Bolitho lost sense of time and distance, and as the boats were followed, and surrounded by drifting smoke it was almost a surprise when he saw Lysander's black and buff hull rising like a cliff to greet him, her gun ports crammed with cheering faces, her gangway thronged with seamen and marines.
He gripped the nearest stair below the entry port and pulled himself from the boat. He felt as if his arms would not hold him, or tear from their sockets.
There were hands gripping his, figures pushing around him, helping, staring.
Herrick took his arm and guided hill) aft.
He said softly, 'Thank God.' He turned and studied Bolitho's face for some seconds. 'Thank God.'
Bolitho swung round as a searing column of flame shot above the smoke. Osiris's pyre.
He said, 'see to her people, Thomas. They fought well. Better than I dared hope.' He shrugged heavily. 'But for your arrival, their efforts would have failed. Their losses too great when weighed against the gains.'
He nodded as Pascoe joined them. 'Adam, too, is unhurt.' Herrick peered through the smoke. 'And the captain?' Bolitho watched the leaping flames. 'He died in battle.' He turned to Herrick. 'Bravely.'
More cheering echoed through the din of gunfire, and someone called wildly, 'The Frenchie's struck, sir!' Bolitho looked at Herrick questioningly. 'The seventy-four?'
'Aye. We shot her steering away, and raked her twice before she could fight clear. I think her captain was so taken with Osiris's defiance he did not see us at all.' He reached out awkwardly. 'so you’ll have another ship to replace the one lost. '
Lieutenant Kipling strode aft and touched his hat. 'Boarding party in command now, sir. Mr. Gilchrist has hailed us to say that the French commodore and most of his senior officers are wounded.'
Herrick nodded. 'Very well. Tell Mr. Gilchrist to arrange an exchange with the enemy. Their officers and seamen in return for any of Osiris's people who managed to swim ashore. And we keep their ship.'
Bolitho watched him. What a change. Herrick had not even hesitated or asked his aid.
Herrick faced him again. 'I’d like to anchor, sir. I understand that the French will not pursue their bombardment for the present. Javal ran their frigate into the shallows and she is hard and fast. He took a sprightly corvette as a prize, and I think the surviving one fled south as fast as he could go.'
Bolitho replied, 'Yes, I agree. But it is your decision as flag-captain. '
Herrick looked at him and. then smiled sadly. 'About Captain Farquhar, sir.'
'It is over for him, Thomas. He died because he put facts before ideas. Because he put too much value in his own future perhaps. But when he did die, it was with courage.' Herrick sighed. 'That I never doubted. '
A figure hurried beneath the poop and said, 'You're back safe and sound!'
It was Ozzard, his sad features set in a rare smile. 'Please come aft, sir!'
Bolitho shook his head. 'Later. I want to watch.'
He looked at the ships which were already anchoring, their boats surging alongside with cargoes of rescued men. Buzzard, pockmarked from the French guns, with her neat prize close by. The other French ship, her broad pendant gone and British flags at every masthead. Immortalite. The name had served her well, he thought. She had survived, and with luck would make a valuable addition to his little squadron.
He heard a loud explosion and watched scattered fragments falling all round. Osiris's powder store or a magazine had ignited at last. He saw her open gun ports glowing like lines of red eyes as the fire consumed her from within. Deck by deck, yard by yard.
His mind ached and he wanted to go to find seclusion, deep in the hull, beyond a man's voice or a sight of the sea.
But he stood by the nettings, watching Lysander's preparations, the hurrying figures of so many familiar faces. Old Grubb, nodding and saying something to him about honour. Major Leroux striding to speak with him, -but turning away at the last moment after seeing his expression.
Fitz-Clarence, and Kipling, little Midshipman Saxby with his gap-toothed grin, and Mariot, the old gun captain, who had served with his father.
He heard Herrick shout, 'Tell them to make haste, Mr. Steere! The wind is better placed, and I’d like to weigh before noon… '
Before noon? Had it taken so little time since dawn?
Bolitho stared listlessly at the littered water, the corpses and charred timbers. Just hours since dawn. That was all it had been. Many had died, more would die later.
He gripped the nettings and took several deep breaths. And he most of all had expected to be killed. That was the strangest part. He had often been near to death in his life at sea. Sometimes so close he had almost felt its presence like another being. This last time had been the worst yet.
Herrick came back to him again. 'I hate to leave you, sir.
With most of the men at quarters, and the rest all wild with their victory, it is hard to seize a moment when you need it the most.'.
'Thank you, Thomas.' He looked at the blazing Osiris; 'For them, and for me.'
Herrick said ruefully, 'Had I only known, sir.' He looked away. 'But I thought it useless to remain at anchor when you had done so much, had wanted so much for the squadron.' Bolitho watched him gravely. 'so you just sailed away, Thomas. With a scrap of paper from your acting-commodore which if it had protected him from higher authority would most certainly have damned you. Your future would have been in ruins.'
He saw the lines on Herrick's homely face and guessed that he had thought him dead or captured. By sailing alone from Syracuse he had made his own gesture, just as Inch had described.
