SEVEN DAYS after calling his captains together in conference, Bolitho was growing more and more restless for news. It was like being abandoned by the world beyond Styx ’s hull, or being cast adrift because of some terrible plague.
He had deliberately sent the other two frigates to maintain close watch on Belle Ile and its approaches. This would ensure that the French would believe their enemy’s blockade remained unchanged. Also, if the Spanish shipmaster’s information proved false, it might allow time to call heavier vessels from the other squadrons if there was an attempt to break out.
So while Styx cruised slowly back and forth along a twentymile triangle to the south, Bolitho had ordered the little brig to maintain contact between them.
It was frustrating, almost maddening, to know nothing, and it was all he could do to restrain himself from going on deck whenever he heard a cry from the masthead or some unusual disturbance among the men on watch. The weather did nothing to help. The wind had fallen away to a leisurely breeze, with barely a whitecap to break the Bay’s shark-blue emptiness. The ship’s company, although much aware of the responsibility of carrying their admiral about his affairs, grew slack and casual. Here and there seamen would loll at their monotonous tasks of splicing and whipping, polishing and stitching, and, hidden from the quarterdeck, others would lie sprawled in the tops, fast asleep.
Bolitho had noticed that neither Neale nor Browne had mentioned the lack of support from north or south. Beauchamp’s wishes must have been translated into deeds by now, even the gun brigs from Gibraltar should have arrived to give him the support he needed. The fact that Browne stayed silent suggested he and not his rear- admiral was closer to the truth. No support would arrive. The strategy so carefully planned by Beauchamp would be allowed to lie in some Admiralty strongbox until conveniently forgotten.
Allday entered the cabin and removed Bolitho’s sword from its rack to give it a daily polish. He hesitated, his thick shadow swaying easily to the ship’s gentle lift and plunge.
“That brig could have been delayed, sir. Wind was against her. Takes time to beat up-channel. I remember when we was in-”
Bolitho shook his head. “Not now. I know you mean well, but she must have made port with days to spare. Those craft are well used to their work.”
Allday sighed. “No sense in blaming yourself, sir.” He paused as if expecting Bolitho to turn on him. “These past days you’ve been like a falcon on a line, not able to do what he wants.”
Bolitho sat down on the bench beneath the stern windows. It was strange, but a fact, that it was easy to talk with his big coxswain, whereas he could never express even the hint of a doubt to Neale or any of his officers. That would imply weakness, uncertainty, what a man remembered when the iron began to fly, when he most needed to be inspired.
Allday was probably right. It was all too soon after the Baltic. Allday would realize that better than any of them. He had carried him in his arms when his wound had burst open and he almost died.
He asked, “What does your falcon do, Allday?”
Allday drew the old sword and raised it level with his eye until the edge gleamed in the reflected sunlight like a silver thread.
“He bides his time, sir. If he’s meant to be free, somehow he’ll manage it.”
They both looked up, off guard, as the masthead’s voice echoed through the skylight. “Deck there! Sail on th’ larboard quarter!”
Feet pounded across the planking and another voice snapped, “Alert the captain, Mr Manning! Mr Kilburne, aloft with you, smartly now!”
Bolitho and Allday exchanged glances.
It was the part Bolitho hated most. Having to wait. Not able to rush up and join the others and make his own judgement. Neale was the captain.
Voices sighed back and forth across the quarterdeck, but more subdued now. They were conscious either of Neale’s arrival on deck or of the fact that the cabin skylight was propped fully open.
Allday murmured, “God damn them, they are taking an age!”
In spite of his own anxiety, Bolitho was forced to smile.
“Easy, Allday. I will assist you if things become too difficult!”
But when a breathless midshipman arrived and blurted out his captain’s respects, and that a sail was closing to larboard, he found his admiral apparently at ease and untroubled on the stern bench and his coxswain engrossed in polishing a sword.
On the quarterdeck the sun was very hot, and made the shadows of rigging and shrouds criss-cross the pale planking like black bars.
Bolitho joined Neale by the hammock nettings. Like the other officers, he had discarded his heavy coat and was wearing shirt and breeches, with nothing to distinguish him from his subordinates. Anyone in Styx ’s company of some two hundred and forty souls who did not recognize his admiral after two weeks of cramped isolation was beyond help, Bolitho thought.
Neale said, “Lookout thinks there are two vessels, sir.” He shifted under Bolitho’s gaze. “The heat haze is making it hard to determine.”
Bolitho nodded, unaware that in his eagerness he had been almost glaring at him.
“Deck, sir! She’s a brig!” A pause, and then the midshipman named Kilburne shouted, “And-and one other, sir!”
The sailing-master whispered to one of his mates, “Gawd ’elp us!”
Neale cupped his hands. “What the hell are you talking about, sir?”
The second lieutenant who was on watch said helpfully, “I could get aloft, sir.”
“Remain here!” Neale turned to his first lieutenant. “Mr Pickthorn, I must ask you to go as I am seemingly supported by blind men and cripples!”
Pickthorn concealed a grin and was swarming up the ratlines before Neale had recovered his composure.
The air shook to the far-off bang of a gun, and Bolitho had to move to the lee side to hide his own impatience.
“Deck! ’Tis Rapid, sir! In pursuit of a small vessel, possibly a yawl!”
Neale squinted at the masthead pendant and the listless rise and fall of his sails and exclaimed, “Damn them! We’ll stand no chance!”
Bolitho said sharply, “What is the course to steer for Ile d’Yeu?”
Neale dragged his mind away from the thought of losing prize-money, no matter how small.
The sailing-master called, “Due east, sir, as makes no difference.”
Bolitho strode across the deck, barely conscious of the curious stares, the sun which had already changed his shirt into a wet rag.
“Bring her about, Captain Neale, and beat to wind’rd! When you are within signalling distance, I wish you to order Rapid to stand away!”
Pickthorn arrived on deck with a thump. He said hoarsely, “The yawl is making a run for it, sir! But Rapid ’s overhauling her fast!” He sensed the tension. “Sir?”
“Signal Rapid to disengage! Then call the hands and prepare to come about.” Neale glanced quickly at Bolitho. “We are taking over the chase.”
Pickthorn stared. “I see. Aye, at once, sir!”
Calls shrilled, and within minutes the men were straining at the braces, bringing the frigate heeling round until her canvas was almost aback. Sails banged and flapped in wild confusion, and had the wind been any stronger, she would have been in danger of losing a few spars.
The other midshipman on watch closed his telescope and said, “Rapid has acknowledged, sir.”
There was no need to add what everyone was thinking. It was unheard of for any ship, let alone the one wearing the flag of a rear-admiral, to snatch a prize from a consort. With Styx standing almost into the wind, it was even likely the elusive yawl would slip clean away from both of them. That would raise a few jeers in some French harbour tonight.
The master yelled, “Nor’-nor’-west, sir! Full an’ bye!”
Bolitho did not have to be told. The frigate was pitching unsteadily, the air filled with the din of canvas and blocks, of angry voices trying to hold the ship on course.
