Bolitho stood up and steadied himself against the chairback. 'No. Call my men. I will feel better aboard the ship.'
'As you wish.' He snapped his fingers to someone outside the door.
Even through his dizziness Bolitho was able to grasp that Gorse had been prepared to kill him, had posted men out of sight for the purpose, if he had failed to convince him.
He managed to ask, 'Do you wish me to carry any letters to Corfu, M'sieu?'
'No.' Gorse regarded him worriedly. 'My next letters will come by more direct means.'
Allday loomed into the room, the Swede at his back. Gorse snapped, 'Your captain is ill.'
Bolitho felt Allday gripping his arm. 'Easy, sir! We’ll soon have you safe!'
Down the steep steps and out into the merciless sunlight again. He was more carried than aided, and he was dimly aware of passing Maltese grinning at the three sailors who had emerged so unsteadily from a wine store.
Allday barked, 'Go on ahead, Larssen, an' signal for the boat!' He added harshly, 'If you're not at the jetty when we gets there, I’ll find you if it takes a lifetime!'
Bolitho felt himself being helped.into some shade, His body was streaming with sweat, but unlike the previous time it was ice-cold, so that he could not stop shivering.
He gasped, 'Must… get… on.' It was no use. His strength was fading fast. 'Must… tell… the… squadron.' Then he collapsed completely.
Four seamen, led by Larssen, came running up from the harbour and stared at Allday with surprise.
Allday rapped, 'Lively, carry him to the boat!' He pulled off his coat and wrapped it round Bolitho. 'And don’tstop for anyone!'
It seemed an endless stretch of water between jetty and ship, and every foot of the way Allday held Bolitho against his body, his eyes on the Segura 's loosely furled sails, willing them closer.
As far as he was concerned, the squadron, the French and the whole bloody world could go their own way. If anything happened to Bolitho, nothing else would matter.
12. Divided Loyalties
ALMOST identical in a relentless heat-haze, the three ships of the line lay quietly at anchor within a cable's length of the land.
Captain Thomas Herrick crossed to the larboard side of Osiris's quarterdeck and stared at the unfamiliar hills, the lush greens and the hostile crags where some of the headland had fallen into the sea below. Syracuse, remote, even unfriendly, so that their powerful presence anchored amongst the unhurried movements of small coastal craft made the impression doubly vivid in Herrick's mind.
He bit his lip and toyed with the idea of going below again. But the great stern cabin always seemed to be waiting, lying there like a trap. Part of Farquhar. He shifted his gaze to Lysander and felt the old longing and despair welling up to join his other constant anxiety.
They had been at anchor for over two weeks. The Syracuse garrison commandant had. been aboard Lysander several times, accompanied on each occasion by a rotund, worried- looking Englishman, John Manning, who was, as Herrick understood it, one of His Brittanic Majesty's last official representatives in the island. For even if Sicily showed no sign of helping France, she was equally determined not to display open friendship to King George.
Herrick moved restlessly about the deck, only partly aware of the blazing heat across his shoulders whenever he showed himself beyond one of the awnings.
When he had first heard of Bolitho's intention to find and contact a French agent in Malta, it had already been too late to protest. Segura had been swallowed up in the darkness, and from that moment on Herrick had fretted and worried continuously. And now it was all of three weeks since Segura had parted company. Not a sign of the prize ship, nor any word from the British representative in Syracuse that she had entered or left Valletta harbour.
John Manning was more concerned about finding reasons for the three seventy-fours to stay at anchor in a port which was officially neutral. Repairs, taking on food and water, all the usual reasons had been sent ashore. And still no word came.
Bolitho must have been seized by the Maltese authorities. They were even more frightened of the French than the Sicilians, if half Herrick had heard was true. Or the enemy agent might have caught and-killed him. Herrick looked towards the open sea until his eyes watered. Bolitho's place was here, in a world he understood. Where he was known by name, if not by personal contact, by most of the men in the fleet.
He thought suddenly of Javal, and found himself hating him. He had not come into Syracuse at all. After his own passage through the MessinaStrait he had been ordered to rendezvous with the squadron off Malta. Failing that, and Bolitho had always given them plenty of alternatives, he would anchor here and await developments. Perhaps he, too, had run foul of an enemy force?
But if only he would come. Farquhar would have no choice then but to send Buzzard in search of Segura and her small crew.
Herrick had visited Lysander several times, without being invited, to discover what Farquhar intended to do. As always, he was met by a blank wall, a manner and attitude which rarely failed to rouse and confuse him… Farquhar was imperturbable. If he was troubled at Bolitho's absence, he was certainly hiding it very well.
His visits to his old ship had been made more painful by the obvious pleasure of those who had hurried to greet him. Leroux, and old Grubb, and Yeo, the boatswain. In Gilchrist he had seen the biggest change of all since Farquhar's taking command. Like a man on a razor's edge, someone who rarely found time to rest or be at ease, he was almost a stranger.
Quite unlike Osiris's first lieutenant, he thought bitterly. Lieutenant Cecil Outhwaite, a bland young man in his middle twenties, was very like a frog in appearance. Low forehead, wide mouth, and eyes which were very dark and limpid. He had a slight lisp, and went about his duties as if bored by the whole business. Outhwaite, like Farquhar,
