Allday said suddenly, “Well, sir, what d’you think?”
Bolitho smiled at him. “I’m glad she’s come back, Allday. There are too few veterans here today.”
Bolitho waited for the glasses to be refilled and tried to contain his new excitement. The Styx ’s stern cabin looked snug and pleased with itself in the glow of the deckhead lanterns, and although the hull groaned and shuddered around them, Bolitho knew that the sea was calmer, that true to the sailing-master’s prediction the wind had backed to the north-west.
He looked around the small group, and although it was black beyond the stern windows he could picture the other two frigates following in line astern while their captains awaited his pleasure. Only Rapid ’s young commander was absent, prowling somewhere to the north-east in readiness to dash down and alert his consorts if the French attempted a breakout under cover of darkness.
How would the parents and families feel if they could see their offspring on this night, he wondered? The bluff, red-faced Duncan of Sparrowhawk, relating with some relish, and to Neale’s obvious amusement, a recent entanglement with a magistrate’s wife in Bristol. Emes of the Phalarope, alert and very self-contained, watching and listening. Browne leaning over the fat shoulders of Smith, Neale’s clerk, and murmuring about some item or other.
Aboard the three frigates of Bolitho’s small force the first lieutenants would in turn be wondering at the outcome of this meeting. What would it mean to each of them personally? Promotion, death, even a command if their lord and master should fail.
The clerk straightened his shoulders and silently withdrew from the cabin.
Bolitho listened to the sluice of water around the rudder, the faint tap, tap, tap of halliards, and a restless step of a watchkeeper overhead. A ship. A living thing.
“Gentlemen. Your health.”
Bolitho sat down at the table and turned over a chart. The three ships were standing inshore towards the Loire Estuary, but that was nothing unusual. British ships, in company or alone, had done it a thousand times to keep the French fleet guessing and to sever their precious lines of supply and communication.
The brig which today had made contact with Styx was already well on her way to the north and England. Despatches from the vice-admiral commanding the southern squadron, another piece of intelligence which might eventually be used by the brains of Admiralty.
But, as was customary in local strategy, the brig’s commander had been instructed to make contact with any senior officer he discovered on passage. A keen-eyed lookout had ensured that the officer concerned was Bolitho.
He said, “You all know by now the bones of our orders, our true reason for being here.”
He glanced around their intent faces. Young and serious, each aware of the supposedly secret peace proposals, and conscious that with peace could come the sudden end of any hope for advancement. Bolitho understood very well. Between the wars he had been one of the very fortunate few who had been given a ship when the majority of officers had been thrown on the beach like paupers.
“A week ago, two of our patrols to the south’rd fell in with a Spanish trader and tried to take her as a prize. It was near dark and the Spaniard made a run for it. But with a few balls slammed into his hull, and a shifting cargo for good measure, he began to capsize. A boarding party was just in time to seize some papers, and discover that the vessel’s holds were filled with building stone. With encouragement the Spanish master admitted he was bringing his cargo into this sector.” He touched the chart with his fingers. “Fifteen leagues south of our present position, to the Ile d’Yeu.”
As he had expected, some of their earlier excitement had given way to disappointment. He decided not to play with them any longer.
“The Spanish master stated that he had visited the island several times, and on every occasion had landed a cargo of stone.” He picked up the brass dividers and moved them over the chart.
“He also said that the anchorage was filled with small vessels, newly built and fitted out. He did not know of their purpose until shown some drawings of French invasion craft of the kind being gathered in the Channel ports.” He nodded, seeing their immediate interest. “The very same. So while we watch Belle Ile and Lorient, the French admiral is moving his flotillas of gun brigs and bombs whenever he is told it is safe to do so.”
Duncan opened his mouth and shut it again.
Bolitho asked, “Captain Duncan, you have a question?”
“The stone, sir, I don’t see the point of it. Och, even new craft don’t need that much ballast while they are fitting out, and I’m sure there must be plenty closer to the building yards.”
“Perhaps by moving their craft close inshore they prefer to use the stone as ballast until they are ready for final commissioning at Lorient or Brest. The stone would then be off-loaded and used for fortifications and local batteries. It would make good sense, and draw far less attention than the movement of larger vessels in our area. All this time we have been watching the wrong sector, but now we know, gentlemen, and I intend to act upon this information.”
Neale and Duncan grinned at each other, as if they were being included in a mission already fought and won.
Emes said flatly, “But without further reinforcements, sir, it will be a hard nut to crack. I know the Ile d’Yeu, and the narrow channel between it and the mainland. An easy anchorage to protect, a hazardous one to attack.” He withdrew behind his mask as the others stared at him as if he had uttered some terrible oath.
“Well said.” Bolitho spread his hands across the chart. “We will create a diversion. The French will not expect a raid within such confined waters if they see us elsewhere, where they expect to see us.”
He turned to Browne who had been trying to catch his eye for several minutes.
“Yes?”
“Well, sir, if we wait until reinforcements arrive, as Sir George Beauchamp desired in his original plan, we could stand a better chance of success surely? Or if the brig which brought the news eventually returns with new orders countermanding our present commitment, then we shall be obliged to do nothing.”
Duncan exploded, “Do nothing, man! What are you saying?”
Bolitho smiled. “I take your point, Browne.”
Like Herrick and Allday, he was trying to shield him. If he attacked and failed, his head would be on the block. If he held back, nobody could blame him, but Beauchamp’s trust would be dishonoured for ever.
He said quietly, “If there is to be peace, it must be decided on fair and equal terms and not under the threat of invasion. If later there is to be war, we must ensure now that our people are not outman?uvred from the moment the treaty is torn in shreds. I don’t see that I have any choice.”
Duncan and Neale nodded firmly in agreement, but Emes merely brushed a loose thread from his sleeve, his face expressionless.
In the silence, Bolitho was conscious of Smith’s pen scraping on paper, and of his own heart against his ribs.
He added, “I have seen too many ships lost, too many lives tossed away, to ignore something which may be important, even vital, to our future. I suggest you return to your duties, gentlemen, and I shall endeavour to do mine.”
As the three captains left the cabin, Bolitho said, “Thank you for trying to protect me, Oliver. But there was never any choice. Even without this new information, I should have been forced to act. At least I know where. The how always takes a mite longer, eh?”
Browne smiled, touched at Bolitho’s confidence in him, the familiar use of his name.
When Bolitho spoke again his voice was preoccupied, even distant.
“And something troubles me…” He thought of Emes, withdrawn and resentful, of his nephew, Adam, so pleased with the realization of a dream, and of the girl in Falmouth.
“When I have discovered what it is, I shall feel more confident perhaps.”
If I have not already left it too late.
4. The Stuff of Battle
