mistake of not leaving himself enough sea-room to claw into open waters. Two enemy ships had run down on him from windward, and only Unrivalled captain’s skill had enabled him to escape capture or destruction. As far as Bolitho’s small force was concerned, it might just as well have been either, for, pitted with shot holes and under jury-rig, the Unrivalled had crawled for home and the security of a dockyard.
Neale glanced at the masthead pendant. The wind had shifted to the north again. It was lively and gusty. He hoped that the battered survivor reached port intact.
Bolitho nodded as Neale touched his hat. No matter what time he chose to come on deck, even before daylight, Neale always seemed to be there ahead of him. If there was anything wrong with his ship, he wanted to see it for himself first and not be told by his admiral. He had learned well.
Bolitho had been thinking about his thinly-stretched force while Allday had been pouring coffee for him. Until reinforcements arrived, he now had but two frigates on the station, with the brig for keeping contact with the bigger squadrons to north and south. It looked very manageable on a wall chart in Whitehall. Out here, with dawn touching the endless ranks of wave crests in a dirty yellow glow, it was a desert.
But shortly they would see the pyramid of sails far abeam where Sparrowhawk cruised within sight of Belle Ile and any local shipping which might be hugging the coast en route for Nantes or northward to Lorient.
How they must hate us, he thought. The dogged, stormdashed ships which were always there at the break of every day. Waiting to dash in and seize a prize under the enemy’s nose, or scurry to rouse the main fleet if the French admirals dared to present a challenge.
What he had seen of his small force he liked. He had boarded both the brig and the other frigate, getting drenched on each occasion as he had been forced to leap unceremoniously while his boat had poised on a passing crest.
He had seen the grins, and had known that his small bravado had been appreciated.
They had to know him, like one of their own. Not as an aloof flag-officer on the poop of some great three- decker, but as the man who would be amongst them when danger came.
He remarked, “Wind’s shifted.”
Neale watched his foretopmen dashing aloft yet again to reset the topgallant.
“Aye, sir. The master states it’ll back still further before nightfall.”
Bolitho smiled. The sailing-master would know. His breed always seemed to understand the wind before it knew its own mind.
Seven days out of Plymouth. It was like a dirge in his thoughts. And with little to show for it. Even if his whole squadron arrived, what should he do or say?
Only one chink had shown itself. Each of the captains, Duncan, a bluff, red-faced youngster of the Sparrowhawk, and, still younger, Lapish of the Rapid, had mentioned the ease with which the enemy seemed able to foretell their movements. In the past year raids had been mounted on nearby ports by heavier ships of the line, and on each occasion the French had been prepared, with their own vessels and shore batteries ready to make a full attack pointless.
And yet the squadrons to north and south stopped and searched every so-called neutral and warned them away from any area where they might discover the true strength of the British patrols. Or the lack of it, more likely, he thought wryly.
He began to pace the side of the quarterdeck, his hands behind him, as he toyed with this tiny fragment of intelligence. The French might have been using small boats at night. No, they would be too slow, and incapable of escaping if they were sighted. Fast horsemen along the coast, ready to ride as Browne had done, to carry their news to the local commanders. Possible. But still unlikely. The poor roads and long distances between harbours would make for serious delays.
In spite of his guard, Bolitho felt his mind slip back to Falmouth. Belinda would be there again. Visiting the empty house, where Ferguson, his one-armed steward, would try his best to explain and to console her. What would she think? How could she know the ways of the Navy?
She was thirty-four, ten years his junior. She would not wait, should not be made to suffer as she had done with her late husband.
Bolitho stopped and gripped the nettings tightly. Even now she might be with someone else. Younger perhaps, with his feet firmly set on the land.
Browne joined him by the nettings and offered weakly, “Good morning, sir.”
Browne had rarely been seen since leaving Plymouth, although his fight with the frigate’s lively movements and the smells which were constant reminders of his seasickness was spoken of with awe even by the older hands.
He looked a little stronger, Bolitho thought. It was ironic, for whereas he himself was beset with problems both personal and tactical, he had never felt in better health. The ship, the constant comings and goings of faces which were already familiar, were ready reminders of his own days as a frigate captain.
There was a kind of hardness to his body, and a swiftness of thought which could soon be lost in a ponderous ship of the line.
“I must make contact with Rapid today, Browne. I intend to stand her closer inshore, unless the master is wrong about the change of wind.”
Browne watched him thoughtfully. Having to think again was bringing the colour back to his face. So how did Bolitho manage it? he wondered. Boarding the other ships, discussing details of local trade and coastal craft with Neale, he never appeared to tire.
He was driving himself like this to hold his other thoughts at bay. At least he had learned that much about Bolitho.
“Deck there!”
Browne looked aloft and winced as he saw the tiny figure perched on the crosstrees high above the deck.
“Sail on th’ starboard quarter!”
Neale came hurrying across the deck, and as Bolitho gave him a curt nod, shouted, “All hands, Mr Pickthorn! We shall wear ship at once and beat to wind’rd!”
Before his first lieutenant had even time to snatch up his speaking trumpet, or the boatswain’s mates had run below with their calls trilling to rouse the hands, Neale was already calculating and scheming, even though he could not yet see the newcomer.
Bolitho watched the seamen and marines flooding up through the hatches and along both gangways, to be stemmed and mustered into their stations by petty officers and master’s mates.
Neale said, “The light is better, sir. In a moment or so-”
“Man the braces there! Stand by to wear ship!”
“Put up the helm!”
With yards and canvas banging in confusion and blocks shrieking like live things as the cordage raced through the sheaves, Styx leaned heavily towards the sea, spray climbing the gangways and pattering across the straining seamen at the braces in pellets.
“Full an’ bye, sir! Sou’-west by west!”
Neale moved a pace this way and that, watching as his command came under control again, her lee gunports almost awash.
“Aloft with you, Mr Kilburne, and take a glass.” To the quarterdeck at large he said, “If she’s a Frenchie, we’ll dish her up before she stands inshore.”
Browne murmured, “Such confidence.”
Bolitho sensed, rather than felt, Allday at his side, and held up his arms so that the burly coxswain could clip the sword to his belt.
Allday looked suddenly older, although he and Bolitho were of the same age. The lower deck was insensitive when it came to the smallest comfort.
Even as an admiral’s personal coxswain, life was not that easy. Allday would be the first to deny it, just as he would be angry and hurt if Bolitho suggested he took himself to Falmouth to enjoy the comfort and security which were his right.
Allday saw his gaze and gave his lazy grin. “I can still give some o’ these mothers’ boys a run for their money, sir!”
Bolitho nodded slowly. When it came, it would be on a day like this. Like all the others when Allday had fetched
