he felt as if he knew him personally.
The captain was smiling. “We shall see, sir. We shall see.”
The midshipman’s voice came shrilly from the masthead. “Signal from Alfriston, sir! Sail in sight to the nor’- west!” A small pause, as if the midshipman was frightened of the noise. “Brigantine, sir.”
The captain rubbed his hands briskly, one of his rare displays of emotion. “Not one of ours, unless the despatches are wrong.”
He swung round as the halliards and canvas came alive, the masthead pendant lifting as if suddenly awakened.
The first lieutenant exclaimed, “The master was right, sir! The wind is coming back!”
The captain nodded. “Recall the boats and have them hoisted. We are well upwind of friends and stranger alike. We’ll add another prize to our list, eh?” He shaded his eyes to watch the two boats casting off the tow lines and pulling back toward their ship. “Something for your sister’s dowry!”
The first lieutenant was surprised at the swift change of mood. It would certainly break the monotony of this snail’s pace.
He looked away as the captain added thoughtfully, “Bring forward the punishment by an hour. It will keep them occupied, and remind them of their duty.”
Calls trilled and men ran to hoist the two dripping boats up and over the gangway while others dashed up the ratlines in readiness to make more sail, even as the slack canvas flapped and then boomed out harder to the wind. The lieutenant watched the sea’s face, the black shadows of Reaper’s masts and sails blurring like ruffled fur while the hull heeled slightly, and then more firmly to the demands of wind and rudder.
The moment every frigate officer waits for. But the elation would not come.
Captain James Tyacke tucked his hat beneath his arm and waited for the marine sentry to admit him. For an instant, he saw a shadow through the screen door, and was amused. The ever vigilant Ozzard, keeping a watchful eye out for visitors to these quarters.
He found Bolitho seated at the table, some charts with written notes on them held down by two books bound in green leather, with heavily-gilded spines. Tyacke recognized them as some of the collection Lady Catherine Somervell had sent aboard for the admiral. Even here, thousands of miles from England, she was never far away from this restless, sensitive man.
“Ah, James!” He looked up and smiled warmly. “I was hoping that you would sup with me tonight, and leave your troubles to your lieutenants for a change.”
Tyacke looked past him at the unbroken panorama of the ocean, blue and grey, disturbed here and there by long, glassy swells. In his mind’s eye he saw them all, Indomitable in the centre, with the two frigates Virtue and Attacker some eight miles off either beam. At dusk they would draw closer to one another, but in this formation they could scan an imposing range from horizon to horizon. Tyacke could also visualize each captain, just as he knew Bolitho would feel the strength of every ship under his flag. Keeping well up to windward like a loyal terrier, the brig Marvel completed this small but effective flotilla.
Bolitho said, “I can see from your expression, James, that you had forgotten the significance of this day.”
“For the moment, Sir Richard.” There was a brief silence. “Two years ago, I took command of this ship.” He added quietly, as if it were something private, “The Old Indom.”
Bolitho waited for him to seat himself. It was like a signal: Ozzard was moving out of his pantry. The flag captain would be staying a while.
Tyacke said, “We’ve done a lot in that time.”
Bolitho looked at the leather-bound books, remembering her at Plymouth, in the coach when they had parted. “I sometimes wonder where it will end. Or even if we are achieving anything by waiting, always waiting, for the enemy to show his teeth.”
“It will come. I feel it. When I was in Larne,” for a moment he hesitated as if it was still too painful a memory to discuss, “the slavers had the whole ocean to pick and choose from. Every cargo of poor devils waiting to be shipped to the Indies and the Americas could be collected… or dropped overboard, if they were sighted by us or another patrol. But every so often…” He leaned forward in his chair, his scarred face suddenly clear and terrible in the reflected sunlight, “I knew, like you knew about Unity. That sixth sense, instinct, call it what you will.”
Bolitho could feel the strength of the man, his deep pride in what he could do. Not something to be taken for granted, not a form of conceit, but true and real, like the old sword on its rack. As he had known in September, when they had walked the deck together, splinters bursting from the planking as sharpshooters tried to mark them down, two men pacing up and down, making no attempt to conceal their ranks or their importance to those who depended upon them.
Avery, too, had walked with them that day. If he had any friend in this ship other than Bolitho himself, that friend was Tyacke. He wondered if he had confided his present preoccupation to him, and then knew he had not. Two men so different, and yet not dissimilar, each deeply reserved, driven in on himself. No, Avery would not have discussed it with Tyacke, particularly if it concerned a woman.
Unconsciously he had touched the volume of Shakespearean sonnets; she had chosen this edition with care because the print was clear, easy to read. So far away. Spring in the West Country. Wagtails on the beach where they had walked; swifts and jackdaws; the return of beauty and vitality to the countryside.
Tyacke watched him, not without affection. Maybe it was better to be alone, with no one to draw your heart, or break it. To know no pain. Then he recalled Bolitho’s woman boarding this ship, climbing the side like a sailor to the cheers of the men. It was not true. Just to have somebody, to know that she was there… He pushed the thoughts aside: for him, they were impossible.
“I’d best go up and see the afternoon gun drill, sir.” He stood, his head brushing the deck beams. He did not appear to notice, and Bolitho knew that after Larne, Indomitable must seem like a palace.
He said, “Until tonight, then.”
But Tyacke was staring at the screen door, one hand raised as if he was listening to something. They both heard measured steps, then the tap of the sentry’s musket as he called, “First lieutenant, sir! ”
Lieutenant John Daubeny stepped into the cabin, his cheeks flushed from the salt air.
Tyacke said, “I heard a call from the masthead. What is it?”
Bolitho felt the sudden tension. He had not heard the call himself. Tyacke had become part of the ship: he was the ship. In spite of his personal misgivings when he had been asked to command the flagship, they had become one.
Daubeny squinted his eyes, a habit of his when he was asked a direct or difficult question.
“Signal from Attacker, sir. Sail sighted to the nor’-west. A brig, one of ours.” He faltered under Tyacke’s intense gaze. “They are certain of it.”
Tyacke said curtly, “Keep me informed. Muster a good signals party, and tell Mr Carleton to be ready.”
“I have attended to it, sir.”
The door closed, and Bolitho said, “You have them well drilled, James. This newcomer-what d’ you make of her?”
“We’re not expecting a courier, sir. Not here. Not yet.” He was pondering aloud. “At the Bermudas, now, that would be different. A convoy is assembling there, or should be.”
Bolitho shared it, remembering how it felt. Wanting to be up there on deck, and yet aware that it might be regarded as a lack of confidence in his officers, or that they might take his presence for anxiety. He vividly recalled his own time in command, and today was no different. When the watches changed, or the hands were piped to shorten sail, his whole being protested that he should remain aloof, a man apart from the ship that served him.
The sentry called, “First lieutenant, sir! ”
Daubeny came back in, more flushed than ever. “She’s the Alfriston, sir, fourteen guns. Commander Borradaile…”
Bolitho said quickly, “I don’t know him, do I?”
Tyacke shook his head. “Alfriston joined the squadron while you were in England, sir.” Then, as an afterthought, “Borradaile’s a good hand. Came up the hard way.”
Bolitho was on his feet. “Signal Attacker, repeat Alfriston, close on Flag.” He glanced out through the thick glass. “I want him here before nightfall. I can’t waste another day.”
Daubeny’s face was quite untroubled now that he had shifted the responsibility to his superiors. He offered,
