Emes strode to the quarterdeck rail and gripped it hard as he stared first along his command, the comings and goings of the watch, and the boatswain’s party who were as usual splicing and repairing. An endless task. Then he shifted his gaze to Odin as she rode comfortably some four cables to starboard.
“Hmm. Visibility’s poor.” Emes’s lower lip jutted forward. It was the only sign he ever gave that he was worried about something. “It’ll be an early dusk, I shouldn’t wonder.” He tugged a watch from his breeches and flicked open the guard. “Your uncle appears to be giving Captain Inch some extra drill.” He smiled, but only briefly. “Flagship indeed.”
Emes walked aft to the compass and peered at it, then at the slate which hung nearby.
Pascoe watched the helmsmen and master’s mate of the watch, the way they tensed when Emes was near, as if they expected him to abuse them.
Pascoe could not understand it. They were actually afraid of the captain. And yet Emes had done little or nothing to warrant such fear. He was unbending over matters of discipline, but never awarded excessive punishment like some captains. He was often impatient with subordinates, but rarely used his rank to insult them in front of their men. What was it about him, Pascoe wondered? A cold, withdrawn man who had not backed down to his rear-admiral even under the cloud of a possible court martial.
Emes walked across the deck and stared at the sea and damp mist. It was more like drizzle, which made the shrouds and canvas drip and shine in the strange light.
“Has Mr Kincade inspected all the carronades today, Mr Pascoe?”
Kincade was Phalarope’s gunner, a sour, taciturn man who appeared to love his ugly charges more than mankind itself.
“Aye, sir. They’ll give a good account of themselves.”
“Really.” Emes eyed him bleakly. “Eager for it, are you?”
Pascoe flushed. “It’s better than waiting, sir.”
The midshipman-of-the-watch called hesitantly, “Rapid ’s in sight to wind’rd, sir.”
Emes snapped, “I’m going to my quarters. Call me before you shorten sail, and keep good station on the Flag.” He strode to the companion-way without even a glance at Rapid ’s murky silhouette.
Pascoe relaxed. Was that too part of an act, he wondered? To walk away without seemingly caring about Rapid as she headed towards the enemy shore. Like the way he deliberately refused to exercise the carronade crews, even though the flagship had been drilling for most of the day.
The sailing-master, a gaunt, mournful-faced man who had obviously been keeping out of Emes’s way, climbed on to the quarterdeck and glanced at the traverse board.
Pascoe said, “What of the weather, Mr Bellis?”
Bellis grimaced. “It’ll get worse, sir. Can feel it in me bones.” He cocked his head. “Listen to that lot!”
Pascoe thrust his hands behind him and gripped them together. He had heard the pumps going. They went during each watch now. Perhaps they were right about the old ship. The Bay was certainly playing hell with her seams.
The master warmed to his theme. “Too long in port, sir, that’s what. Should’ve left her be. I’ll lay odds she’s as ripe as a pear round the keel, no matter what the dockyard said!”
Pascoe turned away. “Thank you for your confidence, Mr Bellis.”
The master grinned. “My pleasure, sir.”
Pascoe raised his telescope and stared at the little brig. Almost lost now in another flurry of grey, wet mist.
He had read the fighting instructions, and pictured Browne now as he prepared himself for what lay ahead. Pascoe shivered. Tonight.
He wished more than anything he was going with him. Even the thought made him angry. He was getting disloyal like Bellis and some of the other old hands.
Phalarope had been a fine ship. He clutched the hammock nettings as the deck tilted steeply to the wind. His uncle had once stood just here. A chill seemed to touch his spine, as if he were standing naked in the wet breeze.
He must have stood and watched the other frigate, Andiron, approaching, her British colours hiding her new identity of a privateer.
Commanded by my father.
Pascoe looked along the gun-deck and nodded slowly. Herrick, Allday and poor Neale had walked that deck, even Bolitho’s steward Ferguson, who had lost an arm up there on the forecastle.
I’ve come to you now. Pascoe smiled self-consciously. But he felt better for it.
Lieutenant Browne had been hanging on to the jolly-boat’s gunwale for so long his hand felt numb and useless. Ever since they had thrust away from the brig’s protective side he had been beset by a procession of doubts and heart-stopping moments of sheer terror.
The heavily muffled oars had continued in their unbroken stroke, while a master’s mate had crouched beside the coxswain, a lighted compass hidden beneath a tarpaulin screen.
Lieutenant Searle said, “According to my calculations we should be close now. But as far as I can tell we might be in China!”
Browne peered from bow to bow, his eyes raw with salt spray. He felt the boat sidle and veer away on a sudden current, and heard the master’s mate mutter new instructions to the coxswain.
Had to be soon. Must be. He saw a wedge of black rock rise up to starboard and slide away again, betrayed only by the uneasy surf.
He peered at the sky. Black as a highwayman’s boot.
Searle stiffened at his side, and for one terrible moment Browne thought he had seen a French guard- boat.
Searle exclaimed, “Look! Larboard bow!” He clapped his arm excitedly. “Well done, Oliver!”
Browne tried to swallow but the roof of his mouth was like leather. He peered harder into the darkness until he thought his eyes would burst from their sockets.
It was there. A crescent of beach, a long frothing necklace of surf.
He tried to stay calm and unmoved. He could still be wrong. The rock he had remembered so vividly might look quite different from this bearing.
“Easy, all! Boat yer oars!”
The boat surged forward and ground on to the beach with an indescribable clatter and roar. Browne almost fell as seamen leapt into the shallows to steady the hull, while Searle watched their small party of six men until they were all clear and wading ashore.
Searle rasped, “See to the powder, man! Nicholl, scout ahead, lively!”
There were a few quick whispers. “Good luck, sir.” Another unknown voice called, “I’ll keep a wet for you, Harry!” Then the boat had gone, oars backing furiously as freed of her load she turned eagerly towards the open water.
Browne stood quite still and listened to the wind, the gurgle of water among rocks and across the tight sand.
Searle strode back to him, his hanger already drawn.
“Ready, Oliver?” His teeth shone white in the darkness. “You know the way.”
Then Browne saw the rock standing above him. Like a squatting camel. As he remembered it from when he had stood there with Bolitho.
Searle had selected his men himself. Apart from two competent gunner’s mates, there were four of the toughest, most villainous looking hands Browne had ever laid eyes on. Searle had described them as fugitives from more than one gibbet. Browne could well believe it.
They paused by a waving clump of salt-encrusted grass and Browne said quietly, “The path begins here.”
He was surprised he was so calm now that the moment had arrived. He had been half afraid that his resolve might vanish once he had left the ship and the familiar faces and routine.
I am all right.
Searle whispered, “Moubray, get up there and stay with Nicholl, Garner take rear-guard.”
The remaining seaman and the two gunner’s mates lurched up the path, their bodies loaded with powder and weapons like so many pit ponies.
