grinning hugely. Their places had been taken by officers, three of them captains, including Adam.
Herrick held out his hand to Tyacke. “Your work, I presume, sir?”
Tyacke did not smile. “All we could do at such short notice.”
Bolitho followed him down the stairs, recalling Tyacke’s words. They’ll crucify him. But Herrick would have his way. Perhaps the “damned little upstart” Bethune had used his influence. He would know the man he had served as a midshipman better than many, and perhaps had attempted to help by subtle means.
Allday had seen Herrick’s face and said awkwardly, “I don’t get too many chances to tell the officers what to do, an’ that’s no error!” Then he said, “Good luck, Mr Herrick.” Just for those seconds they were back on board Phalarope, young lieutenant and pressed man.
The barge pulled away, the stroke surprisingly smart and regular. As they wended between the anchored men-of-war the cheering escorted them, some of it from Reaper herself. And this time Herrick did look back, although it was doubtful if he could see anything.
Bolitho turned away, and saw that Keen was speaking quietly with Gilia St Clair. And suddenly, he was glad for them.
“Call a boat, James. Sailing orders.”
Tyacke was gazing impassively after the barge. “Aye, Sir Richard. But first…”
Bolitho smiled, but shared the unspoken sadness. “A wet. So be it.”
15. No Din of War
RICHARD BOLITHO flattened the chart very carefully on his table and opened a pair of brass dividers. He could feel the others watching him, Avery standing by the stern windows, Yovell seated comfortably in a chair, paper and pens within easy reach as always.
Bolitho said, “Two days, and we’ve sighted nothing.” He studied the chart again, imagining his ships as they might appear to a cruising sea bird: five frigates sailing in line abreast, with Indomitable, the flagship, in the centre. The extended line of frigates, half of his entire force, could scan a great expanse of ocean in this formation. The sky was clear, with only a few streaks of pale cloud, the sea a darker blue in the cool sunlight.
He thought of the solitary patrolling frigate, Chivalrous, which had sent the brig Weazle to Halifax with the news that the Americans were on the move again. In his mind’s eye he could see Chivalrous’s captain, Isaac Lloyd, an experienced officer, twenty-eight years old. He would be trying to keep the enemy in view, but would have sense enough not to be trapped into engaging them.
Two days, so where were they? In the approaches to Halifax, or out further still towards St John ’s in Newfoundland? He had discussed various possibilities with Tyacke and York. When he had suggested the Bay of Fundy to the north-west of Nova Scotia, York had been adamant.
“Unlikely, sir. The bay has the world’s highest tides, twice a day for good measure. If I was the Yankee commander I wouldn’t want to get trapped in the middle of that!”
Bolitho had been warned of the situation in the Bay of Fundy. His Admiralty Instructions had already stated that the tides could rise and fall as much as fifty feet and more, with the added risk to smaller vessels of fierce tidal bores. No place to risk a frigate, even the large Americans. Or Indomitable.
He thought of Herrick, on his way now across the Atlantic to throw his findings in someone’s face at the Admiralty. Had he been glad to leave, after all? Or deep inside, was the old, tenacious Herrick still hating what amounted to a dismissal from the only life he knew?
It had obviously had a great effect on Tyacke. He had been more withdrawn than ever after Herrick had been taken out to the frigate which was to carry him back to England.
He tossed the dividers onto the chart. Perhaps this was all a waste of time, or worse, another ruse to draw them away from something more important.
He walked to the stern windows, and felt the ship lifting and leaning beneath him. That, too, he could see in his mind, Indomitable close-hauled on the larboard tack, the wind holding from the south-east as it had for most of the time since they had weighed anchor. Adam was openly fretting at having been left at Halifax, but Valkyriewas their second most powerful frigate: Keen might need her.
Adam had not hesitated in recommending his first lieutenant for promotion to the questionable command of Reaper. A challenge for any man, but Adam had said bluntly, “I’d have taken her myself, had I been free to do so.” Were things between him and Val so strained?
Avery said gently, “We could have missed them overnight, Sir Richard.”
“If they were looking for us, I think not.” Bolitho dismissed the thoughts, and recalled himself to the matter at hand. “Ask Mr York to let me see his notes again, will you?”
The cabin was tilting over once more, and the brass dividers clattered onto the deck. Yovell tried to lean down to recover them, but the angle was so extreme that he sank back in his chair and mopped his face with a bright red handkerchief. But lively or not, the Old Indom was riding it well. As York had remarked with his usual cheerful confidence, “Like a bald-headed barque she is, Sir Richard. Stiff in any wind and stiff when she’s not!”
Yovell said suddenly, “You could describe me as a civilian, could you not, Sir Richard? Despite the warlike surroundings, and our way of life, I am not truly bound to the niceties and traditions of sea officers?”
Bolitho smiled at him. He never changed. Not even in that wretched longboat, when his hands had been raw and bleeding from pulling on an oar with the others. With Catherine.
“I hope you remain so.”
Yovell frowned, then polished his small gold-rimmed spectacles, something he often did when he was pondering a problem.
“Mr Avery is your flag lieutenant-he stands between you and the captain and serves both.” He breathed on his spectacles again. “He is loyal to both. He would never speak behind the captain’s back, because you are friends. It would seem like a betrayal of trust, and the association which has grown between them.” He smiled gently. “Between all of us, if I may say so, Sir Richard.”
There was complete silence from the pantry. Ozzard would be there, listening.
“If it troubles you, then tell me. I felt something was amiss myself.” He turned towards the sea again. Yovell’s remark had touched him more than he cared to accept, reminding him uncomfortably of Herrick’s comments on the Happy Few. In truth, there were not many left now. Keverne, who had once commanded this ship; Charles Farquhar, once a midshipman like Bethune, who had been killed aboard his own command at Corfu. And dear Francis Inch, eager, horse-faced, married to such a pretty woman at Weymouth. Her name was Hannah… He recalled it with effort. And so many others. John Neale. Browne, with an “e,” and Avery’s predecessor, Stephen Jenour. So many. Too many. And all dead.
He turned from the light as Yovell said quietly, “Captain Tyacke received a letter in Halifax. It was in the bag delivered by the schooner Reynard.”
“Bad news?”
Yovell replaced his spectacles with care. “I am told that it had travelled far. As is often the way with the fleet’s mail.”
Bolitho stared at him. Of course. Tyacke never received letters. Like Avery, until he had been sent one by his lady in London. It was so typical of Avery to remain silent, even if he knew the cause of Tyacke’s withdrawal. He would understand. Just as he had understood Adam’s anguish at having been a prisoner of war.
“Is it all over the ship?”
“Only the flag lieutenant knows, sir.”
Bolitho touched his eyelid, and recalled the gown Catherine had been given when Larne finally found them. When she had returned it to Tyacke, she had expressed the wish that it might be worn by someone worthy of him…
He clenched his fist. Surely not the same woman? It could not be; why, after so long, and after the cruel way she had rejected him, and his disfigured face? But in his heart, he knew that it was.
He saw Catherine, as clearly as if he had looked at her locket. They had no secrets. He knew of her visits to London, and that she occasionally consulted Sillitoe for his advice on investing the money from Spain; he trusted her
