Signal Close Action (38 page)

Farquhar retorted angrily, 'I do not see what that has to do with us, sir.'

'No, that is quite obvious.' He turned to face him. 'The French people expect a great victory. After their bloody revolution they may well
demand
such matters. And so to conquer Egypt, and reach far beyond, their fleet must first command the sea. Once safely beneath the protection of artillery such as these great cannon, the French could anchor an armada, several armadas, and know that there was not an English ship which could not be pounded to boxwood before she could grapple with them!'

Farquhar bit his Up. 'Coastal batteries.'

'At
last,
Captain.' Bolitho looked at him coldly. 'The pieces begin to fit for you also.'

There was a tap at the door and the sentry bawled, 'Officer of the watch, sir!'

Farquhar said, 'Pass him in.' He was probably relieved at the interruption.

The lieutenant stood just inside the door. 'We have just sighted
Buzzard,
sir. Coming from the north.'

'Thank you, Mr. Guthrie.'

Bolitho sat down and massaged his eyes. 'Get my clerk. I will dictate a despatch for Inch to carry to Gibraltar.' He could not hide his anger. 'Somewhat different from yours.'

Farquhar was expressionless. 'I will send for
my
clerk, sir. I am afraid yours is still in
Lysander.'

'He will suffice for the present.' He walked to the door. 'I will get mine back when I recover my flagship.'

Farquhar stared after him. 'But I have had your broad pendant hoisted aboard
Osiris,
sir!
'

'So I see.' He smiled gravely. 'Yours or mine? Were you
that
sure I was dead ?'

He walked to the companion without waiting for an answer.

He found Mrs. Boswell on the poop talking with Pascoe. Seeing his nephew had brought home to him how desperately he needed to find Herrick, how much they needed each other.

If he understood Herrick too well, it was his own fault. Probably more so than Herrick's. He had been searching for something different in Farquhar, when Herrick's real value was so obvious that neither of them had seen it.

The woman turned and smiled shyly. 'I came over in the boat to say goodbye, Commodore.' She slipped her hand through Pascoe's arm.
'We
have been getting along very well.'

Bolitho nodded. 'I'm certain of it.' He saw through her cheerful tone and added, 'As soon as I have met with
Buzz
ard's
captain I will order the squadron, or what is left of it, to weigh.'

She understood and walked with him to the poop ladder.
‘I
will leave you now. I am glad you are recovered. I know something of medicine, as fever killed my late husband. It is always hotter in these climates aboard ship than on the shore. In Sicily it has been quite cool until these last weeks.' She faced him sadly. 'If your men had left you in Malta, or worse, taken you ashore where you anchored, I fear you would have perished.'

A boat was waiting at the chains, and Bolitho saw the
Osiris's
froglike first lieutenant peering impatiently from the entry port.

He said quietly,
‘I
have one piece of advice, Mrs. Boswell.' He guided her across the sun-warmed deck, oblivious to watching eyes and his own strange appearance. 'If you feel something for Thomas Herrick, I beg you to speak it.' He felt her tense as if to pull away from his hand.

But instead she asked, 'Is it
so
obvious ?'

'There is nothing wrong in that.' He looked away towards the green slopes of land. 'My own love was too short, and I begrudge every second of it which was wasted. Also,' he forced a smile,
‘I
know that if you say naught, Thomas will remain as tongue-tied as a nun in a room full of sailors!'

‘I
shall remember.'

She looked at Pascoe. 'Take care of yourselves. I have the strangest feeling that something great is about to happen.' She shivered. 'I am not sure I like it.'

Bolitho watched her being lowered into the boat by boatswain's chair, and then strode aft to watch
Buzzard
's
topsails edging slowly, so painfully slowly, around the northern headland.

Pascoe said, 'A nice lady, sir. A bit like Aunt Nancy.'

'Aye.' Bolitho thought of his sister in Falmouth, and her pompous husband. He had always been very close to Nancy, who, though younger than he, had always tried to 'mother' him.

Pascoe continued, 'They say that Nelson is coming to the Mediterranean, sir?'

'I'm thankful that somebody at last believes there
is a real threat here. The battl
e, and battle there will be, may be decisive. Which is why we have work to do before that day dawns.'

He saw Pascoe's face and smiled. 'What's the matter, Adam ? Don't you want Nelson to come ? He is the best we have, and the youngest. That alone should please
you!’

Pascoe dropped his gaze and smiled. 'One of the fore-topmen said it for me. We've got our
own
Nelson already.'

'I never heard such nonsense!' Bolitho made for the ladder, adding, 'You're getting as bad as that cox'n of mine!'

That night as Bolitho sat in
Osiris's
unfamiliar cabin, writing his report on his conclusions, he listened to the creak and mutter of the hull around him. The wind was rising slightly, and had already veered more to the north-west. The sloop
Harebell,
which had set sail just before darkness, would be making heavy going, tacking back and forth, back and forth, merely to stay in the same place.

He thought of Javal's swarthy face as he had come aboard, surprised at seeing the broad pendant above
Osiris,
relieved to discover that Farquhar was not yet the commodore.

He had explained bluntly that after failing to discover the ships at the pre-arranged rendezvous, and hearing from a fisherman that they were at anchor in Syracuse, he had made a second patrol of the Messina Strait, and with the wind backing, had gone farther
north in search of news. He had
explained, 'I make no excuses, sir. I'm used to independence, but I don't
abuse
it. I put into Naples and visited the British Minister there. I had to come back with
something.'
His hard face had eased slightly. 'Had I known that you were off on your own, er,
expedition,
sir, I'd have sailed right into Valletta and brought you out, Knights or not!'

Javal knew his weak spot. As an ex-frigate captain, Bolitho had acted rashly by going to see Yves Gorse, but in keeping with his old calling. Perhaps Javal had used the point to dilute his own guilt.

Javal had explained, 'Sir William Hamilton may be old, sir, but he has a vast knowledge of affairs,
and
the communications to inform him.'

Bolitho signed his report and stared at the opposite bulkhead. His tarnished sword looked out of place against the ornate panelling.

Javal had delivered only one piece of news. To be more precise, he had brought a name.

Sir William had been informed through his chain of associates and spies that the one man who could determine the next weeks and months was known to be making for Toulon. That man would not be prepared to waste time on empty gestures.

His name was Bonaparte.

14
Run to Earth

A
ny
hopes of a quick passage to Corfu, or of Javal's lookouts sighting
Lysander
far ahead of the depleted squadron, were dashed within days of weighing anchor. The wind veered violently to the north, and as all hands worked feverishly to shorten sail, even
Osiris's
master expressed his surprise at the intensity and speed of the change. Swooping down from the Adriatic, the wind transformed the gentle blue swell into a waste of steep, savage crests, while above the staggering mastheads the sky became one unbroken cloud bank.

Day after day, the two ships of the line used their bulk and strength to ride out the storm, while behind shuttered gun ports their companies fought their own battles against the sickening motion, and waited for the call, All hands! Hands aloft and reef tops'ls I' Then to a more perilous contest against the wind, clinging to dizzily swaying yards and fighting each murderous foot of canvas.

Buzz
ard,
unable to withstand such a battering, had been made to run ahead of the storm, so that to the remaining ships it seemed as if the whole world was confined to this small arena of noise and drenching seas. For the visibility dropped with the hours, and it was hard to tell spray from rain, or from which direction the wind would attack next.

For Bolitho, the endless days made him feel remote from
Osiris's
own struggle. The faces he met whenever he went on deck were unfamiliar, shouted opinions as yet carried no weight. He saw Farquhar in a different light as well. Several times he had given way to displays of anger which had made even the urbane Outhwaite quail, and once he had reprimanded a bosun's mate for not striking a man hard enough when he protested at being sent aloft in a full gale. The bosun's mate had tried to explain that the c
ulprit was not a proper seaman,
but a cooper's assistant. So many hands had been hurt in the storm that, like the officers, the bosun's mate was trying to gather as much extra muscle as he could.

Farquhar had shouted, 'Don't you
dare
argue I You've had to flog men!
You know what it will feel like if you cross words with me again!'

The man had been driven aloft, and had fallen outboard without even a cry as he had lost his hold in the futtock shrouds.

Bolitho wondered how Herrick was managing to ride out the storm, and where he was during each sickening day.

Farquhar had said, 'But for this bloody weather, I'd have caught up with
Lysander !'

‘I
doubt it.' Bolitho had reached beyond empty agreement.
'Lysander
is a faster ship. And she is well handled.'

It was unfair on Farquhar, but he had shown such indifference to Herrick's possible fate that it was all he could do to restrain some more biting comment. Like a nagging conscience,
a
small voice seemed to repeat,
It was your decision. You drove Herrick too bard, too soon. It was your
fault.

And then, a week after leaving Syracuse, the gale eased and backed to the north-west, but as the sky cleared and the sea regained its deep blue, Bolitho knew it would take several more days to recover los
t ground. To beat back through ti
me and distance which they had surrendered to the storm.

Whenever he went on deck he was aware that the officers on duty were careful to avoid his eye, and stayed well clear of his lonely pacing on the poop. His chosen solitude gave him time to think, although without fresh information it was like re-ploughing old land with nothing to sow.

During the forenoon on the ninth day he was in the cabin, studying his chart and drinking a tankard of ginger beer, something which Farquhar had stored in some quantity for his personal use.

How Farquhar would laugh, if after all there was nothing in Corfu to sustain his theories. He would not show it, of course, but it would be there just the same. It would not merely prove Farquhar correct in his actions, but also that he was far more suited to hold this or some other command.

Sir Charles Farquhar. It was strange that he shoul
d be so irritated by the man's ti
tle. He was getting like Herrick perhaps. No, it went deeper than that. It was because Farquhar had not earned it, and now would never want for anything again. You only had to look at the Navy List to see where the promotion went. He thought of Pascoe's words and smiled. The 'Nelsons' of this world gained their rewards and even titles on the battlefield, or facing an enemy's broadside. Their precarious advancement was often admired but rarely envied by those more fortunate ashore.

Bolitho walked restlessly around the cabin, hearing the seamen working on deck and in the yards above it. Splicing and re-rigging. After a storm each job was doubly essential. He smiled again.
Those
more
fortunate
ashore.
In his heart he knew he would fight with all his means to avoid a post at the Admiralty or in some busy naval port.