Signal Close Action (24 page)

'Well, as you have asked, sir, yes I do.'

'Then see that the squadron's affairs show some sign of this.' He looked at him evenly. 'Captain Herrick is a fine officer.'

The eyebrows moved again. 'But ?'

'No
but,
Captain Farquhar. I want him to feel his strength in a well-trained ship, where he has no personal contact as yet. He will be kept fully occupied. I think it will be good for him
and
the squadron.'

Farquhar smiled. 'My first lieutenant
will
be surprised. It will do him good also.' He did not explain what he meant.

'The first lieutenant in this ship is Mr. Gilchrist. I suggest you make his acquaintance without delay.'

He waited for a sign but Farquhar merely remarked, 'Gilchrist? I don't think I know him.' He shrugged. 'But then, why should one bother to
know
these people ?'

Bolitho said, 'I would appreciate it if you would keep your personal dislikes out of the meeting.'

Farquhar stood up. 'Of course, sir. You should know that I have never
disliked
Captain Herrick. Although I am well aware of his hostility towards me.' He gave his tight-lipped smile.
‘I
cannot imagine the reason for it.'

Bolitho saw Ozzard hovering at the door. 'Show the other captains aft, Ozzard. Then you can bring some wine.' He tried to speak lightheartedly, as if he was untroubled, unreached.

Ozzard bobbed, his eyes on Farquhar. 'Aye, aye, sir.'

Bolitho crossed to a quarter gallery and stared at the small white-horses cruising down from the horizon. Each piece of news and every thin rumour took them deeper and deeper into the Mediterranean. Each time it would be
his
decision. One captured letter had taken him into a bay where men and ships had been destroyed. Now Farquhar's chance find would send them still further north-east, to the harbours of the French navy. Pieces of a puzzle, all set against a chart and the remorseless run of sand in an hour-glass.

The door opened and he turned to see Herrick and Probyn entering the cabin. He waited until they were seated and then beckoned Ozzard to the wine cabinet.

At that moment there was a knock on the door and Gilchrist peered in at them. He saw Herrick and said, 'I am sorry to intrude, sir, but I wish to speak with the flag captain.'

Farquhar's voice made him turn.

'I
am the flag captain, Mr. Gilchrist. I will trouble you not to forget it!' There was an uncomfortable silence and he added, 'I will also trouble you never to enter the commodore's quarters without my permission
!
'

The door closed and Farquhar leaned sideways in his chair to look at the cabinet.

His voice was perfectly normal again. 'A fine piece of joinery, sir. I know his work well.'

Bolitho glanced at Herrick, but he was already beyond his reach.

9
Wine and Cheese

Captain Charles Farquhar
strode aft to greet Bolitho as he came on deck. In spite of being without coat or hat, Farquhar managed to retain an air of elegance, and his ruffled shirt looked as if it was freshly laundered.

He said formally, 'Course east-nor'-east, sir.'

Bolitho nodded and glanced up at his broad pendant and the set of the yards. The wind had veered slightly during the night, and there was evidence that it was weakening also.

He took a telescope from the rack and trained it over the larboard nettings. It was as if the scene stayed permanent and the sails were merely pretending to make the ship move. And yet it was three wearying weeks since he had watched Herrick pulled across to the
Osiris,
and two of those weeks had been spent along this stretch of coast. He watched the familiar shark-blue blur of land. It was maddening to realise that just out there was the busy port of Toulon, and behind its protective walls and batteries lay the answer to his speculation and doubts.

Farquhar remarked, 'Not even a sign of a sail, damn them.'

Bolitho replaced the glass and looked along
Lysander's
upper deck. The forenoon watch had begun. One like all the others before it. Everywhere, above and along the decks, men were at work, splicing, painting, blacking-down the standing rigging, examining a hundred and one things for flaws and possible wear.

It was eerie to find the Gulf of Lions so empty. It was like being laughed at. The French must know that an enemy squadron was active in their waters. Any tiny fishing craft might have sighted it and passed the news to garrisons ashore. Perhaps they were too busy to care, or were content to let the British ships tack wearily back and forth, consuming their stores and resources, and with nothing to show for it.

He
said,
*We
must get some news soon, or we'll have to push closer inshore.'

Farquhar eyed him calmly. 'If we had some more frigates, sir.'

Bolitho bit back an angry retort. It was not Farquhar's fault. But in every campaign they seemed to be short of frigates, without which it was like trying to find a blind man in a dark room.

He peered astern, watching
Osiris's
big forecourse filling and emptying in the uncertain wind, as if the ship was breathing heavily. She was a mile away, and beyond her he could just see the leeward side of the prize
Segura.
He wondered how Probyn had been getting on with his separate patrol to the east of Toulon, to seaward of the small islands which protected the approaches. He had Javal's
Buzzard
in company, while the rest of the squadron had to be content with the sloop. He could just make out
Harebell's
cream-coloured topsails, etched against the French coastline like sea-shells. Inch would be in no doubt of his importance. It was to be hoped he did not allow his eagerness to tempt him closer inshore. There he could lose the wind, or fall foul of some well-sited artillery.

He turned to look at
Osiris
again. Three weeks, and on every single day he had wondered about Herrick.

Farquhar followed his glance and said, 'She is handling well.'

Only a casual interest. Bolitho had already noticed that about the elegant captain. Once out of a ship, and no matter how long he had served in her, or what great events she had shared, Farquhar was able to dismiss her from his thoughts. He was entirely without sentiment, and seemed to live for today, and where it would lead in the future.

Nevertheless, he had to admit that Farquhar's efficiency had showed itself throughout the ship. Gun drill and contests between batteries and decks had cut the time for loading and firing by minutes.

Although he always appeared to have time for his own leisure, Farquhar was never far away when needed. And his officers, from Gilchrist to Mr. Midshipman Saxby, had been made to realise it.

Farquhar had always borne a reputation for harshness. But as yet he had not shown himself as a tyrant. He had examined all the ship's books within hours of getting the squadron

under way, from the punishment and muster books to the rarer ones about stocks of canvas and oil.

It was a new side to the man's character, and Bolitho being the man he was never considered that his own past example to Farquhar was bearing fruit at last.

He saw Lieutenant Fitz-Clarence strutting busily back and forth on the lee side of the quarterdeck. That was another thing. Farquhar had quite rightly removed the second lieutenant from the monotony of prize-duty aboard the
Segura
and had sent instead a master's mate. Whenever the weather had made it possible he had recalled the prize-master and had replaced him with another. Midshipmen, warrant officers, even a resentful Gilchrist, had had their share. It made sense, and kept them on their toes.

But Farquhar had not asked permission. As flag captain he had taken it as a right.

He had even cut the number of punishments, if not their severity. He had examined every case himself, and if the unfortunate seaman had made a genuine mistake, or one had been caused by a superior's carelessness, he had dismissed it, and to ram home his point had given the accuser an awesome pile of extra duties. If on the other hand the case had been proved, he had ordered stiffer punishment than Herrick had ever permitted. It was, it seemed, his one real failing.

Farquhar said suddenly, 'We shall have to lose
Harebell
or
Buzz
ard
shortly, sir.' It sounded like a question.

'Yes.'

Bolitho paced slowly along the weather side. The deck seams clung to his shoes, and he could feel the heat thrown back from the bulwark. And it was barely nine o'clock in the forenoon. Each day brought hotter weather, more tension to those who endured it. Farquhar had put his finger right on the point. He could not delay much longer. He would have to send word to the admiral. His own estimation of the French preparations and intentions. Once he had despatched one of his badly needed scouts, he would be committed. Set against the consequences if he was proved wrong, that in itself was unimportant.

If only Inch had been able to capture the Spanish brig before the two French ships had chased him away. He could have sent her to the admiral.

He paused and shaded his eyes to look for the prize. She was too slow and vulnerable. And she still might prove useful as a deception. He thought of her packed cargo. Or as a bribe.

Steel rang on steel, and he walked to the quarterdeck rail to watch as the off-watch midshipmen faced each other for practice with sword and cutlass.

Farquhar glanced at him. 'I thought Mr. Pascoe would be well employed, sir.' There was nothing in his voice to betray his thoughts. 'He has already proved his skill on one of my previous lieutenants.' He smiled briefly. 'He has a good eye.'

Bolitho watched Pascoe walking behind two of the midshipmen, speaking to each in turn. Their faces were crimson with exertion and were obviously aware their commodore and captain were looking on.

Clang, clang, clang, the blades moved in a jerky rhythm. How different in a real battle, Bolitho thought grimly. The madness, the eagerness to strike at a man before he beat you to the deck.

Gilchrist appeared below the larboard gangway.

'You'll have to do better than that, Mr. Pascoe!'

Bolit
ho felt Farquhar tense as he snapped, 'What ails that damned fellow?'

Fitz-Clarence was making elaborate steps along the lee side, trying to warn Gilchrist that he was not alone.

Farquhar called, 'Mr. Fitz-Clarence! I'll trouble you to stand still!'

He turned and looked at Gilchrist's uplifted face.

'You were saying, Mr. Gilchrist ?'

The first lieutenant replied, 'The drill is
untidy,
sir.'

Bolitho watched the little drama in silence. The midshipmen's arms still wavering in the air, the swords in disarray. Seamen who had been working in the weather shrouds pausing to watch, their tanned bodies gold in the sunlight. Pascoe in the middle of it, his dark eyes on Gilchrist, only his quick breathing betraying his anger.

And Farquhar. He glanced at him and saw the look in his ice-blue stare. Farquhar had kept Gilchrist busy and obedient. Now it was out in the open again. He recalled his sudden anger.
What
ails
that
damned
fellow
?

Farquhar snapped his fingers. 'Bosun's mate! Fetch my sword!'

He walked to the lee gangway and leaned on the handrail, his eyes on Gilchrist below him and at the opposite side.

'Mr. Pascoe, dismiss those ragamuffins!' He reached without turning his head as a worried looking bosun's mate hurried towards him.
‘I
believe you lost your sword in some reckless scheme with the Dons, Mr. Pascoe.' He drew his own from its scabbard and held it against the sky, eyeing it critically. 'This is a fair blade. It was presented to me by my late uncle.' He looked up at Bolitho's grave features and added, 'Although I gather that Sir Henry preferred something heavier, sir ?' He added sharply, 'With your permission, sir.' Then he flung the sword straight at Pascoe.
'Catch!'

Bolitho tried not to flinch as the youth reached out and caught it in flight.

Farquhar sounded very relaxed and composed. 'And
now,
Mr. Gilchrist. If you will be so good as to cross swords with our junior lieutenant, maybe the midshipmen will learn something, eh?'

Gilchrist stared from him to Pascoe, his eyes wild.