He made to move, but Bolitho gripped his uninjured shoulder. His skin was like ice, and his hair still wet with the spray from that other howling world three decks above.
He said, 'You saved Mr. Pascoe's life.' He kept his voice steady. 'Adam will come as soon as he can.'
Beyond the boy's head he saw Shacklock taking two knives from a case. One short, the other long and thin. An assistant was wiping something below a lantern, and as the deck tilted and the man lurched sideways he realised it was a saw.
Luce whispered quietly, 'My arm, sir?' He was starting to weep. 'Please, sir!'
Bolitho reached out and took a cup of rum from a loblolly boy. 'Drink this.' He forced it to his lips. 'As much as you can.' He saw it slopping out of his mouth, could feel his body trembling as if in a terrible fever. It was all they had. Rum, with opium to follow the operation as a sedative.
He heard footsteps and then Pascoe's voice, taut and barely recognisable.
'The captain sends his respects, sir. We have just sighted Nicator.'
Bolitho straightened his back but kept his hand on Luce' s shoulder.
'Thank you.' Around him the shadows loomed nearer, like angels of death, as Shacklock's men waited to begin. 'stay with him, Adam.'
He made himself look at the midshipman. He was staring up at him, the rum and tears mingling on his throat. Only his mouth moved as he whispered again, 'Please.'
He waited until Pascoe was by the boy's head and then said to Shacklock, 'Do your best.'
The surgeon nodded. 'I have had the blades warmed to lessen the shock, sir.'
As Bolitho made to leave he saw the surgeon give a signal, heard Luce cry out as the assistants gripped his legs and held his head back on the table.
Bolitho had reached the upper deck when Luce screamed. The sound seemed to follow him up and into the wind, where it ended abruptly.
Bolitho rested both hands on his chart and studied it for several more seconds. The storm had blown itself out in two long days and nights, so that the warm sunlight and the gentle breeze in the sails made it feel as if the ship was all but becalmed.
Around his table the other captains sat watching him, each wrapped in hi's own thoughts, all weary from the storm's anger and the battle for survival.
Throughout the scattered squadron seventeen men had been killed. By falls from aloft, or being swept overboard. Some had vanished without trace. As if they had never been.
It was mid-afternoon, and with the ships sailing in a loose formation once again Bolitho had ordered all his captains to gather for a conference.
He looked at Javal's dark features. His news had been expected, and yet perhaps even to the last he had still hoped. But as they had sighted Buzzard's topsails shortly after dawn the signal had been shouted down from the maintop. The French had put to sea. A dozen ships, maybe more, had sailed with the stiff north-west wind under their coat-tails, while Javal and his men had watched helplessly while they fought to keep the enemy in view. The French commander had even allowed for such an eventuality. Two frigates had swept out of the storm and had raked Buzzard's rigging before standing off to follow the convoy into the darkness.
For a fighter like Javal it must have been terrible. With his rigging slashed and the storm mounting every minute, he had been forced to watch the French slipping away. He had tried to make contact with the squadron by firing signal guns and loosing off a flare. But while Gilchrist had waited too late and the ships of the line had steered comfortably along their allotted course the storm had made even that contact im- possible.
Bolitho said slowly, 'The admiral should have examined the despatches sent in Harebell. He will assume that we are capable of standing watch over Toulon, or of shadowing any vessels which try to elude us.'
Overhead he heard the stamp of feet as Leroux's marines completed another drill. Hammers and adzes added their own sounds to show that the carpenter's crew were also busy completing storm repairs.
He looked at Herrick, wondering what he was thinking.
Probyn said heavily, 'Now that the French have avoided your er, ambush, it must leave us all in some doubt. Perhaps we placed too much value in hearsay, in rumour. Who knows where those French ships may be now?' He looked slowly round the table. 'Let alone what we can hope to do without information?'
Bolitho watched him impassively. Probyn had been careful to use 'we.' He had meant 'you'.
Javal shrugged and yawned. 'I could detach from the squadron, sir. I might be able to find some if not all of the Frenchmen. After all, the storm will not have made their passage an easy one. '
Bolitho felt them looking at him. Some would understand, perhaps share his dilemma.
If he sent the Buzzard's in pursuit he would be without 'eyes'. The two-deckers and the prize ship would have their visibility reduced to the vision of the best masthead lookout. So, with little agility or speed to investigate, he had to hold on to his one and only frigate.
Probyn added, 'Of course, we could return to Gibraltar, sir. Better to add our strength to any fleet which may be assembling than to wander blindly to no purpose.'
Herrick spoke for the first time. 'That would be an admission of failure! It would be the wrong decision, in my opinion.' He looked at Bolitho, his eyes level. 'We know how you must feel, sir.'.
Farquhar snapped abruptly, 'It is the devil's own luck!' Javal said, 'It's the devil's own choice.' He looked at Bolitho curiously. 'For you, sir.'
'Yes.'
Bolitho let his gaze move along and down across the chart of the Mediterranean. All those miles. Even if he were right in his guesswork, and it was no more than that as Probyn had stated, he might still fail to make contact with the enemy. Ships could pass one another in the night or in foul weather and be none the wiser. An empire
