he felt a deep sense of loss.
He saw Herrick at the lee rail, his hat well down over his eyes, and close by his first lieutenant, Gilchrist, arms folded, spindly legs apart to take the staggering motion. Of the action there was little to show. Brighter patches of planking where the carpenter and his mates had done their work well, fresh paint to hide other scars and replacements. Above the busy decks the sails, too, were neatly patched, and it was difficult to picture the smoke, to remember the din of war.
What Herrick was thinking at this moment he could hardly dare imagine. He must be very proud of the way his company had faced up to battle and its backbreaking aftermath. Just months ago most of these hurrying seamen had been working ashore on farms, in towns, with skills or without, life in a King's ship not even a possibility.
They would be sorry to see their captain leave. For the new men especially Herrick would be familiar, in some way a beginner like themselves. If they had displeasure to show it would be turned towards their commodore. If necessary, he would see to it himself, he thought grimly. Herrick's name was too valuable to be damaged because of his actions, right or wrong.
The first boat hooked on to the chains. It was Farquhar.
Naturally. He came through the entry port, as elegant and as smart as if he had just left his London tailor. He doffed his hat to the quarterdeck and ran his eyes calmly along the swaying lines of marines and glittering bayonets. His hair was very fair, gathered at the nape of his neck, and it shone above his collar like pale gold.
Bolitho watched him shake hands with Herrick. How ill-matched they were. Had always been. Farquhar's uncle, Sir Henry Langford, had been Bolitho's first captain. At the age of twelve he had joined the eight-gun Manxman, terrified and filled with awe. Fourteen years later, Langford, then an admiral, had given him command of a frigate. His nephew had been appointed into her as midshipman. Now, Farquhar, in his early thirties and a post-captain, was with him again. If he survived the war he would rise to high rank and position, both at home and in the fleet. Bolitho had never doubted it from the beginning, just as Herrick had never accepted it.
More shrills from the silver calls, and he saw George Probyn of the Nicator heaving his untidy shape through the port.
On the other side of the quarterdeck Pascoe was standing with Luce by the signal party, and Bolitho imagined that he himself must have looked like that when as a lieutenant he had witnessed comings and goings of aloof and unreachable beings.
He sighed and walked to the ladder.
Herrick said, 'If you will come to my quarters, Captain Probyn. The Commodore wishes to speak with Captain Farquhar.'
Farquhar's eyebrows rose slightly.' 'Pon my word. Bit formal, aren't we, Captain Herrick?'
Herrick regarded him coldly. 'Yes.'
Bolitho watched Farquhar as he strode into his cabin.
Watchful, wondering probably what his commodore's reactions were going to be, sensing something deeper around him, too. But confident above all.
'I have my report, sir.'
Bolitho gestured to a chair. 'In a moment. Our attack as you will have realised, was successful. We have one good prize, and despatched another Spanish vessel in the bay. Four days ago we met with two French ships of the line and engaged them. We broke off the action after crippling both vessels. Our losses were small. Considering.'
Farquhar smiled quietly. He did not look quite so confident now. He said, 'I followed your instructions, sir. Buzzard reported sighting a convoy of some five sail, and we gave chase. Under the circumstances.
You acted correctly. 'Bolitho watched him gravely. 'Did you catch them?'
'Captain Javal managed to damage a couple, sir, but he only succeeded in making one heave-to. Unfortunately, I was unable to reach the scene on time as -I had lost my main topgallant mast in a squall. Nicator took the lead, and due to some, er, misunderstanding of signals, fired a half-broad-side into the French vessel, so that she began to founder.'
'And then?'
Farquhar tugged an envelope from inside his elegant coat. 'My boarding officer managed to save this letter from the master's safe before the vessel capsized and sank. It is addressed to a Yves Gorse, who apparently resides in Malta. It contains instructions for Gorse to prepare watering arrangements.' He thrust the letter across the table. 'For merchant vessels on their lawful occasions, or words to that effect. I believe the letter to be in some sort of code, but the vessel's master is such a dolt that I could get nothing from him. But the small convoy was out of Marseilles. A French corvette was escorting them through these waters, not because of any threat from us, but because of Barbary pirates and the like.' He was keeping the most important until the last. 'My first lieutenant did manage to discover one thing, sir. I have several Frenchmen pressed into my company, and one of them told my senior that he'd heard one of the survivors claim that the letter had been sent aboard their ship by order of Admiral Brueys himself!'
Bolitho looked at him. Brueys was perhaps the finest and. most capable admiral in the French navy. In any navy for that matter.
'You did well.' Bolitho rubbed his hands on his thighs. 'This man Gorse may be a spy or agent of some kind. Perhaps the French intend to attack Malta. '
'Or Sicily?' Farquhar frowned. 'Bonaparte is said to have intentions towards the kingdom. They are at peace, but he probably believes, as I do, that in war there is no such luxury as neutrality. '
'Maybe.' Bolitho tried not to think of Herrick. 'We will make haste to Toulon and Marseilles. Following your discovery, we can now determine the strength of these preparations. '
Farquhar asked, 'Your prize, sir. What does she hold?' 'Powder and shot. And fodder.'
'Fodder?'
'Yes. It troubles me, too. All the French and Spanish preparations are for a full-scale attack. They blend together into a sort of strategy. But fodder. It does not sound like a local attack. It sounds like cavalry and heavy
