Bolitho said, “I’m proud of you.” It was strange how the unfortunate man named Miller had suddenly become so real even though he had never met him.
“And nobody raised the alarm?”
“No, sir. I’m certain of it.” As an afterthought Searle said, “I dropped the corpses over the side in the darkness, there were only three, including Miller. But I had them hurried down with some ballast around them. They’ll not be afloat anywhere to tell the tale.”
“Thank you, Mr Searle.”
The lieutenant added hesitantly, “I am told you intend to use the boat against the enemy, sir? If so, I’d like to volunteer my services.”
“Who told you that?”
The lieutenant flushed under Bolitho’s gaze. “I-I forget, sir.”
Bolitho smiled. “No matter, I think I can guess. I shall be glad to appoint you in charge of the prize. You are obviously a man of resourcefulness. With that and my flag-lieutenant’s uncanny habit of being right, you should be a great asset.”
They both turned as Herrick appeared on deck, and Bolitho said, “We will begin tonight. Tell Major Clinton I require four of his top marksmen to accompany the prize crew, and they’ll need a good master’s mate as well. And see he is the best Mr Grubb can offer, not the one least likely to be missed.”
Herrick looked as if he was going to protest but changed his mind.
Bolitho turned to the lieutenant again. “I shall give you your orders, but you must know that if you are captured there is little hope for you.”
“I understand, sir.” He smiled cheerfully. “All my party are volunteers.”
Bolitho looked at the fishing boat. Now he understood. He had been worried about risking lives, but this young lieutenant was actually grateful to him. For the chance, the rare, precious opportunity which every young officer prayed might come his way. To think that I was exactly like him.
He said, “Bring the prisoners over, and put some of our people aboard to aid Mr Browne.” He glanced at the gathering dusk, the last daylight which still clung to Nicator’s upper yards. “My God, Thomas, I am sick and tired of waiting for the enemy to shift himself. It is time we stirred them a little!”
He saw Allday on the larboard gangway. He too was staring over at the fishing boat, his thick body stiff and tense. At least Allday would be spared from this piece of reckless endeavour, Bolitho thought.
He waited on deck until the handful of prisoners were ferried across, the first being three French soldiers. They were followed by one of Clinton ’s marines who carried a bloodied uniform across his arm, his features screwed up with distaste. The uniform’s previous owner would have no further use of it.
Eventually, when it was almost dark and the ships were reefing down for the night, Browne returned on board.
“That boat stinks like a sewer, sir! As do those who man her!”
“Did you discover anything?”
Browne nodded. “She hails from Brest and is no local craft. We are in luck. I managed to convince her master that he would be freed later on if he told us the truth. Equally he would swing from the main-yard if he did not. He assured me that there is a large French squadron, which he believes to be under local control, for the sole purpose of guarding the invasion fleet. It certainly sounded as if Contre-Amiral Remond is in immediate command.” He saw the flicker of hurt in Bolitho’s eyes. “I knew we should meet him again, sir.”
“Yes. Are you still intent on this mission, Oliver? We are alone now, so speak as you will. You know me better than to blame you if you change your mind.”
“I want to go, sir. Now more than ever, for some reason. Perhaps because of Remond, of Styx, and for being able to help you, properly, instead of handing you despatches and writing signals.”
Bolitho touched his arm. “Thank you for that, Oliver. Now go and prepare yourself.”
Herrick walked across to rejoin him as Browne hurried away.
“He’s no fighting sailor, sir.”
Bolitho looked at his friend, both surprised and moved that Herrick could show such concern which until now he had done everything to hide.
“Perhaps, Thomas. But he has real courage, which he needs to use.”
Herrick frowned as Wolfe strode across the deck with a new list of names gripped in his hand.
“More questions to be answered, dammit!”
Bolitho smiled and walked aft to the poop. Almost too casually he said, “I have a signal to be sent to Phalarope. I will write it now so that it can be hoisted at first light.”
Wolfe waited, imperturbable as ever. “Trouble, sir?”
“I’m not sure.” Herrick could not conceal his uncertainty. “Give me the broadside and the din of war any time, Mr Wolfe! This cat and mouse game is not my plaything!”
Wolfe grinned. “Now about this list of promotions, sir…”
With her patched sails hard-bellied to the wind the fishing boat punched through the steep waves, her lee gunwale awash.
Lieutenant Searle who, like most of his prize crew, was dressed in fisherman’s smock and heavy boots, called sharply, “Hold her close to the wind!”
Beside him near the tiller Browne tried to stay on his feet as the boat plunged and reeled beneath him. In his soldier’s coat and white crossbelt it was all he could do to retain his dignity and keep his mind on the approaching danger.
It was almost dawn, but another cloudy one, and the sea appeared much wilder and more dangerous than from Benbow’s lofty quarterdeck.
They had worked through the night to make the boat as comfortable as possible, and had jettisoned much of the spare fishing gear. But the stench remained, and Browne found some comfort that he was at least on deck and not crammed in the hold with the rest of the party.
The master’s mate, who had taken the tiller himself, said, “Enemy coast ahead, sir.”
Browne swallowed hard. “Thank you, Mr Hoblin.”
He must take his word, for as Grubb, the master, had assured him before they had set sail, “Mr Hoblin’s got a nose for it, sir!”
Searle bared his teeth as cold spray dashed over the gunwale and soaked his head and shoulders.
He gasped, “I doubt if the French will have a guard-boat running this early. They’re not eager to get a wetting!”
Midshipman Stirling, piratical in his smock and a large red woollen hat, asked, “How close shall we go, sir?”
Browne glanced down at him. There was no fear in the boy’s voice. If anything, he sounded impatient for something to happen.
“As near as we dare.”
Searle said, “The wind’s steady enough. Nor’-east. If we can just slip amongst the others we should be safe enough. When they see you they’ll be in no mood for talk.” He grinned. “Fishermen the world over have no love for uniforms. Customs officers, the navy, even the honest trooper is an enemy to them.”
A seaman who lay prone in the bows called hoarsely, “Two boats, fine to starboard!”
Hoblin said, “Fishermen. Under way too.”
The seamen rushed to the halliards but slowed as Browne called, “Easy! This is a fisherman, not a King’s ship, so take your time!”
They grinned and nudged each other as if it was all a huge joke.
Searle said, “Bring her about. But hold to wind’rd of those two.” He twisted round as the sails shook noisily and then filled again. “Belle Ile must be to the north of us now.”
The master’s mate nodded and squinted at his boat’s compass. “No more’n two mile, I’d say, sir.” Nobody questioned his judgement and he was vaguely pleased. He was after all the oldest man in the boat by some ten years.
“Damn, here comes the rain.”
Browne nodded miserably and tried to draw his coarse uniform about his throat. The smell of stale sweat left by its owner was almost worse than the fish.
