Signal Close Action (32 page)

'Good. Now let us find that address and finish the matter.' He swayed and touched Allday's shoulder.
'Damn!’

As he pushed his way through a group of chattering traders, Allday watched him with sudden alarm.

Larssen asked, 'The
capitan?
Is he not well?'

Allday gripped his arm tightly. 'Listen, and listen good. If it's what I think it is, he's going to be all aback within the hour. Stay with me and do whatever I do, see ?'

The Swede shrugged. 'Yes, sir, Mr. All-Day!'

Mercifully the address was not far from the harbour stairs. In fact, the whitewalled building was attached to one of the smaller fortresses as if for support, and from a broad balcony Bolitho could see the end of a large telescope trained across the anchorage like a gun.

He felt beneath his coat to make sure his pistol was loose and ready to draw. He was taking a great gamble. Perhaps this French agent already knew of the vessel's fate which had been entrusted with this letter. The convoy which
Buzzard
had chased, and with which the ship had been sailing, might have been into Malta, left word and gone on to its intended destination.

But he still believed it unlikely. A letter of such imp
ortance,
if such it was, would have been carried by one of the French
escorting frigates and then s
ent ashore by boat, probably at
night.

He said shortly, 'Come along. We shall have to make haste.'

The lower part of the building was filled with wine casks and mounds of straw for packing bottles. A few Maltese labourers were rolling empty barrels down a ramp to a cellar, and a bored-looking man with a ruffled shirt and mustard-coloured breeches was writing in a ledger on the top of another cask.

He looked up, his eyes wary.
'Si?'
He could have been almost anything, from Greek to Dutchman.

Bolitho said, 'I only speak English. I'm master of the American ship which has just anchored.'

The man did not reply at once, but there was no doubt in his eyes, no lack of understanding.

Then he said, 'American. Yes. I understand.'

Bolitho cleared his throat and tried to keep his voice steady. 'I wish to see
M'sieu
Gorse.'

Again the unwavering stare. But no cry of alarm, no rush of feet from this man's assistants.

He replied eventually, 'I am not
certain
that I can arrange it.'

Allday stepped forward, his face bleak. 'If the cap'n says he wants to see him, that's it, matey! We ain't come all this way with a goddamn letter just to be kept waiting!'

The man gave a tight smile. 'I 'ave to be careful.' He looked meaningly at the harbour. 'So do you.'

He closed the ledger and beckoned them to some narrow stone steps.

Bolitho looked at Allday. 'Stay here with Larssen.' His mouth was completely dry, and the roof of it was burning like hot sand. He shook his head with sudden impatience. 'No arguments! If things go wrong now, one will have as much of a chance as three!' He tried to smile, to reassure him. 'I'll call soon enough if need be.'

He turned his back and followed the man up the steps. Through a door and into a long room, one side of which was open to the harbour and the spread of ships and buildings which shimmered in the sunlight like a great tapestry.

'Ah,
Capitaine’
A white figure moved from the balcony. 'I 'alf expected it would be you.'

Yves Gorse was short and rotund. He had a thick black beard, as if to compensate for his complete baldness, and small, delicate hands which were never still.

Bolitho eyed him calmly. 'I would have been here sooner, but I ran foul of a British frigate. Had to throw my papers overboard, but managed to shake the bastard off in a storm.'

'I see.' Gorse pointed one delicate hand to a chair. 'Please be seated. You look unwell,
Capitaine
'

'I'm well enough.'

'Per'aps.' Gorse walked to the window and stared down at the water. 'And you are called?' 'Pascoe. It's a Cornish name.'

'I am aware of that,
Capitaine.'
He turned with remarkable lightness. 'But I am not aware of any
Capitaine
Pascoe?'

Bolitho shrugged. 'In this game we must learn to trust each other, surely ?'

'Game
?' Gorse moved around the room. 'It was never that. Although your country is still too young to appreciate the dangers.'

Bolitho retorted angrily, 'Have you forgotten about
our
Revolution ? I seem to recall it came a goodly few year
s before yours!
'

'Touche!’
Gorse smiled, showing small but perfect teeth. 'I meant no offence. Now this letter. May I 'ave it?'

Bolitho pulled it from his pocket. 'You see,
M'sie
u,
I trust
you.'

Gorse opened the letter and held it in a patch of sunlight. Bolitho tried not to watch him, to search for some sign that Gorse had noticed how the letter had been re-sealed. Gorse, however, seemed satisfied. No, relieved was more the word for it.

He said, 'Good. Now per'aps you will take some wine. Better than the muck you will be carrying to
er,
where
are you bound?'

Bolitho clenched his fingers in his pockets to control his limbs. They felt as if they were shaking so badly that Gorse must surely have noticed. This was the moment. If he tried to fence with Gorse, or attempted to trick him further, the man would know immediately. Gorse was a trusted enemy agent. His outward cover of wine merchant and chandler would have been built up carefully over many years. Which meant he would have no wish to return to France, a country very different from the one he must have left a long while ago. Many of his fellow merchants had breathed their last while staring down into a bloodied basket and waiting for the blade to drop.

Malta stood like an awkward sentinel in the gateway between the western and eastern Mediterranean. His work in gathering intelligence for France would stand him in good stead, especially when that fleet sailed from Toulon, as sail it must.

He replied casually, 'Corfu of course. There's no change. I'd have thought my friend John Thurgood would have anchored here in his
Santa
Paula.
He had the same destination, as I expect you well know.'

Gorse smiled modestly. 'I know many things.'

Bolitho tried to relax, to find comfort that his lie was accepted. But he was feeling much worse, and he knew his breathing was getting faster. Visions flashed across his mind like parts of a nightmare. The pale beaches and waving palms at Tahiti, and beyond to other islands. Pictures at odds with men dying horribly of fever, and the remainder drawing together in terror and despair.

He heard himself ask, "The letter, was it good news ?'

'It was,
Capitaine.
Although the Maltese people may think otherwise when the time comes.' He appeared concerned. 'Really, I must insist that you rest. You do not seem well at all.'

Bolitho said, 'Fever. Long time ago. Coming back again.' He had to speak in short sentences. 'But I will be ready to sail.'

'But there is no 'urry. You can rest
-'
A look of alarm crossed his face. 'Unless it is dangerous to others ?'

Bolitho stood up and steadied himself against the chairback. 'No. Call my men. I will feel better aboard the ship.'

'As you wish.' He snapped his fingers to someone outside the door.

Even through his dizziness Bolitho was able to grasp that Gorse had been prepared to kill him, had posted men out of sight for the purpose, if he had failed to convince him.

He managed to ask, 'Do you wish me to carry any letters to Corfu,
M'sieu’

'No.' Gorse regarded him worriedly. 'My next letters will come by more direct means.'

Allday loomed into the room, the Swede at his back.

Gorse snapped, 'Your captain is ill.'

Bolitho felt Allday gripping his arm. 'Easy, sir! We'll soon have you safe!'

Down the steep steps and out into the merciless sunlight again. He was more carried than aided, and he was dimly aware of passing Maltese grinning at the three sailors who had emerged so unsteadily from a wine store.

Allday barked, 'Go on ahead, Larssen, an' signal for the boat!' He added harshly, 'If you're not at the jetty when we gets there, I'll find you if it takes a lifetime!'

Bolitho felt himself being helped into some shade. His body was streaming with sweat, but unlike the previous time it was ice-cold, so that he could not stop shivering.

He gasped, 'Must
...
get
...
on.' It was no use. His strength was fading fast.
'Must.
.
.
tell.
.
.
the
.
.
.
squadron.'
Then he collapsed completely.

Four seamen, led by Larssen, came running up from the harbour and stared at Allday with surprise.

Allday rapped, 'Lively, carry him to the boat!' He pulled off his coat and wrapped it round Bolitho. 'And don't stop for anyone!'

It seemed an endless stretch of water between jetty and ship, and every foot of the way Allday held Bolitho against his body, his eyes on the
Segura's
loosely furled sails, willing them closer.

As far as he was concerned, the squadron, the French and the whole bloody world could go their own way. If anything happened to Bolitho, nothing else would matter.

12
Divided Loyalties

A
lmost
identical in a relentless heat-haze, the three ships of the line lay quietly at anchor within a cable's length of the land.

Captain Thomas Herrick crossed to the larboard side of
Osiris's
quarterdeck and stared at the unfamiliar hills, the lush greens and the hostile crags where some of the headland had fallen into the sea below. Syracuse, remote, even unfriendly, so that their powerful presence anchored amongst the unhurried movements of small coastal craft made the impression doubly vivid in Herrick's mind.

He bit his lip and toyed with the idea of going below again. But the great stern cabin always seemed to be waiting, lying there like a trap. Part of Farquhar. He shifted his gaze to
Lysander
and felt the old longing and despair welling up to join his other constant anxiety.

They had been at anchor for over two weeks. The Syracuse garrison commandant had been aboard
Lysander
several times, accompanied on each occasion by a rotund, worried-looking Englishman, John Manning, who was, as Herrick understood it, one of His Brittanic Majesty's last
official
representatives in the island. For even if Sicily showed no sign of helping France, she was equally determined not to display open friendship to King George.

Herrick moved restlessly about the deck, only partly aware of the blazing heat across his shoulders whenever he showed himself beyond one of the awnings.

When he had first heard of Bolitho's intention to find and contact a French agent in Malta, it had already been too late to protest.
Segura
had been swallowed up in the darkness, and from that moment on Herrick had fretted and worried continuously. And now it was all of three weeks since
Segura
had parted company. Not a sign
of the prize ship, nor any word
from the British representative in Syracuse that she had entered or left Valletta harbour.

John Manning was more concerned about finding reasons for the three seventy-fours to stay at anchor in a port which was officially neutral. Repairs, taking on food and water, all the usual reasons had been sent ashore. And still no word came.

Bolitho must have been seized by the Maltese authorities. They were even more frightened of the French than the Sicilians, if half Herrick had heard was true. Or the enemy agent might have caught and killed him. Herrick looked towards the open sea until his eyes watered. Bolitho's place was
here,
in a world he understood. Where he was known by name, if not by personal contact, by most of the men in the fleet.

He thought suddenly of Javal, and found himself hating him. He had not come into Syracuse at all. After his own passage through the Messina Strait he had been ordered to rendezvous with the squadron off Malta. Failing that, and Bolitho had always given them plenty of alternatives, he would anchor here and await developments. Perhaps he, too, had run foul of an enemy force ?

But
if
only
be
would
come.
Farquhar would have no choice then but to send
Buzz
ard
in search of
Segura
and her small crew.