pierced the night.
Bolitho was standing at the table, with his hands spread on a chart, Avery by his elbow, while the plump and scholarly Yovell sat at a smaller table, his pen poised over some papers. Ozzard moved only occasionally to refill their cups with coffee but remained, as usual, silent, merely shifting from one foot to the other to betray any agitation he might feel.
And framed against the great span of thick glass windows was Allday, a drawn sword in one hand, while he moved a cloth slowly up and down the blade as Tyacke had seen him do so often. Bolitho’s oak: only death would separate them.
Tyacke shut it from his mind. “All the hands have been fed, Sir Richard. I’ve been around the ship to have a quiet word with my people.”
He could not have slept much, Bolitho thought, but he was ready now, even if his admiral were to be proved wrong. He had even considered that possibility. The ship’s company had been roused early, but they had not yet cleared for action. There was nothing worse for morale than the anti-climax of discovering that the enemy had outguessed or outmaneuvered them, and the sea was empty.
My people. That was also typical of Tyacke. He was referring to the ship’s backbone of professionals, his warrant officers, all skilled and experienced men like Isaac York, the sailing-master, Harry Duff, the gunner, and Sam Hockenhull, the squat boatswain. Men who had come up the hard way, like Alfriston’s untidy commander.
Yet against them, the lieutenants were amateurs. Even Daubeny, the first lieutenant, was still young for his position, which would not have come his way so soon but for the death of his predecessor. But that one fierce battle eight months ago had given him a maturity that seemed to surprise him more than anybody. As for the others, the most junior was Blythe, only just promoted from the midshipmen’s berth. He was big-headed and very sure of himself, but even Tyacke had overcome his dislike of him to say that he was improving. Slightly.
And Laroche, the piggy-faced third lieutenant, who had once received the rough edge of Tyacke’s tongue when he had been in charge of a press-gang, also lacked experience except for their encounter with Unity.
Tyacke was saying, “The new hands have settled down quite well, sir. As for the Nova Scotians who volunteered, I’m glad they’re with us and not the enemy!”
Bolitho stared down at the chart, the soundings and calculations between his hands. Ships meeting, the mind of an enemy, all meaningless if there was nothing when daylight came.
York had been right about the wind. It was even and steady from the south-west, and the ship, under reduced canvas, was lying well to it; when he had been on deck he had watched the spray bursting like phantoms along the lee side and up through the beak-head with its snarling lion.
Avery asked, “Will they fight or run, Sir Richard?” He saw the alertness in the grey eyes that lifted to him; there was no hint of fatigue or doubt. Bolitho had shaved, and Avery wondered what he and Allday had discussed while the big coxswain had used his razor as easily as if it were broad daylight.
His shirt was loosely fastened, and Avery had seen the glint of silver when he had stooped over the chart. The locket he always wore.
Bolitho shrugged. “Fight. If they have not already gone about and headed for port somewhere, they will have little choice, I think.” He looked up at the deckhead beams. “The wind is an ally today.”
Avery watched, at peace now in this company, the consequences of what daylight might bring somehow secondary. He heard the drumming vibration of rigging, the occasional squeal of blocks, and imagined the ship leaning over to the wind, knowing that Bolitho was seeing it also, even as they spoke.
Tyacke would consider the situation rather differently, perhaps, but with the same end in mind. How many times had this ship lived through moments like this? She was thirty-six years old, and her battle honours read like history itself: the Chesapeake, the Saintes, the Nile, and Copenhagen. So many men, so much pain. He thought of Tyacke’s fiercely contained pride for the ship he had not wanted. And she had never been beaten.
Bolitho said suddenly, “Your assistant, George-Mr Midshipman Carleton. Doing well, isn’t he?”
Avery glanced quickly at Tyacke, who gave the merest hint of a smile, but no more.
“Yes, sir, he is very good with his signals crew. He hopes to be offered promotion. He is seventeen.” The question had disconcerted him: he never really knew what Bolitho might toss his way, or why.
Tyacke said, “He’s a damned sight quieter than Mr Blythe ever was.”
Bolitho felt them relaxing, except Ozzard. He was waiting to hear, to know. He would go below, as deep as possible into the hull, when the first shots were fired. He should be ashore, Bolitho thought, away from this life. And yet, he knew that he had nowhere to go, no one who waited for him. Even when they were in Cornwall, and Ozzard lived in his cottage on the estate, he remained profoundly alone.
Bolitho said, “I want young Carleton aloft.” He tugged out his watch and flicked open the guard.
Tyacke read his thoughts. “Less than an hour, sir.”
Bolitho glanced at his empty cup, and heard Ozzard say tentatively, “I could make another pot, Sir Richard.”
“I think it may have to wait.” He turned his head as, almost drowned out by the muffled hiss of the sea, he heard a man laugh somewhere. Such a small thing, but he thought of the wretched Reaper: there had been no laughter there. He remembered as if it were yesterday the evening when Tyacke had taken the lordly Midshipman Blythe below deck to visit the crowded seamen’s and marines’ messes, to show him what he had called “the strength of a ship.” That had been before the battle. The same strength had prevailed then. He thought of Allday’s grief. At a cost…
He said, “If we fight, we will give of our best.” For a moment it was like hearing someone else’s voice. “But we must never forget those who depend on us, because they have no other choice.”
Tyacke reached for his hat. “I’ll have the galley fire doused in good time, Sir Richard.”
But Bolitho was looking at Avery. “Go and speak with your Mr Carleton.” He closed his watch, but was still holding it. “You may pass the word now, James. It will be warm enough today.”
As Ozzard gathered up the cups and the others left the cabin, Bolitho looked over at Allday.
“Well, old friend. Why here, you must be thinking, a tiny mark on this great ocean. Are we destined to fight?”
Allday held out the old sword and ran his eye along the edge.
“Like all them other times, Sir Richard. It was meant to be. That’s it an’ all about it.” Then he grinned, almost his old self again. “We’ll win, no matter what.” He paused, and the defiant humour was gone. “Y’ see, Sir Richard, we’ve both got too much to lose.” He slid the blade back into its scabbard. “God help them that tries to take it away!”
Bolitho walked to the quarterdeck rail and gripped it while he peered up at the towering mainmast with its iron-hard canvas. He was shivering, not because of the cold morning air, but with the instinctive awareness of danger that could still surprise him after a lifetime at sea. The sails were paler now, but there was no horizon, and the only movement he recognized through the thick criss-cross of rigging and flapping canvas seemed to float above the ship, keeping pace with her like a solitary sea bird. It was his flag, the Cross of St George, which flew day and night while he was in command. He thought of her letter in the pocket of his coat, and imagined he could hear her voice. My admiral of England.
He could still taste the bitterness of coffee on his tongue, and wondered why he had not forced himself to eat. Tension, uncertainty perhaps. But fear? He smiled. Perhaps he could no longer recognize that emotion.
Figures moved all around him, each one careful not to intrude upon his solitude. He could see Isaac York, a head taller than his mates, his slate-coloured hair blowing in the wind: a good man and a strong one. Bolitho knew that he had even tried to help Scarlett when the extent of his debts had become known. The white breeches of the lieutenants and midshipmen stood out in the lingering darkness, and he guessed that they were preparing themselves for what might happen today, each in his own fashion.
He moved to the compass box and glanced at the tilting card. North-east by north, with the wind still firm across the larboard quarter. Men were working high overhead, feeling for frayed cordage or jammed blocks with the sureness of true seamen.
Tyacke was down on the lee side, his lean figure framed against the pale water creaming back from the bows. One long arm moved to emphasize a point, and he could imagine Daubeny concentrating on every word. They were chalk and cheese, but the mixture seemed to work: Tyacke had a peculiar gift of being able to communicate his requirements to his subordinates without unnecessary anger or sarcasm. At first they had been afraid of him, and repulsed by the hideous scars: eventually they had all overcome such things, and had become a company of which
