The lieutenant looked around Lysander's decks and removed his hat.
'I-I am deeply sorry, sir. We 'were late again.' He watched the wounded marines being carried down from the poop. 'I have never seen a fight like yours, sir.'
Herrick said harshly, 'And Captain Probyn?'
'Dead, sir.' The lieutenant lifted his chin. 'Brought down by a marksman. He died instantly.'
A man cried out in terror as he was carried to the orlop, and Bolitho remembered Luce, and Farquhar, and Javal. And so many others.
He asked, 'Was that before or after you came to our aid?' The lieutenant looked wretched. 'Before, sir. But I’m certain that…'
Bolitho looked at Herrick. Nicator had been too far off to be reached by any musket. At an enquiry it would be hard to explain, impossible to prove. But someone, driven by shame and anguish, had shot Probyn down as he had stood watching Lysander and Immortalite fighting unsupported.
He smiled gravely at the pale-faced lieutenant. 'Well, you came.'
The young officer turned as Pascoe appeared on the quarterdeck. 'We had to, sir.'
As Bolitho crossed the deck and clasped his nephew tightly, the unknown lieutenant looked up at a clearing patch of blue sky and at Bolitho's signal which was still flying.
He said quietly, 'We saw the signal. Close. action. That was enough.'
Bolitho looked at him. To Herrick he said, 'Cast off the French ship as soon as Mr. Grubb's hands have repaired our steering. She fought well, and I’ve no use for another prize with De Brueys and his fleet so near.'
Herrick walked to the rail and repeated his order to Lieutenant Steere who had emerged from the lower gun deck.
Grubb shambled beneath the poop, his ruined face smudged in smoke and grime.
'she’ll answer the 'elm now, sir! Ready to get under way!' Herrick said quietly, 'He won’t hear you, Mr. Grubb.' He looked sadly towards Bolitho. 'He's looking at the signal and thinking of those who can 'tsee it, and never will now. I know him so well.'
As the sailing master moved away to his helmsmen, Herrick said to Pascoe, 'Go to him, Adam. I can manage without you for a while.' He watched Pascoe's face and was moved to add, 'Try and tell him. They didn't do it for any signal. It was for him.'
Epilogue
CAPTAIN THOMAS HERRICK entered the cabin and waited for Bolitho to look up from his table.
'The masthead has just sighted the Rock to the nor'-west, sir. With luck we should be anchored under Gibraltar 's battery before sunset. '
'Thank you, Thomas. I did hear the hail.' He sounded distant. 'You had better prepare a gun salute for the admiral. ' Herrick watched him sadly. 'And then you’ll be leaving Lysander, sir.'
Bolitho stood up and walked slowly to the windows. There was Nicator about half a mile astern, her topsails and jib very pale in the sunlight. Beyond her he could see the untidy formation of captured supply ships, and a French frigate which they had taken in tow until some of her damage could be put right.
Leaving Lysander. That was the very crux of it. All the. weeks and months. The disappointments and moments of elation or pride. The heartbreaking work, the horrors of battle. Now it was behind him. Until the next time.
He heard the bang of hammers and the crisp sound of an adze, and pictured the work continuing about the ship. As it had.from the moment that Grubb had reported the helm answering once more and they had cast off the French two-decker. It still seemed like some sort of miracle that the main French fleet had continued south-east towards Egypt. Perhaps de Brueys had still believed that Bolitho's little force had attacked his well-defended supply convoy as a further delaying tactic, and that some other fleet was already gathering across his path to Alexandria.
Battered and holed, her hull filled with water with each painful mile, Lysander had sailed with the wind, doing makeshift repairs, burying her dead, and tending the wounded, of whom there were many.
Then; with Nicator in company, they had sailed westward again, dreading another series of squalls almost as much as an enemy attack. But the French had other things on their minds, and days later when Lysander s lookouts had sighted a small pyramid of sails, Bolitho and the companies of both ships had watched with a mixture of awe and emotion as Harebell had run down towards them. In her wake, black and buff in the bright sunshine, had followed not a squadron but a fleet. It had been a coincidence, and yet it was hard to accept that miracles had played no part.
Lieutenant Gilchrist in the badly damaged frigate Buzzard had not sailed directly to Gibraltar as ordered. Instead, and for no reason which had yet come to light, he had broken his passage at Syracuse. And there, resting and disillusioned after its fruitless sweep to Alexandria, was the fleet, with Nelson's flagship Vanguard in its centre.
Nelson had apparently needed no more than a hazy report to set him going once again. To Alexandria, where he had discovered the remaining French transports sheltering in the harbour. But to the north-east, anchored with rigid and formidable precision, much as Herrick had predicted, lay the French fleet.
With half of her company dead or wounded, Lysander had remained on the fringe of the fight. The Battle of the Nile, as everyone was calling it. It began in the evening and raged all night, and when dawn came up there were so many wrecks, so many corpses, that Bolitho could only marvel at man's ferocity.
Undeterred by the French line, and the fact that many of the ships were held together with cables to prevent a breakthrough, Nelson sailed around the end of the French defences and attacked them from the shore side. For there was no heavy siege guns on the land to prevent him, and he was able to concentrate his skill and his energy against an equally determined enemy.
Although the French fleet was the larger, by dawn all but two of de Brueys's ships had struck or been
