A Tradition of Victory

3. Return of a Veteran

CAPTAIN John Neale of the frigate Styx broke off his morning discussion with his first lieutenant and waited for Bolitho to leave the companion-way. This was their seventh day out of Plymouth, and Neale was still surprised at his admiral’s unflagging energy.

Bolitho had certainly taken a good keen look at the enemy shoreline, and the ships at his disposal. That had been the first shock, when they had made contact with the inshore patrol, the frigate Sparrowhawk, a day after sighting Belle Ile. Apart from a speedy brig, aptly named Rapid, there had been one other frigate in the sector, the Unrivalled. Neale grimaced. Had been. Her captain had been beating close inshore when he had made the fatal mistake of not leaving himself enough sea-room to claw into open waters. Two enemy ships had run down on him from windward, and only Unrivalled captain’s skill had enabled him to escape capture or destruction. As far as Bolitho’s small force was concerned, it might just as well have been either, for, pitted with shot holes and under jury-rig, the Unrivalled had crawled for home and the security of a dockyard.

Neale glanced at the masthead pendant. The wind had shifted to the north again. It was lively and gusty. He hoped that the battered survivor reached port intact.

Bolitho nodded as Neale touched his hat. No matter what time he chose to come on deck, even before daylight, Neale always seemed to be there ahead of him. If there was anything wrong with his ship, he wanted to see it for himself first and not be told by his admiral. He had learned well.

Bolitho had been thinking about his thinly-stretched force while Allday had been pouring coffee for him. Until reinforcements arrived, he now had but two frigates on the station, with the brig for keeping contact with the bigger squadrons to north and south. It looked very manageable on a wall chart in Whitehall. Out here, with dawn touching the endless ranks of wave crests in a dirty yellow glow, it was a desert.

But shortly they would see the pyramid of sails far abeam where Sparrowhawk cruised within sight of Belle Ile and any local shipping which might be hugging the coast en route for Nantes or northward to Lorient.

How they must hate us, he thought. The dogged, stormdashed ships which were always there at the break of every day. Waiting to dash in and seize a prize under the enemy’s nose, or scurry to rouse the main fleet if the French admirals dared to present a challenge.

What he had seen of his small force he liked. He had boarded both the brig and the other frigate, getting drenched on each occasion as he had been forced to leap unceremoniously while his boat had poised on a passing crest.

He had seen the grins, and had known that his small bravado had been appreciated.

They had to know him, like one of their own. Not as an aloof flag-officer on the poop of some great three-decker, but as the man who would be amongst them when danger came.

He remarked, “Wind’s shifted.”

Neale watched his foretopmen dashing aloft yet again to reset the topgallant.

“Aye, sir. The master states it’ll back still further before nightfall.”

Bolitho smiled. The sailing-master would know. His breed always seemed to understand the wind before it knew its own mind.

Seven days out of Plymouth. It was like a dirge in his thoughts. And with little to show for it. Even if his whole squadron arrived, what should he do or say?

Only one chink had shown itself. Each of the captains, Duncan, a bluff, red-faced youngster of the Sparrowhawk, and, still younger, Lapish of the Rapid, had mentioned the ease with which the enemy seemed able to foretell their movements. In the past year raids had been mounted on nearby ports by heavier ships of the line, and on each occasion the French had been prepared, with their own vessels and shore batteries ready to make a full attack pointless.

And yet the squadrons to north and south stopped and searched every so-called neutral and warned them away from any area where they might discover the true strength of the British patrols. Or the lack of it, more likely, he thought wryly.

He began to pace the side of the quarterdeck, his hands behind him, as he toyed with this tiny fragment of intelligence. The French might have been using small boats at night. No, they would be too slow, and incapable of escaping if they were sighted. Fast horsemen along the coast, ready to ride as Browne had done, to carry their news to the local commanders. Possible. But still unlikely. The poor roads and long distances between harbours would make for serious delays.

In spite of his guard, Bolitho felt his mind slip back to Falmouth. Belinda would be there again. Visiting the empty house, where Ferguson, his one-armed steward, would try his best to explain and to console her. What would she think? How could she know the ways of the Navy?

She was thirty-four, ten years his junior. She would not wait, should not be made to suffer as she had done with her late husband.

Bolitho stopped and gripped the nettings tightly. Even now she might be with someone else. Younger perhaps, with his feet firmly set on the land.

Browne joined him by the nettings and offered weakly, “Good morning, sir.”

Browne had rarely been seen since leaving Plymouth, although his fight with the frigate’s lively movements and the smells which were constant reminders of his seasickness was spoken of with awe even by the older hands.

He looked a little stronger, Bolitho thought. It was ironic, for whereas he himself was beset with problems both personal and tactical, he had never felt in better health. The ship, the constant comings and goings of faces which were already familiar, were ready reminders of his own days as a frigate captain.

There was a kind of hardness to his body, and a swiftness of thought which could soon be lost in a ponderous ship of the line.

“I must make contact with Rapid today, Browne. I intend to stand her closer inshore, unless the master is wrong about the change of wind.”

Browne watched him thoughtfully. Having to think again was bringing the colour back to his face. So how did Bolitho manage it? he wondered. Boarding the other ships, discussing details of local trade and coastal craft with Neale, he never appeared to tire.

He was driving himself like this to hold his other thoughts at bay. At least he had learned that much about Bolitho.

“Deck there!”

Browne looked aloft and winced as he saw the tiny figure perched on the crosstrees high above the deck.

“Sail on th’ starboard quarter!”

Neale came hurrying across the deck, and as Bolitho gave him a curt nod, shouted, “All hands, Mr Pickthorn! We shall wear ship at once and beat to wind’rd!”

Before his first lieutenant had even time to snatch up his speaking trumpet, or the boatswain’s mates had run below with their calls trilling to rouse the hands, Neale was already calculating and scheming, even though he could not yet see the newcomer.

Bolitho watched the seamen and marines flooding up through the hatches and along both gangways, to be stemmed and mustered into their stations by petty officers and master’s mates.

Neale said, “The light is better, sir. In a moment or so-”

“Man the braces there! Stand by to wear ship!”

“Put up the helm!”

With yards and canvas banging in confusion and blocks shrieking like live things as the cordage raced through the sheaves, Styx leaned heavily towards the sea, spray climbing the gangways and pattering across the straining seamen at the braces in pellets.

“Full an’ bye, sir! Sou’-west by west!”

Neale moved a pace this way and that, watching as his command came under control again, her lee gunports almost awash.

“Aloft with you, Mr Kilburne, and take a glass.” To the quarterdeck at large he said, “If she’s a Frenchie, we’ll dish her up before she stands inshore.”

Browne murmured, “Such confidence.”

Bolitho sensed, rather than felt, Allday at his side, and held up his arms so that the burly coxswain could clip the sword to his belt.

Allday looked suddenly older, although he and Bolitho were of the same age. The lower deck was insensitive when it came to the smallest comfort.

Even as an admiral’s personal coxswain, life was not that easy. Allday would be the first to deny it, just as he would be angry and hurt if Bolitho suggested he took himself to Falmouth to enjoy the comfort and security which were his right.

Allday saw his gaze and gave his lazy grin. “I can still give some o’ these mothers’ boys a run for their money, sir!”

Bolitho nodded slowly. When it came, it would be on a day like this. Like all the others when Allday had fetched the old sword and they had shared some stupid joke together.

Perhaps it was because of Neale, or the fact he was made to be an onlooker.

He lifted his eyes to the mizzen truck where his flag stood out in the wind like painted metal.

Then he shook himself angrily. If Beauchamp had appointed another junior admiral for this work he would have been equally unsettled.

Allday moved away, satisfied with what he had seen.

Several telescopes rose like swivels, and Bolitho waited until Midshipman Kilburne’s voice floated thinly from the masthead.

“Deck, sir! She’s British!”

A small pause while he endeavoured to cling to his precarious perch and open his signal book with the other hand.

“She’s Phalarope, thirty-two, Captain Emes, sir!”

Allday muttered, “Holy God!”

Bolitho folded his arms and waited for the bows to rise again, the horizon appearing to tilt as if to rid itself of the two converging pyramids of sails.

Bolitho had known she would come today. Even as Styx ’s people had run to halliards and braces, he had known.

Neale watched him warily. “What orders, sir?”

Bolitho turned to see the bright signal flags break from Styx ’s yard. Numbers exchanged, two ships meeting on a pinpoint. To most of the hands it was a welcome diversion, as well as a sight of some additional fire power.

“Heave to when convenient, if you please. Make to-” his tongue faltered over her name, “to Phalarope that I shall be coming aboard.”

Neale nodded. “Aye, sir.”

Bolitho took a telescope from the midshipman of the watch and walked up the deck to the weather side.

He was conscious of each move and every heartbeat, like an actor about to make an entrance.

He held his breath and waited for the sea to smooth itself. There she was. With her yards already swinging, her topgallants and main-course being manhandled into submission, she was heeling on to a fresh tack. Bolitho moved the glass just a fraction more. Before that bowsprit plunged down again in a welter of flying spindrift he saw that familiar figurehead, the gilded bird riding on a dolphin.

The same and yet different. He was frowning as he moved the glass again, seeing the insect-like figures on the ratlines and gangways, the blues and whites of the officers aft by the wheel.

Outdated, that was it. The weak sunlight touched the frigate’s poop, and Bolitho recalled the fineness of her gingerbread, carved by experts in the trade. That had been another war. Newer frigates like Styx had fewer embellishments, less dignity, honed down to the demands of chase and battle.

Neale lowered his telescope and said huskily, “Hell’s teeth, sir, it’s like yesterday. Like watching myself.”

Bolitho looked past him at Allday by the hammock nettings. He was opening and closing his large fists, staring at the fastrunning frigate until his eyes watered. So that he looked as if he was weeping.

He made himself raise the telescope once again. She was smart for her age, and was reacting to the sight of a rear-admiral’s flag just as Bolitho had once done when he had taken Phalarope to Antigua.

Neale called, “Heave to, Mr Pickthorn! Have the gig swayed out.”

Browne asked, “Will you require me, sir?”

“If you want to come, please do.” Bolitho saw the uncertainty, the need to understand. He added, “If you can trust your stomach during the crossing.”

Allday walked to the entry port and waited for the gig to be pulled round to the main-chains. Neale’s own coxswain nodded to Allday and allowed him to take his place at the tiller without comment.

Bolitho noticed all and none of these things. So it was right through Styx already, probably every vessel under his flag.

He touched his hat to the officers and marines at the entry port, and to Neale said quietly, “I will renew the acquaintanceship for all of us.”

Who did he mean? Allday and Neale, Herrick back in Plymouth, or Ferguson, his steward, who had lost his arm at the Saintes. Or perhaps he was speaking for the others who would never come home.

Then he was settled in the sternsheets, the oars already thrashing at the tossing water to take the gig clear of the side.

Allday called, “Give way, all!”

Bolitho glanced up at him. But Allday kept his eyes fixed on the ship. Perhaps they had both known this would happen, but now that it had, could no longer share it.

Bolitho unclipped the boat cloak he wore, and threw it clear of the bright gold epaulettes, each with its new silver star.

It was just another ship in a desperately depleted squadron, and he was their admiral.

He glanced again at Allday’s rigid shoulders and knew it was a lie.

After the creak of oars and the sting of spray it seemed suddenly subdued on the Phalarope’s deck. Bolitho replaced his hat and nodded briefly to the ship’s marine officer who had arranged his men in two scarlet ranks to receive him.

“Captain Emes?” Bolitho held out his hand as the slightly built figure stepped forward. He had a swift impression of alert wariness, a youthful face, but with a mouth hardened by the rigours of command.

Emes said, “I am honoured to receive you aboard, sir.” Again there was a sharpness to his voice, a man on guard, one who had been practising for this very moment. “Although I fear you must know Phalarope better than I do.” A shutter seemed to drop behind his level gaze, as if he had already said too much. He half turned, but although he was about to present his officers, his eyes were elsewhere, seeking flaws to the pattern, anything which might make a poor showing.

Bolitho could well understand any captain being eager to make a good impression on his new flag-officer, the man who could fulfil or shatter his hopes for any kind of future. But he had gleaned enough about Emes to doubt if that was the full story. A post-captain at twenty-nine was a record to be proud of, and should have given him a confidence to go with it.

Emes said crisply, “My senior you will also know better than I, sir.” Emes stood aside as if to watch for reactions.

Bolitho exclaimed, “Adam! Of all things!”

Lieutenant Adam Pascoe, looking even younger than his twenty-one years, was both relieved and pleased.

“I-I am sorry, Unc-” he flushed, “sir, I had no way of letting you know. The appointment came without warning and I had to leave for Ireland by the first packet.”

They examined each other, more like brothers than uncle and nephew.

Pascoe added uncertainly, “When I heard what my appointment was to be, I am afraid I thought of little else.”

Bolitho moved on and shook hands with the second and third lieutenants, the sailing-master, ship’s surgeon, and the captain of marines. Beyond them, the midshipmen and other warrant officers were backed by crowds of curious seamen, who were too surprised at this unexpected visit on their first commission to be aware of the more personal emotions by the entry port.

Bolitho looked slowly along the gun-deck, at the neatly flaked lines and taut rigging. He could even remember the way she had felt that first time when he had stepped aboard.

He cleared his throat. “Dismiss the hands, Captain Emes, and take station to windward of Styx.” He did not see the astonishment in Emes’s eyes. “Allday, send back the gig.” He hesitated. “You remain with me.”

The mass of seamen and marines broke into orderly confusion as the call to get under way was piped around the deck. Within fifteen minutes Emes had reset the courses and topgallants, and although some of the hands were slow and even clumsy as they ran to obey his commands, it was obvious they had been training hard since leaving harbour.

Browne said, “Fine ship, sir.” He looked around at the bustling figures, the stamp of bare feet as the seamen hauled hard on the braces.

Bolitho walked along the weather gangway, oblivious to the darting glances from the seamen and Emes’s shadow behind him.

He stopped suddenly and pointed below the opposite gangway. No wonder she had seemed changed. Instead of her original nal lines of twelve-pounders, each gunport was filled by a bluntmuzzled carronade. The carronade, or “smasher” as it was respectfully termed by the sailors, was carried in almost every man-of-war. Normally mounted on either bow, it could throw an enormous ball which burst on impact and discharged a murderous hail of grape through an enemy’s unprotected stern with horrifying effect. But as a ship’s armament, never. It had been tried experimentally some years back in another frigate, the Rainbow, but had proved unsuccessful and not a little dangerous in close combat.

Emes said quickly, “They were already mounted before I took charge of the refit, sir. I understand that they were taken into consideration when Phalarope was selected for this sector.” He waved his hand to the quarterdeck. “I still have eight 9-pounders as well, sir.” He sounded defensive.

Bolitho looked at him. “Admiral Sir George Beauchamp had been doing more planning than I realized.” When Emes did not even blink, he imagined he as yet knew nothing of his orders.

A midshipman called, “ Styx is signalling, sir!”

Emes grunted, “I shall come aft.” He sounded relieved. “If you will excuse me, sir?”

Bolitho nodded and walked slowly along the gangway, his ears searching for lost voices, his eyes catching brief pictures of almost forgotten faces on the strangers around him.

A clean, smart ship, with a captain who would stand no nonsense. It seemed incredible that Pascoe should be the senior lieutenant. His nephew’s dream had come true. Bolitho tried to find comfort there. He would have been the same, or was there still the other memory, the stain which had left a lasting mark in this ship?

Allday murmured, “All these smashers, sir. She’ll shake her innards on to the sea-bed if she’s called to give battle.”

Bolitho paused on the forecastle, his palm resting on a worn handrail.

“You were here at the Saintes, Allday.”

Allday glanced around the pitching deck. “Aye, sir. Me an’ a few others.” His voice strengthened and he seemed to rise from his depression. “God, the Frenchies were at us that day, an’ that’s no error! I saw the first lieutenant fall, an’ the second. Mr Herrick, young Mr Herrick he was in them days, took their place, and more than once I thought my time had come.” He watched Bolitho’s grave features. “I saw your coxswain fall too, old Stockdale.” He shook his head affectionately. “Protecting your back from the Frog marksmen, he was.”

Bolitho nodded. The memory was still painful. The fact he had not even seen Stockdale die in his defence had made it worse.

Allday grinned. But it made him look sad. “I determined right then, that if you was alive at the end o’ the day, I’d be your coxswain in his place. Mind you, sir, I’ve regretted more’n once since then, but still…”

Pascoe clattered up a ladder from the gun-deck. “Captain Emes has released me to act as your guide, sir.” He smiled awkwardly. “I suspect she is little altered.”

Bolitho glanced aft and saw Emes outlined against the bright sky. Watching him, wondering if they were exchanging secrets he could not share. It was wrong and unfair, Bolitho thought. But he had to know.

“Did you see Mrs Laidlaw, Adam?”

“No, sir. I had gone before she returned.” He shrugged. “I left her a letter, of course, Uncle.”

“Thank you.”

He was glad now that he had told Pascoe about his father. If he had not…

As if reading his thoughts, Pascoe said, “When my father fought against us during the American Revolution he attacked this ship. I’ve thought about it such a lot, and have tried to see how it was for you and him.” He watched Bolitho anxiously and then blurted out, “Anyway, Uncle, I wanted to join her. Even as the most junior lieutenant I’d have come.”

Bolitho gripped his arm. “I’m glad.” He looked at the tilting deck. “For both of you.”

A midshipman ran forward and touched his hat. “Captain’s respects, sir, and there is a signal for you.”

But on the quarterdeck once more Emes seemed unruffled by the news.

“ Styx has sighted a brig to the south’rd, sir.” He looked up with sudden irritation as his own masthead called that he had sighted a strange sail. “Must be blind, that one!”

Bolitho turned to hide his face. He knew that Neale often trusted a lookout or a midshipman aloft with a powerful telescope when the visibility made it worthwhile.

Emes contained his anger. “Would you care to come below, sir? Some claret perhaps?”

Bolitho looked at him calmly. Emes was afraid of him. Ill at ease.

“Thank you. Signal Styx to investigate, if you please, while you and I share a glass.”

The cabin, like the rest of the ship, was neat and clean, but with nothing lying about to show something of its owner’s character.

Emes busied himself with some goblets while Bolitho stared aft through the salt-smeared windows and allowed his mind to grapple with old memories.

“Young Mr Pascoe is performing well, sir.”

Bolitho eyed him across the claret. “If he were not, I would expect no favour, Captain.”

The directness of his reply threw Emes into confusion.

“I see, sir, yes, I understand. But I know what people say, what they think.”

“And what am I thinking?”

Emes paced across the cabin and back again. “The fleet is so short of experienced officers, sir, and I, as a post-captain, have been given command of this old ship.” He watched Bolitho for a sign that he might have gone too far, but when he remained silent added forcefully, “She was a fine vessel, and under your command one of great distinction.” He looked around, deflated and trapped. “Now she is old, her frames and timbers weakened by years of harbour duty. But I am glad to command her for all that.” He looked Bolitho straight in the eyes. “Grateful would be a better word.”

Bolitho put down the goblet very carefully. “Now I remember.”

He had been so full of his own worries, so affected by the return of his old command, he had barely thought of her captain. Now it came like a fist in the darkness. Captain Daniel Emes of the frigate Abdiel, who had faced a court martial about a year ago. He should have remembered. Emes had broken off an engagement with a larger enemy force not many leagues from this very position, but by so doing had allowed another British ship to be captured. It had been rumoured that only Emes’s early promotion to post-rank, and his previously excellent record, had saved him from oblivion and disgrace.

There was a tap at the door and Browne peered in at them, his face suitably blank.

“My pardon, sir, but Styx has signalled that she is in contact. The brig is from the southern squadron with despatches.” He glanced swiftly at Emes’s strained features. “It would seem that the brig is eager to speak with us.”

“I shall return to Styx directly.” As Browne hurried away Bolitho added slowly, “Phalarope was a newer ship when I took command, but a far less happy one than she is today. You may think she is too old for the kind of work we have to do. You may also believe she is not good enough for an officer of your skill and experience.” He picked up his hat and walked to the door. “I cannot speak for the former, but I shall certainly form my own judgement on the latter. As far as I am concerned, you are one of my captains.” He looked at him levelly. “The past is buried.”

Every inch of the surrounding cabin seemed to throw the last words back in his face. But he had to trust Emes, had to make him return that trust.

Emes said thickly, “Thank you for that, sir.”

“Before we join the others, Captain Emes. If you were faced tomorrow with the same sort of situation as the one which led to a court martial, how would you act?”

Emes shrugged. “I have asked myself a thousand times, sir. In truth, I am not sure.”

Bolitho touched his arm, sensing his rigidity and wariness outwardly protected by the bright epaulettes.

He smiled. “Had you said otherwise, I think I would have requested a replacement for your command by the next brig!”

Later, as the two frigates tacked closer together, and the far off brig spread more sail to beat up to them, Bolitho stood by the quarterdeck rail and looked along the length of the upper deck.

So much had happened and had nearly ended here. He heard Emes rapping out orders in his same crisp tones. A difficult man with a difficult choice if ever he had to make it again.

Allday said suddenly, “Well, sir, what d’you think?”

Bolitho smiled at him. “I’m glad she’s come back, Allday. There are too few veterans here today.”

Bolitho waited for the glasses to be refilled and tried to contain his new excitement. The Styx ’s stern cabin looked snug and pleased with itself in the glow of the deckhead lanterns, and although the hull groaned and shuddered around them, Bolitho knew that the sea was calmer, that true to the sailing-master’s prediction the wind had backed to the north-west.

He looked around the small group, and although it was black beyond the stern windows he could picture the other two frigates following in line astern while their captains awaited his pleasure. Only Rapid ’s young commander was absent, prowling somewhere to the north-east in readiness to dash down and alert his consorts if the French attempted a breakout under cover of darkness.

How would the parents and families feel if they could see their offspring on this night, he wondered? The bluff, red-faced Duncan of Sparrowhawk, relating with some relish, and to Neale’s obvious amusement, a recent entanglement with a magistrate’s wife in Bristol. Emes of the Phalarope, alert and very self-contained, watching and listening. Browne leaning over the fat shoulders of Smith, Neale’s clerk, and murmuring about some item or other.

Aboard the three frigates of Bolitho’s small force the first lieutenants would in turn be wondering at the outcome of this meeting. What would it mean to each of them personally? Promotion, death, even a command if their lord and master should fail.

The clerk straightened his shoulders and silently withdrew from the cabin.

Bolitho listened to the sluice of water around the rudder, the faint tap, tap, tap of halliards, and a restless step of a watchkeeper overhead. A ship. A living thing.

“Gentlemen. Your health.”

Bolitho sat down at the table and turned over a chart. The three ships were standing inshore towards the Loire Estuary, but that was nothing unusual. British ships, in company or alone, had done it a thousand times to keep the French fleet guessing and to sever their precious lines of supply and communication.

The brig which today had made contact with Styx was already well on her way to the north and England. Despatches from the vice-admiral commanding the southern squadron, another piece of intelligence which might eventually be used by the brains of Admiralty.

But, as was customary in local strategy, the brig’s commander had been instructed to make contact with any senior officer he discovered on passage. A keen-eyed lookout had ensured that the officer concerned was Bolitho.

He said, “You all know by now the bones of our orders, our true reason for being here.”

He glanced around their intent faces. Young and serious, each aware of the supposedly secret peace proposals, and conscious that with peace could come the sudden end of any hope for advancement. Bolitho understood very well. Between the wars he had been one of the very fortunate few who had been given a ship when the majority of officers had been thrown on the beach like paupers.

“A week ago, two of our patrols to the south’rd fell in with a Spanish trader and tried to take her as a prize. It was near dark and the Spaniard made a run for it. But with a few balls slammed into his hull, and a shifting cargo for good measure, he began to capsize. A boarding party was just in time to seize some papers, and discover that the vessel’s holds were filled with building stone. With encouragement the Spanish master admitted he was bringing his cargo into this sector.” He touched the chart with his fingers. “Fifteen leagues south of our present position, to the Ile d’Yeu.”

As he had expected, some of their earlier excitement had given way to disappointment. He decided not to play with them any longer.

“The Spanish master stated that he had visited the island several times, and on every occasion had landed a cargo of stone.” He picked up the brass dividers and moved them over the chart.

“He also said that the anchorage was filled with small vessels, newly built and fitted out. He did not know of their purpose until shown some drawings of French invasion craft of the kind being gathered in the Channel ports.” He nodded, seeing their immediate interest. “The very same. So while we watch Belle Ile and Lorient, the French admiral is moving his flotillas of gun brigs and bombs whenever he is told it is safe to do so.”

Duncan opened his mouth and shut it again.

Bolitho asked, “Captain Duncan, you have a question?”

“The stone, sir, I don’t see the point of it. Och, even new craft don’t need that much ballast while they are fitting out, and I’m sure there must be plenty closer to the building yards.”

“Perhaps by moving their craft close inshore they prefer to use the stone as ballast until they are ready for final commissioning at Lorient or Brest. The stone would then be off-loaded and used for fortifications and local batteries. It would make good sense, and draw far less attention than the movement of larger vessels in our area. All this time we have been watching the wrong sector, but now we know, gentlemen, and I intend to act upon this information.”

Neale and Duncan grinned at each other, as if they were being included in a mission already fought and won.

Emes said flatly, “But without further reinforcements, sir, it will be a hard nut to crack. I know the Ile d’Yeu, and the narrow channel between it and the mainland. An easy anchorage to protect, a hazardous one to attack.” He withdrew behind his mask as the others stared at him as if he had uttered some terrible oath.

“Well said.” Bolitho spread his hands across the chart. “We will create a diversion. The French will not expect a raid within such confined waters if they see us elsewhere, where they expect to see us.”

He turned to Browne who had been trying to catch his eye for several minutes.

“Yes?”

“Well, sir, if we wait until reinforcements arrive, as Sir George Beauchamp desired in his original plan, we could stand a better chance of success surely? Or if the brig which brought the news eventually returns with new orders countermanding our present commitment, then we shall be obliged to do nothing.”

Duncan exploded, “Do nothing, man! What are you saying?”

Bolitho smiled. “I take your point, Browne.”

Like Herrick and Allday, he was trying to shield him. If he attacked and failed, his head would be on the block. If he held back, nobody could blame him, but Beauchamp’s trust would be dishonoured for ever.

He said quietly, “If there is to be peace, it must be decided on fair and equal terms and not under the threat of invasion. If later there is to be war, we must ensure now that our people are not outman?uvred from the moment the treaty is torn in shreds. I don’t see that I have any choice.”

Duncan and Neale nodded firmly in agreement, but Emes merely brushed a loose thread from his sleeve, his face expressionless.

In the silence, Bolitho was conscious of Smith’s pen scraping on paper, and of his own heart against his ribs.

He added, “I have seen too many ships lost, too many lives tossed away, to ignore something which may be important, even vital, to our future. I suggest you return to your duties, gentlemen, and I shall endeavour to do mine.”

As the three captains left the cabin, Bolitho said, “Thank you for trying to protect me, Oliver. But there was never any choice. Even without this new information, I should have been forced to act. At least I know where. The how always takes a mite longer, eh?”

Browne smiled, touched at Bolitho’s confidence in him, the familiar use of his name.

When Bolitho spoke again his voice was preoccupied, even distant.

“And something troubles me…” He thought of Emes, withdrawn and resentful, of his nephew, Adam, so pleased with the realization of a dream, and of the girl in Falmouth.

“When I have discovered what it is, I shall feel more confident perhaps.”

If I have not already left it too late.