hand, you would now be ninety-?six. How he and his people ever stood this standing off and on, I do not know. However, it all ended happy.’
‘Not a bird, not a plant, not a smell of geology . Shall we have some music after tea? I have written a piece I should like you to hear. It is a lament for the Tir nan 0g.’
‘What is the Tir nan Og?’
‘The only bearable part of my country: it vanished long ago.’
‘Let us wait until the darkness falls, may we? Then I am your man: we will lament to your heart’s content.’
Darkness; a long, long night in the stifling gun-?deck and the cabins, little sleep, and many a man, and officer too, taking a caulk on deck or in the tops. Before dawn on the fifth the decks were being cleaned - no trouble in getting the hands to tumble up - and the smoke from the galley fire was streaming away on the steady north-?east wind, when the forward look-?out, the blessed Michael Scanlon, hailed the deck with a voice that might have been heard in Cadiz - the Medusa, the last ship in the line of frigates as they stood to the north, was signalling four large sail bearing west by south.
The eastern sky lightened, high wisps of cloud catching the golden light from below the horizon; the milky sea grew brilliant, and there they were, right aft, beating up for Cadiz, four white flecks on the rim of the world.
‘Are they Spaniards?’ asked Stephen, creeping into the maintop.
‘Of course they are,’ said Jack. ‘Look at their stumpy topmasts. Here, take my glass. On deck, there. All hands stand by to wear ship.’
At the same moment the signal to wear and chase broke out aboard the Indefatigable, and Stephen began his laborious descent, propped by Jack, Bonden, and a bosun’s mate, clinging to his tail until tears came into the poor man’s eyes. He had prepared his lines of argument for Mr Osborne, but he wished to pass them over in his mind before he conferred with him aboard the Indefatigable, whose captain was in command of the squadron as commodore. He went below, his heart beating at an unusual pace. The Spaniards were gathering together, signals passing between them: negotiations would be delicate; oh, very delicate indeed.
Breakfast, a scrappy meal. The Commodore signalling for Dr Maturin: Stephen upon deck with a cup of coffee in one hand and a piece of bread and butter in the other as the cutter was lowered away. How very much closer they were, so suddenly! The Spaniards had already formed their battle-?line, standing on the starboard tack with the wind one point free, and they were so near that he could see their gun-?ports - every one of them open, yawning wide.
The British frigates, obeying the signal to chase, had broken their line, and the Medusa, the southernmost ship and therefore the foremost once they had worn, was running straight before the wind for the leading Spanish ship; a few hundred yards behind her there was the Indefatigable, steering for the second Spaniard, the Medea, with Bustamente’s flag at the mizen; then came the Amphion; and bringing up the rear, the Lively. She was closing the gap fast, and as soon as Stephen had been bundled into the cutter she spread her foretopgallant, crossed the Amphion’s wake, and steered for the Clara, the last ship in the Spanish line.
The Indefatigable yawed a trifle, backed her topsails, hoisted Stephen aboard, and plunged on. The Commodore, a dark, red-?faced, choleric man, very much on edge, hurried him below, paid very little attention to his words as he ran over the heads of the argument that was to persuade the Spanish admiral to yield, but sat there drumming his fingers on the table, breathing fast with angry excitement. Mr Osborne, a quick, intelligent man, nodded, staring into Stephen’s eyes: he nodded, taking each point, and nodded again, his mouth tight shut.’. . . and lastly,’ said Stephen, ‘induce him by all possible means to come across, so that we may concert our answer to unforeseen objections.’
‘Come, gentlemen, come,’ cried the Commodore, running on deck. Closer, closer: they were well within range, all colours abroad; within musket-?shot, the Spanish decks crowded with faces; within pistol-?shot.
‘Hard over,’ said the Commodore. The wheel spun and the big frigate turned with a roar of orders to round to and lie on the admiral’s starboard beam, twenty yards to windward. The Commodore took his speaking-?trumpet. ‘Shorten sail,’ he cried, aiming it at the Medea’s quarterdeck. The Spanish officers spoke slightly to one another; one of them shrugged his shoulders. There was dead silence all along the line: wind in the rigging, the lapping of the sea.
‘Shorten sail,’ he repeated, louder still. No reply: no sign. The Spaniard held his course for Cadiz, two hours away. The two squadrons ran in parallel lines, gliding silently along at five knots, so close that the low sun sent the shadow of the Spanish topgallantmasts across the English decks.
‘Fire across his bows,’ said the Commodore. The shot struck the water a yard before the Medea’s forefoot, the spray sweeping aft. And as though the crash had broken
the spell of silence and immobility there was a quick swirl of movement aboard the Medea, a shout of orders, and her topsails were dewed up.
‘Do your best, Mr Osborne,’ said the Commodore. ‘But by God he shall make up his mind in five minutes.’
‘Bring him if you possibly can,’ said Stephen. ‘And above all, remember Godoy has betrayed the kingdom to the French.’
The boat pulled across and hooked on. Osborne climbed aboard the Spanish frigate, took off his hat and bowed to the crucifix, the admiral and the captain, each in turn. They saw him go below with Bustamente.
And now the time dragged slow. Stephen stood by the mainmast, his hands tight clasped behind his back: he hated Graham, the commodore: he hated what was going to happen. He tried with all his force to follow and to influence the argument that was carrying on half a pistol shot away. If only Osborne could bring Bustamente aboard there might be a fair chance of an arrangement.
Mechanically he glanced up and down the line. Ahead of the Indefatigable the Medusa lay rocking gently beside the Fama; astern of the Medea the Amphion had now slipped round under the Mercedes’s lee, and in the rear lay the Lively, close to windward of the Clara. Even to Stephen’s unprofessional eye, the Spaniards were in a remarkable state of readiness; there was none of that hurried flight of barrels, coops, livestock, tossed into the sea to clear the decks, that he had seen often enough in the Mediterranean. At each gun, its waiting, motionless crew; and the smoke from the slow-?match in every tub wafted in a thin blue haze along the long range of cannon.
Graham was pacing up and down with a quick uneven step. ‘Is he going to be all night?’ he said aloud, looking at the watch in his hand. ‘All night? All night?’
