expect.' He stepped in front of Pascoe. 'I think this officer might be excused from duty for the present. '
Farquhar nodded. 'Very well.'
But Pascoe said, 'I’m all right now, sir.' He adjusted his hat and moved towards the ladder. 'I’d like to attend to my work, if I may. '
Farquhar's lips twisted in a smile. 'Then it is settled.' Bolitho followed them to the rail, seeing the seamen manning the braces and halliards, waiting to execute the first part of his new orders.
Pascoe hesitated, his foot in the air above the gun deck. 'There is one thing, sir. When will we be burying him?' 'At dusk.' He watched the pain in Pascoe's eyes.
'I just thought. My sword. I’d like it to go over with him.
I’ve not much else.'
Bolitho waited until Pascoe had joined his division and then returned to the poop ladder.
Grubb remarked quietly, 'A fine young officer' ell be one day, sir.'
Bolitho nodded. 'He suits me very well as he stands.' 'Aye.' The master shaded his red-rimmed eyes to watch the flapping pendant high above the deck. 'There's some 'oo can give orders, but never learn nuthin'. Thank God'e's not one o' them.'
Bolitho continued up the ladder and walked right aft to the gilded taffrail.
Below the poop he heard the helmsman's cry, 'Course due east, sir! Steady 'as she goes!'
He watched the lithe frigate forging swiftly ahead of her bulky consorts, but for once felt no envy of her freedom. This was his place, and only the rights of his decisions would decide if he should hold it.
He thought of Pascoe and Herrick, and Allday who was moving about in the cabin below.
And this time he had to be right, if only for men such as these.
11. The Letter
'WILL that be all for now, sir?' Moffitt, the clerk, regarded Bolitho gloomily, his weedy frame angled to the deck.
'Yes. Thank you.' Bolitho leaned back in his chair and loosened his neckcloth. 'Tell Ozzard to light some lanterns.' He looked astern through the great windows at the fiery orange sunset.
One more dragging day. It was two weeks since he had committed his ships to the passage south, and to all intents they had the sea to themselves. Day after day, using the light winds to steer south-east along the Italian coastline, and then tacking around to the westward to follow the hazy shores of Sicily lying about thirty miles off the larboard bow. And apart from a few Arab craft with their strange lateen rig, they had been unable to make contact with another living soul. They had sighted some isolated sails, but they had made off before the slow-moving seventy-fours could draw near enough to examine them.
Bolitho stared at the empty desk, wondering why he bothered to dictate another empty day's report for Moffitt's benefit. It was unlikely to carry much weight, unless as additional evidence at his own court martial.
He wondered what the Buzzard was doing, and if she had had any luck in finding information about the vanished Frenchmen. Or if, once free of his commodore's eye, and his needs blurred by distance, Javal had gone off to seek gains of his own, He knew he was being unfair to Javal, just as he understood that it was his own desperation which was causing 1t.
He stood up and strode to the door. It had been his custom for as long as he could remember to find peace, if not answers to his doubts, while watching sunsets. He ran quickly up the ladder and on to the poop deck, allowing the north-westerly to play through his shirt, to ease away the heat and staleness of the day. He walked to the weather side and gripped the nettings, watching the vast spread Of. copper and gold strengthening as It hardened along the horizon. It was very beautiful, even awesome, and he was not surprised to find he was still moved by it. He had watched the sun's parting display from every sort of deck, from the chill wastes of the Atlantic to the scorching magnificence of the GreatSouthSea.
Bolitho saw Nicatot's fore topsail flapping and then refilling as she changed course slightly astern of Osiris. How untroubled the three ships must appear. If there had been anyone to.see them pass. Nothing to reveal the teeming life within their rounded hulls, or the work of repairing storm damage which even now was still going on. Changing watches, sail and gun drill, eating and sleeping. It was their world. His world. And yet, even after a full day of it, probably a twin of the one before, and the next beyond it, these men could still find time to escape from each other in their own way. Bone carving, and scrimshaw work; intricate designs made out of rope and scraps of metal, it was difficult to understand how such delicate and finely made objects could come from the hands of British seamen. Snuff-boxes, too, much prized in the wardroom by less experienced officers, which had been worked and polished from chunks of salt beef. Such boxes were as hard and as brightly polished as mahogany, and said much for their maker's skill as well as for their digestion under normal circumstances.
'Deck there! Land on the lee bow!'
Bolitho walked to the opposite side and peered towards the other horizon, already deep purple as the sky followed the retreating sun like a curtain. That would be a part of Malta, he thought, Gozo most likely.
Below the poop rail he heard a master's mate bark, 'You, what's yer name? Larssen, is it?' A mumbled reply and then the same voice. 'I told yer, I told yer, an' I told yer! Watch the compass and watch the set of the sails. Don’t just stand a'gawpin' until the ship pays off under yer! Jesus, you’ll never rate quartermaster, not in a 'undred years!'
Another voice this time. Bolitho recognised the haughty lilt of Lieutenant Fitz-Clarence. 'What's the fuss, Mr. Bagley?'
The master's mate replied, 'Nuthin' much. Just that the poor old ship is so full of furriners I 'ave to tell' em every thin' twice!'
Bolitho began to walk loosely back and forth across the empty poop. Bagley was right of course. Like many King's ships, Lysander had gathered a good portion of foreign seamen into her belly. Swedes and Spaniards, Hanoverians and Danes. There were eleven Negroes, and one Canadian who spoke better French than
