midshipmen with great care. It was quite common for a captain to take a boy to sea as midshipman, the son of an old friend perhaps, or as some special favour. Farquhar appeared to have taken the custom right through his command.
Breen seemed to think he was expected to add something. 'I keep thinking about the seaman, sir, Larssen. But I’m all right now. I-I’m sorry about the way I acted.'
'Don’t be. A sword must bend. If it is made too hard it will snap when it is most needed.'
He wondered why he was trying to save Breen from the inevitable. It came to all of them sooner or later. He recalled his own feelings after a sea fight when he had been a young lieutenant. The guns working so hard and the battle so fierce that there had been no time to treat the dead, even the wounded, with care or respect. The corpses had been pushed overboard from friend and enemy alike, and the wounded had added their cries to the thunder of battle. When the firing had ceased, and the ships had drifted apart, too damaged and hurt to claim victory or offer defeat, the sea had been covered with drifting corpses. Because the wind had dropped during the battle, as if cowed by its savagery, they were made to watch them for two whole days. It was something he often thought about and could never forget.
He said quietly, 'Have some ginger beer.'
Poor Breen, with his rough, scrubbed hands and grubby shirt, he was more a schoolboy than a King's officer. But who in his town or village had seen Malta? Had been in a sea fight? And how many would ever know the full extent of naval power as it really was, and the men and timbers which made it?
Farquhar appeared in the door and stared coldly at the boy
with a glass in his fist.
To Bolitho he said, 'That sail has sheered off, sir.' 'Not Lysander?'
'Too small' Farquhar nodded curtly to Breen as he hurried away. 'Brig, according to the masthead lookout. A good man. He's usually right.'
Farquhar seemed much more controlled now that the storm had gone A waiting game perhaps. Standing aside to see what Bolitho would do. '
Bolitho walked to the open stem windows and leaned out above the small bubbling wash around the rudder. A good clear sky, and the horizon astern of Nicator' s fat hull was hard and empty. The brig would see more of these two ships than they would of her.
'Tell the lookouts to take extra care. Send telescopes aloft, too.'
'You think the brig was French, sir?' Farquhar sounded curious. 'she can do us little harm.'
'Maybe. In Falmouth my sister's husband owns a large farm and estate.' He looked impassively at Farquhar. 'He also has a dog. Whenever a poacher or vagrant comes near his land, the dog tracks him, but never attacks or barks.' He smiled. 'Until the stranger is within range of a fowling piece!'
Farquhar stared at the chart, as if he expected to see something there.
'Following us, sir?'
'It is possible. The French have many friends here. They would be willing and eager to pass information which might ease their lot once the tricolour has extended its 'estates'.' Farquhar said uneasily, 'But supposing that is so, the
French cannot know our full strength.'
'They will see we have no frigates. If I were a French admiral, that would be very valuable news indeed.' He walked to the door, an idea emerging from the back of his mind. 'Fetch your sailmaker, will you?'
On the quarterdeck, several hands paused to watch him before returning to their work with added vigour. They probably thought him unhinged by the fever. Bolitho allowed the light wind to cool him and smiled to himself. He was still wearing his Spanish shirt, and had declined any of Farquhar's spare clothing. His own was still aboard Lysander. He would get it when he found Herrick. And find him he would.
'sir?' The sailmaker was at his side, watching him with a mixture of caution and interest.
'How much spare canvas do you have? That which is useless for making new sails and the like?'
The man glanced nervously at Farquhar, who snapped, 'Tell him, Parker!'
The sailmaker launched into a long list of stores and fragments, item by item, and Bolitho was impressed that he retained so much in his memory.
'Thank you, er, Parker.' He moved to the starboard gang-way and stared along it towards the forecastle. 'I want a strip of canvas sewn and lashed along the gangway nettings on either side of the ship. Hammock cloths, unwanted scraps which you may have been keeping for repairing awnings and winds'ls.' He faced him calmly. 'Can you do that?'
'Well, that is, sir, I expect I could manage if…' He looked at his captain for support.
Farquhar asked, 'For what purpose, sir? I think if this fellow knew what you required, and I, too, for that matter, it would help him.'
Bolitho smiled at them. 'If we join fo'c'sle to quarterdeck in this manner, then paint the canvas the same as the hull, with black squares at regular intervals,' he leaned over the rail to gesture at the eighteen-pounder gun ports, 'we can transform Osiris into a three-decker, eh?'
Farquhar shook his head. 'Damn me, sir, it would do the trick. At any sort of distance we'd look like a first- rate, and no mistake! The Frogs will begin to wonder just how many of us there are.'
Bolitho nodded. 'Inshore we may stand a chance. But we cannot afford a pitched battle in open waters until we have discovered the enemy's real strength. I doubt that the French will have many ships of the line here. De Brueys will save them for the fleet and for protecting his transports. But I must know.'
'Deck there! Sail on the larboard quarter!'
Bolitho said, 'Our will-o'-the wisp again. As soon as it is dusk we will begin the disguise. We can change tack
