Signal Close Action (29 page)

Bolitho rested both hands on his chart and studied it for several more seconds. The storm had blown itself out in two long days and nights, so that the warm sunlight and the gentle breeze in the sails made it feel as if the ship was all but becalmed.

Around his table the other captains sat watching him, each wrapped in his own thoughts, all weary from the storm's anger and the battle for survival.

Throughout the scattered squadron seventeen men had been killed. By falls from aloft, or being swept overboard. Some had vanished without trace. As if they had never been.

It was mid-afternoon, and with the ships sailing in a loose formation once again Bolitho had ordered all his captains to gather for a conference.

He looked at Javal's dark features. His news had been expected, and yet perhaps even to the last he had still hoped. But as they had sighted
Buzzard
's
topsails shortly after dawn the signal had been shouted down from the maintop. The French had put to sea. A dozen ships, maybe more, had sailed with the stiff north-west wind under their coat-tails, while Javal and his men had watched helplessly while they fought to keep the enemy in view. The French commander had even allowed for such an eventuality. Two frigates had swept out of the storm and had raked
Buzzard's
rigging before standing off to follow the convoy into the darkness.

For a fighter like Javal it must have been terrible. With his rigging slashed and the storm mounting every minute, he had been forced to watch the French slipping away. He had tried to make contact with the squadron by firing signal guns and loosing off a flare. But while Gilchrist had waited too late and the ships of the line had steered comfortably along their allotted course the storm had made even that contact impossible.

Bolitho said slowly, "The admiral should have examined the despatches sent in
Harebell.
He will assume that we are capable of standing watch over Toulon, or of shadowing any vessels which try to elude us.'

Overhead he heard the stamp of feet as Leroux's marines completed another drill. Hammers and adzes added their own sounds to show that the carpenter's crew were also busy completing storm repairs.

He looked at Herrick, wondering what he was thinking.

Probyn said heavily, 'Now that the French have avoided your er, ambush, it must leave us all in some doubt. Perhaps we placed too much value in hearsay, in rumour. Who knows where those French ships may be now?' He looked slowly round the table. 'Let alone what we can hope to do without information ?'

Bolitho watched him impassively. Probyn had been careful to use 'we'. He had meant 'you'.

Javal shrugged and yawned. 'I could detach from the squadron, sir. I might be able to find some if not all of the Frenchmen. After all, the storm will not have made their passage an easy one.'

Bolitho felt them looking at him. Some would understand, perhaps share his dilemma.

If he sent the
Buzzard
in pursuit he would be without 'eyes'. The two-deckers and the prize ship would have their visibility reduced to the vision of the best masthead lookout. So, with little agility or speed to investigate, he had to hold on to his one and only frigate.

Probyn added, 'Of course, we could return to Gibraltar, sir. Better to add our strength to any fleet which may be assembling than to wander blindly to no purpose.'

Herrick spoke for the first time. 'That would be an admission of failure! It would be the wrong decision, in my opinion.' He looked at Bolitho, his eyes level. 'We know how you must feel, sir.'

Farquhar snapped abruptly, 'It is the devil's own luck!' Javal said, 'It's the devil's own
choice.'
He looked at Bolitho curiously. 'For you, sir.' 'Yes.'

Bolitho let his gaze move along and down across the chart of the Mediterranean. All those miles. Even if he were right in his guesswork, and it was no more than that as Probyn had stated, he might still fail to make contact with the enemy. Ships could pass one another in the night or in foul weather and be none the wiser. An empire could fall because of a wrong choice, a hasty decision.

He said, 'This is what we will do.' It had come out as if it had been there in his mind from the beginning. 'Our present position, as far as we can estimate, is about sixty miles west of Corsica's north coast.' He tapped the chart with his dividers. 'Cape Corse. The storm carried us too far to the east'rd to make another passage profitable.' He saw them crane forward above the table. 'So we will continue, and once around the north cape of Corsica we will steer south-east.' He watched his dividers moving remorselessly further and further down the Italian coastline. 'We will put into Syracuse to take on water and land our badly injured people. The Sicilians may have news for us. They are at peace with the French, but have little love for them.'

He looked up sharply. 'While we are at anchor,
Buzzard
will sail independently, around the eastern side of Sicily, by way of the Messina Strait, and make a rendezvous with the squadron off Malta. I will be able to give you better information, Captain Javal, once we have made some progress.' He eyed them
separately. He was committed. And he had committed each one of them, and every man-jack in the squadron.

Herrick cleared his throat. 'And then, sir ?'

'Then,
Captain Herrick.' He held his gaze, seeing the worry building up on his face. 'We will know what to expect.' He smiled briefly. 'I hope.'

Probyn spread his heavy hands on the table. They were like pink crabs. 'If we fail there also, sir, I'd not be happy to face the admiral.'

Bolitho faced him calmly. 'It is support I want, Captain Probyn. Not sympathy.'

Spray pattered against the stern windows, and he added, 'I think it best if you return to your ships. The wind is freshening, by the feel of it.'

The chairs scraped back from the table and they looked at each other like strangers.

Probyn gathered up his hat and sword and said, 'I trust that new orders will be passed to us, sir ?' He did not look at him as he spoke.

Herrick snapped, 'There is no need for that, surely ?' 'I think there is.' Probyn fiddled with his sword belt. 'I would not wish to insist upon it.' Bolitho nodded. 'It will be done.'

Farquhar rapped on the screen door with his knuckles, and when the sentry appeared he said, 'Signal for the boats. Tell the first lieutenant to assemble the side party.'

Probyn asked, 'How is your first lieutenant, by the way ?'

'Adequate.' Farquhar watched him coldly.

Bolitho turned away. 'You know him then ?'

Probyn coughed. 'Not really, sir. Perhaps a passing acquaintance.'

They took their leave, as boat by boat they were pulled back to their various commands.

Herrick was the last. He said simply, 'The fore t'gallant mast, sir. When I knew of
Lysander's
difficulties in the storm, I got to thinking. Maybe she took a ball through the fore-rigging and the rope woolding around the mast hid the damage. It is not unknown.'

Bolitho smiled. 'Perhaps. But it was none of your doing.'

Bolitho saw him looking around the decks and tried to read his mind. Loss, anxiety, or merely curiosity?

'And you, Thomas. Is everything satisfactory ?' Herrick turned to watch his barge pulling for the main chains.

'Osiris
is a smart ship, sir. I've no complaints. But she's no heart, no zest.'

Bolitho wanted to reach out for him. To make him know that the sense of loss went both ways. But it was not yet time, and he knew it.

He said, 'Take care, Thomas.'

The marine guard shuffled to attention and the bosun's mates raised their silver calls in preparation to see Herrick over the side. But he hung back, his face lined with emotions.

Then he said, 'If you take the squadron to the Turkish forts and beyond, you'll not find
me
far astern.' He faltered, his eyes pleading. 'I just wanted you to know. To
understand.'

Bolitho held out his hand. 'I do, Thomas.' He gripped it tightly. 'Now.'

He watched Farquhar and Herrick exchange salutes, and then walked slowly across the quarterdeck to the weather side.

The sails were booming in confusion while the ship lay hove-to to rid herself of her visitors, and Bolitho did not hear the footsteps beside him.

It was Pascoe, his dark eyes heavy with strain. He had been standing watches and carrying out his duties throughout the storm, but at every available moment he had been below with his friend.

Bolitho asked, 'Is something wrong ?'

Pascoe lifted his arms and let them fall again. 'Sir, I - ' He shook his head. 'He is gone. He died a minute ago.'

Bolitho watched him, seeing his distress. Sharing it.

'He was a fine boy.'

He touched his arm, turning him slightiy so that some passing marines should not see his face.

'And it is often harder to accept that sailors give their lives to the sea as much as they do in battle.'

Pascoe shivered. 'He never complained. Not after that first terrible cut. I held his hand. And just today I thought he was a little better. And then - ' He broke off, unable to finish.

Farquhar strode to the rail and touched his hat. 'Permission to get the squadron under way, sir?' He glanced at Pascoe, his eyes without compassion. 'The wind is certainly freshening.'

'If you please. And signal
Buzzard
to take station to lee'rd and ahead of the squadron. He knows what to expect.' He stepped in front of Pascoe. 'I think this officer might be excused from duty for the present.'

Farquhar nodded. 'Very well.'

But Pascoe said, 'I'm all right now, sir.' He adjusted his hat and moved towards the ladder. 'I'd like to attend to my work, if I may.'

Farquhar's lips twisted in a smile. 'Then it is settled.'

Bolitho followed them to the rail, seeing the seamen manning the braces and halliards, waiting to execute the first part of his new orders.

Pascoe hesitated, his foot in the air above the gun deck.

'There is one thing, sir. When will we be burying him ?'

'At dusk.' He watched the pain in Pascoe's eyes.

'I just thought. My sword. I'd like it to go over with him. I've not much else.'

Bolitho waited until Pascoe had joined his division and then returned to the poop ladder.

Grubb remarked qui
etly, 'A fine young officer 'e'll
be one day, sir.'

Bolitho nodded. 'He suits me very well as he stands.'

'Aye.' The master shaded his red-rimmed eyes to watch the flapping pendant high above the deck. 'There's some '00 can give orders, but never learn nuthin'. Thank God 'e's not one o'
them.'

Bolitho continued up the ladder and walked right aft to the gilded taffrail.

Below the poop he heard the helmsman's cry, 'Course due east, sirl Steady as she goes!'

He watched the lithe frigate forging swiftly ahead of her bulky consorts, but for once felt no envy of her freedom. This was his place, and only the rights of his decisions would decide if he should hold it.

He thought of Pascoe and Herrick, and Allday who was moving about in the cabin below.

And this time he had to be right, if only for men such as these.

11
The Letter

'Will
that be all for now, sir?' Moffitt, the clerk, regarded Bolitho gloomily, his weedy frame angled to the deck.

'Yes. Thank you.' Bolitho leaned back in his chair and loosened his neckcloth. 'Tell Ozzard to light some lanterns.' He looked astern through the great windows at the fiery orange sunset.

One
more
dragging
day.
It was two weeks since he had committed his ships to the passage south, and to all intents they had the sea to themselves. Day after day, using the light winds to steer south-east along the Italian coastline, and then tacking around to the westward to follow the hazy shores of Sicily. Now they were heading east again, with the island of Sicily lying about thirty miles off the larboard bow. And apart from a few Arab craft with their strange lateen rig, they had been unable to make contact with another living soul. They had sighted some isolated sails, but they had made off before the slow-moving seventy-fours could draw near enough to examine them.

Bolitho stared at the empty desk, wondering why he bothered to dictate another empty day's report for Moffitt's benefit. It was unlikely to carry much weight, unless as additional evidence at his own court martial.