Tyacke saw Daubeny urging a few spare hands to add their weight to the braces. But even with the Nova Scotian volunteers, they were still short-handed, a legacy of Indomitable’s savage fight against Beer’s Unity. Tyacke straightened his hat. It was unnerving when he considered that that was a year ago.
Bolitho joined him by the rail. “The enemy have the numbers and the superior artillery, and will readily use both.” He folded his arms, and could have been discussing the weather. “But he is on a lee shore and knows it. Being a sailor, I am sure he was never consulted about the choice of landing places!” He laughed, and added, “So we must be sharp about it.”
Tyacke leaned over to consult the compass as the helmsman called, “Nor’-east by north, sir! Full an’ bye!”
Tyacke peered up at each sail, watchful and critical as his ship leaned over comfortably on the starboard tack. Then he cupped his hands and shouted, “Check the forebrace, Mr Protheroe! Now belay!” He said almost to himself, “He’s only a boy, dammit!”
But Bolitho had heard him. “We were all that, James. Young lions!”
“Chivalrous is in sight, sir! Larboard quarter!”
Just an array of pale canvas riding high into the dull clouds. How did he know? But Tyacke did not question the lookout: he knew, and that was all there was to it. The others would be in sight soon. He saw the first feeble light exploring the shrouds and shaking topsails. So would the enemy.
The wind was still fresh, strong enough, for the moment anyway. There would be no land in sight until the sun came out, and even then… But you could feel it all the same. Like a presence, a barrier reaching out to rid the approaches of all ships, no matter what flag they paraded.
Tyacke touched his face, and did not notice Bolitho turn his head towards him. So different now, out in the open, to see and to be seen. Not like the choking confines of the lower gun deck on that day at the Nile, when he had almost died, and afterwards had wanted to die.
He thought of the letter in his strongbox, and the one he had written in reply. Why had he done it? After all the pain and the despair, the brutal realization that the one being he had ever cared for had rejected him, why? Against that, it was still hard to believe that she had written to him. He remembered the hospital at Haslar in Hampshire, full of officers, survivors from one battle or another. Everyone else who had worked there had pretended to be so normal, so calm, so unmoved by the pervasive suffering. It had almost driven him crazy. That had been the last time he had seen her. She had visited the hospital, and he now realized that she must have been sickened by some of the sights she had seen. Hopeful, anxious faces, the disfigured, the burned, the limbless, and others who had been blinded. It must have been a nightmare for her, although all he had felt at the time had been pity. For himself.
She had been his only hope, all he had clung to after the battle, when he had been so savagely wounded in the old Majestic. Old, he thought bitterly: she had been almost new. He touched the worn rail, laid his hand on it, and again was unaware of Bolitho’s concern. Not like this old lady. Her captain had died there at the Nile, and Majestic’s first lieutenant had taken over the ship, and the fight. A young man. He touched his face again. Like Daubeny.
She had been so young… He almost spoke her name aloud. Marion. Eventually she had married a man much older than herself, a safe, kindly auctioneer who had given her a nice house by Portsdown Hill, from where you could sometimes see the Solent, and the sails on the horizon. He had tortured himself with it many times. The house was not very far from Portsmouth, and the hospital where he had wanted to die.
They had had two children, a boy and a girl. They should have been mine. And now her husband was dead, and she had written to him after reading something about the squadron in the newssheet, and the fact that he was now Sir Richard Bolitho’s flag captain.
It had been a letter written with great care, and without excuse or compromise: a mature letter. She had asked for his understanding, not for his forgiveness. She would value a letter from him, very much. Marion. He thought, as he had thought so often, of the gown he had bought for her before Nelson had led them to the Nile, and the way that Sir Richard’s lovely Catherine had given the same gown grace and meaning after they had lifted her from that sun-blistered boat. Had she perhaps given him back the hope that had been crushed by hatred and bitterness?
“Deck there! Sail in sight to the nor’-east!”
Tyacke snatched a glass from the rack and strode up to the weather side, training it across the deck and through the taut rigging. A glimpse of sunshine, without warmth. Waters blue and grey… He held his breath, able to ignore the marines and seamen who were watching him. One, two, three ships, sails filling and then flapping in an attempt to contain the wind. The other ships were not yet visible.
We have the advantage this time. But with the wind as it was, their roles could quite easily change.
He lowered the glass and looked at Bolitho. “I think we should hold our course, Sir Richard.”
Just a nod. Like a handshake. “I agree. Signal Chivalrous to close on Flag.” He smiled unexpectedly, his teeth white in his tanned face. “Then hoist the one for Close Action.” The smile seemed to evade him. “And keep it flying!”
Tyacke saw his quick glance at Allday. Something else they shared. A lifeline.
“Chivalrous has acknowledged, sir.”
“Very good.”
Bolitho joined him again. “We will engage the towing vessel first.” He looked past Tyacke at the other frigate’s misty sails, so clean in the first frail light. “Load when you are ready, James.” The grey eyes rested on his face. “Those soldiers must not be allowed to land.”
“I’ll pass the word. Double-shotted, and grape for good measure.” He spoke without emotion. “But when we come about we shall have to face the others, unless our ships give us support.”
Bolitho touched his arm and said, “They will come, James. I am certain of it.”
He turned as Ozzard, half-crouching as if he had expected to find an enemy engaged alongside, stepped from the companionway. He was carrying the admiral’s gold-laced hat, holding it out as if it were something precious.
Tyacke said urgently, “Is this wise, Sir Richard? Those Yankee sharpshooters will be all about today!”
Bolitho handed his plain sea-going hat to Ozzard, and after the slightest hesitation pulled the new one onto his spray-damp hair.
“Go below, Ozzard. And thank you.” He saw the little man bob gratefully, with no words to make his true feelings known. Then Bolitho said calmly, “It is probably madness, but that is the way of it. Sane endeavour is not for us today, James.” He touched his eye and stared at the reflected glare. “But a victory it must be!”
The rest was drowned out by the shrill of whistles and the squeak of blocks, as the great guns were cast off from their breechings and their crews prepared to load.
He knew that some of the afterguard had seen him put on his new hat, the one he and Catherine had bought together in St James’s Street: he had forgotten to tell her of his promotion, and she had loved him for it. A few of the seamen raised a cheer, and he touched his hat to them. But Tyacke had seen the anguish on Allday’s rugged face, and knew what the gesture had cost him.
Tyacke walked away, watching the familiar preparations without truly seeing them. Aloud he said, “And a victory you shall have, no matter what!”
Bolitho walked to the taffrail where Allday was shading his eyes to peer astern.
Like feathers on the shimmering horizon, two more ships of the squadron had appeared, their captains no doubt relieved that the dawn had brought them together again. The smaller of the two frigates would be Wildfire, of twenty-eight guns. Bolitho imagined her captain, a dark-featured man, bellowing orders to his topmen to make more sail, as much as she could carry. Morgan Price, as craggy and as Welsh as his name, had never needed a speaking-trumpet, even in the middle of a gale.
Allday said, “That’s more like it, Sir Richard.”
Bolitho glanced at him. Allday had not been concerned about the other ships. Like some of the others on the quarterdeck, he had been watching the cluster of boats falling further and further astern, drifting to a canvas sea anchor, to be recovered after the action. It was a necessary precaution before fighting, to avoid the risk of additional wounds being caused by splinters. But to Allday, like all sailors, the boats represented a final chance of survival if the worst happened. Just as their presence on deck would tempt terrified men to forget both loyalty and discipline, and use them as an escape.
Bolitho said, “Fetch me a glass, will you?”
When Allday had gone to select a suitable telescope, he stared at the distant frigate. Then he covered his undamaged eye, and waited for the pale topsails to mist over or fade away altogether. They did not. The drops the
