairfax was anchored in the shallower water some two cables beyond the Frenchman. She was swinging at her cable, her slim bowsprit pointing inland as she rocked uncomfortably in the current. Bolitho studied her intently as the two boats glided past. His first command had been a sloop, and he felt a sudden compassion for the little-Fairfax. There was always something very sad about a captured prize, he thought.
