Bolitho bit back an angry retort. It was not Farquhar's fault. But in every campaign they seemed to be short of frigates, without which it was like trying to find a blind man in a dark room.
He peered astern, watching Osiris's big forecourse filling' and emptying in the uncertain wind, as if the ship was breathing heavily. She was a mile away, and beyond her he could just see the leeward side of the prize Segura. He wondered how Probyn had been getting on with his separate patrol to the east of Toulon, to seaward of the small islands which protected the approaches. He had Javal's Buzzard in company, while the rest of the squadron had to be content with the sloop. He could just make out Harebell's cream-coloured topsails, etched against the French coastline like sea-shells. Inch would be in no doubt of his importance. It was to be hoped he did not allow his eagerness to tempt him closer inshore. There he could lose the wind, or fall foul of some well-sited artillery.
He turned to look at Osiris again. Three weeks, and on every single day he had wondered about Herrick.
Farquhar followed his glance and said, 'she is handling well.'
Only a casual interest. Bolitho had already noticed that about the elegant captain. Once out of a ship, and no matter how long he had served in her, or what great events she had shared, Farquhar was able to dismiss her from his thoughts. He was entirely without sentiment, and seemed to live for today, and where it would lead in the future.
Nevertheless, he had to admit that Farquhar's efficiency had showed itself throughout the ship. Gun drill and contests between batteries and decks had cut the time for loading and firing by minutes.
Although he always appeared to have time for his own leisure, Farquhar was never far away when needed. And his officers, from Gilchrist to Mr. Midshipman Saxby, had been made to realise it.
Farquhar had always borne a reputation for harshness. But as yet he had not shown himself as a tyrant. He had examined all the ship's books within hours of getting the squadron under way, from the punishment and muster books to the rarer ones about stocks of canvas and oil.
It was a new side to the man's character, and Bolitho being the man he was never considered that his own past example to Farquhar was bearing fruit at last.
He saw Lieutenant Fitz-Clarence strutting busily back and forth on the lee side of the quarterdeck. That was another thing. Farquhar had quite rightly removed the second lieutenant from the monotony of prize-duty aboard the Segura and had sent instead a master's mate. Whenever the weather had made it possible he had recalled the prize-master and had replaced him with another. Midshipmen, warrant officers, even a resentful Gilchrist, had had their share. It made sense, and kept them on their toes.
But Farquhar had not asked permission. As flag captain he had taken it as a right.
He had even cut the number of punishments, if not their severity. He had examined every case himself, and if the unfortunate seaman had made a genuine mistake, or one had been caused by a superior's carelessness, he had dismissed it, and to ram home his point had given the accuser an awesome pile of extra duties. If on the other hand the case had been proved, he had ordered stiffer punishment than Herrick had ever permitted. It was, it seemed, his one real failing.
Farquhar said suddenly, 'We shall have to lose Harebell or Buzzard shortly, sir.' It sounded like a question.
'Yes.'
Bolitho paced slowly along the weather side. The deck seams clung to his shoes, and he could feel the heat thrown back from the bulwark. And it was barely nine o'clock in the forenoon. Each day brought hotter weather, more tension to those who endured it. Farquhar had put his finger right on the point. He could not delay much longer. He would have to send word to the admiral. His own estimation of the French preparations and intentions. Once he had despatched one of his badly needed scouts, he would be committed. Set against the consequences if he was proved wrong, that in itself was unimportant.
If only Inch had been able to capture the Spanish brig before the two French ships had chased him away. He could have sent her to the admiral.
He paused and shaded his eyes to look for the prize. She was too slow and vulnerable. And she still might prove useful as a deception. He thought of her packed cargo. Or as a bribe.
Steel rang on steel, and he walked to the quarterdeck rail to watch as the off-watch midshipmen faced each other for practice with sword and cutlass.
Farquhar glanced at him. 'J thought Mr. Pascoe would be well employed, sir.' There was nothing in his voice to betray his thoughts. 'He has already proved his skill on one of my previous lieutenants.' He smiled briefly. 'He has a good eye.'
. Bolitho. watched Pascoe walking. behind two of* the. midshipmen, speaking to each in turn. Their faces were crimson with exertion and were obviously aware their commodore and captain were looking on. Clang, clang, clang, the blades moved in a jerky rhythm.
How different in a real battle, Bolitho thought grimly. The madness, the eagerness to strike at a man before he beat you to the deck.
Gilchrist appeared below the larboard gangway.
'You’ll have to do better than that, Mr. Pascoe!' Bolitho felt Farquhar tense as he snapped, 'What ails that damned fellow?'
Fitz-Clarence was making elaborate steps along the lee side, trying to warn Gilchrist that he was not alone. Farquhar called, 'Mr. Fitz-Clarence! I’ll trouble you to stand still!'
He turned and looked at Gilchrist's uplifted face. 'You were saying, Mr. Gilchrist?'
The first lieutenant replied, 'The drill is untidy, sir. Bolitho watched the little drama in silence. The midshipmen's arms still wavering in the air, the swords in disarray. Seamen who had been working in the weather shrouds pausing to watch, their tanned bodies gold in the sunlight. Pascoe in the middle of it, his dark eyes on Gilchrist, only his quick breathing betraying his anger.
And Farquhar. He glanced at him and saw the look in his ice-blue stare. Farquhar had kept Gilchrist busy and obedient. Now it was out in the open again. He recalled his hidden anger. What ails that damned fellow? Farquhar snapped his fingers. 'Bosun's mate! Fetch my sword!'
