“Hands wear ship!”
Wolfe’s long legs emerged from the mizzen-mast’s shadow. “Man the braces, there! Tops’l sheets!”
Bolitho shaded his eyes and looked towards an anchored manof-war. She had already been identified by the signals midshipman. She was the Dorsetshire, eighty, flagship of Vice-Admiral Sir John Studdart. He could see the admiral’s flag drooping almost lifelessly from the Dorsetshire’s foremast, and wondered what the officer of the watch would make of his own flag at Benbow’s mizzen instead of Herrick’s broad-pendant.
“Tops’l clew lines! Wake up, that man!”
Grubb called, “Ready, sir!”
“Helm a-lee!”
With tired dignity Benbow turned very slowly into the breeze, the way going off her as the remaining sails flapped in confusion before they were fisted to the yards by the waiting topmen.
“Let go!”
Spray flew above the forecastle as the big anchor splashed down into the clear water and more feet stampeded to the boat tier in readiness for lowering the barge alongside with a minimum delay.
Glasses would have been trained on the Benbow’s performance from the moment she had begun her final approach, her fifteengun salute to the vice-admiral’s flag booming and reverberating around the bay like a bombardment. Gun for gun the flagship had replied, the smoke drifting upwards on the warm air to mingle with haze which encircled the Rock like cloud.
“Away, barge crew!” That was Allday, his face showing nothing of the strain he must have endured as a prisoner, his natural sense of responsibility for Bolitho making it that much worse for him.
Herrick joined Bolitho by the nettings and touched his hat.
“Will you go across to the flagship now, sir?”
“Aye, Thomas. No sense in delaying. Someone else might get to Sir John’s ear before me otherwise.” His eyes moved to the distant Indiaman. “I have much to do.”
Herrick saw the quick glance. It was not lost on him, any more than all the other times when he had seen Bolitho on deck, looking for the slim figure in the shady straw hat.
“Barge alongside, sir.” Wolfe watched him curiously, ever ready to learn something from the bond which linked Bolitho to Herrick.
The marines were at the entry port, the boatswain’s mates ready with their silver calls and moistening them on their lips.
Bolitho pressed his sword against his hip, sensing its unfamiliarity, the feeling of loss for his old family blade. He gritted his teeth and walked towards the port. He tried not to limp or to show his sadness for what had gone before. Little pictures flitted through his mind. The old sword on the French commandant’s table, the swarthy rear- admiral, Jean Remond, who had been unable to accept that Bolitho would not swear to make no escape attempt. Above and through it all he saw Neale. Brave, despairing, and in the last seconds of life, strangely content.
The marines presented arms, the calls shrilled, and Bolitho climbed swiftly down to where Allday, splendid in his blue coat and nankeen breeches, and hat in hand, stood to receive him.
Browne was already in the sternsheets, expressionless as he studied Bolitho’s face.
They all watch me, Bolitho thought. Did they expect to see more than a man?
“Bear off forrard! Give way, all!” Allday thrust the tiller bar over, his eyes slitted against the reflected glare.
Bolitho asked softly, “You feel glad to be back, Allday?”
The big coxswain nodded, but did not take his eyes from the nearby guard-boat.
“I’ve damned the fleet an’ all it stands for a few times, sir, an’ I’d be a Tom Pepper if I said different.” He glanced briefly at the guard-boat, her oars tossed, a lieutenant standing to remove his hat as the barge sped past him. “But it’s my world for now. Home.”
Browne said, “I can understand that too, sir.”
Bolitho settled down on the thwart, his hat tugged firmly across his forehead.
“We all but lost it, Oliver.”
“Toss your oars! Stand by, bowman!” Allday ignored the faces above the Dorsetshire’s gangway, the glint of sunlight on bayonets, the scarlets and blues, the difference of one ship from another.
Bolitho climbed up to the entry port and the clatter and shrill of salutes began all over again.
He saw the vice-admiral by the poop as he waited for his flag-captain to complete the formal welcome before he strolled across the quarterdeck to make his own.
Bolitho had known Studdart as a fellow captain during the American revolution. But he had not seen him for several years and was surprised he had aged so much. He had grown portly, and his round, untroubled face looked as if he enjoyed good living to the full.
He shook him warmly by the hand and exclaimed, “Damn me eyes, Bolitho, you are a sight indeed! Last thing I heard was that the Frogs had stuck your head on a pike!” He laughed loudly. “Come aft and tell me all. I’d like to be on the same tack as the news bulletins.” He gestured vaguely towards the side. “No doubt the Dons in Algeciras saw your arrival just now. They’ll pass the word to Boney, of that I’m certain.”
In the great cabin it was comparatively cool, and after dismissing his servants and sending Browne on an errand, ViceAdmiral Sir John Studdart settled down in silence to listen to Bolitho’s story. He did not interrupt once, and as Bolitho outlined his ideas on the enemy’s chain of semaphore stations he found time to admire Studdart’s relaxed self-control. No wonder he had been promoted ahead of his time. He had taught himself not to worry, or at least not to show it.
Bolitho touched only lightly on Neale’s death, and it was then that the vice-admiral felt moved to speak.
“ Styx ’s loss was an accident of war. The death of her captain no less distressing.” He reached out to refill their wine goblets. “However, I would not expect you to blame yourself for his death. Your flag flies above Benbow, as mine does here. It is why we were given the honour to lead, and why Admiral Beauchamp selected you for the task in Biscay. You did all you could. No one can blame you now. The very fact you discovered the presence of an efficient French semaphore system, when none of our so-called agents has seen fit to inform us, is an additional bounty. Your value to England and the Navy is your life. By escaping with honour, you have fulfilled the faith which Admiral Beauchamp bestowed on you.” He leaned back and studied him cheerfully. “Am I right?”
Bolitho said, “I’ve still not achieved what I was sent to do. The destruction of the enemy’s invasion craft before they are moved to the Channel took priority in my orders. As for our knowing about the semaphore stations along the Biscay coast, it can make no difference. The French can still direct their ships where they are most needed while ours are floundering off shore for all to see. And the newly built invasion craft are all the safer now that our captains are aware of their additional protection.”
Studdart smiled wryly. “You’ve not changed, I’ll say that. Dashing about the countryside like a junior lieutenant, risking life and limb when you should be ordering others to take a few chances.” He shook his head, suddenly grave. “It won’t do. You have your written orders, and only their lordships can alter them. Once they know you are safe. Maybe news will arrive in the next vessel from England, who knows? But you are in a position to postpone all further action. Beauchamp’s strategy is already outof-date because of what you discovered when you were taken prisoner. Let it lie, Bolitho. You have a record which anyone, even Nelson, would envy. Don’t create enemies in high places. Peace or war, your future is assured. But stir up trouble in Admiralty or Parliament and you are done for.”
Bolitho rubbed his palm along the arm of his chair. He felt trapped, resentful, even though he knew Studdart’s advice was sound.
Who would care next year what had happened in Biscay? Perhaps it was all rumour anyway and the French were as desperate for peace as anyone, and with no thought of forcing an invasion when their old enemy was off guard.
Studdart was watching him. “At least think about it, Bolitho.” He waved one hand towards the stern windows. “You could remain here a while, and perhaps request new orders. You might be sent into the Mediterranean to join Saumarez on his campaign, anything would be preferable to the damned Bay of Biscay.”
“Yes, sir. I shall think about it.” He put down his goblet very carefully. “In the meantime, I have to complete some despatches for England.”
The vice-admiral tugged out his watch and examined it. “God’s teeth, I am expected ashore by the general in one hour.” He got to his feet and regarded Bolitho calmly. “Do more than think about it. You are a flag-officer, and
