‘I know what you mean, Simmons - honour their feelings - should feel the same myself. But this is a very particular, hey, expedition. My orders must stand. Is the gunboat alongside?’
‘Just ranging up on the quarter now, sir.’
‘Let Mr West and his mates check her rigging before I go aboard, in half an hour. And the launch’s crew are to be provided with red woollen hats, Mediterranean style,’ he said, looking at his watch.
‘Yes, sir,’ said Simmons in a flat, dead, wretched tone.
Half an hour later Jack came on deck in a shabby uniform and Hessian boots, a cloak and a plain cocked hat. Glancing at the sky he said, ‘I shall not return to the ship until after Port Mahon, Mr Simmons. At eight bells in the afternoon watch, pray send the launch across. Good-?bye.’
‘Good-?bye, sir.’
They shook hands. Jack nodded to the other officers, touched his hat, and they piped him down the side.
As soon as he was aboard the gunboat he took the tiller and sent her racing away down to leeward with the fresh breeze on her larboard quarter. The island rose in the south, headland after headland stretching away, and he brought her up in a long sweet curve. She was not one of the regulation Toulon gunboats, or the heavy Spanish creatures that swept out from Algeciras every time there was a calm, creeping over the still water; she was not one of those port-?bound floating carriages for a single heavy gun, or he would never have brought her away, but a half-?decked barca-?longa with a long slide that allowed her gun to be run in and stowed against her short thick forward-?raking mast - a vessel perfectly capable of running down the Mediterranean, and of sweeping in and out of any port.
She was no fairy, though. As he brought her up and up into the wind the tiller was hard under his hand, and he felt the weight of that gun forward. Yet once she was close up, right up, pointing even closer than five, she held her course, never offering to fall to or gripe, but shouldering the short seas bravely; and the spray came whistling aft.
This was the sort of thing he understood. The immense lateen on its curving yard was not so familiar as a square rig nor a cutter, but the essence was the same, and he was like a good horseman riding a well-?spirited horse from another stable. He put the gunboat through all her paces - unspectacular, but dogged, firm and sure - tracing great curves round the frigate, weaving to and fro until the sun sloped far westwards.
He brought her under the Lively’s lee, signalled for the launch, and went below. While the red-?hatted crew came aboard he sat in the late captain’s cabin, a low triangular cupboard aft, studying the charts and the signal-? book: not that he had much need of either - the Minorcan waters were home to him, and the rows of flags and lights were sharp in his mind - but any contact with the ship at this point meant a waste of that particular strength he should need in a few hours’ time. In a few hours, if only the dropping glass and the ugly look of the sky did not mean a full gale of wind.
Bonden reported all hands present and sober, and he went on deck. he was completely withdrawn: he shook his head impatiently at the ragged, spontaneous cheer, put his helm astarboard and bore away for the eastern cape.he saw Killick lurking there against his orders, looking sullen, with a basket of food and some bottles, but he looked beyond him for the quartermaster, handing over the tiller and giving him the course to steer; and then he began his steady pace to and fro, gauging the progress of the wind, the speed of the gunboat, the changing lie of the land.
The shore went by a mile to starboard, well-?known headlands, beaches, creeks turning slowly; very like a dream; and the men were quiet. He had a momentary feeling that his pace and turn, pace and turn in this silence was taking him from reality, spoiling his concentration, and he went below, crouching into the cabin.
‘You are up to your God-?damn-?ye capers again, I see,’ he said coldly.
Killick dared not speak, but put cold mutton, bread and butter, and claret in front of him. ‘I must eat,’ he said to himself, and deliberately set to his meal: but his stomach was closed - even the wine seemed hard in his gullet. This had not happened to him before, in no action, emergency or crisis. ‘It don’t signify,’ he said, pushing the things aside.
When he came on deck again the sun was only a span from the high land to the west, and broad on the starboard bow lay Cape Mola. The wind had freshened, blowing gusty, and the men were baling: it would be touch and go to round the cape, and they might have to sweep in.
But so far the timing was right,he wanted to pass the outer batteries in the light, with his French colours clearly seen, and to move up the long harbour as darkness fell. lie glanced up at the tricolour at the peak, at the hoists that Bonden had ready laid out at the signal-?halliards, and he took the helm.
Now there was no time for reflection: now the whole of his person was engaged in governing immediate material problems. The headland and the white surf were racing towards them; he must round the point just so, and even with the nicest judgment a back-?eddy off the cliff might lay him right down or sweep him away to leeward.
‘Right, Bonden,’ he said, as the signal-?station came into view. The stoppered flags shot up, broke out and showed clear. His eye darted from the sea and the straining sail to the height, where the Spanish ensign flew still in the breeze. If his was the right signal, it would dip. Motionless up there, motionless, and flat as a board in the distance. Motionless and then at last it jerked down and up again.
‘Acknowledge,’ he said. ‘Start the sheet. Stand by the halliards, there.’ The seamen were in their places, silent, glancing from the sky to the rigid sail. Bracing himself and tightening his mouth he brought up the helm: the gunboat answered instantly, her lee-?rail vanishing deeper and deeper under the foam: the wind was abeam, she lay over, over, and here was St Philips on his larboard bow. A broad line of white scum, marking the edge of the full wind, a quarter of a mile ahead: she was through it, shooting into the calm water under the lee of the cape, gliding on an even keel.
‘Satisfaction, take the helm,’ he said. ‘Bonden, con the ship.’
The two sides, the approach to the harbour, were run-?fling together, and where they almost joined lay the narrow mouth with its heavy batteries on either side. Some of the casemates were lit, but there was still light enough over the water for a watcher to take notice of an officer at the helm - an unnatural sight. Nearer, nearer: and the gunboat moved silently through the mouth, close enough to toss a biscuit on to the muzzles of the forty-? two-?pounders at the water’s edge. A voice in the twilight called out, ‘Parlez-?vous fran?ais?’ and cackled: another shouted ‘Hijos de puta.’
Ahead lay the broad stretch with the hospital island in it, the lazaretto, a good mile away on the starboard bow; the last reflection of the day had left the hilltops, and the long harbour was filled with a deep purple, shading
