lieutenant or the master.
But he remembered his own beginning. The long, hungry walk from Penzance to Falmouth. Just a boy, and quite alone.
`Why did you approach me, Mr Penels? The truth now.'
'My friend said you are a good officer, sir. Not so sharp as some.'
Pascoe formed a mental picture of this unfortunate Babbage. A wild-eyed youth, nearer his own age than Penels', he would have thought.
`Well, we are with the squadron now, Mr Penels. Had you come to me in port I might have been able to do something.' He thought of Wolfe and knew it would have made little difference even then.
A ship needed men. Every hand she could get. Wolfe was a good officer in many ways, but he was short of sympathy for any catch brought aboard by the press.
But it. must be hard for both Penels and his friend of boyhood days.
In the same hull, yet neither knowing the other was aboard until the ship was standing out to sea. Separated not only by rank and station, but also by the ship's own geography. Penels served with the afterguard for sail drill and duty with the quarterdeck nine-pounders. Babbage was classed as a landman in his own division at the foremast. Babbage was young and agile. With luck he should soon learn to run aloft with the topmen, the aristocrats of seamanship.
He heard himself say, 'I will look into it. I'll not promise anything though.'
He strode away, unable to bear the gratitude in Penels' eyes.
Commander Matthew Veitch arrived in Bolitho's cabin and looked around him curiously. On his left shoulder the single epaulette denoting his rank glittered in bright contrast to his shabby sea-going coat. Veitch had served with Bolitho before and knew he would get no thanks for wasting time to change his clothing before he reported to the flagship.
Bolitho said, 'Sit down and tell me about it.'
It felt strange to be at anchor again. The four ships of the line were all lying to their cables in close formation, with the Danish coast clearly visible through the quarter windows. The frigates were still on patrol, like watchdogs, they rarely rested.
The sloop, with her prize, were also at anchor off Skaw Point, which in recent months had become the fleet's general rendezvous and resting place.
Veitch stretched his long legs. 'The prize is a merchant brig, sir, the Echo out of Cherbourg. Slipped through our patrols in a storm last week, her master says: She made a run for it, so I raked her promptly.'
Bolitho glanced at the bulkhead door. Beyond it Browne, who had a good knowledge of French, was busy going through the Echo's papers which Veitch had brought aboard.
A French brig. Without obvious cargo or passengers. She had taken considerable risk in running the blockade, more again when she had attempted to outsail the Lookout.
'Where bound?'
Veitch shrugged. 'Her master had false papers, I suspect. But the charts were found stuffed in the lazarette by one of my midshipmen with the boarding party.' He grinned. 'The lad was searching for food, no doubt, but I'll not spoil his glory because of that!' He became serious again. 'Two points were marked, sir. Copenhagen and Stockholm.'
Herrick moved restlessly away from the quarter windows and said, 'It smells, sir.'
Bolitho looked at him. 'You think as I do, Thomas? The French are in some way mixed up with Tsar Paul's discontent?'
Herrick replied, 'I feel certain of it, sir. The more they can put under arms, the better it is for them. We'll have the whole world against us if they have their way!'
The door opened and Browne entered the cabin. He held one letter in his hand, the broken seal shining dully like blood.' He raised his eyebrows questioningly.
'What does it say?' Bolitho had noticed that Browne never shared a single word of information with anyone else present without his permission.
'It is addressed to a French government official in Copenhagen, sir.'
They all looked at each other. It was like some prearranged gathering of friends and enemies alike.
Browne continued in his unemotional tone, 'It is from the military commander in Toulon, and has reached this far via Paris and Cherbourg.'
Herrick could not contain his impatience. 'Don't keep us in suspense, man!'
Browne merely glanced at him. 'The French forces in Malta have surrendered to the British blockading squadron, sir. It happened last month.'
Herrick sounded perplexed. 'Well, surely that's good news? With Malta in our hands the Frenchies will have to tread warily in the Mediterranean in future!'
Browne did not smile. 'It should be known, sir, Tsar Paul of Russia had become the so-called head of the Grand Knights of Malta. When the French captured the island he was furious. This letter explains that the French government had offered to transfer the rule of Malta to the Tsar, knowing full well, of course, that the island would fall to the British anyway.'
Herrick spread his hands. 'I still don't see where we come in?'
Bolitho said quietly, 'The British will not leave Malta, Thomas. It will be too valuable to us, as you just remarked. The French have made a clever move. What better way of turning the Tsar and his friends finally against us? We and not the French are now between him and his precious Knights of Malta.'
Browne said, `That sums it up, sir.'
'Obviously, Sir Samuel Damerum knew nothing of this.
Because of bad weather the news has moved slowly.'
Veitch cleared his throat. 'But you have the letter, sir.' Bolitho smiled gravely. 'I have indeed, thanks to you.' 'Will you act on it, sir?' Browne watched him impassively. Bolitho walked to the windows and stared at the anchored
ships.
`There is no one else here. I think the sooner we act the better.'
Herrick said, 'It's all getting beyond me, sir.'
Bolitho came to a series of decisions. It would all probably be too late, couriers could have reached Copenhagen overland if necessary. But if not, he would get no thanks from the Admiralty for dragging his feet.
'Send for my clerk. I'll make out orders for the brig. Commander Veitch, you may select a prize-crew for her. I want her to go with all speed to Great Yarmouth. Choose an intelligent prize-master, for I'll need him to take my despatches by the fastest means to London.' He looked at Herrick. 'I will shift my flag to Styx. Signal her accordingly.' He saw all the arguments, the protests building up on Herrick's round face and added quietly, 'I'd not ask you to take Benbow under the batteries of Elsinore, Thomas, if we are already at war! And if we are still at peace, a frigate will present a less threatening image.'
His clerk, Yovell, was already in the cabin, opening up his little writing desk which he kept available for such occasions.
Bolitho looked at Veitch. 'You will take over Styx 's duties for the present.'
From a corner of his eye he saw Yovell preparing his pens and ink ready to write new orders for the brig, a report for the Admiralty, a sentence of death, too, if that was asked of him.
To Herrick he said, 'You will command the squadron until I return, If I am longer than a week without sending word, you will act accordingly.'
Herrick saw he was beaten. 'And when will you leave?'
'I hope to be aboard Styx and under way before we lose the light.
After Herrick and Veitch had left to carry out his instructions, Bolitho asked the lieutenant, 'Do you think I am acting unwisely?' He saw Browne's rare uncertainty and added, `Come on, man, you should know me better after more than a week at sea together. I'll not bite off your head if I disagree with what you say. But I may not heed it either.'
Browne shrugged. 'In a way I share the flag captain's apprehension, sir. I know your background, and I have read of many of your past exploits with admiration.' He looked Bolitho straight in the eyes. `Like Captain Herrick, I see you as a fighting sailor, not as a diplomat.'
