little.”
Tyacke said nothing. Bolitho saw it all as if it were indeed broad daylight. Tyacke would examine the compass and study the small wind-vane that aided the helmsmen until they could see the sails and the masthead pendant: he would already have scanned the log book on his way here. A new day. How would it be? An empty sea, a friend, an enemy?
He crossed to the weather side and touched his hat. “You’re about early, Sir Richard.” To anyone else, it would have seemed a question.
Bolitho said, “Like you, James, I need to feel the day, and try to sense what it might bring.”
Tyacke saw that his shirt was touched with pink, as the light found and explored the ship.
“We should sight the others directly, sir. Taciturn will be well up to wind’rd, and the brig Doon closing astern. As soon as we can see them I’ll make a signal.” He was thinking of the convoy they were expecting to meet: there would be hell to pay if they did not. Any escort duty was tedious and an enormous strain, especially for frigates like Indomitable and her consort Taciturn.
They were built for speed, not for the sickening motion under the reefed topsails necessary to hold station on their ponderous charges. He sniffed the air. “That damned galley-it stinks! I must have a word with the purser.”
Bolitho stared aloft, shading his eye. The topgallant yards were pale now, the sails taut and hard-braced to hold the uncooperative wind.
More figures had appeared: Daubeny the first lieutenant, already pointing out tasks for the forenoon watch to Hockenhull the boatswain. Tyacke touched his hat again and strode away to speak with his senior lieutenant, as though he were eager to get started.
Bolitho remained where he was while men hurried past him. Some might glance toward his cloaked figure, but when they realized that it was the admiral they would stay clear. He sighed faintly. At least they were not afraid of him. But to be a captain again… Your own ship. Like Adam…
He thought of him now, still at Halifax, or with Keen making a sweep along the American coast where a hundred ships like Unity or Chesapeake could be concealed. Boston, New Bedford, New York, Philadelphia. They could be anywhere.
It had to be stopped, finished before it became another draining, endless war. America had no allies as such, but would soon find them if Britain was perceived to be failing. If only…
He looked up, caught off-guard as the lookout’s voice penetrated the noises of sea and canvas.
“Deck there! Sail on larboard bow!” The barest pause. “’Tis Taciturn, on station!”
Tyacke said, “She’s seen us and hoisted a light. They have their wits about them.” He looked abeam as a fish leaped from the glassy rollers to avoid an early predator.
Laroche said in his newly affected drawl, “We should sight Doon next, then.”
Tyacke jabbed his hand forward. “Well, I hope the lookout’s eyesight is better than yours. That fore-staysail is flapping about like a washerwoman’s apron!”
Laroche called to a boatswain’s mate, suitably crushed.
And quite suddenly, there they were, their upper sails and rigging holding the first sunshine, their flags and pendants like pieces of painted metal.
Tyacke said nothing. The convoy was safe.
Bolitho took a telescope, but clung to the sight before he raised it. Big and ponderous they might be, yet in this pure, keen light they had a kind of majesty. He thought back to the Saintes, as he often did at times like this, recalling the first sight of the French fleet. A young officer had written to his mother afterwards, comparing them with the armoured knights at Agincourt.
He asked, “How many?”
Tyacke again. “Seven, sir. Or so it said in the instruction.” He repeated, “Seven,” and Bolitho thought he was wondering if their cargoes were worthwhile or necessary.
Carleton, the signals midshipman, had arrived with his men. He looked fresh and alert, and had probably eaten a huge breakfast, no matter what the galley smelled like. Bolitho nodded to him, remembering when a ship’s rat fed on breadcrumbs from the galley had been a midshipman’s delicacy. They had said it tasted like rabbit. They had lied.
Tyacke checked the compass again, impatient to make contact with the senior ship of the escort and then lay his own ship on a new tack for their return to Halifax.
Carleton called, “There is a frigate closing, sir, larboard bow.” He was peering at the bright hoist of flags, but Tyacke said, “I know her. She’s Wakeful…” Like an echo, Carleton called dutifully, “Wakeful, 38, Captain Martin Hyde.”
Bolitho turned. The ship which had brought Keen and Adam out from England, after which the Royal Herald had been pounded into a coffin for her company. Mistaken identity. Or a brutal extension of an old hatred?
Carleton cleared his throat. “She has a passenger for Indomitable, sir.”
“What?” Tyacke sounded outraged. “By whose order?”
Carleton tried again, spelling out the hoist of flags with extra care.
“Senior officer for duties in Halifax, sir.”
Tyacke said doubtfully, “That must have been a potful to spell out.” Then, surprisingly, he smiled at the tall midshipman. “That was well done. Now acknowledge.” He glanced at Bolitho, who had discarded his cloak and was facing into the frail sunlight.
Bolitho shook his head. “No, James, I do not know who.” He turned and looked at him, his eyes bleak. “But I think I know why.”
Wakeful was coming about, and a boat was already being swayed up and over the gangway in readiness for lowering. A smart, well-handled ship. The unknown senior officer would have been making comparisons. Bolitho raised the glass again and saw the way falling off the other ship, the scars of wind and sea on her lithe hull. A solitary command, the only kind to have. He said, “Have the side manned, James. A boatswain’s chair too, although I doubt if it will be needed.”
Allday was here, Ozzard, too, with his dress coat, clucking irritably over the admiral’s casual appearance.
Allday clipped on the old sword, and murmured, “Squalls, Sir Richard?”
Bolitho looked at him gravely. He of all people would remember, and understand. “I fear so, old friend. There are still enemies within our own ranks, it seems.”
He saw the marines stamping to the entry port, picking up their dressing, their bayonets gleaming like silver. Showing a mark of respect, a salute to yet another important visitor. Equally, they would not question an order to place him in front of a firing squad.
Avery hurried from the companion hatch, but hesitated as Tyacke looked over at him and shook his head very slightly in warning.
Indomitable was hove-to, her seamen obviously glad of something to break the monotony of work and drill.
Wakeful’s gig came alongside, rolling steeply in the undertow. Bolitho walked to the rail and stared down, saw the passenger rise from the stern sheets and reach for the guide-rope, disdaining the assistance of a lieutenant, and ignoring the dangling chair as Bolitho had known he would.
Coming to judge the Reaper’s mutineers. How could it be that they should meet like this, on a small pencilled cross on Isaac York’s chart? And whose hand would have made this choice, unless it were guided by malice, and perhaps personal envy?
He made himself watch as the figure climbing the side missed a stair and almost fell. But he was climbing again, each movement an effort. As it would be for any man with only one arm.
The colour-sergeant growled, “Royal Marines… Ready! ” more to cover his own surprise at the time it was taking the visitor to appear at the entry port than out of necessity.
The cocked hat and then the rear-admiral’s epaulettes appeared finally in the port, and Bolitho strode forward to meet him.
“Guard of honour! Present arms!”
The din of the drill, the squeal of calls and the strident rattle of drums drowned out his spoken welcome.
They faced one another, the visitor with his hat raised in his left hand, his hair quite grey against the deep blue of the ocean behind him. But his eyes were the same, a more intense blue even than Tyacke’s.
