as he looked up through the dark tracery of rigging and beyond the ghostlike outlines of the sails he noticed that the stars were paler and the sky, instead of being like black velvet, now held that strange purple hue which never failed to. fill him with pleasure.
A shadow loomed from the quarterdeck rail and Quarme said, The dawn'll be up within thirty minutes, sir. I had the hands called an hour early as you ordered, and they have all been fed.'
Bolitho nodded. 'Very good.' His vision was improving, or was the light already strengthening? He heard the splash and sizzle of embers alongside and knew that the cooks were throwing the remains of the galley fire overboard, also in accordance with his instructions. He suddenly felt stiff and cramped, and wished he had taken the time for another mug of coffee.
With Vice-Admiral Moresby occupying his quarters Bolitho had been sleeping in a makeshift cot in the chartroom. Most captains would have taken over their first lieutenants' cabins under such circumstances, but Bolitho found the cramped privacy of the tiny chartroom more suitable for his present mood of uncertainty and doubt.
For nearly three days the Hyperion with two Spanish ships in company had headed for the island of Cozar. Days of irritations and maddening conferences between Moresby and the Spanish admiral, which had uncovered little but the intention of each man to have his own way. Now the two other ships were miles astern, having hove to for the night with the usual Spanish indifference for urgency and timing.
Bolitho said suddenly, 'Hands aloft, Mr. Quarme. Get the topgallants and courses in, if you please. Tops'ls and jib will suffice for our purposes.' He heard Quarme passing his orders and saw the immediate air of activity across the maindeck.
According to his careful calculations the island now lay some four miles off the starboard bow, and with the sun soon to rise astern of her, Hyperion would be less visible to a drowsy sentry if stripped down to minimum canvas. In the light airs the slower speed would be an additional advantage.
All- his inbuilt caution might be proved as empty as the Spanish admiral,had outspokenly declared on the previous afternoon when he and his two captains had been rowed across to the Hyperion for another long conference. Cozar might indeed- still be in Spanish hands, and his preparations, his stealthy approach under cover of night, might show as a waste of time. But Bolitho respected the French as much as he disliked them. They would be foolish to overlook the possibilities presented by such a formidable fortress.
The Spanish admiral, Don Francisco Anduaga, was a tall, disdainful autocrat who had made no bones right from the start about what he thought of serving under Moresby's overall command. Moresby was a thickset, aggressive little man who showed little interest in Anduaga's more sensitive feelings, and ploughed through the planned arrangements with the stubbornness of a bull terrier. And the arrangements about which they could agree were few indeed. An acceptance of British signals, a rough plan of approach, but little more beside.
But Anduaga had brought one useful addition on his last visit. A swarthy lieutenant who had actually served at Cozar Island when it was used as a penal settlement. His facts were impressive, but only to those who actually controlled the island from within.
Barely five miles from end to end, it sounded the most inhospitable place on earth. Surrounded by steep, dangerous cliffs and scattered rocks it was only accessible by way of the great natural harbour on its southern side, and then by one landing place below the battery of a strong hill fortress. There was a 'smaller hill at the other end of the island with an ancient Moorish castle and a lesser battery to forestall anyone foolhardy enough to attempt to storm the cliffs by day or night. And between the two hills was one central one which rose to over a thousand feet, and from which even a halfblind lookout could see an approaching ship before it topped the horizon.
The lieutenant had rolled his eyes sadly. 'It is a terrible place, Captain. Not fit for beasts.'
Bolitho had persisted, 'What about fresh water? Have they good supplies?
`Alas, no. They depend on a rainfall to fill a manmade reservoir. Apart, from that they bring it by sea.' He had dropped his eyes with sudden embarrassment. 'From the port of St. Clar, but of course that was when we were allied with France, you understand.'
Moresby had interrupted angrily, 'If you are thinking of cutting off the water supply, Bolitho, you can think again. We have no time for a blockade, and in any case we don't know what supplies they have at their disposal.'
Anduaga had watched them with obvious irritation. 'But why are you all so concerned? He. had a smooth, silky voice which matched his air of complete superiority over the rest of them. 'My eighty-gun Marte will pound them to fragments! But I can assure you that there will be no problems.' His eyes had become suddenly cruel. 'The Spanish garrison would have me to reckon with if they were foolish enough to surrender to a lot of peasant soldiers!'
A voice broke into Bolitho's brooding thoughts. 'Land! Land on the weather bow!'
He moved restlessly. 'Alter course a point to starboard, Mr. Gossett.' Then to Quarme he added, 'Clear for action, if you please, but do not have the guns loaded or run out.'
Again the pipes shrilled, and as the darkened decks filled and surged with running figures Quarme asked quietly, 'Will you tell the admiral, sir?'
Bolitho listened to the thuds and bangs below decks as the screens were hastily torn down and anything which might hamper the gunners was dragged below the waterline.
'I fancy Sir William will know already, Mr. Quarme, he replied dryly.
He had hardly finished speaking when a midshipman burst from the poop and gasped, 'The admiral's respects, and, and
He faltered, aware that the men around him were all listening.
Bolitho said abruptly, 'Well, what exactly did he say, boy?' The wretched midshipman stammered, 'He asked what the hell do you think you're playing at?'
Bolitho kept his voice even. 'My compliments to Sir William. Be so good as to inform him that we have just cleared, for action.' He looked across at Quarme and added coldly, 'But I see that it still took over ten minutes!'
He saw Quarme's tall frame stiffen, but continued, 'Give me my glass.' Then while the others stared after him he pulled himself on to the mizzen shrouds and began to climb. The coarse ratlines felt damp and unsteady beneath his shoes, and he found he was gripping them tighter than necessary as he made his way slowly aloft to the mizzen top. He hated heights, and had done so since he had first gone aloft as a twelve-year-old midshipman. He knew it was anger as well as pride which made him do this sort of thing, and the realisation made him even more irritated.
He threw his leg over the wooden barricade and opened his glass. As he glanced down at the pale deck far below he realised he could already pick out details more clearly. The black breeches of the guns below the gangways, Captain Ashby's square of marines formed up abaft the foremast, their scarlet uniforms appearing black in the strange light, and even aft by the taffrail he could see the faint glow of a lantern from the cabin skylight. Sir William was now fully awake. He would grumble and mutter about not being kept informed, but Bolitho knew already that Moresby would be much quicker to accuse him of negligence if he overlooked anything.
Bolitho forgot all of them as he trained his glass over the barricade, his feet taking and allowing for the ship's gentle roll and the steady shiver of the mast itself.
There it was right enough. They were approaching the island from the south-east, close-hauled on the larboard tack, so that the three hills overlapped against the dull-coloured sky to make what looked for all the world like a giant, battered cocked hat.
There was a clang of metal from the maindeck followed by a snarl of anger from an invisible petty officer. Bolitho closed his glass and climbed swiftly back to the quarterdeck. In his haste he even forgot his fear of heights.
'Keep those hands quiet, Mr. Quarme! We are less than three miles offshore. If they are still asleep over there I would like them to remain so!'
'They were my sentiments, Bolitho.'
He turned and saw Moresby's figure framed against the poop like a pale ghost. Then he realised that the admiral had thrown a coat over his white nightshirt, and on.his head he still wore a red sleeping cap like a candle- snuffer.
Bolitho kept his tone formal. 'I must beg your pardon, sir. But it seemed wiser to be prepared.'
The admiral glared at him. 'So you say!'
Gimlett appeared hovering nervously behind the admiral with a tray and two glasses. For Moresby this was a
