Farquhar.
He thought suddenly of the American captain, John Thurgood. He would have dropped his cargo and be on his return run by now. His would not be the only happy homecoming. The Spanish sailors whom Bolitho had sent to the barquentine from the prize ship Segura would make their wives and mothers weep and laugh when Thurgood sent them ashore in their own country.
He paused by the rail again and looked astern. But the Segura was too well hidden by the other ships to be seen. He sighed. He had sent some of her crew to an American barquentine, and one of her boats he had given to some French fishermen in exchange for information. Information which he had been unable to transform into results. Because of the storm? Or because he had failed to grasp the situation completely, and by so doing had failed his squadron?
Feet clattered on a ladder and the midshipman of the watch approached him warily.
'Well, Mr. Glasson?'
The midshipman touched his hat. 'Mr. Fitz-Clarence's respects, sir. The masthead has reported sighting land to the south-east. The master confirms it is Malta, sir.'
'Thank you.'
Bolitho looked at him gravely. Glasson was seventeen, and had taken over as signals midshipman following Luce's death. There was no other similarity. Glasson was hard and sharp-featured, with a tongue and a sense of discipline to match. He would make a bad lieutenant, if he lived that long. It was strange and pitiful how many there were like Glasson. Who never learned from the frightful stories of mutiny, when the power of the quarterdeck became a small and isolated community in the twinkling of an eye. Between the wars there has been Bligh's Bounty, which had captured- the nation's imagination. Civilians were ever eager to seek out the good or evil of happenings in which they were not involved, and where they suffered no threat or inconvenience. Then the great uprisings at the Nore and Spithead, both caused by grievances long-outstanding by the men of the fleet. And just before he had sailed for Gibraltar to hoist his broad pendant in Lysander Bolitho had listened, shocked and appalled, to the latest evidence of what could happen when men and their resources were pressed beyond limits. H.M. frigate Hermione had sailed into the Spanish port of LaGuaira and surrendered herself to the enemy. Her officers had been butchered in the most horrible manner, and some of her loyal hands had suffered a similar fate. The mutineers had offered their ship to an enemy in exchange for their own freedom. Bolitho did not know much more of the mutiny, other than that the frigate had been under the command of a tyrant. As he looked at Glasson, much of whose confidence was fast departing under his commodore's stare, he marvelled that the lesson still went unheeded.
'What are your hopes for the future?'
Glasson drew himself up. 'To serve my King, sir, and to gain my own command.'
'Very commendable. ' Bolitho added dryly, 'Did you learn anything from duties aboard our prize?'
The midshipman relaxed slightly. 'The Dons who man her are dolts. They know nothing, and their vessel is in a filthy state. '
Bolitho did not hear him, he was thinking of the letter, the French agent named Yves Gorse. He could feel the blood rushing through his brain like fire. Suppose the Frenchman did not know which vessel should be bringing instructions from Toulon? With communications so difficult, and the final French intentions still a well-guarded secret, it was likely he would know little about the form of delivery.
He turned to Glasson. 'My compliments to the flag captain. I should like him to join me on the poop.'
Farquhar arrived five minutes later to find Bolitho striding from side to side, hands clasped behind him, as if he were in a state of trance.
Farquhar suggested, 'You have come upon a fresh idea, sir?'
Bolitho stopped and looked at him. 'I think maybe others gave it to me. I was too involved with my anxieties to heed the obvious.'
'sir?'
'I heard the master's mate, Bagley, reprimanding one of the helmsmen. Because he did riot understand him immediately. '
Farquhar frowned. 'That would be Larssen, sir. I can have him removed.'
'No, no.' Bolitho faced him. 'It was not that. And something Glasson said about the Segura just now. '
'I see, sir.' Farquhar was lost. 'At least, I think I do.' Bolitho smiled. 'segura. We have been keeping her with- out knowing why. Vanity perhaps? Evidence that we did not fail at everything? And as time went on we forgot she was there. '
Farquhar watched him doubtfully, his eyes glowing in the sunset. 'she's too slow for scouting, sir. I thought we'd agreed on that.'
Bolitho nodded. 'Have a new prize crew detailed, and send the remaining Spaniards into the squadron. Tell a lieutenant of your choice that I want the prize crew to be as foreign as he can find!'
'Aye, sir.: There was not even surprise now. Farquhar probably believed the strain and responsibility had at last driven him mad.
'And I want it done immediately. Signal the squadron to heave-to before the light goes completely.' Farquhar made to hurry away. 'What will the lieutenant be required to do, if I may venture to ask, sir?'
'Do, Captain?' He turned away to conceal his sudden excitement. 'He will sail the Segura into Malta under false colours, American, I think. And there he will deliver a letter for me.'
Farquhar exclaimed, 'The French agent?'
'Just so.' He started to pace. 'I suggest you start at once.'
Farquhar waited a moment longer. 'It's a great risk, sir.'
You told me that before. As did Thomas Herrick. Have you never taken risks?' Farquhar smiled. 'The men will most probably desert once they are m Malta. And the officer in charge will be seized and likely hanged. The Knights of Malta are only too aware of the danger in incurring France 's displeasure. They have been friendly to us in the
