man overboard.
'I'll go up, Stephen.' He glanced at his unfinished letter, seeing Falmouth as it would be now. Much like the Atlantic: gales, rain and perhaps snow.
Catherine would be thinking of the ship, wondering where she was, if she had arrived safely. When she might be called to action. So many questions which only time could answer.
Jenour looked around the great cabin, a place he had come to know so well. During the passage from England he had been able to put the prospect of leaving Bolitho to one side. The gales, the deafening roar of the sea thundering over the hull and upper deck to make every footstep a separate hazard, and the gaunt faces of the people while they were chased and bullied from one task to the next, kept such thoughts at bay. Now it was different. Out there beyond the tapering jib-boom was English Harbour: order and authority, where each day might offer him the challenge of promotion. He thought of the first lieutenant, Sedgemore, some of the others too; they would give their blood for such an opportunity. A small command, with the blessing of a famous flag officer-who could wish for more? He had heard Bolitho refer to it as the most coveted gift.
Jenour thought also of his parents at Roxby's dinner, when Bolitho had made it his business to have them feel at home with such illustrious people.
He saw him touching his eyelid as he did more and more frequently nowadays. That secret too had been entrusted to him. It was safe until Bolitho required it otherwise. But who else would be able to understand him and his ways when he himself was promoted out of this ship?
He had even shared in the conspiracy of Bolitho's reunion with Lady Catherine, that too in Antigua.
'Why so thoughtful, Stephen?'
Jenour faced him and replied quietly, 'I think you know, Sir Richard.'
Bolitho touched his eye again. He had noticed that Jenour rarely flushed when his private thoughts were revealed, not since the Golden Plover's jolly-boat. A man then. But one who could still feel distress and show compassion for others.
Bolitho walked to the stern gallery and looked out at the undulating water, bank upon bank of it, as if worn out by all the anger it had expended to prevent their journey from being a fast one.
He said, 'It has to be. That does not mean I do not care. It is the opposite, and I think you know that!'
They went on deck where Keen and some of his officers were studying the approaching island sprawled out on either bow, misty green, the hump of Monk's Hill all but lost in haze.
Bolitho appreciated that even that was suspect. From flat calm to a raging storm, every captain worth his salt knew better than to trust these waters at this time of year.
Keen crossed the deck to join him, his shoes sticking to the tarred seams as he did so.
'Barely making way, sir.' They both looked up at the great spread of canvas, flapping in the hot breeze but hardly filling enough to move the ship. Buckets of salt water were being hauled up to men on the upper yards so that it could be poured on the sails to harden them, to make use of even a cupful of wind. The watch on deck was flaking down lines and securing halliards again after the last change of tack, their movements slow in the hot sunshine and lacking the brisk response to commands any captain would expect.
Bolitho took a telescope from the rack by the poop and trained it through the mesh of rigging until he found the nearest spur of land. He had had the crazed Captain Haven on that last visit. One so filled with suspicion and jealousy over his young wife that he had tried to kill the first lieutenant, whom he had believed responsible for his wife's pregnancy. He had been proved wrong, but he had been held for attempted murder nonetheless.
An island of so many memories. He had been here in his first command, the little Sparrow, and again in his frigate Phalarope. He saw Allday watching him from the larboard gangway and their quick exchange of glances was like part of an enduring link. The battle of the Saintes; his previous coxswain Stockdale falling dead while trying to protect his back from enemy marksmen. Bryan Ferguson losing an arm, and Allday eventually taking over as his coxswain. Yes, there was plenty to remember here.
Keen said, 'We shall be anchored by this afternoon, sir.' He frowned as the masthead pendant flicked out, the life draining from it. 'I could lower the boats and take her in tow.' He was considering the dwindling possibilities.
Bolitho said, 'I'd stay your hand with the boats, Val. Another hour more will make little difference now.' He glanced at the nearest seamen. 'They look like old men!'
Keen smiled. 'They will have to learn. If we are called to battle…' He shrugged. 'But the sight of land is sometimes a tonic, sir.' He excused himself and went to join the sailing-master by the chart table.
Bolitho raised the glass again. Still too far away to discern any prominent landmarks, and certainly none of the houses beyond the dockyard. He could see her now as if it were today. Dazzled by the lights at the reception, he had almost fallen at her feet. But she had discovered his injury, inevitably, and had insisted that he seek advice and treatment from the best surgeons in London.
He touched his eyelid again, and felt the painful prick which seemed to come from right inside his eye. And yet sometimes he could see perfectly. At others he had felt utter despair, as Nelson must have done after his own eye had been wounded.
And this was the time when every experienced officer was needed, as he had explained both to Keen and Jenour. But for the failure of his mission to Cape Town and the resulting delay caused by the loss of the Golden Plover, where might they have been now? Keen a commodore and ready for the next step to flag rank. And but for Black Prince's unfortunate collision at the completion of her refit, she might well be with the major part of the fleet supporting the army in Portugal or beyond. It was fate. This was where they were destined to be. But would it prove as useful as Godschale and his superiors seemed to think?
One thing stood out above all else. Bonaparte intended to divide his enemy's forces at all cost. His failure to seize the Danish fleet had made him even more determined. Small groups of ships had been reported slipping through the English blockade, and many had headed for the Caribbean, perhaps to attack Jamaica or other islands under the English flag. That would certainly force their lordships to withdraw more urgently needed ships from blockade and military convoy duties.
It was possible that the sighting of the vessel described by the volunteer William Owen as 'Dutch-built' was no more than another coincidence. Bolitho thought privately that it was more than that. One modest frigate sailing alone was more likely to be taking despatches to some senior officer. Reinforcements, in the shape of Black Prince, were on their way, but no sign of any other frigates. They would have gone for the stranger like terriers had there been any. And then there was the matter of Thomas Herrick, the man he had always believed his best friend. It was strange that Godschale had made a point of not mentioning him at their last meeting; nor had the admiral displayed any interest at what Bolitho might expect when they next met. For unless some other vessel had sailed ahead of Black Prince, Herrick would still believe him to be dead after the Golden Plover's reported loss.
He shaded his eyes against the glare and watched the distant island, which appeared to have drawn no nearer.
So many ifs and maybes. Suppose the plan to land on and capture the French islands of Martinique and Guadaloupe misfired? Without overwhelming superiority at sea the scheme would certainly fail. To draw the main enemy force together and engage it in battle was their only sane approach. He kept his face impassive, knowing that Jenour was watching him. Seven sail of the line and one frigate was hardly an overwhelming squadron.
He heard the first lieutenant call, 'Permission to carry out punishment, sir? Able Seaman Wiltshire, two dozen lashes.'
Keen sounded suddenly dispirited. 'Very well, Mr Sedgemore.' He looked up at the limply flapping sails and added bitterly, 'It seems we have nothing better to do!'
Bolitho turned towards the companion-way. He had seen the expressions on the faces of some of the new hands. Resentful, hostile.
Hardly the faces of men who would rally and fight to the death if so ordered, not by a long stretch of the imagination.
He said, 'I'm going aft, Val. Keep me informed.'
Keen stood beside Jenour as the ritual of rigging a grating on the larboard side was supervised by the boatswain and his mates.
Jenour said with concern, 'Sir Richard seems depressed, sir.'
Keen tore his eyes from the boatswain who was examining his red baize bag, in which he kept the cat-o'-nine- tails.
