Signal Close Action (30 page)

He wondered what the
Buzzard
was doing, and if she had had any luck in finding information about the vanished Frenchmen. Or if, once free of his commodore's eye, and his needs blurred by distance, Javal had gone off to seek gains of his own. He knew he was being unfair to Javal, just as he understood that it was his own desperation which was causing it.

He stood up and strode to the door. It had been his custom for as long as he could remember to find peace, if not answers

to his doubts, while watching sunsets. He ran quickly up the ladder and on to the poop deck, allowing the north-westerly to play through his shirt, to ease away the heat and staleness of the day. He walked to the weather side and gripped the nettings, watching the vast spread of copper and gold strengthening as it hardened along the horizon. It was very beautiful, even awesome, and he was not surprised to find he was still moved by it. He had watched the sun's parting display from every sort of deck, from the chill wastes of the Atlantic, to the scorching magnificence of the Great South Sea.

Bolitho saw
Nicator's
fore topsail flapping and then refilling as she changed course slightly astern of
Osiris.
How untroubled the three ships must appear. If there had been anyone to see them pass. Nothing to reveal the teeming life within their rounded hulls, or the work of repairing storm damage which even now was still going on. Changing watches, sail and gun drill, eating and sleeping. It was their world. His world.

And yet, even after a full day of it, probably a twin of the one before, and the next beyond it, these men could still find time to escape from each other in their own way. Bone carving, and scrimshaw work, intricate designs made out of rope and scraps of metal, it was difficult to understand how such delicate and finely made objects could come from the hands of British seamen. Snuff-boxes, too, much prized in the wardroom by less experienced officers, which had been worked and polished from chunks of salt beef. Such boxes were as hard and as brightly polished as mahogany, and said much for their maker's skill as well as for their digestion under normal circumstances.

"Deck there!
Land on the lee bow!'

Bolitho walked to the opposite side and peered towards the other horizon, already deep purple as the sky followed the retreating sun like a curtain. That would be a part of Malta, he thought, Gozo most likely.

Below the poop rail he heard a master's mate bark, "You, what's yer name? Larssen, is it?* A mumbled reply and then the same voice.
I
told yer, I told yer, an' I
told
yer!
Watch the compass and watch the set of the sails. Don't just stand a'gawpin' un
til the ship pays off under yer!
Jesus, you'll never rate quarter
master, not in a 'undred years !
'

Another voice this time. Bolitho recognised the haughty lilt of Lieutenant Fitz-Clarence. 'What's the fuss, Mr Bagley ?'

The master's mate replied, 'Nuthin' much. Just that the poor old ship is so full of furriners I 'a
ve to tell 'em everythin' twice!
'

Bolitho began to walk loosely back and forth across the empty poop. Bagley was right of course. Like many King's ships,
Lysander
had gathered a good portion of foreign seamen into her belly. Swedes and Spaniards, Hanoverians and Danes. There were eleven Negroes, and one Canadian who spoke better French than Farquhar.

He thought suddenly of
the American captain, John Thur
good. He would have dropped his cargo and be on his return run by now. His would not be the only happy homecoming. The Spanish sailors whom Bolitho had sent to the barquentine from the prize ship
Segura
would make their wives and mothers weep and laugh when Thurgood sent them ashore in their own country.

He paused by the rail again and looked astern. But the
Segura
was too well hidden by the other ships to be seen. He sighed. He had sent some of her crew to an American barquentine, and one of her boats he had given to some French fishermen in exchange for information. Information which he had been unable to transform into results. Because of the storm ? Or because he had failed to grasp the situation completely, and by so doing had failed his squadron ?

Feet clattered on a ladder and the midshipman of the watch approached him warily.

'Well, Mr. Glasson?'

The midshipman touched his hat. 'Mr. Fitz-Clarence's respects, sir. The masthead has reported sighting land to the south-east. The master confirms it is Malta, sir.'

'Thank you.'

Bolitho looked at him gravely. Glasson was seventeen, and had taken over as signals midshipman following Luce's death. There was no other similarity. Glasson was hard and sharp-featured, with a tongue and
a
sense of discipline to match. He would make a bad lieutenant, if he lived that long. It was strange and pitiful how many there were like Glasson. Who never learned from the frightful stories of mutiny, when the power of the quarterdeck became
a
small and isolated com
munity in the twinkling of an eye. Between the wars there has been Bligh's
Bounty,
which had capt
ured the nation's imagination. Ci
vilians were ever eager to seek out the good or evil of happenings in which they were not involved, and where they suffered no threat or inconvenience. Then the great uprisings at the Nore and Spithead, both caused by grievances long-outstanding by the men of the fleet. And just before he had sailed for Gibraltar to hoist his broad pendant in
Lysander
Bolitho had listened, shocked and appalled, to the latest evidence of what could happen when men and their resources were pressed beyond limits. H.M. frigate
Hermione
had sailed into the Spanish port of La Guaira and surrendered herself to the enemy. Her officers had been butchered in the most horrible manner, and some of her loyal hands had suffered a similar fate. The mutineers had offered their ship to an enemy in exchange for their own freedom. Bolitho did not know much more of the mutiny, other than that the frigate had been under the command of a tyrant. As he looked at Glasson, much of whose confidence was fast departing under his commodore's stare, he marvelled that the lesson still went unheeded.

'What are your hopes for the future ?

Glasson drew himself up. 'To serve my King, sir, and to gain my own command.'

*Very commendable.' Bolitho added dryly, 'Did you learn anything from duties aboard our prize ?'

The midshipman relaxed slightl
y. 'The Dons who man her are dolts. They know nothing, and their vessel is in a filthy state.'

Bolitho did not hear him, he was thinking of the letter, the French agent named Yves Gorse. He could feel the blood rushing through his brain like fire. Suppose the Frenchman did not know which vessel should be bringing instructions from Toulon ? With communications so difficult, and the final French intentions still a well-guarded secret,
it was likely he would know littl
e about the form of delivery.

He turned to Glasson. 'My compliments to the flag captain. I should like him to join me on the poop.'

Farquhar arrived five minutes later to find Bolitho striding from side to side, hands clasped behind him, as if he were in a state of trance.

Farquhar suggested, 'You have come upon a fresh idea, sir ?'

Bolitho stopped and looked at him. 'I think maybe others gave it to me. I was too involved with my anxieties to heed the obvious.'

'Sir?'

'I heard the master's mate, Bagley, reprimanding one of the helmsmen. Because he did not understand him immediately.'

Farquhar frowned. 'That would be Larssen, sir. I can have him removed.'

'No,
no.'
Bolitho faced him. 'It was not that. And something Glasson said about the
Segura
just now.'

'I see, sir.' Farquhar was lost. 'At least, I think I do.'

Bolitho smiled.
'Segura.
We have been keeping her without knowing why. Vanity perhaps ? Evidence that we did not fail at everything? And as time went on we forgot she was there.'

Farquhar watched him doubtfully, his eyes glowing in the sunset. 'She's too slow for scouting, sir. I thought we'd agreed on that.'

Bolitho nodded. 'Have a new prize crew detailed, and send the remaining Spaniards into the squadron. Tell a lieutenant of your choice that I want the prize crew to be as
foreign
as he can find!'

'Aye, sir.' There was not even surprise now. Farquhar probably believed the strain and responsibility had at last driven him mad.

'And I want it done
immediately.
Signal the squadron to heave-to before the light goes completely.'

Farquhar made to hurry away. 'What will the lieutenant be required to do, if I may venture to ask, sir ?'

'Do,
Captain ?' He turned away to conceal his sudden excitement. 'He will sail the
Segura
into Malta under false colours, American, I think. And there he will deliver a letter for me.'

Farquhar exclaimed, 'The French agent?'

'Just so.' He started to pace. 'I suggest you start at once.'

Farquhar waited a moment longer. 'It's a great risk, sir.'

'You told me that before. As did Thomas Herrick. Have you never taken risks ?'

Farquhar smiled. "The men will most probably desert once they are in Malta. And the officer in charge will be seized and likely hanged. The Knights of Malta are only too aware of the danger in incurring France's displeasure. They have been friendly to us in the past.' He shrugged. 'But the French army and navy are much nearer than they were then.'

'I agree. Nor would I expect a junior lieutenant to be used in this way.'

Farquhar watched him with new interest. 'You intend to go with
Segura?'

'Under all circumstances. Yes.'

*

Midshipman Glasson had been right about one thing, Bolitho decided. The prize ship
Segura
was not only dirty, but also contained so many smells of varying ages and strength that it was hard not to retch when between decks.

It was pitch-dark by the time the new prize crew were ferried across in exchange for the remaining Spaniards, and with two good hands on the wheel and canvas reduced to a minimum for the night
Segura
was left to her own devices.

Bolitho sat in the tiny cabin and munched some salt pork and iron-hard biscuits which he tried to dissolve in the ship's plentiful supply of red wine.

Farquhar had picked Lieutenant Matthew Veitch to accompany him, and he had already proved that he was as good aboard an unfamiliar vessel as he had been directing
Lysander's
eighteen-pounders during their fight against the two Frenchmen. In his middle-twenties, Veitch appeared a good deal older and more experienced than his age suggested. He came from the north of England, from Tynemouth, and his hard accent, added to his normally stern features, made him seem too advanced for his years. But he could wipe it away with a ready smile, and Bolitho had noticed that his seamen liked and respected him.

Plowman, the senior master's mate, was again selected to join
the
expedition, and Mr. Midshipman Arthur Breen, a carrot-headed sixteen-year-old whose face was a mass of freckles, completed the vessel's senior authority.

They had been so busy settling into their new ship that the shadowy topsails of the three seventy-fours had vanished into the gathering darkness before anyone had found time to comment.

Bolitho looked up as Veitch entered the cramped cabin. 'Watch yourself!'

But it was too late. Veitch gave a gasp as his head cracked violently against a deck beam.

Bolitho pointed to a chest. 'Sit down and save your skull.' He pushed a wine bottle towards him. 'Is everything secure ?'

'Aye, sir.' Veitch threw back his head and drained a metal goblet. 'I've got 'em standing watch and watch. It keeps 'em busy, and makes sure we don't get pounced on by some enemy patrol.'

Bolitho listened to the vessel's unfamiliar sounds, the rattle of rigging, the very near movements of the rudder.
Segura
was roundly-built, probably Dutch originally, whenever
originally
had been. Her holds were spacious for her size, and packed to the seams with cargo and gunpowder. Her sail plan was austere, and manageable with the minimum amount of hands. Again, it made her almost certain to be Dutch-built. Profitable, both in space and size of crew, she had doubtless worked every coastline from the Baltic to the African shores. But she was old, and her Spanish masters had let her go badly. Plowman had already reported on the poor quality of her standing rigging and topping lifts, some of which he described as being 'as thin as a sailor's wallet'.

But Plowman was Grubb's right-hand man. Like the master, he was not content with unreliable workmanship.