came of a powerful family, and why he ever became a sea officer was beyond Herrick completely.
But then the two ships were totally unlike each other also. Off watch in Lysander, the seamen had skylarked and found time to joke about their lot under all but the most harsh circumstances. In this ship there was no such feeling. Like Outhwaite, the sailors went about their work cat-footed, and when below were as silent as monks.
Herrick had tried to ease this unnerving tension aside, but as with Osiris's last captain, he was met at every level by an unbreachable wall. Farquhar had run the ship to the highest point of efficiency, cleanliness and appearance. For the people who made all that possible he had allowed nothing.
And yet some, especially Outhwaite, showed a ready respect for him. 'He don’ttolerate fools, y'know.' The froglike face had watched him curiously. 'An' he's a damn quick temper for the scoundrels, too!'
The officer of the watch snapped, 'ship rounding the point!' He saw Herrick and added harshly, 'Take the lookout's name for not reporting sooner!'
Herrick snatched a glass and hurried to the nettings. For a while longer the newcomer's topsails were riding lifelessly above a drifting curtain of haze, and then as her jib boom and beakhead thrust into view Herrick knew she was the sloop of war Harebell.
He pounded one fist into the other, his eyes misting with strain. At last. Her commander, Francis Inch, would do anything' for Bolitho. And his little sloop was even better suited for looking for him.
'Ah, sir, I see you have sighted her.' Outhwaite joined him by the rail, his hat tilted rakishly over his eyes.
He was an odd bird, Herrick thought. He wore his dull brown hair in a queue so long that the end of it was level with his sword belt. When most sea officers followed the new army custom of wearing their hair shorter, Outhwaite apparently intended to retain his grip on the past.
Harebell.'
Herrick watched the sudden activity aboard Lysander, the signal flapping listlessly from her yards. Farquhar would want to know what was happening elsewhere, and as quickly as it took Inch's gig to cross the water.
'Harebell's dropped her hook, sir.' Outhwaite showed only mild interest. 'she's too soon back from her mission to have visited England. So we’ll not know how things are In London, eh?'
Herrick did not know what things in London were, nor did he care.
'I’m going below, Mr. Outhwaite. Call me the moment that Lysander signals for captains to repair aboard.'
'Aye, sir.'
Outhwaite smiled and touched his hat. He felt an unusual admiration for Captain Herrick. Rather like his father did for a rustic gamekeeper or groom. Reliable but quaint. The way he was so obviously worried about the commodore's. disappearance, for instance. Outhwaite could not imagine what sort of experiences and dangers they must have shared in the past to create such a bond. A bond which even.Bolitho's action about a change of commands had not diminished.
He watched the boat pulling away from Harebell towards the flagship, Inch's gold-laced hat in the sternsheets. Somewhat different from Charles Farquhar, he thought. He looked on one man's loss as an opening for his own gain. Outhwaite nodded. As it should be.
But for most of the afternoon, while Herrick sat or paced restlessly in Farquhar's beautifully equipped cabin, no signal came, nor any rumour of what Harebell had carried with her to Syracuse.
With a telescope he had examined the sloop more than once through the quarter gallery, and had seen the great scars of bared woodwork where the sea had done its best to hamper her, the patches in her loosely furled sails as evidence of Inch's determination to lose no time with his despatches.
He glared at the skylight as someone stamped overhead.
Damn Farquhar to hell! Even this moment he was unwilling to share with his fellow captains.
There was a sharp rap at the door and a midshipman stared in at him. 'Beg pardon, sir, but Mr. Outhwaite sends his respects and-'
Herrick stood up. 'The flagship has signaled for me at last?' He did not bother to hide his sarcasm.
'N-no, sir.' The midshipman stared at him warily. 'Captain Farquhar is coming to us.'
Herrick snatched his hat. 'I will come up.'
He tried to imagine what was happening. Whatever it was had moved Farquhar to act swiftly at last.
Later, as the calls trilled and the marines banged their muskets to the present, Herrick watched Farquhar's handsome face for some indication. But there was nothing, beyond a slight smile at the comers of his mouth.
He snapped, 'Cabin.' And strode past Herrick with barely a glance at the assembled marines.
In the cabin he turned and faced Herrick.
'Harebell has brought despatches from Gibraltar.' He darted a glance around the cabin. 'some wine would not come amiss.'
Herrick asked, 'Then there is no news of the commodore?' Farquhar stared at him. 'Did I say there was?' He shrugged. 'Really, Thomas, *you are the most stubborn of men!'
'I thought perhaps that Harebell might have sighted…' 'Commander Inch has brought news of more pressing matters.' He sounded. irritated at Herrick's interruption. 'Admiral Lord St. Vincent has been kept fully informed. Those heavy guns which we captured must have convinced him. He has appointed Rear Admiral Sir Horatio Nelson to command a fleet which will be powerful and ready enough to enter the Mediterranean and seek out the French, once and for all.'
Herrick looked away. It was good news of course, or should have been. Bolitho had been given the trust he needed to bring this plan into being. But now that an idea was fast becoming a reality, Bolitho was not here to share in the rewards he deserved.
