Colours Aloft! (29 page)

Bolitho looked at Quarrell. “Return to your command and await orders.”

Quarrell backed away. “I—I am sorry, Sir Richard.”

Bolitho eyed him calmly. “Your lieutenant was convinced, so why not the rest of us?”

As the door closed Keen said, “We have nothing definite, sir!”

Stayt added, “If the French are really in Corsican waters, and we fail to seek them out or inform Lord Nelson—”

Bolitho looked past him. “I
know,
gentlemen. I shall be held responsible.” He smiled shortly. “And this time I shall have no defence.”

Once more he crossed to the chart. Keen was trying to warn and protect him. If they carried on as they were nobody would be able to blame him. He lowered his head to study the neat calculations. But if he went against everything but instinct, and a new, strange sense of destiny, he might still be wrong.

“In my estimation, we have two days. No more.” He touched the chart with the points of the dividers. “Allowing for the weather, we should make a rendezvous with the convoy about there.” He turned away so that they should not see his expression. While they hunted fruitlessly along the rugged Corsican coast, the gold would be seized and Herrick overwhelmed. He would die fighting alongside his men. But he would certainly die.

Bolitho raised his voice, “Mr Yovell! Come out, you quillpusher, and I shall dictate my fighting instructions!”

Yovell padded across the cabin, smiling happily, as if he had just been awarded a title.

Bolitho looked at Stayt. “Warn the signals midshipman to be ready.” He thought of Sheaffe and wondered how he got along with his father.

Alone with Keen he said, “It's a chance I
must
take.” He added with a wry smile, “It was the wine and the brandy which alerted me. I could never imagine Jobert giving anything to a poor Greek trader unless he wanted us to know about it. Perhaps this time he has been too clever and overconfident.”

Keen doubted if Quarrell's information was enough to be certain of anything. Jobert may have laid some more bait, but he was wily enough to know how Bolitho might react.

Bolitho's change of mood, this new confidence which left him free to joke with his secretary, was unnerving.

Keen said simply, “Then it will be a fight.”

Bolitho took his arm, the tone of Keen's voice making the vague strategy into stark, brutal reality.

“We shall face it together, Val,” he said quietly.

Keen smiled. “Yes. Together.” But all he saw was her face, and for the first time he was afraid.

Commander Adam Bolitho pushed the unruly hair from his eyes as he stared up at the men working on the fore-topsail yard. The sturdy brig
Firefly
was heeling hard over on the larboard tack, the sea creaming up to the sealed gunports and cascading along the lee scuppers.

He wore only his shirt and breeches and his clothes were plastered to his body like a wet skin. He would never tire of it. He wanted to laugh or sing as the brig,
his
command, dipped her bows steeply and threw up a sunburst cloud of spray.

He waited for the bows to rise again and then moved to the compass box. It gave him a marvellous feeling of pride. The vessel was heading due east, with the Balearic Islands somewhere below the larboard horizon.

Down again, and another great curtain of spray flew above the forecastle where other men worked busily to trim the yards.

Adam's first lieutenant, a youngster of his own age, lurched from the rail and shouted, “Take in another reef, sir?”

Adam showed his teeth and laughed. “No! It's not time yet!”

The lieutenant grimaced then smiled. It never was time with his young commander.

Adam moved restlessly about the poop while his
Firefly
lifted and thundered over the tossing water. Just days ago he had been under the Rock's shadow, ready to leave the Mediterranean and make his way back to an English winter. Instead he had received orders to return instantly to Malta.

The fever on the Rock was over, and the despatch which Adam had locked in his strongbox was to tell the admiral at Malta to prevent a convoy from leaving for England. If it had already sailed Adam was to place himself under the orders of the convoy's senior officer. That too made him grin. Rear-Admiral Herrick. To Adam he was more like a fond uncle than a flag-officer.

It was exciting. His own command, and the sea to himself. The French were out, one squadron under Rear-Admiral Jobert had been reported on the move. If it had somehow managed to slip past his uncle's squadron, his ships were needed now at Gibraltar to close gates and cut off any attempt by Jobert to enter the Atlantic. A gigantic game of cat-and-mouse.

Adam wiped the spray from his lips. A game for admirals and great ships of the line. While here—

He walked to the taffrail and stared at the frothing wake beneath the counter. Down there was his own cabin. A luxury beyond imagination. A place of his own.

He thought suddenly of the court of inquiry in Malta. He would learn the result when he reached there. Captain Keen might share the Bolitho curse of being hounded out of envy or revenge. They had passed the homebound packet
Lord Egmont,
and Adam had wondered about her. It would be just like his uncle to—

The lookout called, “Sail! Weather bow!”

Morrison, his first lieutenant, hurried to the ratlines but Adam said, “No, I'll go.” As a midshipman he had always enjoyed skylarking with his companions during the dogwatches. Up and down the masts, out and around the futtock shrouds. Few captains interfered. They probably thought it would keep their “young gentlemen” out of mischief. He climbed rapidly up the ratlines, the wind ripping at his shirt. Once he hung out from the shrouds and looked down at the forward part of the vessel as the sea boiled over the catheads and tightly lashed anchors before frothing along the decks and leapfrogging over the black four-pounders.

He had always wanted a frigate. Be like his uncle had once been, one of the best frigate captains in the fleet. But when he looked at his lively
Firefly
he could scarcely bear to think of ever leaving her.

He found the lookout perched comfortably on the crosstrees, his battered face creased with curiosity as he watched his young lord and master swarming up to join him.

Adam pulled a telescope from his belt and tried several times without success to steady it towards the larboard bow.

The lookout, one of the oldest seamen in the ship, said hoarsely, “I think there be two on 'em, sir.” He barely raised his voice but it carried easily above the roar of wind and bucking canvas. Many years in all kinds of ships had taught him that.

Adam wrapped his leg around a stay and tried again. The mast was shaking so violently it was like a giant whip, he thought.

He gasped, “There she is! It's fine eyesight you have, Marley!”

The seaman grinned. He didn't need a telescope. But he liked the new commander. A bit of a devil with the girls, or soon would be, he decided.

An extra lively wave thundered beneath the stem and lifted the hull towards the sky like a surfacing whale. And there she was, standing before the wind under close-reefed topsails, her hull still hidden by leaping crests as if she was driving herself under. Adam wiped the lens with his hand and almost lost his hold as his ship dived once more.

He waited, counting the seconds until the jib-boom began to lift again, the sails flapping from it like wet banners.

Adam closed the glass with a snap. “You were right. There are two of them.” He patted the man's thick shoulder. “I'll send you a relief.”

The seaman would have spat had he been able but contented himself with, “Nah, sir, I'll stay. They'll be some o' Lord Nelson's ships.”

Adam slithered down a backstay, all dignity forgotten as Morrison hurried to meet him.

“Two sail of the line.” Adam dropped his voice. “Same tack as ourselves.”

Morrison grinned. “We'd better not draw too close, sir, or we might be given some more orders!”

Adam pushed his fingers through his black hair. It felt sticky with salt. He knew he should be nervous, perhaps even fearful. But the same excitement would not leave him and he said, “You may take in that reef now. And do not worry yourself about more orders from on high,
Mr
Morrison, for those two liners are French!”

The men scampered to shorten sail, then Morrison took a deep breath. “What do you intend, sir?”

Adam gestured to the nearest four-pounder. “Even we are no match for them.” He became serious for a moment. “We shall follow them and see what they are about.”

Morrison had been first lieutenant under the previous captain, who had managed to make daily life aboard
Firefly
little better than drudgery. Commander Bolitho was like a breath of clean air; he was very capable and nobody's fool.

He hinted cautiously, “But your orders, sir?”

“Are to find the convoy or Malta, whichever comes first.” His mouth crinkled in a grin again. “I think these two gentlemen will lead us to one or t'other, eh?”

Morrison hurried away to assist the second lieutenant. The old captain had never been like this.

He glanced aft again and saw Adam Bolitho beside the helm speaking with the master's mate. He acted more like a midshipman than a captain.

Aloud he said, “He'll do me, that's for certain!” But only the wind heard him.

Two hundred miles east-north-east of his nephew's
Firefly
and ignorant of the fact Adam had been sent back from Gibraltar, Bolitho gripped the poop rail and watched his ships reeling and buffeted in the same gale.

The wind, which had veered to a strong north-westerly, showed no signs of easing, and when he steadied his telescope Bolitho saw the little brig
Rapid
standing out to windward, her hull and lower spars deluged with spray and spindrift.

It was to be hoped that Quarrell had made quite certain that the big thirty-two-pounders from
Helicon
were properly mounted and lashed firmly to their tackles. A gun breaking loose in a gale could kill and maim like a mad beast. It could also wreck the upper deck whilst doing it.

The sky was clear of all but a few streaky clouds, hard blue and with little warmth. He saw a party of seamen with a boatswain's mate hauling a ragged line through a block and preparing to reeve a new one to replace it. They were soaked in spray, and the salt would do little to help their thirst.

Too much rum or brandy would do more harm than good. Bolitho bit his lip and wondered at his earlier confidence. After pounding their way farther south with Sardinia's blurred coastline rarely lost from view, the hope of making a rendezvous with Herrick's convoy seemed like a bad dream. Even supposing Jobert was making for the same objective. He stamped on his doubts and turned from the rail to see Midshipman Sheaffe and his signal party watching him. They immediately dropped their eyes or became engrossed elsewhere.

Bolitho allowed his aching mind to explore his calculations yet again. The convoy would be very slow and precise in its progress. He had done all he could, with his small sqaudron spread out as far as possible without losing contact completely. Thank God for
Barracouta
and
Rapid,
he thought despairingly. But for them—

He heard Paget shout at a helmsman, and a muttered answer. Paget would stand no nonsense, and he at least showed no signs of doubt. He was a good man, Bolitho thought, and as a young lieutenant had fought under Duncan at Camperdown. There were not too many officers in the squadron who had seen a battle like that one.

Keen climbed up from the quarterdeck to join him. He had been down on the orlop to visit one of the midshipmen who had broken a leg after being flung bodily from a gangway in the gale.

Keen stared at the forecastle, his eyes red with strain, and Bolitho knew he had barely left the deck since the wind had risen.

Bolitho smiled, “A strange sight, Val. Bright and bitter, like a dockside whore.”

Keen laughed despite his apprehension. He wanted to tell Bolitho to break off the hunt. It was finished before it had begun. Even if he had been right about Jobert, and it seemed less likely with each aching mile, they would not find him now.

Keen was sick and tired of it, and hated to think what it would do to Bolitho when the truth came out. Everyone said that Nelson had survived only on his luck. He had been fortunate. It was rare.

Bolitho knew Keen was watching him and could guess what he was thinking. As flag-captain he wanted to advise him. As a friend he knew he could not.

Bolitho looked at the cold sky and thought again of Falmouth. Maybe Belinda would have received his letter, or have heard the news from someone else. He thought too of the girl with the dark misty eyes. He smiled. Brave Zenoria, he had called her. She was the one good thing in all this endurance and failure.