could fall because of a wrong choice, a hasty decision.
He said, 'This is what we will do.' It had come as if it had been there in his mind from the beginning. 'Our present position, as far as we can estimate, is about sixty miles west of Corsica 's north coast.' He tapped the chart with his dividers. 'CapeCorse. The storm carried us too far to the east'rd to make another passage profitable.' He saw them crane forward above the table. 'so we will continue, and once around the north cape of Corsica we will steer southeast.' He watched his dividers moving remorselessly further and further down the Italian coastline. 'We will put into Syracuse to take on water and land our badly injured people. The Sicilians may have news for us. They are at peace with the French, but have little love for them.'
He looked up sharply. 'While we are at anchor, Buzzard will sail independently, around the eastern side of Sicily, by way of the MessinaStrait, and make a rendezvous with the squadron off Malta. I will be able to give you better information, Captain Javal, once we have made some progress' He eyed them separately. He was committed. And he had com- mitted each one of them, and every man-jack in the squadron.
Herrick cleared his throat. 'And then, sir?'
'Then, Captain Herrick.' He held his gaze, seeing the worry building up on his face. 'We will know what to expect.' He smiled briefly. 'I hope.'
Probyn spread his heavy hands on the table. They were like pink crabs. 'If we fail there also, sir, I’d not be happy to face the admiral.'
Bolitho faced him calmly. 'It is support I want, Captain Probyn. Not sympathy.'
Spray pattered against the stern windows, and he added, 'I think it best if you return to your ships. The wind is freshen- ing, by the feel of it.'
The chairs scraped back from the table and they looked at each other like strangers.
Probyn gathered up his hat and sword and said, 'I trust that new orders will be passed to us, sir?' He did not look at him as he spoke.
Herrick snapped, 'There is no need for that, surely?'
'I think there is.' Probyn fiddled with his sword belt. 'I would not wish to insist upon it.'
Bolitho nodded. 'It will be done.'
Farquhar rapped on the screen door with his knuckles, and when the sentry appeared he said, 'signal for the boats. Tell the first lieutenant to assemble the side party. ' Probyn asked, 'How is your first lieutenant, by the way?' 'Adequate.' Farquhar watched him coldly.
Bolitho turned away. 'You know him then?'
Probyn coughed. 'Not really, sir. Perhaps a passing acquaintance.'
They took their leave, as boat by boat they were pulled back to their various commands.
Herrick was the last. He said simply, 'The fore t'gallant mast, sir. When I knew of Lysander's difficulties in the storm, I got to thinking. Maybe she took a ball through the fore-rigging and the rope woolding around the mast hid the damage. It is not unknown.'
Bolitho smiled. 'Perhaps. But it was none of your doing.' Bolitho saw him looking around the decks and tried to read his mind. Loss, anxiety, or merely curiosity?
'And you, Thomas. Is everything satisfactory?'
Herrick turned to watch his barge pulling for the main chains.
'Osirisis a smart ship, sir. I’ve no complaints. But she's no heart, no zest.'
Bolitho wanted to reach out for him. To make him know that the sense of loss went both ways. But it was not yet time, and he knew it.
He said, 'Take care, Thomas.'
The marine guard shuffled to attention and the bosun's mates raised their silver calls in preparation to see Herrick over the side, But he hung back, his face lined with emotions.
Then he said, 'If you take the squadron to the Turkish forts and beyond, you’ll not find me far astern.' He faltered, his eyes pleading. 'I just wanted you to know. To understand.' Bolitho held out his hand. 'I do, Thomas.' He gripped it tightly. 'Now.'
He watched Farquhar and Herrick exchange salutes, and then walked slowly across the quarterdeck to the weather side.
The sails were booming in confusion while the ship lay hove-to to rid herself of her visitors, and Bolitho did not hear the footsteps beside him.
It was Pascoe, his dark eyes heavy with strain. He had been standing watches and carrying out his duties throughout the storm, but at every available moment he had been below with his friend.
Bolitho asked, 'Is something wrong?'
Pascoe lifted his arms and let them fall again. 'sir, I-' He shook his head. 'He is gone. He died a minute ago.' Bolitho watched him, seeing his distress. Sharing it. 'He was a fine boy.'
He touched his arm, turning him slightly so that some passing marines should not see his face.
'And it is often harder to accept that sailors give their lives to the sea as much as they do in battle.'
Pascoe shivered. 'He never complained. Not after that first terrible cut. I held his hand. And just today I thought he was a little better. And then-' He broke off, unable to finish.
Farquhar strode to the rail and touched his hat. 'Permission to get the squadron under way, sir?' He glanced at Pascoe, his eyes without compassion. 'The wind is certainly freshening. '
'If you please. And signal Buzzard to take station to lee'rd and ahead of the squadron. He knows what to
