each other in readiness to set the upper sails in obedience to Wolfe’s speaking trumpet.
Across the glittering water Herrick could see similar activity aboard Nicator. It would be good to draw the squadron together again. For the last time? Even to think of peace after all the years of fighting was a mockery, he decided.
He heard feet on deck and saw Bolitho, with Browne marching in his shadow, crossing the quarterdeck to join him.
They greeted each other formally as Herrick said, “No instructions from the flagship, sir. The anchor’s hove short, and it looks like being a fine day.” As an afterthought he added, “Ganymede sailed at eight bells as you instructed, sir. She will keep company with the packet Thrush until they are clear of these waters.” He watched Bolitho, waiting for a sign.
Bolitho nodded. “Good. I saw them go. Ganymede will contact the rest of our ships long before we reach the rendezvous.”
Herrick said, “I’d give a lot to see young Pascoe’s face when he learns that you are alive, sir. I know how I felt!”
Bolitho turned and looked at the other seventy-four. As he had said, he had watched the little Thrush clearing the approaches and setting her tan-coloured sails within minutes of catting her anchor. Belinda had probably been watching Benbow from her temporary quarters. Like him, unable to share the moment under the eyes of the squadron.
The signals midshipman called, “Nicator’s cable is hove short, sir!”
“Very well, Mr Stirling. Acknowledge.”
Browne took a sudden interest in a seaman who was busily flaking down a line beside him.
He heard Herrick ask politely, “Was everything satisfactory, sir?”
Bolitho eyed him impassively. “It was, Captain Herrick.”
Then like conspirators they both smiled broadly at each other and Herrick said, “I wish you both every happiness, sir. My God, when-”
“Ready, sir!”
Wolfe’s harsh voice made Herrick hurry to the rail.
“Loose heads’ls!” He gestured above his head. “Loose tops’ls!”
“Anchor’s aweigh, sir!”
With her canvas rippling and banging in disorder Benbow paid off to the wind, her fat hull brushing the water as she dipped to the pressure.
“Braces there! Heave, lads! ”
Round and still further round, with the foreshore and the misty hills pivoting beyond the hurrying seamen and flapping topsails, until the master took control with his helm and compass.
Nicator was already setting more sail as she tilted to the freshening breeze, her scarlet ensign and masthead pendant streaming almost abeam as she took station her flagship.
“The Dons saw us arrive. Now they’ll know we are at sea again.” Bolitho looked at the land but saw only that quiet room, her pale arms open to receive him.
He walked up to the weather side and listened to the shouted orders, the squeak of tackles and blocks as miles of running rigging took the strain.
Up forward, the anchor had been secured to the cathead, and he heard Drodge, the gunner, bellowing instructions to his mates as they checked the lashings on every weapon.
A boatswain’s mate was supervising the rigging of a grating at the gangway in readiness for awarding punishment. One of the sailmaker’s crew sorted through some scraps of canvas with the same lack of emotion. Routine and discipline. It held the ship together no less securely than copper and tar.
He saw Allday carrying his new cutlass towards an open hatch. To sharpen it himself exactly as he wanted it. Who now owned Allday’s old cutlass, Bolitho wondered? The one he had driven into the French beach with such disgust when they had been taken prisoner.
Allday seemed to feel his gaze and turned to peer up at the quarterdeck. He touched his forehead and gave a small smile which only Bolitho or Herrick would recognize.
Some midshipmen were lined up for instruction at one of the upper battery’s eighteen-pounders, and a youthful lieutenant was pointing out the various positions where its crew could change round if a man fell wounded in battle, so that the speed of loading and firing would not be lost.
He spoke with crisp authority, very aware of Bolitho’s tall figure just above him. Bolitho smiled. The lieutenant was about a year older than some of his pupils.
From the galley he saw a puff of smoke as the cook made the most of whatever fresh food he had been able to snatch during their brief stay at Gibraltar, and as he watched the market-place activity of the crowded upper deck he recalled the vice-admiral’s advice to stay aloof and not to involve himself in the affairs of subordinates.
A boatswain’s mate hurried along the deck, his call twittering above the sounds of canvas and spray.
“All hands! Hands lay aft to witness punishment!”
Herrick stood by the rail, his chin sunk in his neckcloth, the Articles of War tucked beneath one arm, as seamen and marines surged aft in a human tide.
Bolitho turned towards the poop. I am involved. It is how I am made.
Into the shadows and past the stiff sentry beneath the spiralling lantern.
Browne followed him into the great cabin and shut the door.
“Can I do anything, sir?”
Bolitho handed his coat to Ozzard and loosened his shirt and neckcloth.
“Yes, Oliver. Close the skylight.”
It might be necessary, but he still hated the sound of the cat across a man’s naked back. He sat on the stern bench and stared out at Nicator’s tall shape following obediently on a new tack.
Browne said warily, “Your clerk is here, sir, with some more papers which seem to require your signature.” He faltered. “Shall I tell him to go away, sir?”
Bolitho sighed. “No, ask Yovell to come in. I think I need to lose myself.”
Overhead in the bright sunlight the lash rose and fell on the first man to be seized up for punishment. Most of the assembled company watched with empty eyes, and only the victim’s close friends looked away, ashamed for him and perhaps themselves.
The grating was unrigged and the hands piped to the midday meal, with a pint of Black Strap to wash it down.
The two men who had been flogged were taken below to the sickbay to have their backs attended to and their confidence restored by a liberal dose of rum from the surgeon’s special cask.
Alone at last in the cabin, Bolitho sat at his table, a sheet of paper before him. She would probably never read the letter, it might not even be sent. But it would help to keep her with him as the breadth of ocean tried to force them apart.
He touched his cheek where she had kissed him, and then without hesitation began to write.
My dearest Belinda, It is only a few hours since I left you…
On deck, as dusk closed in once more and painted the horizon with dull copper, Herrick discussed the reefing arrangements and emergency signals for the night watches. The land had already vanished in shadows, here any strange sail might be an enemy.
And Benbow was a King’s ship, with no time to spare for the frailties of the men who served her.
12. The Flag Commands
LIEUTENANT the Honourable Oliver Browne, with his hat clamped tightly beneath one arm, stepped into the stern cabin and waited for Bolitho to look up from his charts and scribbled notes.
“Yes?”
Browne kept his urbane features expressionless. “Sail in sight to the nor’-east, sir.” He had learned from experience that Bolitho had already heard the cry from the masthead, just as he would know that Browne knew
