Bolitho shut the others from his mind as he levelled a telescope and concentrated everything on the distant patch of sails. She was big for a yawl, and had every piece of canvas set in her favour as she ran free with the wind. Courier, smuggler, it was of no account. She needed to get to safety, and the nearest land was the Ile d’Yeu.
Neale said bitterly, “If I change tack to starboard and gain more wind I might still head her off. We have six hours before dusk.” He sounded disappointed and confused.
“Remain as you are, Captain Neale. I shall require you to luff directly. Put her in stays.”
“But, but…” Neale was at a loss for words. To snatch then lose a prize, deliberately at that, was more than he could accept.
Bolitho eyed him calmly. “I want that yawl to believe we have been taken aback.”
Neale nodded jerkily. “Aye, sir. Mr Pickthorn! We are standing into the wind! Stand by tacks and sheets!” He added huskily, “I believe it myself, sir!”
As the helm was put up still further, Styx lifted like a stag caught by a musket ball in mid-air. Under Pickthorn’s guidance, and the curses and blows of the frantic petty officers and topmen, the ship plunged down into a deep trough, the sails flapping against the masts and forcing the hull over like a waterlogged cutter.
A seaman fell from the ratlines, the sea directly below his kicking feet before two of his companions hauled him gasping to safety. But not a spar cracked apart, nor did any sail split into ribbons, as the stricken frigate wallowed helplessly out of control.
Bolitho raised his glass again and watched for the yawl’s tancoloured sails. Well to starboard now, her hull partly hidden in the blue water.
“A moment more, Captain Neale.”
Bolitho handed the telescope to Allday. If Allday thought he had gone mad he certainly did not show it.
Then Bolitho said, “Get her under way again and continue the chase. Do not set your t’gallants. I want a chase, but if you catch that yawl I’ll make you eat your prize-money!”
It was like seeing a cloud part across a clear sky as Neale stared at him with amazement and admiration.
“Follow the Frenchie all the way to the island, sir?”
Bolitho watched the disorganized bunches of seamen being rounded up and set to the braces and halliards, once more.
“All the way.”
As Neale hurried to pass his orders to his lieutenants, Bolitho turned and looked at Allday. “Well?”
Allday wiped his mouth with the back of his fist. “I reckon the falcon is free, sir, an’ that’s no error!”
“Deck there! Land ahead! Fine on th’ lee bow!”
Bolitho tried to conceal his rising excitement as officers and master’s mates jostled each other at the quarterdeck rail to train their telescopes.
Neale commented worriedly, “The wind is dropping, sir.
Bolitho glanced up at the topsails, the almost painful way they lifted to the wind and emptied just as swiftly.
The chase had been going on for two hours, with the yawl running in direct line ahead of the frigate’s jib-boom. To lose her now, with the land in sight, would be sheer stupidity.
“Set your t’gallants, stuns’ls too if you think fit.”
Bolitho turned away as Neale beckoned to his first lieutenant and walked aft to the wheel.
He nodded to the sailing-master and asked, “What is the channel like beyond the Ile d’Yeu, Mr Bundy?”
The master was a small, shabby man with a face like cracked leather. Old Ben Grubb, the sailing-master of the Benbow, would make four of him, Bolitho thought.
But there was nothing shabby about his mind or reply.
“A bad ’un, sir. ’Bout ten mile from the island to the mainland, but a bad bottom, no more’n three fathom at the most at low water.” He stared ahead of the flapping sails as if he could already see the island. “A place to anchor a flotilla of small craft, I reckon.” He rubbed his chin thoughtfully. “The ’ole island is no longer than five mile accordin’ to my chart.”
“Thank you, Mr Bundy.”
Bolitho turned away to rejoin Neale and did not see the relief and pleasure on Bundy’s lean features. Bolitho had not merely asked his opinion, but had made certain that his mates and helmsmen had heard him do so.
“I can just make it out, sir.” Neale waited for Bolitho to pick up a telescope. “But the haze makes everything shapeless.”
Bolitho held his breath and waited for the deck to rise again. There it was, a patch of darker blue against the sea. The island where the Spanish ship had off-loaded her cargo of building stone.
The yawl was heading for the northern tip of the island, but once around the sheltered side would probably stand even closer inshore and follow the coast further south to Nantes.
Her master would have the wind at his disposal should the pursuing frigate try to head him off at the last minute or be joined by another patrol from the south. Bolitho smiled wryly. It was unlikely there was another British man-of-war within two hundred miles south of this quarterdeck.
He lowered the glass and watched the seamen strung out along the upper yards as the topsails were set and sheeted home, their bellies filling listlessly to the warm breeze. Four hours of good daylight left. It would have to be enough. To stand off until daylight would be like blowing a warning trumpet to the nearest French garrison.
Many telescopes were probably laid on the speedy yawl and the menacing pyramid of sails in pursuit. A horseman would be despatched to the local commander. An artillery battery would be alerted to warn off the foolish English captain who was risking everything in order to catch such a small prize.
Neale asked casually, “What do you intend, sir?”
Perhaps he took Bolitho’s silence for uncertainty. “We could alter course and make better use of the wind. Then head for the southern end of the island, maybe catch the Frogs as they break free of the channel?”
“Yes. But if the yawl decided not to head further south?”
Neale shrugged. “We shall lose her.”
Bolitho raised the glass again and steadied it on the distant island.
“We have done that already, Captain Neale.”
Neale stared at him. “Then you intend to work as close to the island as you can and estimate the defences?” He was completely lost.
Bolitho smiled at him. “I intend we should do better than that. We shall enter the channel itself. With the wind under our coat-tails, I think even the French will be surprised!”
Neale swallowed hard. “Aye, sir. But Mr Bundy says-”
Bolitho nodded. “I know. Three fathoms at low water. It will have to be done well.” He grinned and touched his arm, glad that he was able to mask his own anxiety from the young captain. “I have every faith in you.”
He turned towards the companion-way. “Allday, fetch me something cool from the wine store.” He nodded to the watching lieutenants. “I have to think.”
Allday followed him down the ladder and aft to the cabin, while overhead the decks shook to the immediate activity of hurrying seamen.
He grinned admiringly. “By God, sir, that stirred them well enough!”
Bolitho walked to the stern windows and leaned out to stare at the rippling wake from the rudder. He heard the muffled shout of commands, the squeal of trucks as somewhere up forward the bow-chasers were prepared for the first shots of the engagement.
How he had wanted to remain on deck and take part. But he had to accept that Neale was an extension of himself. Without being told what to do he had already accepted Bolitho’s strategy, and would execute it without question. In a matter of hours he might be lying dead or screaming on his surgeon’s table. His beloved Styx could become a drifting dismasted hulk, or pushed hard aground because the chart was mistaken. And all because of his admiral’s order.
Bolitho said, “Fetch Mr Browne and ask him to join me for a glass.”
Bolitho relaxed very slowly as the door closed behind Allday. Browne was different from anyone he knew. At least he might keep his mind away from the very real possibility of failure.
When Bolitho returned to the quarterdeck the little island had grown considerably, so that it sprawled across the starboard bow like a blunt-headed monster.
Neale said, “We are overhauling her, sir.” He waited to watch Bolitho’s reactions. “But the yawl is almost
