Signal Close Action (31 page)

Bolitho smiled to himself. If Plowman was bothered, the seamen selected for the prize crew appeared quite the opposite. Even aboard the
Lysander,
as he had spoken to them briefly before they had clambered into the boats, he had noticed their grins and nudges, the cheerful acceptance of their surprise role. Escape from boredom, something to do to break the daily routine, or maybe the fact that each was hand-picked helped to extend this carefree atmosphere. The notion they had been chosen mostly for their foreign tongues had not apparently arisen.

He could hear someone singing a strange, lilting song, and a regular chorus of voices as the watch below joined in. There was an unusual smell of cooking in the damp air between decks, too, further evidence of their new identity.

Veitch grinned. 'They've settled in well, sir. That's Larssen singing, and the one detailed to cook is a Dane, so God kno
ws what we'll be eating tonight!
'

Bolitho looked round as Plowman entered the cabin. He said, 'I've left Mr. Breen with the watch, sir.' He took the wine and regarded it gratefully. 'Well, thankee, sir.'

Bolitho glanced at them approvingly. Each, including himself, wore a plain blue coat, and a scruffier trio it would be hard to find.
Typical, he hoped, of the countl
ess hundreds of trading captains who sailed under every flag and carried any cargo they could find for a profit.

'Tomorrow we'll run for Malta.' Bolitho watched as Plowman tamped black tobacco in a long clay pipe. 'I am Captain,' he smiled gravely, 'Richard Pascoe. You can keep your own names. Mr. Veitch will be first mate. Mr. Plowman, second. My cox'n, Allday, will be filling the part of boatswain.'

Plowman hesitated and then thrust a great pot of tobacco across the rickety table.

'If you'd care to try it, sir? It's, well, it's
fair.'

Bolitho took a pipe from a sandalwood box above the small chart table and handed another to Veitch.

'Anything once, Mr. Plowman!'

He became serious. 'I will go ashore with Allday and a boat's crew. You will appear to be preparing to open hatches. But be ready to cut the cable and put to sea if anything goes wrong. If this should happen, you can stand inshore for a further two nights. Where I have marked on the chart. If there is still no signal from me, you must rejoin the squadron at Syracuse. Captain Farquhar will act accordingly.'

The air thickened visibly with smoke, and Bolitho said, 'Fetch some more wine from the locker. Like our people up forrard, I feel strangely at peace. Tonight anyway.'

Shoes clicked overhead and Veitch smiled. 'Young Mr. Breen is alone up there. He is feeling like a post-captain, no doubt!'

Bolitho let the drowsiness move over him. He thought of Pascoe, his dark eyes eager and pleading as he had asked to be allowed to join him. He touched the old sword which lay against the table. Perhaps he should have left it in
Lysander.
If anything happened to him, the sword would probably disappear forever. And it was important in some strange way that Pascoe should have it. One day.

He did not see Veitch give a wink to Plowman, who rose and said, 'I'd better go an' relieve Mr. Breen, sir.'

Veitch nodded. 'And I must go forrard and see that all is well.'

He stood up and cracked his head again.

'Damn these stingy shipbuilders, sir!' He grinned ruefully. 'A ship of the line maybe is crowded, but she keeps a man's head on his shoulders!'

Alone once more, Bolitho leaned over his chart and studied it beneath a spiralling lantern. He removed his blue coat and loosened his neckcloth, feeling the sweat running freely down his spine. It was stiflingly hot, and the wine had not slaked his thirst.

Allday entered the cabin. 'I'm bringing something to eat in a minute, sir.' He wrinkled his nose. 'This hull stinks like Exeter market
1'

'The heat is no help to us.' Bolitho threw down his dividers. 'I will go on deck for a breath of air directly.'

'As you will, sir.' Allday watched him pass. 'I will send word when your meal is ready.'

He looked round the untidy cabin and shrugged. Damp, dirty and smelly it certainly was. But after the oppressive heat of the day it felt almost cool. He saw the empty wine bottles and chuckled. The commodore's heat was probably an inner one.

*

'Brail up the fores'l.'

Bolitho shaded his eyes to examine the untidy sprawl of sand-coloured fortifications which protected every entrance to Valletta harbour. As they had made their slow approach, and had watched the sun rise behind Malta's weather-worn defences, it had been hard for some of the seamen to see it for anything but a fortress.

'Steady as you go.' Plowman shifted his sturdy frame around the helmsmen, a pipe jutting from his jaw.

Bolitho knew that he, like most of the others, was finding it difficult to act in this casual and slack fashion after the rigid discipline of a King's ship. And at no other time was there anything more important about a ship's appearance than when entering harbour.

Bolitho ran his eye along the littered deck. Seamen lounged against either bulwark, pointing at landmarks, some with genuine interest, others with elaborate pretence.

Midshipman Breen said, 'I've heard of this island many times, sir. I never thought I'd ever see it.'

Plowman grinned. 'Aye. Valletta was so named after the Grand Master of the Knights in honour of 'is defence of it against the Turks.'

'Were you here then?' Breen watched the master's mate with undisguised awe.

' 'Ardly, Mr. Breen. That was over two 'undred years back!' He looked at Veitch and shook his head. 'Was I 'ere indeed!'

The nearest fortress was gliding abeam now, its upper rampart crowded with colourful figures. It was apparently used as much as a thoroughfare as a bastion. Beyond it, Bolitho saw the glittering water opening up to receive the
Segura.
The harbour was busy with shipping and tiny oared boats which scurried back and forth from vessels to jetties like water-beetles. There were a few schooners, gaunt Arab dhows, and the more common feluccas with their huge lateen sails. Two painted and gilt-encrusted galliasses lay beside a flight of stone steps. Like things from the past. They might have looked not too much out of place when the Romans had conquered England, Bolitho thought. The Knights of Malta had used them very successfully over the centuries for harrying Turkish ports and shipping, and had done much to drive the Turks' influence away from the West, it was hoped for good.

But now, Malta's role had changed again. It had withdrawn on to its own resources, combing revenue and trade from ships which came to the harbour, or anchored out of sheer necessity through storm or attack by corsairs.

'Stand by the anchor.'

Bolitho strode to the foot of the mainmast and watched for any sign of a challenge. In fact, there was little interest, so he guessed that
Segura
was not the first vessel to enter wearing the American flag.

Allday whispered, 'By God, it will take Mr. Gilchrist a year to get these lads to jump like seamen again.' He grinned as one of the men spat deliberately on the deck and then grinned somewhat sheepishly at his companions. Such an act would have cost him a dozen lashes in
Lysander.

Veitch called, 'Hands wear ship!'

Bolitho took a brass telescope and trained it on the longest stone jetty. Boats were already shoving off, laden to their gunwales with fruit, basketware and probably women as well. For despite the original Christian standards and guidance within these stout walls, the core had long since deteriorated, and it was hinted that even the Knights themselves looked more to personal enjoyments than to heaven. 'Helm a'lee!'

The
Segura
tilted above her shadow, the patched sails barely moving as she headed into the wind, and her rusting anchor splashed into clear water.

'Mr. Veitch. If you allow these bumboats alongside, I suggest you make certain their occupants stay in them. You can let a few aboard at a time. They'll get out of control otherwise.'

Veitch gave a rare smile. 'Aye, sir. It'd be a powerful combination, eh ? A hold full of wine, some British tars and whatever mischief these traders are about to offer
1'

Allday was already mustering a small but fearsome-looking anchor watch. Each man was armed with a cutlass, and in addition a heavy wooden stave.

'Lower the boat.'

Bolitho wiped his face and throat. It was more stifling in the harbour than below decks.

The first craft were already alongside, the merchants and boatmen standing upright to display their wares, and vieing with each other in a variety of tongues.

Veitch came aft agai
n. 'All
done, sir. I've got two swivels loaded with canister, and a stand of muskets hidden under the fo'c'sle. I noticed that the harbour batteries face seaward, so we'll be all right for the present.'

Bolitho nodded. 'People who build fortresses often make that mistake. They never expect an attack from the rear.'

He thought of the charge down a Spanish hillside, the crackle of musket fire, and the marines cheering like fiends as they went in with their bayonets fixed.

'Just as well.'

'Boat's lowered, sir.'

Allday strode to the bulwark by the main shrouds as a dark-skinned little man wearing a turban and hung about with beads, bottles and gaudy daggers tried to climb on to the deck. 'Wait for the order,
Mustapha!’
Allday cupped his hand under the man's chin and sent him pitching back into the water. It raised a chorus of laughter and jeers from the unfortunate bumboatman's companions, who probably considered that this vessel's master, if hard-hearted, was at least going to be fair to all.

Veitch followed Bolitho to the rail. 'If an official comes aboard, sir, shall I bluff it out ?'

Bolitho had been in Malta before. He smiled grimly. 'Be guided by Mr. Plowman. I suspect he has visited here on
other
unorthodox missions. The port officers may decide to wait until you show signs of unloading. But if they come and ask for your papers, tell them what I told you to say. That we had to throw them overboard when chased by an unknown ship. You will find a bag of gold coins in the cabin to grease the hawse for you.'

Plowman grinned at the lieutenant's uncertainty. 'Love you, Mr. Veitch! Port officials are the same everywhere, an' with more an' more Yankee ships finding their ways into the Mediterranean they'll not want to lose a new sort of trade!'

Bolitho threw one leg over the rail. 'And watch our people. There may be French spies amongst these bumboatmen. It'll do no harm to spread the notion anywayl'

He clambered down into the
Segu
ra's
remaining longboat. 'Shove off.'

As the boat pulled away he saw one of the traders tap smartly on a pile of rugs, and from beneath it he also saw a smooth, rounded arm pushing the covering aside. It was no man's arm. With
Segura's
captain out of the way, the real trading was about to begin.

Allday murmured, 'Top of the stairs, sir. Two officers of some kind.'

But the officers paid them little attention, other than a courteous nod, and continued to watch the anchored newcomer, possibly judging the right moment to board her.

Bolitho stood on the hot stonework and waited for Allday and one other to climb up beside him. The seaman was the Swede, Larssen. He had a cheerful, trusting expression, and one of the broadest pairs of shoulders Bolitho had seen.

Allday remarked, 'In case we run into a spot of trouble.' He paused and looked at him. 'You all right, sir?'

Bolitho replied, 'Of course. Don't fuss.' He turned away.

'Send the boat away. We will attract as little attention as possible.'

He heard Allday speaking to the boat's crew and tried not to keep plucking the shirt away from his body. It was wringing with sweat, and he felt strangely light-headed. The wine? Some of the food he had eaten last night ? Inwardly, another more likely reason was already forming and it was all he could do to conceal his sudden anxiety.

It was improbable, surely. He gritted his teeth, willing Allday to finish with the boat and follow him into some shadow.
But
it
was
not
impossible.
Nearly nine years ago, in the Great South'Sea. The fever had all but killed him. He had had a few bouts of it since, but not for a year or so. He almost cursed aloud. It could not be. It must not happen now of all times.

Allday said, 'Ready, sir.'