with a boatswain's mate hauling a ragged line through a block and preparing to reeve a new one to replace it. They were soaked in spray, and the salt would do little to help their thirst.
Too much rum or brandy would do more harm than good. Bolitho bit his lip and wondered at his earlier confidence. After pounding their way farther south with Sardinia's blurred coastline rarely lost from view, the hope of making a rendezvous with Herrick's convoy seemed like a bad dream. Even supposing Jobert was making for the same objective. He stamped on his doubts and turned from the rail to see Midshipman Sheaffe and his signal party watching him. They immediately dropped their eyes or became engrossed elsewhere.
Bolitho allowed his aching mind to explore his calculations yet again. The convoy would be very slow and precise in its progress. He had done all he could, with his small sqaudron spread out as far as possible without losing contact completely. Thank God for Barracouta and Rapid, he thought despairingly. But for themHe heard Paget shout at a helmsman, and a muttered answer. Paget would stand no nonsense, and he at least showed no signs of doubt. He was a good man, Bolitho thought, and as a young lieutenant had fought under Duncan at Camperdown. There were not too many officers in the squadron who had seen a battle like that one.
Keen climbed up from the quarterdeck to join him. He had been down on the orlop to visit one of the midshipmen who had broken a leg after being flung bodily from a gangway in the gale.
Keen stared at the forecastle, his eyes red with strain, and Bolitho knew he had barely left the deck since the wind had risen.
Bolitho smiled, 'A strange sight, Val. Bright and bitter, like a dockside whore.'
Keen laughed despite his apprehension. He wanted to tell Bolitho to break off the hunt. It was finished before it had begun. Even if he had been right about Jobert, and it seemed less likely with each aching mile, they would not find him now.
Keen was sick and tired of it, and hated to think what it would do to Bolitho when the truth came out. Everyone said that Nelson had survived only on his luck. He had been fortunate. It was rare.
Bolitho knew Keen was watching him and could guess what he was thinking. As flag-captain he wanted to advise him. As a friend he knew he could not.
Bolitho looked at the cold sky and thought again of Falmouth. Maybe Belinda would have received his letter, or have heard the news from someone else. He thought too of the girl with the dark misty eyes. He smiled. Brave Zenoria, he had called her. She was the one good thing in all this endurance and failure.
Keen saw the smile and wondered. How did he go on like this? It was fanatical, unswerving, but it would not save him at a court martial.
'How was the boy? Midshipman Estridge, wasn't it?'
'A clean break, sir. The surgeon was more troubled by some of his other injured hands. He's had more cuts and gashes than a small war!'
There was a seaman working beside one of the nine-pounders and Bolitho had seen him earlier. He was stripped to the waist, not out of bravado, but to try and keep his clothing dry. When he had turned, Bolitho had seen his back, scarred from shoulders to waist, like the marks of a giant claw. It made him think of Zenoria and what Keen had saved her from.
But when Keen laughed at his earlier remark the seaman had turned and looked up at him. Bolitho had rarely seen such hatred in a man's glance.
Keen saw it too and said tightly, 'I read the Articles of War before a flogging. I did not compose the bloody rules!'
Bolitho could sense his anger, something he had rarely shown even after the court of inquiry.
He saw extra marines at hatchways, their scarlet coats dark with flung spray. Keen was taking no chances. Better to prevent trouble than enforce the misery of suppressing it.
Bolitho said, 'I am going below.' He looked at him squarely. 'If I am wrong-' He shrugged as if it were of little concern. Then he added, 'Some will be pleased. I hope that then they will let my family rest in peace.'
Keen watched him stride towards the poop ladder and felt a stab of pity as Bolitho caught his arm against the mizzen bitts.
Paget moved quietly beside him. 'May I ask what you think of our chances, sir?'
Keen glanced at him. The first lieutenant, the link between captain and ship's company, quarterdeck and forecastle.
He replied, 'Ask me again when we have run Jobert ashore.'
They both turned and Paget exclaimed, 'Not thunder too!'
Keen looked past him. Bolitho was climbing to the poop again, and wearing the old sword, with Allday a few paces behind him.
The lookout yelled with disbelief, 'Gunfire, sir! To th' south'rd!'
Bolitho looked at them. 'No. Not thunder this time.'
Keen stared. How did he do it? Moments earlier he must have been accepting failure. Now he looked strangely calm. Even his voice was untroubled as he said, 'General signal, Mr Sheaffe. Make more sail.'
He watched the flags hurriedly bent onto the halliards and sent soaring up to the yards for all his ships to see.
Bolitho wanted to grip his hands together for surely they must be shaking.
'Acknowledged, sir!' That was Stayt, appearing silently like a cat.
The distant murmur of cannon fire rolled across the water. It was a long way off. Bolitho said, 'We'll not fight before dawn tomorrow.' That was a fact which had to be faced. When darkness closed in the ships might be scattered by the blustery wind. By dawn it could be too late. Benbow was more than a match for any eager privateers or corsairs from the North African shore, but against a whole squadron she would stand no chance. He cocked his head to listen as the gunfire came again. Not many ships. Perhaps two. What could that mean?
He said, 'General signal. Prepare for battle. The people will sleep at their guns tonight.'
He touched the hilt of the old sword and felt a shiver run through his body.
He could recall as if it were yesterday the moment when he had been walking with Adam to the sallyport on Portsmouth Point. Then he had looked back to search for something. So perhaps he had known it would be the last time.
16. MEN OF WAR
REAR-ADMIRAL Thomas Herrick stood by the weather nettings, his chin sunk in his neckcloth while he watched Benbows seamen hauling on the braces to trim the yards and reset the reefed topsails.
Everything took an eternity; it had taken a whole day to make any progress and drained all their skill. Now at last they were past the southernmost tip of Sardinia, which lay some fifty miles to starboard. On the other beam was Africa at about the same distance.
Wallowing downwind of Benbow were two heavy merchantmen, Governor and Prince Henry. Herrick could only guess at the value of their cargoes.
He thought yet again of Bolitho's face in the stern cabin of this ship, the one which had once proudly flown his flag when Herrick had been his captain. He could not forget the bitterness in Bolitho's voice, the reckless contempt when he had damned the admiral's court of inquiry.
It was a strange coincidence which had decided Admiral Sir Marcus Laforey to take passage in Benbow. He had left his flag-captain in temporary charge, although the way Sir Marcus ate and drank it seemed unlikely he would ever return to Malta.
He could head Captain Dewar discussing something with the sailing-master. Herrick sighed. He would have to make it up with his flag-captain, for Dewar was an excellent officer and very conscientious. Herrick blamed himself for Dewar's wariness. He had been foul company since the inquiry.
He felt the spray on his face and peered beyond the starboard bow where, reeling like a ship in distress, his only frigate was tacking yet again to try to stand up to windward. She was the Philomel of twenty-six guns and, but for the grave news of the French squadron, she would have been completing a much needed refit in the dockyard where Benbow had been overhauled.
Herrick gripped his hands behind him and looked along the tilting main deck. He thought too of Inch, another
