THEMIS'S STERN CABIN was like a furnace in spite of the open gunports and the windsails rigged to each hatchway, so it was difficult even to think. Bolitho sat at the table, his head resting on one hand while he scanned the contents of the pouch which had been ferried across from the schooner Miranda.
Commodore Warren slumped in a high-backed chair, his ashen features turned towards the nearest port, his only movement when he plucked his uniform coat or shirt away from his damp skin.
Seated beside Bolitho, his plump, round-shouldered secretary, Daniel Yovell, had to repeatedly push his gold- rimmed spectacles back into position when they slipped down his nose, as he wrote the notes which Bolitho might require later on.
Warren asked suddenly, 'You are not surprised by the army's reply to your request, Sir Richard?'
Bolitho dragged his thoughts away from the pouch which Miranda's boarding party had discovered. The evidence of the chart was interesting, but the lengthy letter to some French merchant in Cape Town was far more so.
He replied, 'Much what I expected, Commodore Warren. But we have to use the proper channels. By now, Sir David Baird's soldiers will have begun their landings. It is too late to prevent it, even if I could.'
Jenour stood beside the stern windows and watched the Miranda as she swung above her reflection, a perfect twin on the calm water. Her commander had been fortunate, he thought. A few hours later and he would have lost the wind completely.
He turned as Bolitho said, 'Your French is excellent, Stephen. When you translated this letter for me, did you notice anything unusual?'
Jenour tried to shake off the torpor. Of them all, Bolitho looked the coolest. Dressed in shirt and breeches, his coat tossed aside on to a chest, he even managed to appear alert, although Jenour knew that he had been pacing the cabin since Miranda's sails had been sighted closing the land. That had been at dawn. It was now
high noon. In this oven-heat men trod warily; it was a dangerous time when frayed tempers brought sharp discipline, with an aftermath of resentment. Better to be at sea, with every man too busy to brood.
Jenour screwed up his face. 'If the letter is a code I cannot read it, Sir Richard. It is the kind of letter that one merchant might send to another, passed perhaps by one ship on passage to that particular destination. After all, it is quite possible for French merchants to be in Cape Town surely?'
Bolitho massaged his forehead. It was a code, and he was surprised that even the quick-witted Jenour had missed a vital clue.
It fell to Yovell, who had been peering at his papers, his fat fingers holding his spectacles in place, to discover it.
He exclaimed, 'The battle off Cape Trafalgar, Sir Richard! The sender mentions it to his friend! '
Bolitho saw their expressions begin to change. 'Quite what you would expect, eh? Except that Truculent made a record passage here from England, before anyone in this squadron knew about the battle and Lord Nelson's death. So to have time in hand to pass this letter to a slaver, the sender must have been in these waters ahead of us! '
Warren dabbed his mouth with care. 'A French man-of-war?'
Jenour clenched his fists with disbelief. 'One of those which broke out of Brest?'
Bolitho tugged the chart towards him. ' Cape Town is the clue, my friends, although I fear I cannot determine what it is.'
He made up his mind. 'Make a signal to Miranda, Stephen. Summon her commander aboard. I would like to meet him in any case.'
As Jenour turned towards the door Commodore Warren said humbly, 'I am sorry. It slipped my mind, Sir Richard. Lieutenant Tyacke has been aboard since he delivered the pouch.'
Bolitho bit back a sharp retort. It was not now the time, but later… He sighed. Two frigate captains who disliked one another-their commodore who showed little interest in the whole operation-and a mixed handful of vessels which had barely worked with one another before. Small beginnings.
He said, 'Ask him to come in, Stephen.'
Warren shifted uneasily. 'There is another thing about him…'
But Jenour already had the door to the cabin open, so he did not finish it.
Jenour stepped into the other cabin and looked at the tall man who was standing by an open gunport, his hands clasped behind him.
'If you will step aft-Sir Richard Bolitho wishes to speak with you.' He was relieved to see that the lieutenant had at least been given refreshment, and doubtless some of the commodore's terrible wine. 'We were not aware that you were still…' The words froze on his lips as the other man turned to stare at him. How could anyone
live with a wound like that?
Tyacke said abruptly, 'And who are you, might I ask?' Then he saw the twist of gold lace at Jenour's shoulder. 'I see, Flag Lieutenant.'
Jenour tried again. 'Forgive me. I did not mean-'
Tyacke shifted the sword at his belt and turned his disfigurement aside. 'I am accustomed to it. But I don't have to enjoy it.' He did not attempt to hide his anger and bitterness. Who did they think they were?
He lowered his head between the deck beams and stepped into the enlarged cabin. For a few moments he was taken completely off-balance. The commodore he knew slightly by sight, and for some lingering seconds he imagined that the plump man in the plain blue coat must be the much-talked about Bolitho. Not an heroic figure; but then most of the flag officers Tyacke had met were not.
'Will you accept my apologies, Mr Tyacke?' Bolitho walked from the shadows and crossed beneath a skylight. 'I was not told you had been kept waiting. Please forgive this oversight and take a seat, will you?'
Tyacke sat down awkwardly Perhaps he had been at sea too long, or had misheard somehow. But the man in the white shirt, with the almost gentle manner of greeting, was not what he had expected. For one thing Bolitho looked no older than himself, although he knew he must be nearer fifty than forty But for the deep lines around his mouth, and the traces of white in a solitary lock of hair above one eye, he was a young man. Bolitho was looking at him again in that strangely direct and open manner. The eyes were grey, and for a few seconds Tyacke felt tongue- tied, more like Midshipman Segrave than himself.
Bolitho continued, 'Your discovery aboard that slaver may be more useful than any of us realise.' He smiled suddenly, so that he appeared even younger. 'I am trying to fathom how it may help us.'
A door opened, and a very small servant padded across the cabin and paused by Tyacke's chair. 'Some hock, sir?' He watched Tyacke's expression and added mildly, 'It is quite cold, sir.' It sounded as if it was better wine than was usually available in this elderly flagship.
Tyacke swallowed hard. This must be one of Bolitho's men too. He drank deeply, trying to contain something he thought he had lost. Emotion. The little man had not even blinked; had shown neither curiosity nor disgust.
Bolitho observed him and saw the lieutenant's hand tremble as his glass was refilled. Another survivor. One more victim which the war had tossed aside, as the sea gave up driftwood.
He asked quietly, 'Where is this Albacora now?'
Tyacke seemed to pull himself out of his thoughts with a physical effort.
'She will be here in two days, Sir Richard. I left a small prize crew aboard and the injured midshipman.'
Bolitho nodded. 'I read of him in your report. He sounds a brave youngster.'
Tyacke dropped his gaze. 'He surprised me.'
Bolitho looked at his secretary. 'I shall require you to write some orders for another of the schooners.' His voice hardened and he saw the commodore watching him anxiously. 'I want the Albacora put alongside one of the storeships when she arrives. She must be met at sea, out of sight of prying telescopes ashore, then brought to her moorings at night.' He waited for his words to sink in. 'Will you attend to that, Commodore Warren?'
Warren bobbed and fell into a fit of violent coughing.
Bolitho turned his back and studied the tall lieutenant. 'I wish to take passage in your command, Mr Tyacke.' He saw the disbelief, the arguments rushing into the man's eyes. 'I am used to small vessels so have no fear for my-er, dignity! '
When he looked again, the commodore had left the cabin, but he could still hear him coughing. Jenour was at Yovell's shoulder peering at the plump Devonian's neat, round writing.
For a few minutes they were alone, ignored. Bolitho asked softly, 'Where did it happen?' That was all he said, but he saw the words hit Tyacke like a clenched fist.
