Colours Aloft! (16 page)

He looked beyond the mirror, at Ozzard carefully brushing his uniform coat with its gleaming epaulettes. His best coat. It had to be a perfect performance. Allday craned forward to make certain he had not missed a single stray hair with his razor, and Yovell was busy with some papers at the table. The scene was almost set. He raised his eyes and saw the girl looking down over his shoulder.

She smiled gently, like a conspirator, which she was. She moved a comb over Bolitho's hair, loosening it across his forehead so that it partly covered the other bandage on his left eye. She had already arranged his queue and tied a ribbon which even Allday admitted was better than anything he could do.

Bolitho heard faint voices and the stamp of feet. The captains' meeting would be in the wardroom beneath his cabin. He had to leave his quarters free; for escape if things went wrong.

He said, “Thank you, Zenoria, you have done your best with poor material.”

Their glances met in the mirror. She did not reply, but he saw the pleasure on her face. With her hair tied back again she had a look of determination in her brown eyes.

Bolitho tried to think of Inch's report, rambling as usual, for he loved to write lengthy descriptions of everything no matter how trivial. But each report contained something useful. This one had an item which was more than that. A key perhaps, or was it one more sly trap?

Tuson insisted, “Don't overtax the eye, sir, and most certainly keep the other one covered. If you get proper treatment soon—”

Bolitho looked at him. The eye felt as if there was something in it. Tuson told him that would pass, given time.

Bolitho said, “
Your
care has been excellent.”

Tuson would not be deterred. “Unless you avoid the other demands of this squadron, I cannot answer for the consequences.”

The door opened and Keen stood watching him, his hat beneath his arm. Bolitho noticed that he too was wearing his best dress coat. The second principal player, he thought.

“They are assembled, sir.”

Bolitho glimpsed him in the mirror and saw the quick exchange of glances with the girl who dressed like a boy. He saw too how her hand moved to her breast, and the look of understanding on Keen's face.

Bolitho touched his bandage. He was glad for them, no matter what difficulties lay ahead. He was not jealous, only conscious of a sense of envy.

He stood up and adjusted to the roll of the deck. The ships lay-to in a hot southerly breeze from Africa. It would be good to get this done and be under way again.

He slipped his arms into the coat and held one up as Allday clipped on the old sword.

Allday muttered, “You watch yourself, sir.”

Bolitho touched his thick arm and smiled, “I have work to do. I believe I have the makings of a plan.” He added quietly, “But thank you, old friend.” He glanced at their faces, trying not to blink as his eye pricked painfully. “And all of you.”

Keen felt a chill at his spine. He knew that look, that voice. Something neither pain nor a bandage could disguise.

The fire still burns.

9
A
TTACK

B
OLITHO
sat restlessly by his table and watched Keen's fingers busy with his dividers as he completed some more calculations on the chart.

Several times Bolitho had leaned forward to examine his progress and had felt the same rising sense of despair. It was like being half blind; as for reading the chart, it was out of the question.

He thought of his little squadron, so recently met in the Golfe du Lion and now drawing farther apart with each turn of the glass.
Helicon
and
Despatch
had spread all the canvas they could muster and headed for the islands to take on fresh water. Bolitho frowned and immediately felt a painful response in his left eye. When they returned they would stay together as long as possible and wait no longer for Jobert to choose the next move.

Inch's report had been excellent. He had ordered
Barracouta
to stop and search any coastal vessels he could find, and from one he had discovered that two large French men-of-war had been seen in Spanish waters, just beyond the frontier and less than two hundred miles south-west of Toulon. No wonder few French ships had been sighted by Nelson's blockading squadron around the great port. This small fragment of news had been like a glimmer of light.

At the captains' conference Bolitho had first sensed doubt if not disbelief, but although he had been unable to see their faces clearly he had felt his words gaining their attention.

Spain was still an ally of France whether she liked it or not. On the face of it you could almost feel sympathy for her, for Bonaparte had offered her few alternatives. He had demanded six million francs a month as a subsidy plus other important assistance. To avoid the outrageous ultimatum, Spain had the choice of declaring war on England once again. France had made it clear that a final option was that she would make war on Spain if neither alternative was met.

It seemed unlikely, if Inch's report was true, that Jobert would have used Spanish waters without instruction from a much higher authority in Paris. A further move to involve the Dons in the conflict.

Bolitho felt uneasy when he recalled the conference. It had seemed like an eternity before the captains had returned to their ships. How did they see him now? Undeterred by his injury? Or had they seen through his pathetic attempt to convince them of his ability to lead?

Lieutenant Stayt stepped through the screen door.

“Captain Lapish is ready for his orders, sir.”

“Very well.” Keen glanced at Bolitho and laid down the dividers. He knew how loath Bolitho was to release his only frigate. But if a fight was coming each ship needed to be selfsufficient for as long as possible. You could ration gunpowder. You could not survive without water.

As the flag-lieutenant withdrew Keen said, “Lapish knows what to do. I spoke with him when he came aboard.” He gave a wry smile. “He is more than eager to make amends, I feel.”

When Lapish entered Bolitho said, “Return to this station as soon as you can.” He saw him nod, but his eyes were smarting from so much use and he could see little of the young captain's expression.

“You know what to do?”

Lapish said, as if repeating a lesson, “I am to transform my ship into a two-decker before I resume blockade duty, sir.” There was no doubt in his voice, but Bolitho guessed he probably thought his admiral was not only half blind but unhinged as well.

Bolitho smiled, “Aye. Use all your spare canvas and hammock cloths. It has been done before. Lashed to the gangways and painted buff with black squares for gunports, no one could tell the difference from a third rate at any distance.”

He added forcefully, “If they come sniffing too close, either board or sink them.”

Bolitho knew that the lithe frigate would be able to catch up with the two seventy-fours, complete her watering and still return to the French coast ahead of them. Once on station she would be seen as one of his squadron. It would leave Bolitho with a full muster, and Lapish would be able to discard his crude disguise and run down on him should he sight any enemy movements. Lookouts, friends or enemies, usually saw what they expected to see. That would leave
Rapid
in a role of paramount importance, his only feeler.

After Lapish had been seen into his gig by Keen,
Argonaute
made sail and, with
Icarus
in company, altered course to the southwest. The two ships sailed in line abreast and thus extended the range of their masthead lookouts.
Rapid
was so far ahead that she was barely visible even from the fighting-tops.

Keen returned to his chart and explained, “The Frenchmen were sighted around the Cabo Creus, sir. An ideal anchorage, and less than twenty miles from the frontier with France. If they are still there, shall we go for them?”

Bolitho toyed with the dividers. “It might provoke Spain. On the other hand it would show the Dons we are prepared to discount their one-sided neutrality. For once it will put Jobert on the defensive.” The more he considered it the less could he think of an alternative. Jobert had made all the moves, and had nearly succeeded in crippling Bolitho's squadron. He must be provoked into coming out into the open. Winter would soon be upon them and, Mediterranean or not, the weather would favour the enemy, not the ships battling up and down on blockade duty.

A convoy to Malta would be expected within the next few weeks, and the enemy would know it. From the moment the supply ships anchored briefly at Gibraltar their spies would pass on the news of the vessels, and probably their cargoes as well.

There were not enough men-of-war available. Nelson was right about that too.

Bolitho massaged his eye. He would probably find the sheltered anchorage empty. Suppose they met with Spanish patrols? Fight or retreat?

He said grimly, “Landfall tomorrow, Val.”

“Yes, sir.” If he was anxious about the girl being aboard with a prospect of battle he did not reveal it in his voice.

Bolitho said, “It would be something to show for our setbacks, Val. Tit for tat. Jobert would be out for revenge. That is a bad incentive for any flag-officer.”

He turned away and walked to the stern windows.
It is what I am seeking.

After Keen had gone Allday entered and asked, “Is there anything you need, sir?”

Bolitho immediately sensed the emptiness in his voice.

“What's wrong?”

Allday looked at the deck. “Nothin', sir.”

Bolitho slumped down in his new chair. “Out with it, man.”

Allday said stubbornly, “I'll keep it battened down, if you don't mind, sir.”

There was no point in pushing him further. Allday was like the oak and had deep roots. He might tell him in his own time.

Allday took down the beautiful presentation sword and tucked it under his arm. He seemed to need something to occupy his mind.

Tuson was the next visitor. Bolitho had learned to tolerate the surgeon's regular treatment and to disguise his pain when the dressings were changed.

How many days had it been? He opened his left eye and stared fixedly at the stern windows. Watery sunshine and a deep blue horizon. He tensed, feeling the hope surge through him. Then clenched his fists as the same shadow returned to curtain off his vision.

Tuson saw him tighten his fists and said, “Don't despair, sir.”

Bolitho waited for the bandage to be retied. It was almost better to see nothing from that eye than to lose hope.

He asked abruptly, “What is the matter with my cox'n?”

Tuson looked at him. “Bankart, sir. His son. Pity he's aboard, if you ask me.”

Bolitho touched his shirtsleeve. “Come on, man, you can speak with me, you should know that.”

Tuson shut his black bag. “How would
you
like it, sir, if your nephew proved to be a coward?”

Bolitho heard the door close, the tap of a musket as the sentry changed his stance beyond the screen.

A coward.
All the bitter memories surged through him as the word hung in his mind like a stain.

That moment when Midshipman Sheaffe had been left behind, probably injured. The times on
Supreme
's deck when Bankart had been missing. There was not much Tuson did not glean from the men who came to him for aid.

He remembered Stayt's voice aboard the cutter; he had known even then.

How could he waste time on such things when so much was expected of him? He thought of his instructions to Lapish.
Board them or sink them.
The intruding hardness in his voice. Had blindness done that to him? But he recalled how he had hacked down the French seaman who had been carrying the lookout's telescope. Without a thought, with no hesitation. No, it was something inside him. Perhaps Belinda had seen it and feared for him because he was being destroyed by war with the same ruthlessness as by a ball or a pike.

But he
did
care. About people. About Allday most of all. Tuson had laid his finger right on it. How would he have felt if Adam had been a coward?

That night, as
Argonaute
dipped and lifted in an untidy sea of tossing white horses, Bolitho lay in his cot and tried to sleep. When eventually he dozed off he thought of Belinda, or was it Cheney? Of Falmouth and of a sea battle which became a nightmare, for he saw himself dead.

The next day
Rapid
stopped a Portuguese fisherman but only after she had put a ball across her bows.

Eventually the news was passed to the flagship. The fisherman had passed Golfo de Rosas below the cape two days earlier. A large French man-of-war lay at anchor there.

Bolitho paced up and down his stern gallery, oblivious to the wind and the spray which soon soaked him to the skin.

The French ship would not sail towards Gibraltar. She might remain at anchor, or she could decide to head for Toulon.

Argonaute
would stand between her and any such destination.

He sent for his flag-lieutenant.

“Signal to
Icarus. Remain on station. Rapid
will stay with her.”

Had he been able to he would have seen Stayt raise one eyebrow. Bolitho groped his way to the table and stared helplessly at the chart.

Then he faced Stayt and grinned. “
Argonaute
will sail under her old colours tomorrow.”

“Suppose it is Jobert, sir? He'll surely recognize the ship.”

“It won't be. He will be with his squadron. When we know where
that
is—” He left the rest unsaid.

Minutes later the flags broke brightly from the yards and were acknowledged by
Icarus
and eventually by the little brig.

If the wind changed against them he would have to think again. But if not, and the master seemed confident it would remain southerly, they might stand a chance of closing with the enemy.

The very coastline which the enemy had seen as a refuge might soon become the jaws of a trap.

In his cabin Captain Valentine Keen took a few moments to ensure he had everything he needed for the next hours. Around and below him the ship seemed quiet except for the regular groan of timbers and the muffled sluice of water against the hull.

It is always like this, he thought. Uncertainty, doubt, but beneath it all a determination which was without fear. He saw his reflection in the mirror and grimaced. In a short while he would go on deck and give the word to clear for action. He felt the touch of ice at his spine. That too was normal. He checked himself as thoroughly as he would a subordinate. Clean shirt and breeches. Less chance of infection if the worst happened. He touched his side and felt the soreness of his wound. They said lightning never struck twice in the same place. He was still looking at his reflection and saw himself smile. He had put a letter to his mother in his strongbox. How many of those had he written, he wondered?

There was a light tap at the door. It was Stayt.

“Sir Richard has gone on deck, sir.” It sounded like a warning.

Keen nodded. “Thank you.” Stayt vanished in the gloom. An odd bird, he thought.

It was almost time. He loosened his hanger in its scabbard, and made certain his watch was deep in his pocket in case he should fall.

He heard low voices outside the door and pulled it open before anyone could knock.

For a moment he could only see the pale oval of her face; she was covered from chin to toe in his boat-cloak which he had sent to her earlier.

It looked black outside, but he sensed figures moving about and heard the creak of the helm from the quarterdeck.

He led her into the cabin. Soon, like the rest of the ship, it would be stripped bare, ready to fight.

Perhaps the French ship would not be there, but he discarded the thought. The wind was fresh, and no captain would wish to fight it and end up on a lee shore.