south-west of the headland?”
He saw the sailing-master nod soundlessly and got a brief impression of an anxious but competent face. He suddenly remembered. The man had been the senior master’s mate at Copenhagen when the old master had been cut down. New and, until now, untried.
Inch craned forward to watch Bolitho move the brass dividers over the chart.
“The French squadron is anchored off the point, just north of the Loire Estuary.” Bolitho was thinking aloud. “It would take hours for us to beat against the wind along the original course.
We must pass the French squadron before full daylight and head into the bay where the invasion fleet is anchored.” He looked at the master. “Well?”
Inch said encouragingly, “Come along, Mr M’Ewan.”
The master moistened his lips then said firmly, “We can claw inshore now, sir, then come about and steer nor’-west, closehauled, into the bay. Provided the wind don’t back on us, for if that happens we’ll be in irons an’ no mistake, sir.”
Inch opened his mouth as if to protest but closed it when he saw Bolitho nod his head.
“I agree. It will cut the approach by an hour, and with any luck we will slip past the French men-of-war with a mile to spare.” He looked at Inch. “You were going to add something?”
“The wind is not only hard for us, sir.” Inch shrugged helplessly. “The rest of the squadron will be delayed accordingly.”
“I know.”
He heard the muffled pounding of feet, the bang and squeak of screens being removed and obstacles being lowered hastily to the orlop. A ship-of-war. Open from bow to stern, deck above deck, gun above gun, where men lived, hoped, slept and trained. Now was the testing time for them all.
The first lieutenant yelled, “Cleared for action, sir!”
Inch examined his watch and bobbed. “Nine minutes, Mr Graham, that is a good time.”
Bolitho turned away to hide his sudden sadness. Neale had done the same.
He said, “If we delay, we could be destroyed piecemeal. Whether Commodore Herrick arrives in time to support us or not, we must be able to get amongst those invasion craft.” He looked Inch squarely in the eyes. “It is all that matters.”
Surprisingly, Inch beamed. “I know, sir. And Odin is the ship for the task.”
Bolitho smiled. Safe, trusting Inch would never question anything he said.
The chartroom door opened and Midshipman Stirling squeezed inside. Even in the poor lantern light he looked redeyed and weary.
He said, “I-I apologize for being late, sir.”
Bolitho glanced at Inch. “I have forgotten how to sleep that soundly!”
Inch made to leave. “I’ll make the night signal to Phalarope, sir. I hope she’s still there at daybreak!”
Bolitho leaned on the chart and stared at the neat figures and bearings. It was a risk. But then it had never been otherwise.
Even now it could all go against them before they had a chance to stand inshore. A solitary fisherman might be risking the weather and the wrath of French guard-boats to put out and earn his keep. He might just see the shielded flare which was now being shown to Phalarope.
He said, “Damnation on doubt. It kills more good sailors than any round shot!”
Stirling glanced round quickly. Inch and the master had gone. Bolitho was speaking to him.
He asked unsurely, “Could the French prevent our entering the bay, sir?”
Bolitho looked down at him, unaware he had voiced his anxiety aloud.
“They can try, Mr Stirling, they can try.” He clapped the boy on the shoulder. “Come and walk with me. I need to have the feel of this ship.”
Stirling glowed with pride. Even the fact that Bolitho had unwittingly gripped his injured arm did not tarnish the moment.
Allday, a new cutlass jutting from his belt, watched them pass, and found he could smile in spite of his troubled thoughts.
The boy and his hero. And why not? They would need all their heroes this day.
“Wind’s holding steady, sir!”
Bolitho joined Inch at the quarterdeck rail and peered along the ship’s pale outline. Beyond the forecastle, reeling now as the yards were hauled further round until they were almost fore and aft, he could see nothing. He had purposefully stayed on deck so that his eyes would be accustomed to any change in the light, be ready to detect the first join between sea and sky. And the land.
The deck plunged ponderously in the offshore currents, and Bolitho heard the marines on the poop packing the hammocks even more tightly in the nettings for their protection, and to rest their muskets while they sought out their targets.
Figures moved occasionally below the gangways where every gun stood loaded and ready. Others clambered aloft to make last adjustments to chain-slings and nets, to hoist one more sack of canister to the swivels in the tops, or to splice another fraying line.
Bolitho watched and heard it all. What he did not see he could picture in his mind. Like all those other times, the remorseless grip on the stomach like steel fingers, the last-moment fear that he had overlooked something.
The ship was answering well, he thought. Inch had proved to be an excellent captain, and it was hard to believe that Bolitho had once thought it unlikely he would even rise above lieutenant.
Bolitho tried to shut his mind to it. The young lieutenant named Travers, now somewhere on the lower gun- deck, waiting with all the other men for the ports to open on their red-painted hell and the guns to begin to roar. He was hoping to get married. And Inch, who was striding about the quarterdeck, his coat-tails flapping, his cocked hat at a jaunty angle, as he chatted to his first lieutenant and sailing-master. He had a wife named Hannah and two children who lived in Weymouth. What of them if Inch were to fall today? And why should he show such pride and pleasure at being ordered to a battle which could end in total defeat?
And Belinda. He moved restlessly to the nettings, unaware that Stirling was keeping near him like a shadow. He must not think of her now.
He heard a man say quietly, “There’s th’ old Phalarope, Jim. Rather any other bugger than that ’un for company!” He seemed to sense Bolitho’s nearness and fell silent.
Bolitho stared at the ghostlike outline as Phalarope lifted and plunged abeam. Like Odin, she had her sails close-hauled to make a pale pyramid while the hull still lay in darkness.
Two ships and some eight hundred officers, seamen and marines whom he alone would commit to battle.
He looked down at the midshipman. “How would you like to serve in a frigate?”
Stirling puckered his mouth and considered it. “More than anything, sir.”
“You should speak with my nephew, he-” Bolitho broke off as Stirling ’s eyes lit up momentarily like small coals.
Then, what seemed like an eternity later, came the dull boom of an explosion. Like the short-lived glow in the sky, that too was soon lost to the ceaseless murmur of sea and wind.
“What the hell was that?” Inch strode across the deck as if he expected to discover an answer.
Bolitho said quietly, “The charges have been blown, Captain Inch.”
“But, but…” Inch stared at him through the darkness. “They are surely too early?”
Bolitho turned away. Too early or too late, Browne must have had his reasons.
He felt Allday move up beside him and raised an arm to allow him to clip a sword to his belt.
“It’s the best I could do, sir. Bit heavier than you’re used to.” He gestured into the darkness. “Mr Browne?”
“Aye. He said he could do it. I wish to God there had been another way.”
Allday sighed. “He knows what he’s about, sir.” He nodded firmly. “Like the time you an’ he rode off to fight that duel, remember?”
“I remember.”
Midshipman Stirling said, “It looks brighter, sir.”
Bolitho smiled. “So it does.” He turned his back on the midshipman and said softly, “Allday, there is something I
