work. Freshly scrubbed tubs for the wings and limbs of his amputations were a grim reminder of the work which went on here once a battle was joined.
Carcaud was checking over a line of instruments which seemed to blink like lamps as the lanterns swung above them. He, like most of the men Bolitho had seen while he had walked tirelessly through his flagship, avoided his glance. It was as if they felt unsure of him in their presence instead of standing aloof on the quarterdeck amongst his officers.
At the door of the sickbay Bolitho paused and waited for Tuson to look up from his preparations. There was a smell of dressings and enforced cleanliness. The only other occupant peered at Bolitho from a cot. Midshipman Estridge was not entirely saved by his broken leg; Tuson had had him rolling bandages although he was lying on his back.
Bolitho nodded to him and then said to the surgeon, 'It will be daylight in an hour.'
Tuson regarded him bleakly. 'How is the eye, sir?'
Bolitho shrugged. 'It has been worse.' He could not account for his strange disregard for danger, even death. He had been on every deck, had made sure that everyone had seen him. He had imagined that down here at least, a place he had always dreaded, he would have felt anxiety. If anything he felt only relief. It was a level of recklessness he did not remember in the past. Resigned perhaps, so where was the worth in worrying any more?
Tuson looked at the low deckhead. It almost brushed his white hair. 'The ship is full of sounds.'
Bolitho knew what he meant. Normally you could recognize the general movement of men, of seamanship and the daily routine of eating and working.
But now, with the ship cleared for battle, the noises were all overhead, concentrated around the guns as they lay behind sealed ports, their crews huddled against them, trying or pretending to sleep. Soon those same guns would be like furnace bars, and no man would dare to touch them with bare hands.
The sounds of sea and wind were muted here. The sluice of water against the bilge, the occasional clatter of a pump as men, unfit to fight, carried out their regular soundings of the well. It was uncanny, eerie, he thought. They must be so close to the enemy, and yet, with the coming of darkness, the distant gunfire had ceased. As if they were alone.
Tuson watched him. He had already noted that Bolitho had changed into a crisp new shirt and neckcloth, and his uniform coat bore the glittering epaulettes with the twin silver stars. He pondered on it. Did Bolitho not care? Did he have a death wish? Or was it that he cared too much, so that his own safety had become secondary? He was hatless, and his black hair shone in the moving beams, and only the loose lock of hair which, Tuson knew better than most, hid a terrible scar showed any signs of greyness. An odd mixture. He would be handed his hat and sword when he returned to the deck.
Tuson had never seen it, but the silent ceremony was almost legendary in the squadron, perhaps throughout the whole fleet. Allday with the sword was as well known as a bishop with his mitre.
Tuson said, 'I have had Captain Inch taken forrard, sir. The place is less comfortable,' he glanced briefly through the door at the empty table and the waiting instruments, his crew standing or sitting like scavengers, 'but I feel that he will be better placed there.'
A midshipman's white breeches appeared on the companion ladder and after a slight hesitation he said, 'Captain Keen's respects, Sir Richard, and-'
Bolitho nodded. It was little Hickling, who, although quite unsuspecting, had helped him to smuggle the girl aboard the packet brig at Malta.
'I am ready, thank you.' He looked at Tuson, a lingering glance in which the surgeon later realized he could see no flaw or injury.
'Take care of the people.'
Tuson watched him leave. 'And you take care of you, 'he murmured.
Bolitho, with Hickling panting behind him, made his way, ladder by ladder, to the quarterdeck.
It was still very dark, with just occasional whitecaps beyond the sides to distinguish sea from sky. But the stars were fainter, and there was an air of morning, stale and damp.
Keen waited by the rail. 'The wind's eased, sir. Still fresh enough to keep 'em guessing.' He sounded relieved that Hickling had found him. Keen had never known Bolitho to tour a ship alone before. Not even with Allday, as if he needed to feel the mood of each man under his flag.
Allday clipped on his sword and Ozzard handed him his hat before scuttling away to the hold where he would remain until the day was won or lost.
Bolitho could distinguish the litter of flags on the deck, the occasional movements of the signals midshipman and his assistants. Stayt was here too, and Bolitho guessed that he had taken time to clean and load his beautiful pistol.
'Just a matter of waiting, Val.' He wondered if the other ships were following astern, if Rapid and Barracouta were on station. It must have been a long night for most of them, Bolitho thought. He remembered the Battle of the Saintes when he had commanded his first frigate. It had taken an eternity for the two fleets to draw near enough to each other to fight. All day, or so it had seemed, they had watched the tremendous display of the French masts as they had lifted above the horizon. Like knights on the field of battle. It had been awesome and terrible. But they had won the day, if too late to win a war.
Keen stood beside him, silently preparing himself and searching his thoughts for any weakness. The sporadic gunfire had been a clear message that the convoy lay somewhere ahead and was under attack. Once he glanced at Bolitho to see if there was any surprise or satisfaction that he had been proved right, that he had found the enemy, when any honest man would have admitted that he had doubted his wisdom in acting on Rapid's information. But even in the gloom he recognized Bolitho's quiet determination, rather than any hint of relief.
And they were going to fight. It did not sound as if many vessels were involved. Keen saw the girl again in his mind and wanted to speak her name aloud if only to reassure himself. It only took a second for a man to die. The cause and the victory did not matter to the one who heard the cannon's roar for the last time.
He pictured Inch down on the orlop, hearing the din of war, unable to help or be with his friends. Keen had visited him after he had left the quarterdeck to speak with his lieutenants on the gun decks. Inch was very weak and in great pain from the two amputations to his arm.
Keen felt the sweat cold on his spine. He had been wounded, and still felt the raw wound on occasions. But to lie on a table, with his men all around watching and suffering, waiting their turn, how could anyone stand it? The flensing knife and then the agony of the saw, choking on the leather strap to stifle the screams. He recalled what he had told Zenoria. It is what I am trained to do. The words seemed to mock him now.
Luke Fallowfield, the sailing-master, banged his red hands together and the sound made several of the men nearby start with alarm. We are all on edge, Keen thought. The odds no longer matter. It is like a reckoning.
Bolitho looked abeam and saw the first hint of dawn, a faint glow on the horizon's edge. Many eyes would be watching it. Measuring their chances, the margin of life and death.
Keen strode to the compass and peered at the flickering light.
'Bring her closer to the wind, Mr Fallowfield. Alter course two points to starboard.'
Men moved like eager shadows in the darkness, and Bolitho thanked God he had Keen as his captain. If they wandered too far east they would never be able to beat back in time to close with the convoy. He bunched his fists and pressed them against his thighs. They needed light, and yet many were dreading what they might see.
Bolitho touched his left eyelid and wanted to rub it. He thought of all Tuson's arguments and warnings. They would count for nothing today.
The helmsman called, 'Sou'-sou'-west, zur. Full an' bye!'
Bolitho heard the maintopsail flap as if with irritation as Argonaute nudged still further into the wind, her yards braced hard round to hold her on the same tack.
Soon, soon. He thought momentarily that he had spoken aloud. He heard Keen telling Paget to put more lookouts aloft, one to take a telescope. When he looked up he thought he could see the white crossbelts of the marines in the maintop, a man stretching out in a yawn. Not tiredness this time, he thought. It was often the first sign of fear.
It was strange, he thought, that he might fall today and Falmouth would not hear of it until next year. A Christmas in the big grey house below Pendennis Castle, singers from the town to wish them well, and to amuse little Elizabeth.
