COLOURS ALOFT!

15. FATE

BOLITHO walked up the sloping quarterdeck and allowed the wet wind to drive all tiredness aside. It was early morning, and around and above him the ship's company prepared for another weary day.

There had been some overnight rain, but Bolitho walked back and forth too far from any handhold if he should slip on the wet planking. It was a struggle but he was slowly regaining his confidence and blamed his earlier despair on self-pity and worse.

He heard Keen speaking with the first lieutenant and knew from the tone in his voice that they were discussing the punishment to be awarded to three seamen during the forenoon.

It was the same throughout the squadron. After Helicon's departure there had been several outbreaks of disorder. Threats or actual violence used against petty officers or each other, with the usual aftermath of floggings. The flagship was no exception; even Keen's humanity had failed to prevent the latest flare-up of tempers, and the harsh justice which would follow.

Bolitho pictured his ships, each living her own life, controlled and led by her individual captain.

An admiral, even a junior one, was not supposed to concern himself with such abstract matters, Bolitho thought. He also knew that a ship was only as strong as her people.

When full daylight found them again his ships would be sailing in line abeam, Argonaute in the centre position. Barracouta, still in her rough disguise, was somewhere astern, ready to rush down from windward to wherever a signal dictated. Rapid, completely alone, was far ahead, tacking back and forth in the hope of finding a fishing boat or some trader who might have some valuable information for them.

They had sighted several such craft but had managed to catch only three. One of the ones which had eluded Rapid's chase until she had been recalled to her station had been a fast schooner. It was customary for any merchantman to fly from a man-of-war, the flag did not matter. But out here any stranger might be an enemy, worse, a spy who would carry news of their strength and movements to Jobert.

It could not last. Bolitho knew it; so probably did his officers. He would have to admit failure and send the brig to seek out Nelson and tell him what had happened. It seemed likely that Nelson would scatter Bolitho's ships amongst his own fleet and wait for the French to fight their way out of Toulon. Jobert would not be considered. Bolitho guessed that the admiral in Malta, maybe even Herrick, imagined that Jobert had become like a crude joke or a figment of Bolitho's imagination.

It was the fourth day since they had parted company with Inch's ship. At any other time it would have been good sailing weather, with a favourable wind and fair visibility for the masthead lookouts along Bolitho's line of ships.

Keen crossed the deck and touched his hat. "Any special orders today, Sir Richard?" His formality was for the benefit of the helmsmen and master's mate nearby. He sounded strained, or was he critical of his superior's actions and their results?

Bolitho shook his head. "We will continue the search. The French may have left us alone, but I doubt it."

Together they watched the ship taking shape around them, the sails and rigging picking up the sun's colour. Abeam, Despatch rolled her bilge into a deep swell, so that her shining hull and lower gunports shone like fragments of glass.

Bolitho looked up at the mainmast, at the lookout's tiny figure.

He said, "Change the lookouts every hour, Val. I want no tired eyes today."

Keen glanced at him curiously. "Today, sir?"

Bolitho shrugged. He had not realized what he had said. Had he meant that he would need to break off the search and admit failure? Or was that same, chilling instinct offering him a warning?

"I feel uneasy, Val." He thought of breakfast, and the fact he had been pacing the deck for most of the night. To regain his confidence, or was it because he had already lost it completely? "Tell me if you sight anything." He strode aft to his quarters where Ozzard and Yovell were waiting for him as usual.

Bolitho sat at the table and watched while Ozzard prepared his breakfast and poured some coffee. He felt in need of a wash from head to toe, and his shirt was crumpled and stale. But, as he had explained to Keen, as the water ration was cut, and if need be would be cut again, it had to be for everyone. Except for Inch, that was. It was painful to see him, sometimes delirious and on other occasions dulled into a state of collapse.

The amputation was still holding well, according to Tuson. But Inch needed to be ashore, in a hospital with those who could give him proper care. Bolitho knew from bitter experience that each shout from the upper deck, every change of wind and rudder, would stir even a dying sailor with old anxieties. Especially a captain.

Ozzard said, "Just as you like it, sir." He laid a pewter plate on the table. "Last of the Maltese bread, I'm afraid, sir."

Bolitho looked at the thinly sliced pork, fried pale brown in biscuit crumbs. The bread would be like iron, but Ozzard had managed to stop it going mouldy; anyway the black treacle which Bolitho enjoyed would deaden the taste.

He thought of the breakfasts at Falmouth, of Belinda sitting and watching his pleasure. Like a schoolboy, she had said. What would she make of this, he wondered? And down in the messes it was a hundred times worse.

He looked at the open skylight as voices drifted aft from the quarterdeck. Then feet pounded along the passageway and he saw Keen coming into the cabin.

"I beg your pardon for disturbing you, sir."

Bolitho put down his knife. It was not like Keen to leave the deck in a crisis.

"Rapid is in sight. She has news, sir."

Bolitho thrust the plate aside and then spread the uninspiring bread with a thick coating of treacle. "Tell me."

"She sighted a ship and boarded it. More I cannot say, but Rapid is certainly making all efforts to close with us."

Bolitho stood up, his mind busy. "Make more sail and tell our ships to do the same." With a physical effort he sat down again and bit into the treacled bread. "I want to speak with Quarrell as soon as we are hove-to."

Keen hurried away, and soon the deck quivered to the thud of bare feet and then the clatter of blocks and rigging.

But it was halfway through the forenoon watch before Rapid was able to beat up to the rest of the squadron. The first air of excitement gave way to silent resignation as the gratings were rigged and the hands piped aft to witness punishment. Two dozen lashes a man while the drums rolled and the spray pattered across the prisoners and onlookers alike.

Paget touched his hat. "Punishment carried out, sir."

Keen nodded and watched the hands dismissed, the gratings removed for scrubbing, while the flogged men were taken below to the sickbay. He handed the Articles of War to Paget and said, "God damn this waiting!"

When eventually Quarrell climbed aboard from his gig he could barely control his excitement and pleasure.

At dawn Rapid had ordered the vessel to heave-to and await a boarding party. The lieutenant who had gone across in the boat had been thorough. The brigantine was a Greek trader, and her master had been able to speak English and had been more than willing to cooperate. The vessel had been loaded with olive oil and figs, but Quarrell described her as being so filthy that it was a marvel she obtained any cargoes at all.

Quarrell took a deep breath. "The master was carrying several bottles of wine and brandy, sir. My first lieutenant saw them at once." He turned and beamed at Keen. "All French, sir."

They glanced at Bolitho. He said nothing so Keen remarked, "Your lieutenant had his wits about him, eh?"

Bolitho unrolled a chart across the table, his mouth suddenly dry. "Continue." It was Quarrell's moment-to prod him into haste would only fluster him.

The young commander said, "When questioned about the bottles, sir, the fellow admitted they had been given to him in exchange for oil three days ago." He watched Bolitho's grave features. "It was Rear-Admiral Jobert's squadron, sir, no doubt about it. The Greek was able to describe them, even the Leopard figurehead on the flagship."

"Show me." Bolitho held down the chart with a ruler and dividers. He could feel Quarrell's eagerness, sense the pride his discovery had given him.

Quarrell peered at the chart, at the marks and lines which showed the squadron's position and progress.

"They were steering due east, sir." He placed one finger on it. "That would put them about there."

Keen leaned over the table beside him. "Corsica." He gave a sigh. "I should have guessed."

Quarrell glanced from him to Bolitho. "The Greek master said that a French officer came aboard. He told him they were going to take on fresh water."

Keen frowned, "Another long passage maybe?"

Bolitho stood up, his mind working busily. Fresh water. Why did the mention of it always provoke such painful memories?

"What have you done about the brigantine?" Quarrell looked blank. There was no warmth in Bolitho's voice.

"I-I knew how much you needed information, sir, so I considered it my duty to-"

"You let him go? You put no guard aboard?"

"Well, no, sir." Quarrell looked helplessly at Keen for support.

Keen said, "It could be the truth, sir."

Bolitho walked aft to the windows and pushed his hand through his hair. He felt the deep scar on his temple, a ready reminder of that other time when collecting water had seemed such a simple mission.

Quarrell said, "I could chase after him, sir." He sounded lost.

"Too late." Bolitho watched some fish jump from Argonautes shadow. "He would give you the slip after nightfall. Heading for Corsica, you think? To take on water for three sail of the line, and the two fifth-rates, what do you estimate?" He turned and looked at Keen, his eye throbbing painfully. "Three, four days?"

Keen nodded slowly. "We could still run him to earth, sir!"

Bolitho sat on the bench seat and clasped his hands together. He did not need a chart; he could see it clearly in his mind. Jobert's ships-if the wind stayed fair, they could be pinned on a lee shore or trapped until they came out to fight.

Keen said, "So it was neither Egypt nor Gibraltar after all, sir."

"Fetch my flag-lieutenant, Ozzard." It was strange how he had managed to converse with Stayt without touching on the court of inquiry. Stayt was wary, withdrawn to such a point that they barely spoke except on matters of orders and signals.

When Stayt arrived his eyes moved swiftly across the group by the table. He asked, "May I get something, Sir Richard?"

"The reports from the flag-officer in Malta. Bring them."

Quarrell said, "My first lieutenant was satisfied that the Greek told him the truth, sir."

Bolitho said, "Or maybe what the French wanted him to believe."

Stayt laid down a folder on the table and Bolitho strained his eyes to look through it. Convoy arrival, escorts and departure times, passengers and equipment to be disembarked or carried elsewhere.

Bolitho pulled one paper towards him, the name Benbow standing out from the unknown clerk's writing.

Ignoring the others he snatched up the brass dividers and moved them quickly across his chart. It was all he could do to stop himself from cursing aloud as his good eye watered with the strain he was putting on it.

Three days, four at the most. It had to be. Had to be.

He looked up. "Benbow sailed from Malta in company with two homebound ships. There is one frigate as additional escort."

Keen exclaimed, "All that for just two ships? And we are expected to manage with-"

Bolitho held up his hand. "I should have seen it, Val. Something that Inch's first lieutenant said after the battle." In his mind he could picture the weary lieutenant with the bandaged head. Pity I've not got that Frenchies extra boom. He could almost hear Savill's voice. The man who had seen it, yet had not realized what he had discovered.

Bolitho said, "The ships are carrying a cargo of gold and precious stones. A king's, or should I say a sultan's, ransom." He wanted to shout at them, to bang the table and make them realize the enormity of the discovery, and of Jobert's confidence. "Jobert intends to attack that convoy and lift off the gold at sea. Corsica, Val? I think not. I believe this is what was intended from the start. Jobert and I got in the way. But now that way is clear."

Bolitho looked at Quarrell. "Return to your command and await orders."

Quarrell backed away. "I-I am sorry, Sir Richard."

Bolitho eyed him calmly. "Your lieutenant was convinced, so why not the rest of us?"

As the door closed Keen said, "We have nothing definite, sir!"

Stayt added, "If the French are really in Corsican waters, and we fail to seek them out or inform Lord Nelson-"

Bolitho looked past him. "I know, gentlemen. I shall be held responsible." He smiled shortly. "And this time I shall have no defence."

Once more he crossed to the chart. Keen was trying to warn and protect him. If they carried on as they were nobody would be able to blame him. He lowered his head to study the neat calculations. But if he went against everything but instinct, and a new, strange sense of destiny, he might still be wrong.

"In my estimation, we have two days. No more." He touched the chart with the points of the dividers. "Allowing for the weather, we should make a rendezvous with the convoy about there." He turned away so that they should not see his expression. While they hunted fruitlessly along the rugged Corsican coast, the gold would be seized and Herrick overwhelmed. He would die fighting alongside his men. But he would certainly die.

Bolitho raised his voice, "Mr Yovell! Come out, you quill-pusher, and I shall dictate my fighting instructions!"

Yovell padded across the cabin, smiling happily, as if he had just been awarded a title.

Bolitho looked at Stayt. "Warn the signals midshipman to be ready." He thought of Sheaffe and wondered how he got along with his father.

Alone with Keen he said, "It's a chance I must take." He added with a wry smile, "It was the wine and the brandy which alerted me. I could never imagine Jobert giving anything to a poor Greek trader unless he wanted us to know about it. Perhaps this time he has been too clever and overconfident."

Keen doubted if Quarrell's information was enough to be certain of anything. Jobert may have laid some more bait, but he was wily enough to know how Bolitho might react.

Bolitho's change of mood, this new confidence which left him free to joke with his secretary, was unnerving.

Keen said simply, "Then it will be a fight."

Bolitho took his arm, the tone of Keen's voice making the vague strategy into stark, brutal reality.

"We shall face it together, Val," he said quietly.

Keen smiled. "Yes. Together." But all he saw was her face, and for the first time he was afraid.

Commander Adam Bolitho pushed the unruly hair from his eyes as he stared up at the men working on the fore-topsail yard. The sturdy brig Firefly was heeling hard over on the larboard tack, the sea creaming up to the sealed gunports and cascading along the lee scuppers.

He wore only his shirt and breeches and his clothes were plastered to his body like a wet skin. He would never tire of it. He wanted to laugh or sing as the brig, his command, dipped her bows steeply and threw up a sunburst cloud of spray.

He waited for the bows to rise again and then moved to the compass box. It gave him a marvellous feeling of pride. The vessel was heading due east, with the Balearic Islands somewhere below the larboard horizon.

Down again, and another great curtain of spray flew above the forecastle where other men worked busily to trim the yards.

Adam's first lieutenant, a youngster of his own age, lurched from the rail and shouted, "Take in another reef, sir?"

Adam showed his teeth and laughed. "No! It's not time yet!"

The lieutenant grimaced then smiled. It never was time with his young commander.

Adam moved restlessly about the poop while his Firefly lifted and thundered over the tossing water. Just days ago he had been under the Rock's shadow, ready to leave the Mediterranean and make his way back to an English winter. Instead he had received orders to return instantly to Malta.

The fever on the Rock was over, and the despatch which Adam had locked in his strongbox was to tell the admiral at Malta to prevent a convoy from leaving for England. If it had already sailed Adam was to place himself under the orders of the convoy's senior officer. That too made him grin. Rear-Admiral Herrick. To Adam he was more like a fond uncle than a flag-officer.

It was exciting. His own command, and the sea to himself. The French were out, one squadron under Rear-Admiral Jobert had been reported on the move. If it had somehow managed to slip past his uncle's squadron, his ships were needed now at Gibraltar to close gates and cut off any attempt by Jobert to enter the Atlantic. A gigantic game of cat-and-mouse.

Adam wiped the spray from his lips. A game for admirals and great ships of the line. While hereHe walked to the taffrail and stared at the frothing wake beneath the counter. Down there was his own cabin. A luxury beyond imagination. A place of his own.

He thought suddenly of the court of inquiry in Malta. He would learn the result when he reached there. Captain Keen might share the Bolitho curse of being hounded out of envy or revenge. They had passed the homebound packet Lord Egmont, and Adam had wondered about her. It would be just like his uncle toThe lookout called, "Sail! Weather bow!"

Morrison, his first lieutenant, hurried to the ratlines but Adam said, "No, I'll go." As a midshipman he had always enjoyed skylarking with his companions during the dogwatches. Up and down the masts, out and around the futtock shrouds. Few captains interfered. They probably thought it would keep their "young gentlemen" out of mischief. He climbed rapidly up the ratlines, the wind ripping at his shirt. Once he hung out from the shrouds and looked down at the forward part of the vessel as the sea boiled over the catheads and tightly lashed anchors before frothing along the decks and leapfrogging over the black four-pounders.

He had always wanted a frigate. Be like his uncle had once been, one of the best frigate captains in the fleet. But when he looked at his lively Firefly he could scarcely bear to think of ever leaving her.

He found the lookout perched comfortably on the crosstrees, his battered face creased with curiosity as he watched his young lord and master swarming up to join him.

Adam pulled a telescope from his belt and tried several times without success to steady it towards the larboard bow.

The lookout, one of the oldest seamen in the ship, said hoarsely, "I think there be two on 'em, sir." He barely raised his voice but it carried easily above the roar of wind and bucking canvas. Many years in all kinds of ships had taught him that.

Adam wrapped his leg around a stay and tried again. The mast was shaking so violently it was like a giant whip, he thought.

He gasped, "There she is! It's fine eyesight you have, Marley!"

The seaman grinned. He didn't need a telescope. But he liked the new commander. A bit of a devil with the girls, or soon would be, he decided.

An extra lively wave thundered beneath the stem and lifted the hull towards the sky like a surfacing whale. And there she was, standing before the wind under close-reefed topsails, her hull still hidden by leaping crests as if she was driving herself under. Adam wiped the lens with his hand and almost lost his hold as his ship dived once more.

He waited, counting the seconds until the jib-boom began to lift again, the sails flapping from it like wet banners.

Adam closed the glass with a snap. "You were right. There are two of them." He patted the man's thick shoulder. "I'll send you a relief."

The seaman would have spat had he been able but contented himself with, "Nah, sir, I'll stay. They'll be some o' Lord Nelson's ships."

Adam slithered down a backstay, all dignity forgotten as Morrison hurried to meet him.

"Two sail of the line." Adam dropped his voice. "Same tack as ourselves."

Morrison grinned. "We'd better not draw too close, sir, or we might be given some more orders!"

Adam pushed his fingers through his black hair. It felt sticky with salt. He knew he should be nervous, perhaps even fearful. But the same excitement would not leave him and he said, "You may take in that reef now. And do not worry yourself about more orders from on high, Mr Morrison, for those two liners are French!"

The men scampered to shorten sail, then Morrison took a deep breath. "What do you intend, sir?"

Adam gestured to the nearest four-pounder. "Even we are no match for them." He became serious for a moment. "We shall follow them and see what they are about."

Morrison had been first lieutenant under the previous captain, who had managed to make daily life aboard Firefly little better than drudgery. Commander Bolitho was like a breath of clean air; he was very capable and nobody's fool.

He hinted cautiously, "But your orders, sir?"

"Are to find the convoy or Malta, whichever comes first." His mouth crinkled in a grin again. "I think these two gentlemen will lead us to one or t'other, eh?"

Morrison hurried away to assist the second lieutenant. The old captain had never been like this.

He glanced aft again and saw Adam Bolitho beside the helm speaking with the master's mate. He acted more like a midshipman than a captain.

Aloud he said, "He'll do me, that's for certain!" But only the wind heard him.

Two hundred miles east-north-east of his nephew's Firefly and ignorant of the fact Adam had been sent back from Gibraltar, Bolitho gripped the poop rail and watched his ships reeling and buffeted in the same gale.

The wind, which had veered to a strong north-westerly, showed no signs of easing, and when he steadied his telescope Bolitho saw the little brig Rapid standing out to windward, her hull and lower spars deluged with spray and spindrift.

It was to be hoped that Quarrell had made quite certain that the big thirty-two-pounders from Helicon were properly mounted and lashed firmly to their tackles. A gun breaking loose in a gale could kill and maim like a mad beast. It could also wreck the upper deck whilst doing it.

The sky was clear of all but a few streaky clouds, hard blue and with little warmth. He saw a party of seamen with a boatswain's mate hauling a ragged line through a block and preparing to reeve a new one to replace it. They were soaked in spray, and the salt would do little to help their thirst.

Too much rum or brandy would do more harm than good. Bolitho bit his lip and wondered at his earlier confidence. After pounding their way farther south with Sardinia's blurred coastline rarely lost from view, the hope of making a rendezvous with Herrick's convoy seemed like a bad dream. Even supposing Jobert was making for the same objective. He stamped on his doubts and turned from the rail to see Midshipman Sheaffe and his signal party watching him. They immediately dropped their eyes or became engrossed elsewhere.

Bolitho allowed his aching mind to explore his calculations yet again. The convoy would be very slow and precise in its progress. He had done all he could, with his small sqaudron spread out as far as possible without losing contact completely. Thank God for Barracouta and Rapid, he thought despairingly. But for themHe heard Paget shout at a helmsman, and a muttered answer. Paget would stand no nonsense, and he at least showed no signs of doubt. He was a good man, Bolitho thought, and as a young lieutenant had fought under Duncan at Camperdown. There were not too many officers in the squadron who had seen a battle like that one.

Keen climbed up from the quarterdeck to join him. He had been down on the orlop to visit one of the midshipmen who had broken a leg after being flung bodily from a gangway in the gale.

Keen stared at the forecastle, his eyes red with strain, and Bolitho knew he had barely left the deck since the wind had risen.

Bolitho smiled, "A strange sight, Val. Bright and bitter, like a dockside whore."

Keen laughed despite his apprehension. He wanted to tell Bolitho to break off the hunt. It was finished before it had begun. Even if he had been right about Jobert, and it seemed less likely with each aching mile, they would not find him now.

Keen was sick and tired of it, and hated to think what it would do to Bolitho when the truth came out. Everyone said that Nelson had survived only on his luck. He had been fortunate. It was rare.

Bolitho knew Keen was watching him and could guess what he was thinking. As flag-captain he wanted to advise him. As a friend he knew he could not.

Bolitho looked at the cold sky and thought again of Falmouth. Maybe Belinda would have received his letter, or have heard the news from someone else. He thought too of the girl with the dark misty eyes. He smiled. Brave Zenoria, he had called her. She was the one good thing in all this endurance and failure.

Keen saw the smile and wondered. How did he go on like this? It was fanatical, unswerving, but it would not save him at a court martial.

"How was the boy? Midshipman Estridge, wasn't it?"

"A clean break, sir. The surgeon was more troubled by some of his other injured hands. He's had more cuts and gashes than a small war!"

There was a seaman working beside one of the nine-pounders and Bolitho had seen him earlier. He was stripped to the waist, not out of bravado, but to try and keep his clothing dry. When he had turned, Bolitho had seen his back, scarred from shoulders to waist, like the marks of a giant claw. It made him think of Zenoria and what Keen had saved her from.

But when Keen laughed at his earlier remark the seaman had turned and looked up at him. Bolitho had rarely seen such hatred in a man's glance.

Keen saw it too and said tightly, "I read the Articles of War before a flogging. I did not compose the bloody rules!"

Bolitho could sense his anger, something he had rarely shown even after the court of inquiry.

He saw extra marines at hatchways, their scarlet coats dark with flung spray. Keen was taking no chances. Better to prevent trouble than enforce the misery of suppressing it.

Bolitho said, "I am going below." He looked at him squarely. "If I am wrong-" He shrugged as if it were of little concern. Then he added, "Some will be pleased. I hope that then they will let my family rest in peace."

Keen watched him stride towards the poop ladder and felt a stab of pity as Bolitho caught his arm against the mizzen bitts.

Paget moved quietly beside him. "May I ask what you think of our chances, sir?"

Keen glanced at him. The first lieutenant, the link between captain and ship's company, quarterdeck and forecastle.

He replied, "Ask me again when we have run Jobert ashore."

They both turned and Paget exclaimed, "Not thunder too!"

Keen looked past him. Bolitho was climbing to the poop again, and wearing the old sword, with Allday a few paces behind him.

The lookout yelled with disbelief, "Gunfire, sir! To th' south'rd!"

Bolitho looked at them. "No. Not thunder this time."

Keen stared. How did he do it? Moments earlier he must have been accepting failure. Now he looked strangely calm. Even his voice was untroubled as he said, "General signal, Mr Sheaffe. Make more sail."

He watched the flags hurriedly bent onto the halliards and sent soaring up to the yards for all his ships to see.

Bolitho wanted to grip his hands together for surely they must be shaking.

"Acknowledged, sir!" That was Stayt, appearing silently like a cat.

The distant murmur of cannon fire rolled across the water. It was a long way off. Bolitho said, "We'll not fight before dawn tomorrow." That was a fact which had to be faced. When darkness closed in the ships might be scattered by the blustery wind. By dawn it could be too late. Benbow was more than a match for any eager privateers or corsairs from the North African shore, but against a whole squadron she would stand no chance. He cocked his head to listen as the gunfire came again. Not many ships. Perhaps two. What could that mean?

He said, "General signal. Prepare for battle. The people will sleep at their guns tonight."

He touched the hilt of the old sword and felt a shiver run through his body.

He could recall as if it were yesterday the moment when he had been walking with Adam to the sallyport on Portsmouth Point. Then he had looked back to search for something. So perhaps he had known it would be the last time.