it.
“Thank you.”
Bolitho rubbed his eyes. It had taken over a week to reach the rendezvous area. Two days of good sailing, with a favourable wind across the quarter when neither reefing nor changing tack was required. Then other days, with frustrating hours of retrimming yards and canvas, tired men scrambling aloft to shorten sail in a sudden squall, only to be piped up the ratlines immediately to loose them again.
Westward into the Atlantic and then up along the coast of Portugal. They had sighted a few vessels, but the distance and the slowness of the two seventy-fours made any kind of investigation impossible.
Bolitho had kept much to himself during the passage. Going over Beauchamp’s original plans but coming up all-standing whenever he had set them against an actual attack.
He threw his brass dividers on to the charts and stood up. “What ship, I wonder?”
And what would he find in his little squadron? Ganymede should have contacted each ship, and every man would know their rear-admiral’s flag would soon be joining them.
Browne said, “They say she’s a frigate, sir.”
Their eyes met. Then it would be Phalarope, unless it was a Frenchman who had slipped through the blockade undetected.
Browne added, “May I ask what you intend, sir?”
“I shall see Emes.”
He seemed to hear Herrick inside his mind. Let me deal with him, sir. I’ll settle his future for him! Loyal, but biased. How would Adam see it, he wondered? He had twice nearly lost his young life trying to defend his uncle’s name. No. Emes did not strike him as a man who would ruin Adam’s career to save his own. But before a court- martial anything could happen.
He heard Herrick’s shoes in the lobby, and as Ozzard hurried to open the screen door Bolitho said, “Leave us, Oliver.”
Herrick bustled into the cabin and barely noticed the flaglieutenant as he passed.
Bolitho said, “Sit down, Thomas, and be calm.”
Herrick peered around the cabin, his eyes still half-blinded from the glare on the quarterdeck.
“Calm, sir? It is a lot to ask!” He grimaced. “She’s Phalarope right enough.” He raised his eyebrows. “I can see that you are not surprised, sir?”
“No. Captain Emes has been in command here during our absence. He is a post-captain of experience. But for his previous trouble, his actions at the Ile d’Yeu might have roused little criticism, even from you.”
Herrick shifted in his chair, unconvinced. “I doubt that.”
Bolitho moved to the stern windows and looked at some gulls which were swooping and screaming below the counter. The cook had probably hurled some scraps outboard.
“I need every competent officer, Thomas. If one is at fault, the blame must lie with his captain. If it is a captain who shows weakness, then the responsibility must lie with his admiral.” He smiled wryly. “In this particular case, me.” He hurried on. “No, hear me out, Thomas. Many of the squadron’s officers are raw replacements, and the worst wrath they have faced so far is that of a sailing-master or first lieutenant, am I right?”
“Well, I suppose so, sir.”
Bolitho smiled fondly. “That’s hardly an agreement, but it is a start. If, as I intend, we are to attack and destroy those French vessels, I shall draw heavily upon my captains. It is obvious that we are getting no more support, and Sir John Studdart knew nothing of any extra craft from his own command.” He did not conceal the bitterness. “Not even one solitary gun brig!”
Beyond the cabin they heard Wolfe’s voice through his speaking trumpet, the responding clatter of blocks and halliards as men ran to obey him.
Herrick stood up. “We are about to change tack, sir.”
“Go to them, Thomas. When you are ready, you may heave to and request that Captain Emes comes aboard. He’ll be expecting it.”
“I still think…” Herrick grinned ruefully and said instead, “Aye, aye, sir.”
Browne re-entered the cabin. “They’re signalling Phalarope now, sir.” He sounded puzzled. “Captain repair on board flagship. I thought you might ask for your nephew to come across too, sir?”
“I am longing to see him.” Bolitho looked up at the deckhead beams as bare feet slapped across the dried planking. “I am not proud of the fact I am using him.”
“Using him, sir?”
“Emes commands Phalarope, and he can decide if he shall bring his first lieutenant as a courtesy to me. If he does not choose to do so, he will have the stage to himself, unchallenged, as he is the first captain to meet us on this station. But if he decides to bring him, he must risk whatever my nephew may say.”
Browne’s face cleared. “That is very shrewd, sir.”
“I am learning, Oliver. Very slowly, but I am learning.”
The cabin tilted heavily to one side and Bolitho heard the creak of yards as Benbow swung slowly into the wind. He saw Nicator standing at a distance under shortened sail as she watched over her consorts.
Browne said, “I’ll go on deck, sir.”
“Yes. Let me know what is happening.”
Browne picked up his hat and asked hesitantly, “If Captain Emes fails to satisfy you, sir…”
“I shall send him packing by the next available vessel. I need good officers, and I have said as much to Captain Herrick. But I’d rather send Phalarope amongst the enemy with a midshipman in command than risk more lives to satisfy my vanity!”
Browne nodded and hurried away, another lesson learned.
Herrick saw him emerge into the sunlight and asked irritably, “What have you been doing, Mr Browne?”
“Our admiral, sir. The way he sees things. Like an artist painting a picture.”
“Humph.” Herrick turned to watch the frigate heading into the wind, her sails aback as she prepared to lower a boat. He said grimly, “Just so long as somebody doesn’t break the frame before the picture is finished!” He saw the surprise on Browne’s face and added, “Oh yes, Mr Browne with an ‘e,’ a few of us do have minds of our own, you know!”
Browne hid a smile and walked to the lee side as Major Clinton, his sun-reddened face almost matching his tunic, marched to Herrick and barked, “Guard of honour, sir?”
“Yes. Man the side, Major. He is a captain.” He moved away and added under his breath, “At the moment.”
The midshipman-of-the-watch called, “Boat’s put off, sir!”
Browne hurried to the poop. He found Bolitho standing by the windows as if he had not moved.
“Phalarope’s gig is heading for us, sir.” He saw the way Bolitho’s hands gripped one another behind his back. Tense. Like a spring.
Browne said quietly, “Captain Emes has your nephew with him, sir.” He expected some instant response, a show of relief.
Instead Bolitho said, “I used to believe that all flag-officers were like gods. They created situations and formed decisions while we lesser beings merely obeyed. Now I know differently. Perhaps Vice-Admiral Studdart was right after all.”
“Sir?”
“Nothing. Tell Ozzard to bring my coat. If my emotions are at war with each other, I am certain Emes will have fared far worse. So let’s be about it, eh?”
He heard the twitter of calls, the muffled stamp of booted feet by the entry port.
As Ozzard held his coat up to his shoulders, Bolitho thought suddenly of his first command. Small, crowded, intimate.
He had believed then, as he did now, that to be given a ship was the most coveted gift which could be bestowed on any living creature.
Now others commanded, while he was forced to lead and decide their destinies. But no matter what, he would never forget what that first command had meant to him.
Browne announced, “Captain Emes of the Phalarope, sir.”
Bolitho stood behind the table and said, “You may withdraw.”
