loyalty lay when the aftermath of battle and retreat cooled to investigation or the search for a scrapegoat.
He looked round as Inch appeared in the doorway. 'Do you wish to see me?'
Inch was still grimy from the dust and smoke of St. Clar and his horse face was drooping with fatigue. 'I am very sorry, sir.' He fumbled in his pocket. 'But in the heat of the fighting and that terrible work with those dead soldiers,' he brought out something which shone in the reflections' from the dancing water, 'I simply forgot to give this to you.'
Bolitho stared, hardly understanding what he saw. Tautly he asked, 'Where did you get this?'
Inch replied, 'It was one of the convicts, sir. Just before the last of 'em went into the boats for the Erebus.'
Bolitho took the ring and held it in the palm of his hand.
Inch was watching him curiously. 'This fellow came up to me at the very last second. He gave me the ring and said I was to hand it to you personally.' He faltered. 'He said that he wanted you to have it for your, er, bride, sir!'
Bolitho felt the cabin closing in around him. It was not possible.
Inch asked awkwardly, 'Have you seen it before, sir?
Bolitho did not answer. 'This man. Did you get a good look at him?' He took a pace towards him. 'Well, did you?'
Inch recoiled. 'It was dark, sir.' He screwed up his eyes. 'He was very grey, but quite a gentleman I should say…'
He fell silent as Bolitho pushed past him and ran out to the quarterdeck. He saw Herrick staring at him but did not care. Snatching a glass from a startled midshipman he climbed into the mizzen shrouds, his heart pounding his ribs like a drum.
Then he saw the convoy, far off below the horizon and almost lost from view. In a week or so they would reach Gibraltar and the human cargo would scatter to the winds for ever.
He climbed unsteadily back to the deck and stood looking at the ring. The man had been grey, Inch had said. But then he was getting grey the last time he had seen him. Ten, no eleven years ago. And to think that all these months he must have watched him from amongst the other convicts, while he had known nothing, had still believed his brother to be dead.
But if he had known, what could he have done? Hugh must have been on his way to New Holland for some minor crime like the others. One sign of recognition and he would have been seized for what he really was, a deserter from the King's Navy, a traitor to his country. And Bolitho's own life would have been laid in ruins had he lifted a finger to aid his deception.
So Hugh had waited, had bided his time until the last possible moment before sending his own private message, when there was no chance of facing him. The one possession which he knew would mean more than any words.
Herrick crossed to his side and looked down at the ring. `That is a fine piece of work; sir.'
Bolitho stared through him. 'It belonged to my mother.' Then without another word he walked aft towards his cabin.
17. 'THE FRENCH ARE OUT!'
As eight bells chimed out to announce the beginning of yet another forenoon watch Bolitho walked from beneath the poop and took his usual position on the weather side of the quarterdeck. The sky was overcast with low, fast-moving clouds, and the wind which came almost directly towards the larboard beam was heavy with a promise of rain.
He wriggled his shoulders inside his coat and turned to study the Tenacious. During the night she had shortened sail to avoid running down on her slower consort, and now lay some two miles clear on the starboard quarter. There was no horizon, and against the dull clouds and lead-coloured sea the big three-decker seemed to shine as if held in some unearthly light.
Bolitho gripped the nettings and turned his head once more into the wind. There was Cozar Island about six miles off the larboard beam, its grim outline shrouded in cloud and spray. While he had sat restlessly toying with his breakfast Bolitho had imagined how it would look, had pondered over the hopes and follies the island's name had come to represent to him.
For three days after leaving the smoking ruins of St. Clar he had gone over each detail again and again, trying to see thee short campaign with impartial eyes, to assemble the facts as they. would be viewed by an historian.
He bit his lip as he stared unwaveringly at the humped outline. Occupied and reoccupied a hundred times. Fought over and discarded, the island lay waiting for the next assault on its isolation. Now it was abandoned and derelict, with only the many dead to guard its barren heritage.
Herrick had joined him at the nettings. He said carefully, 'I wonder if we'll ever see it again, sir?'
Bolitho did not speak. He was watching the sloop Chanticleer, her sails and yards clearly etched against the dull cliffs as she drove close inshore. Bellamy must be thinking of his part in the capture of Cozar. The reckless excitement, the very impudence of their attack might seem mockeries to him now.
He realised that Herrick had said,something and asked, `Did you wish to speak about the routine?'
Herrick's face softened slightly. 'Well, sir, as a matter of fact…’
'Go ahead, Thomas.' Bolitho turned away from the island. 'I have been poor company of late. You must forgive me.' He had in fact hardly spoken to Herrick since leaving St. Clar. His officers must have respected his wishes to be left alone with his brooding, for on his rare walks on the quarterdeck they had been careful to leave the weather side vacant and undisturbed.
Herrick cleared his throat noisily. 'Have you spoken with the admiral this morning, sir?'
Bolitho smiled. The words had come blurting out, and he guessed that Herrick had been planning this interview for days.
'Mr. Rowistone is with him now, Thomas. Sir Edmund is very ill, that is all I can tell you at the moment.'
Poor Rowlstone, he thought. He was as much out of his depth with Pomfret as any unskilled seaman. The admiral certainly looked a bit better, but where his body was trying to rally, his mind seemed to stay unmoving and remote, blocked off by the shock and realisation which it still refused to accept.
Pomfret was like a living corpse. He allowed Gimlett to shave him and keep him clean. He opened his mouth to receive soup, or carefully cut meat like a child with no understanding, and he never said a word.
Herrick persisted, 'Look, sir, I must speak my mind! In my opinion you owe nothing to Sir Edmund, quite the reverse!' He gestured towards the Tenacious. 'Why not shift this responsibility to Captain Dash before we sight the fleet? He is the senior officer, it is unfair that you should have to carry him!'
Bolitho sighed. 'You have seen Sir Edmund, have you not?' Herrick nodded as he continued evenly, 'Would you take his last shred of honour and self-respect and stamp on it?' He shook his head. 'When we rejoin the fleet Sir Edmund will at least be under the protection of his flag and not carried to the reckoning like a trussed chicken for the pot!' He gripped his hands behind him. 'No, Thomas, IT have none of that!'
Herrick had his mouth open to argue, but closed it with a click as Bolitho swung towards the bows, his head on one side like a dog at a scent.
'Listen!' Bolitho seized the quarterdeck rail and leaned forward. 'It was more of a feeling, and yet…' He watched Herrick's face until it too showed understanding.
Herrick murmured, 'Thunder?' Their eyes met. 'Or gunfire?'
Bolitho cupped his hands. 'Mr. Inch! Get the royals on her!' He crossed to the binnacle even as the pipes shrilled to break the silence. 'Bring her up a point!' He waited, biting his lip, until the helmsman intoned, 'Course nor' by east, son!'
Bolitho said aloud, 'Where is the Harvester, for God's sake?'
Herrick was watching the startled seamen scrambling aloft in answer to the call. He said„'She's away up there on the larboard now, somewhere!'
Bolitho made himself walk slowly to Herrick's side. 'Well, it was no frigate, Thomas. That was heavier metal on
