It was strange how the land never seemed to draw any closer, and because of the difficult anchorage it gave an impression of brooding defiance. The point to the north-west which had been selected for the first assault was a good choice, possibly the only one. Bolitho had examined the charts with great care, as well as the maps supplied to him by the Admiralty Up there at SaldanhaBay the coastal waters were shallow and protected enough to land soldiers and marines under the cover of men-of-war, which could offer fire. But once ashore the true difficulty would begin. SaldanhaBay was one hundred miles from Cape Town. Foot soldiers, some sick and weary from weeks and weeks at sea in their cramped quarters between decks, would be in no fit state to march and skirmish all the way to Cape Town. The Dutch were excellent fighters and would harry rather than confront them every mile. When they finally reached the Cape, the enemy would be ready and waiting. It seemed unlikely that any large force of Dutch soldiers would be sent to contest the landings. It would leave them in danger of being cut off by this supporting squadron.
Bolitho felt his impatience returning. A campaign then, lengthy and costly. A war of supply-lines, to be fought by soldiers, many of whom had been confined to garrison duties in the Indies. The Islands of Death, as the army called them, where more men died of fever than under the enemy's fire.
Jenour strode aft and touched his hat. 'Your despatch to the general has gone, Sir Richard, taken by the courier schooner Miranda this moment.'
Bolitho shaded his eyes to watch the small and graceful schooner tacking away from the other vessels, her commander doubtless grateful to be free of other authority, albeit for only a few days.
Bolitho watched the redness of evening spreading along the glittering horizon, the masts and yards of the small squadron suddenly like bronze. Ashore telescopes would have observed Truculent's arrival as they had doubtless studied all the others.
He remarked, 'You are in irons, Stephen, so why not spit out what you think?'
But for his self-control, Jenour would have blushed. Bolitho always knew. It was pointless to pretend.
'I-I thought-' He licked his dry lips. 'I would have thought that the Commodore might have requested to come aboard.' He fell silent under Bolitho's scrutiny.
Bolitho said, 'In his place I would have done just that.' He recalled Captain Varian's tactless remark. 'Call away the gig, Stephen. My compliments to Captain Poland and explain that I am going across to Themis.'
Fifteen minutes later, sweating steadily in his dress coat and hat, he sat in the gig's sternsheets with Jenour beside him, and a critical Allday crouching with the boat's coxswain.
As they pulled slowly abeam of the other ships, Bolitho saw officers-of-the-watch doffing their hats, motionless figures in shrouds and rigging staring in silence, their bare arms and shoulders like parts of the bronze around them.
Allday leaned forward, his mouth just inches from Bolitho's ear.
'Y'see, they knows, Sir Richard. Only here an hour an' the word has gone through the whole squadron! ' He saw one of the oarsmen staring at him and scowled over Bolitho's epaulette. The man dropped his gaze and almost lost the stroke. He had probably been surprised at seeing a seaman, even an admiral's personal coxswain, chatting with his master, while the latter even turned his head to listen.
Bolitho nodded. 'Lord Nelson will be sadly missed. We'll not see his like in our lifetime.'
Allday leaned back again and rolled his tongue inside his cheek to restrain a grin. I'm not too sure o' that, he thought.
Bolitho watched the Themis's bowsprit and tapering jib-boom sweeping out to greet them. She was an old ship and had been employed on every sort of duty other than the line of battle. Originally a sixty-four, she had been stripped of some of her armament while she was carrying soldiers from one trouble spot to the next; she had even been to the penal colony in New South Wales. Transport, receiving ship, and now with the war demanding everything that would stay afloat, she was here, part of the invading force.
Jenour bit his lip and tried to relax. He had seen the assembled guard at the entry port, the glitter of red sunlight on drawn swords. An air of wariness.
Bolitho waited while the bowman hooked on to the main chains, then pulled himself up to the entry port, immediately deafened by the bark of commands, the chorus of squealing calls, which sailors termed 'Spithead Nightingales.' He no longer needed to look for Allday to know he was there, ready to reach out if he lost his footing, or if his eye… No. He would not think about it.
The din faded away and he raised his hat to the poop, where the White Ensign made a lively dance against the hot sky.
The officer who stepped forward to present himself wore the epaulette of commander. He was old for his rank and had possibly been passed over for captain.
'I bid you welcome, Sir Richard.'
Bolitho smiled briefly. Allday was right. There were no secrets.
'Where is the Commodore?' He glanced up at the curling pendant. 'Is he unwell?'
The commander, whose name was Maguire, looked uncomfortable. 'He sends his apologies, Sir Richard. He awaits you in his cabin.'
Bolitho nodded to the other officers and turned aside to Jenour. 'Remain here. Discover what you can.' He patted his arm but did not smile. 'I am certain Allday will do likewise! '
Maguire led the way to the companion ladder and almost bowed as Bolitho walked aft, where a Royal Marine sentry drew his heels together with the precision of a bolt snapping shut.
There was nothing slack about the old Themis. It was just as if she did not belong. Maybe too many tasks in far-flung stations, too long away from home. As far as Bolitho could gather, the ship had not returned to England for fifteen years, so God alone knew what state her lower hull was in.
The screen doors were opened by a black servant and Bolitho received another surprise. During her role as accommodation ship they must have removed some of the armament from aft to enlarge the officers' quarters. Now, with her gunports filled only with wooden 'quakers,' the shortened muzzles of which might deceive another vessel at long-range, or even a landsman walking on a dockside, the after accommodation was huge, and contained nothing more war-like than furniture and a stand of muskets.
Commodore Arthur Warren walked from a screened-off cabin and exclaimed, 'Sir Richard. What must you think of me?'
Bolitho was shocked by what he saw. He had never really known Warren as a friend, but he guessed him to be about his own age. But the officer in the loose-fitting coat, whose lined face had somehow defied the suns of so many fierce climates, was an old man.
The door closed, and apart from the watchful servant, who wore a red waistcoat above his duck trousers, they were alone. The elderly commander had taken his leave without dismissal. It was no wonder that the confident Captain Varian had seen this squadron as his own future responsibility.
Bolitho said, 'Please be seated.' He waited while the other officer beckoned to his servant and some finely-cut Spanish goblets were filled with red wine. Warren then seated himself. One leg was thrust out, as if in pain, his left hand hidden beneath his coat. He was not sick, Bolitho thought. He was dying.
Bolitho raised his goblet. 'Your health, sir. Everyone seems to know I am here, even though the news of Trafalgar has not reached them.'
The wine was rough and brackish, but he barely noticed it.
Once he had been a flag captain to RearAdmiral Sir Charles Thelwall in the big three-decker Euryalus. Bolitho had been made to work doubly hard because his admiral's health had deteriorated over the months at sea. He had admired Thelwall and had been saddened to see him step ashore for the last time with only a short
while left to live. Bolitho was only glad that the admiral had been spared what had happened that year, the mutinies throughout the fleet at the Nore and Spithead, Plymouth and Scotland. No captain had ever forgotten. Nor would they, unless they were inviting disaster.
But the admiral had looked and sounded like Warren now. As he swallowed some wine he struggled to contain a deep, tearing cough, and when he took his handkerchief from his lips Bolitho knew the stains on it were not all wine.
'I would not trouble you, sir, but if you wish I could send for another surgeon from Truculent. He seems an excellent man from the talks I had with him.'
Warren 's face stiffened with pathetic determination. 'I am well enough, Sir Richard. I know my duty! '
Bolitho looked away. This ship is all he has. The temporary title of commodore the only triumph he has known.
