Signal-Close Action!

9. Wine And Cheese

CAPTAIN CHARLES FARQUHAR strode aft to greet Bolitho as he came on deck. In spite of being without coat or hat, Farquhar managed to retain an air of elegance, and his ruffled shirt looked as if it was freshly laundered.

He said formally, "Course east-nor"-east, sir."

Bolitho nodded and glanced up at his broad pendant and the set of the yards. The wind had veered slightly during the night, and there was evidence that it was weakening also.

He took a telescope from the rack and trained it over the larboard nettings. It was as if the scene stayed permanent and the sails were merely pretending to make the ship move. And yet it was three wearying weeks since he had watched Herrick pulled across to the Osiris, and two of those weeks had been spent along this stretch of coast. He watched the familiar shark-blue blur of land. It was maddening to realise that just out there was the busy port of Toulon, and behind its protective walls and batteries lay the answer to his speculation and doubts.

Farquhar remarked, "Not even a sign of a 'sail, damn them."

Bolitho replaced the glass and looked along Lysander's upper deck. The forenoon watch had begun. One like all the others before it. Everywhere, above and along the decks, men were at work, splicing, painting, blacking-down the standing rigging, examining a hundred and one things for flaws and possible wear.

It was eerie to find the Gulf of Lions so empty. It was like being laughed at. The French must know that an enemy squadron was active in their waters. Any tiny fishing craft might have sighted it and passed the news to garrisons ashore. Perhaps they were too busy to care, or were content to let the British ships tack wearily back and forth, consuming their stores and resources, and with nothing to show for it.

He said, "We must get some news soon, or we’ll have to push closer inshore."

Farquhar eyed him calmly. "If we had some more frigates, sir. "

Bolitho bit back an angry retort. It was not Farquhar's fault. But in every campaign they seemed to be short of frigates, without which it was like trying to find a blind man in a dark room.

He peered astern, watching Osiris's big forecourse filling" and emptying in the uncertain wind, as if the ship was breathing heavily. She was a mile away, and beyond her he could just see the leeward side of the prize Segura. He wondered how Probyn had been getting on with his separate patrol to the east of Toulon, to seaward of the small islands which protected the approaches. He had Javal's Buzzard in company, while the rest of the squadron had to be content with the sloop. He could just make out Harebell's cream-coloured topsails, etched against the French coastline like sea-shells. Inch would be in no doubt of his importance. It was to be hoped he did not allow his eagerness to tempt him closer inshore. There he could lose the wind, or fall foul of some well-sited artillery.

He turned to look at Osiris again. Three weeks, and on every single day he had wondered about Herrick.

Farquhar followed his glance and said, 'she is handling well."

Only a casual interest. Bolitho had already noticed that about the elegant captain. Once out of a ship, and no matter how long he had served in her, or what great events she had shared, Farquhar was able to dismiss her from his thoughts. He was entirely without sentiment, and seemed to live for today, and where it would lead in the future.

Nevertheless, he had to admit that Farquhar's efficiency had showed itself throughout the ship. Gun drill and contests between batteries and decks had cut the time for loading and firing by minutes.

Although he always appeared to have time for his own leisure, Farquhar was never far away when needed. And his officers, from Gilchrist to Mr. Midshipman Saxby, had been made to realise it.

Farquhar had always borne a reputation for harshness. But as yet he had not shown himself as a tyrant. He had examined all the ship's books within hours of getting the squadron under way, from the punishment and muster books to the rarer ones about stocks of canvas and oil.

It was a new side to the man's character, and Bolitho being the man he was never considered that his own past example to Farquhar was bearing fruit at last.

He saw Lieutenant Fitz-Clarence strutting busily back and forth on the lee side of the quarterdeck. That was another thing. Farquhar had quite rightly removed the second lieutenant from the monotony of prize-duty aboard the Segura and had sent instead a master's mate. Whenever the weather had made it possible he had recalled the prize-master and had replaced him with another. Midshipmen, warrant officers, even a resentful Gilchrist, had had their share. It made sense, and kept them on their toes.

But Farquhar had not asked permission. As flag captain he had taken it as a right.

He had even cut the number of punishments, if not their severity. He had examined every case himself, and if the unfortunate seaman had made a genuine mistake, or one had been caused by a superior's carelessness, he had dismissed it, and to ram home his point had given the accuser an awesome pile of extra duties. If on the other hand the case had been proved, he had ordered stiffer punishment than Herrick had ever permitted. It was, it seemed, his one real failing.

Farquhar said suddenly, "We shall have to lose Harebell or Buzzard shortly, sir." It sounded like a question.

"Yes."

Bolitho paced slowly along the weather side. The deck seams clung to his shoes, and he could feel the heat thrown back from the bulwark. And it was barely nine o"clock in the forenoon. Each day brought hotter weather, more tension to those who endured it. Farquhar had put his finger right on the point. He could not delay much longer. He would have to send word to the admiral. His own estimation of the French preparations and intentions. Once he had despatched one of his badly needed scouts, he would be committed. Set against the consequences if he was proved wrong, that in itself was unimportant.

If only Inch had been able to capture the Spanish brig before the two French ships had chased him away. He could have sent her to the admiral.

He paused and shaded his eyes to look for the prize. She was too slow and vulnerable. And she still might prove useful as a deception. He thought of her packed cargo. Or as a bribe.

Steel rang on steel, and he walked to the quarterdeck rail to watch as the off-watch midshipmen faced each other for practice with sword and cutlass.

Farquhar glanced at him. "J thought Mr. Pascoe would be well employed, sir." There was nothing in his voice to betray his thoughts. "He has already proved his skill on one of my previous lieutenants." He smiled briefly. "He has a good eye."

. Bolitho. watched Pascoe walking. behind two of* the. midshipmen, speaking to each in turn. Their faces were crimson with exertion and were obviously aware their commodore and captain were looking on. Clang, clang, clang, the blades moved in a jerky rhythm.

How different in a real battle, Bolitho thought grimly. The madness, the eagerness to strike at a man before he beat you to the deck.

Gilchrist appeared below the larboard gangway.

"You’ll have to do better than that, Mr. Pascoe!" Bolitho felt Farquhar tense as he snapped, "What ails that damned fellow?"

Fitz-Clarence was making elaborate steps along the lee side, trying to warn Gilchrist that he was not alone. Farquhar called, "Mr. Fitz-Clarence! I’ll trouble you to stand still!"

He turned and looked at Gilchrist's uplifted face. "You were saying, Mr. Gilchrist?"

The first lieutenant replied, "The drill is untidy, sir. Bolitho watched the little drama in silence. The midshipmen's arms still wavering in the air, the swords in disarray. Seamen who had been working in the weather shrouds pausing to watch, their tanned bodies gold in the sunlight. Pascoe in the middle of it, his dark eyes on Gilchrist, only his quick breathing betraying his anger.

And Farquhar. He glanced at him and saw the look in his ice-blue stare. Farquhar had kept Gilchrist busy and obedient. Now it was out in the open again. He recalled his hidden anger. What ails that damned fellow? Farquhar snapped his fingers. "Bosun's mate! Fetch my sword!"

He walked to the lee gangway and leaned on the handrail, his eyes on Gilchrist below him and at the opposite side.

"Mr. Pascoe, dismiss those ragamuffins!" He reached without turning his head as a worried looking bosun's mate hurried towards him. "I believe you lost your sword in some reckless scheme with the Dons, Mr. Pascoe." He drew his own from its scabbard and held it against the sky, eyeing it critically. "This is a fair blade. It was presented to me by my late uncle." He looked up at Bolitho's grave features and added, "Although I gather that Sir Henry preferred something" heavier, sir?" He added sharply, "With your permission, sir. " Then he flung the sword straight at Pascoe. "Catch!"

Bolitho tried not to flinch as the youth reached out and caught it in flight.

Farquhar sounded very relaxed and composed. "And now, Mr. Gilchrist. If you will be so good as to cross swords with our junior lieutenant, maybe the midshipmen will learn something, eh?"

Gilchrist stared from him to Pascoe, his eyes wild. "Fight a duel, sir?" He could barely get the words out. "Not a duel, Mr. Gilchrist." Farquhar returned to the quarterdeck. "An instruction, if you like."

As he reached Bolitho's side he said quietly, "Have no fears for Mr. Pascoe, sir."

Gilchrist had been handed his sword by the wardroom servant and was holding it before him as if he had never set eyes on it in his life.

He said, "At the first contact… "

He stared desperately at the midshipmen. Luce was grimfaced, and at the end of the line Saxby stood with his mouth wide" open, his eyes like saucers.

Gilchrist seemed to realise the absurdity of his position and snapped, "On your guard, Mr. Pascoe!"

The blades touched, wavered and flashed over the pale planking like steel tongues.

Bolitho watched, feeling the dryness in his throat as he saw Pascoe's slim figure moving around an eighteen-pounder's breech, his shoes feeling the way, his right leg forward to keep his balance. He wanted to tear his eyes away and look at Farquhar. Was he really trying to demolish Gilchrist's arrogance, or was he using it and Pascoe's skill to remind Bolitho of his dead brother?

Perhaps Farquhar was remembering at this very moment. How they had-been taken prisoner by Hugh Bolitho in his American privateer. He was not likely to forget it, or the fact that Hugh's downfall had begun when he had killed a brother officer when he had been in the King's service. In a duel.

He heard Gilchrist's sharp breathing, saw the concentrated stare of anger and hatred as he parried Pascoe's guard and forced him back a few paces before he could recover.

Farquhar said quietly, 'see how his skill with a sword gives way to anger." He was speaking almost to himself. "Watch him. Pushing on, using up his strength." He nodded with silent appreciation. "He has a longer reach, and is a harder man than Mr. Pascoe, but…"

Bolitho saw Pascoe's hilt dart up and under the other man's blade, twisting it aside and making it fly across the deck.

Gilchrist stepped back, his eyes fixed on the sword point which was motionless, in line with his chest.

"Good." Farquhar sauntered to the rail. "Well done." He looked at Gilchrist. "Both of you." He turned to the spellbound midshipmen. "I think that was quite a lesson, eh?"

Bolitho took a slow breath. A lesson indeed. For all of them.

The master's mate of the watch, who had been following the spectacle with the others, suddenly looked up, his hands cupped around his ears.

"Gunfire, sir!"

Bolitho wrenched his thoughts from the sword-play. "Where away?"

He heard it then, like surf on a rocky shore. Muffled, but plain for what it was.

The master's mate said, "To the east"rd, sir." He pointed across the starboard bow. 'sure of it."

Farquhar hurried past him. "That was well said, Mr. Bagley. He reached the compass and peered at it for several seconds. "I’d like permission to investigate, sir." He watched Bolitho, his mouth half smiling. "Before the wind leaves us with more time to "er, fill."

Bolitho nodded. 'signal the squadron to make more sail. Harebell, too, if you can attract Commander Inch's attention."

Farquhar strode to the rail as Gilchrist appeared on the larboard ladder.

"Pipe all hands!" His voice was crisp,. indifferent to Gilchrist's confusion. "Get the maincourse on her, and the stuns"ls, too, if need be." He paused, his head cocked to listen to the shrill of calls between decks. "We will let her fall off a couple of points." He glanced at the master's mate. "And let us all hope Mr. Bagley's estimate is correct."

As the men poured to their stations at the braces and at the foot of each mast, Pascoe hurried across the quarterdeck to supervise Luce" s signal party.

Bolitho barred his way. "I am glad you are spared another cut, Adam."

The youth's sunburned features split in a smile. "It was easy, Uncle."

Bolitho snapped, "That time perhaps. It was not of your making, I know that, too."

The smile vanished. "I am sorry, er, sir."

"If you want to cross swords again, then please ask me, Adam."

Pascoe hesitated and then smiled awkwardly. "Yes, sir." "Now be off with you. I want our ships to see the signals today."

Farquhar joined him by the rail. "A fine young man, sir." Their eyes met.

Then Bolitho said calmly, "And I’d be obliged, Captain Farquhar, if we can keep him that way."

Farquhar smiled and walked forward to watch the men dashing aloft to the yards.

Major Leroux appeared by the poop ladder and touched his hat.

"It sounds like a pair of ships, sir. Probably Nicator or Buzzard getting to grips with a Frenchman."

Bolitho looked up as the great mainsail billowed free from its yard, the thunder of canvas drowning the distant sound of gunfire.

"I hope you may be right, Major."

Leroux was watching his own men at the mizzen braces. In

. an almost conversational tone he said, "My Corporal Cuttler is an excellent marksman, sir. If he earned his living in a fairground he would doubtless be a man of wealth and property by now."

He walked away as Lieutenant Nepean hurried to him to make his report.

Allday had come on deck and said, "He's a dark one is Major Leroux, sir."

Bolitho looked at him. "In what way?"

Allday gave a lazy smile. "He had that Corporal Cuttler down in the wardroom lobby. With his long musket he's so proud of."

"D"you mean that he was ordering Cuttler to be ready to shoot?" He stared at Allday's smiling face.

The coxswain shook his head. "Not exactly, sir. He asked him if he could shoot a sword out of a man's hand, if necessary like."

Bolitho walked to the nettings. "I do not know about you, Allday."

He saw Leroux watching him, his features expressionless. For that brief moment he felt quite sorry for Gilchrist.

Bolitho leaned back to watch Lysander s towering spread of canvas. Ship of the line perhaps, but Farquhar was driving her with the fanatical demand of a frigate captain.

With the wind coming almost directly astern the ship was forging ahead well, her yards and shrouds creaking and vibrating under the tall pyramids of sails. Every so often her bow would dip and the forecastle would then be drenched in great showers of spray, like slivers of glass in the bright glare.

Bolitho stood halfway up a poop ladder, feeling his hair blowing wildly as he peered ahead of the lifting and plunging bowsprit. The gunfire had ceased, and he could see dark brown smoke drifting along the horizon, the uncertain silhouette of a large ship under reduced sails.

From the mainmast crosstrees he heard Luce yell, 'she's Nicator, sir!"

Farquhar, who had sent Luce aloft with his big signals telescope, paused in his restless pacing and snapped, "I. should damn well hope so!" He glared at Fitz-Clarence. "What the hell is she firing at?" Luce called again, his voice excited, and totally unaware of the tensions far below his dizzy perch. "Nother vessel on her lee side, sir! I think they"re grappling!"

Farquhar swung round. "Mr. Pascoe. If you think it not too undignified for a lieutenant to swarm up the ratlines like a damn monkey, I’d be obliged for a more rational report." Pascoe grinned and threw off his coat before hurrying to the main shrouds ",

Farquhar saw Bolitho watching and shrugged. "Luce comes of a good family, but I fear his powers of description would be better suited to poetry than to a man o"war."

Bolitho raised his eyes to see Pascoe hanging out and down as he pulled himself around the futtock shrouds and up beyond the maintop. How easy he made it look. He turned his attention to the distant ships, unable to torture himself with his hatred of heights.

"A glass, please."

He felt one handed to him and trained it through the angled rigging. Yes, it was easy to recognise Nicator" s bluff outline, the dull yellow paint of her figurehead. Beyond her hull he could see three masts, only one of which was square-rigged, as far as he could tell.

He heard Pascoe shout. "Barquentine, sir! I can see her flag!" A pause while Farquhar stared up at the swaying. masthead until his eyes watered. "A Yankee, sir!"

Farquhar turned and looked at Bolitho. He said sourly, "As if we, haven"t troubles enough!"

Bolitho tried to hide his disappointment from those who were watching his reactions. An American merchantman. Going about her affairs. There was nothing they could do about that, even if she was trading with the enemy. Blockade was one thing, but to provoke another war with the new United States would receive no praise from King and Parliament.

Bolitho said, 'signal the rest of our ships to remain in the patrol area." He watched an out-thrust spur of land, almost hidden mist and haze. "We have enough risk as it is, to be standing so close to the Isles of Hyeres, without leading the whole squadron ashore.

Farquhar nodded. "Bosun's mate! Call Mr. Luce to the deck!"

Minutes later, in response to Luce's signals, Osiris and the prize tacked heavily away from their leader to begin the long beat back to more open waters.

Bolitho said, "Make to Nicator that we are joining her directly."

What was Probyn doing? It was natural enough to feel resentment at the" sight of an American flag, especially to those, like Probyn, who had been taken prisoner during the revolution. But it was over and done with, and time for it to become a part of history. If a war was provoked by some act of stupidity, England would be worse off than ever. Fighting France and Spain, and an America which was now far more powerful than she had been those fifteen years back.

"Nicator has acknowledged, sir." Luce sounded breathless from his hasty descent down a backstay.

"Very well."

It took another half-hour to manoeuvre close enough to heave-to. By that time Nicator had ungrappled the American vessel, but as she had drifted downwind Bolitho had seen her poop spotted with the scarlet coats of Probyn" s marines.

He snapped, "Call away my barge." He looked at Farquhar. "It’ll save time, if nothing else."

The barge was swayed up and over the lee gangway, the crew tumbling into her almost before she had touched the water alongside. Allday's voice pursued the bargemen like a trumpet, and by the time Lysander was hove-to and Bolitho had reached the entry port, all was ready.

He said quietly, "Keep a weather-eye open for Buzzard. She should be beating round from the east"rd shortly." He looked grimly at Farquhar's handsome features. "I will send her to the admiral with my despatches." Farquhar shrugged. "I am sorry. I’d hoped for something of value."

But Bolitho was already climbing down the entry port stairs, trying not to lower his head to watch the sea sluicing along the rounded hull and lifting the barge towards his legs. He paused, counting seconds, and then as the barge swam up beneath him he jumped out and down, Allday's order to cast off coming before he had taken a proper breath.

He sat in the sternsheets with as much dignity as he could manage and said, "To Nicator, Allday."

He watched the other seventy-four's crossed yards towering above him, the slackness of some of her running-rigging. Like the man, he thought, untidy.

Allday steered the barge around the ship's great counter and towards her entry port. Bolitho was too busy watching the barquentine to care for Probyn's feelings or the inconvenience of a visit from his commodore

She was a lean, graceful vessel, and her name, Santa Paula, stood out in rich gold against a completely black hull. "Toss your oars!" Allday swung the tiller as the bowman hooked on to Nicator's main chains.

Bolitho said, "Return to the ship, Allday." He saw the sudden doubt. "It is all right this time. Nicator is still an English vessel, I trust!"

Allday touched his. forehead and grinned. "I’ll watch for your signal, sir."

Bolitho scrambled up to the entry port, noticing how scarred were the wooden stairs, while the chain plates of the main shrouds were badly dappled with red rust.

He found Probyn waiting with the side-party, his portly figure doused with spray.

He said, "I fear the reception is short-handed, sir, but my marines are aboard the Yankee."

'so I see." Bolitho began to walk aft, away from the curious faces by the port. "Now tell me. What happened?"

Probyn stared at him. "We ran down on the barquentine at noon, sir. I guessed she was a runner trying to pass through our patrol, so I signalled her to heave-to." He nodded, sensing Bolitho's mood. "I know we are not supposed to get involved with American neutrality, but-"

"There is no but about it. "

Bolitho glanced at the ship's two helmsmen. They looked as if they were dressed in the same clothes as when they had been caught by the press. All the captains knew his opinion about that. He had put it in his written orders to ensure that every man, pressed or volunteer, should begin life aboard ship in a proper issue of slop clothing. It was such a cheap but vital thing that he was amazed at the stupidity of some captains who were so miserly they issued nothing until their wretched seamen were almost in rags. Probyn knew it well enough, and had outwardly complied. But out of sight, out of mind apparently. He would deal with that later.

He added, "What was your true reason?"

Probyn led the way aft to his quarters. "I am badly short of hands, sir. I had to sail from England before I was given a fair chance of recruitment, otherwise… "

Bolitho stared at him. "And you sent a party into an American ship to press some of her people?"

Probyn paused and regarded him resentfully. "It is well known that hundreds, many hundreds, of our seamen desert to the American flag each year. "

Bolitho did know it, and it was a very sore point indeed on both sides of the Atlantic. The British Government had stated that they considered any seamen to be fair-game for a short-handed naval vessel, unless the American captains in question carried certificates of citizenship for all their people who were so entitled.

The American President, on the other hand, was equally firm. He had demanded that once a man was signed into an American ship that was evidence enough the man was American. Documents could be destroyed or ignored. The American flag could not.

He said, "We heard gunfire, too."

Probyn thrust past a marine sentry and answered, "The Yankee refused to heave-to even after a warning shot. I’ll not take that from anyone." He hesitated in the small lobby to the cabin. "I have her master aboard, under guard, sir." He sounded suddenly apprehensive. "Now that you are here, I suppose I had best hand him over to you?"

Bolitho watched him coldly. "Take me to him."

The barquentine" s master was seated in the stern cabin with one of Probyn's senior midshipmen for company. He stood up and eyed Bolitho with obvious surprise.

'so there is some higher authority, eh?" He had a soft accent", but it failed to conceal his anger.

I am Richard Bolitho, Commodore of this British squadron." He walked to the windows, adding, "I have been hearing about your refusal to heave-to."

The American retorted hotly, "Heave-to be damned! I’ve a hard enough living to earn without being fired on by a bloody Englishman! "

Bolitho sat down and looked at him. A sturdy man with a neat brown beard, the Santa Paula 's master was about his own age.

"And your name?"

"Cap"n John Thurgood." He glared at him. "Of New Bedford."

"Well, Captain Thurgood." He smiled. "Of New Bedford. The shortage of seamen is a constant worry for a King's officer in time of war."

Thurgood sat down, ignoring Probyn completely.

"That will have to remain your problem, Commodore. I am not at war, and my hands are not for King George." He.relaxed slightly. "My government will make the strongest protest and take all the action needed once I have laid my complaint. "

Bolitho nodded. "That is your privilege, Captain. But you know as well as I that some of your crew will be no more American than Westminster Abbey." He held up one hand. "And I know what you will say to that. No matter. You are obviously a shrewd man, and I see no value in our arguing." He stood up. "I shall have you returned to your fine barquentine, Captain, and I will send you a gift of some excellent cheese which I brought from England. I hope it will ease if not remove the hurt we have done you."

Thurgood was on his feet. "You mean I can go?" He stared from Bolitho to Probyn" s fuming face with amazement… "Well, I’ll be… "

Bolitho added evenly, "Your cargo, Captain? May I enquire what it is?"

Thurgood replied, "Cheap red wine. A full hold of the stuff. In my home port they"d use it for paint!" He chuckled, his eyes vanishing into craw's feet. "By God, you sure know how to scatter a man's anger!"

Probyn exclaimed, "I must protest!"

Bolitho said calmly, "Please leave us, Captain Probyn. And tell your midshipman to go away. I am not in danger of my life." He smiled at the American. "Am I?"

Thurgood grinned after the retreating Probyn. "By God, I’m glad you came, Commodore. I think he"d have liked me kicking at his mainyard."

"He was a prisoner in the last war."

Thurgood shrugged. 'so was I."

Bolitho picked up his hat. "There is one thing, Captain. You sailed from Marseilles, no doubt." He shook his head. "It is not a trap. But it is unlikely you would have taken on a cargo like yours elsewhere. And you are bound for?"

Thurgood watched him with amusement. " Corfu. Then I’m off and away, back home to New Bedford. I’ve a wife and three boys there. "

"I envy you." Bolitho did not see the look of warmth on the other man's face. "I have a Spanish prize in company. We took her a while back." He looked Thurgood in the eye. "Now, if you were to exchange some of your seamen for, say, double the number of Spaniards." He watched the man's mind working busily. "Well, I’d have thought you could drop them off when you return westward after you have delivered your cargo? I am certain the Spanish authorities would be very glad to reward you."

Thurgood sounded doubtful, "I ain"t sure."

Bolitho smiled. "And they would not have to be paid. Nor would you have to share your profit with a larger crew than you need for the homeward voyage."

Thurgood thrust out his hand. "If ever you need employment, Commodore, and I mean ever, just come asking for me." He shook his hand warmly. "I’ve got a few bully- boys you can have. Trained seamen." but I will not miss them."

Bolitho smiled. "I dare say they will settle down."

On deck it was oppressively hot, and the wind was rising and falling in gusts, making the ships lurch and stagger in a sickening motion.

Bolitho beckoned to Probyn. "Make a signal to Lysander. I want the prize, Segura to close with us. After that, send a good officer across to the Santa Paula with Captain Thurgood. He will explain what is needed."

Probyn looked as if he would burst. "If you say so, sir!" Bolitho smiled at the American. "When they are ready, I will hail for my coxswain to bring a good ripe cheese across to you. It might make even cheap wine palatable."

Thurgood watched a boat being lowered from the quarter davits.

"I’ll be off then, Commodore." He studied him curiously.

"Bolitho, eh? We had a privateersman of that name in the war."

"My brother." Bolitho looked away. "But he is dead now." Thurgood held out his hand. "Good luck with whatever you intend. I shall tell my wife and sons about this meeting." He grinned. "An" the cheese."

A lieutenant strode across the quarterdeck and touched his hat.

"Jolly boat's at the chains, sir."

Thurgood made to leave but hung back, his face set in a frown.

"I want no part of this, or any other war. I’ve had a bellyfull." He dropped one eyelid in a wink. "But if I was in charge of a force as weak as yours I’d be thinking very seriously of hauling off."

Bolitho tried to conceal his excitement. His anxiety. "You would?"

Thurgood grinned. "I’m told there's a fleet at Toulon, and three hundred transports for good measure. "

"Thank you, Captain." Bolitho walked with him to the rail. "And a safe voyage to you also."

He waited until Thurgood was in the boat and then said, 'send for my barge." A fleet and three hundred transports. It was an armada. Probyn's voice cut into his racing thoughts. "I must lodge the strongest protest! I was humiliated in front of that Yankee!"

Bolitho swung on him, his eyes blazing. "Humiliated, were you? And how do you imagine I felt to see a ship of the line firing on an unarmed vessel? To know that one of my captains was prepared to risk unnecessary killing, a war if necessary, just to get what he wants for himself?" He kept his voice low. "And all because you knew that I would take any blame, was that it?"

"That was unjust, sir!" Some of the bluster had gone.

"I dare say." Bolitho regarded him evenly. "But do not take me for a fool. That I do find humiliating."

He strode to the entry port, seeing his barge curtsying across the blue water towards him.

"You’ll get your men, Captain. You would have probably been given them anyway, had you used common sense instead of a broadside." He nodded towards some seamen at the boat tackles. "Look at them, Captain. Would you fight for anyone who kept you in worse comfort than a dog?" He did not wait for an answer. "Care for them. Or they’ll not fight for you."

He leaned over the rail and cupped his hands. "Take your bundle to the barquentine, Allday! Then return for me!" Allday waved one arm and steered the barge clear of the side.

An hour later Bolitho was back aboard his own ship, with Farquhar barely able to hide his curiosity.

Bolitho said, "Make a signal to Harebell to close with us immediately. I cannot wait for Javal. Commander Inch can carry my despatches to the admiral."

He waited while Farquhar shouted for Luce, and the barge was hoisted, dripping, on to the boat tier.

Farquhar came back and asked, "May I enquire the nature" of your plan, sir?" He pointed to the Segura which had almost reached the other ships. "And what is she doing?"

"I am sending some of the Spanish seamen to Captain Thurgood in exchange for the barquentine's, er, non-Americans."

Farquhar pouted. "It will leave us short-handed, sir." "But it has provided us with information." He could hide his relief no longer. "The French have a great fleet here. Harebell must sail with all speed, before dusk if possible." Farquhar nodded. "Captain Probyn will be happy about his good fortune."

"Perhaps." Bolitho recalled the captain's face. He had made an enemy there. Maybe he had always been one. All those years.

He said, "Tomorrow, if nothing is changed, we will have a conference."

He unbuckled his sword and handed it to Allday. He discovered that he was suddenly ravenously hungry. For the first time in many days.

As he made to walk aft he turned and looked at Farquhar again. "If you were a French general, and did not wish your transports to be involved in a battle. before your main objective. And if that objective was North Africa, and beyond that to India perhaps." He watched Farquhar's eyes. "Where would you go to prepare for the final assault?"

Farquhar rested both hands on the main bitts and frowned. "To avoid a battle?" He looked up. ' sicily might be too dangerous. A point on the coast of Africa which was far enough away from my objective to avoid suspicion would equally be too far for men and horses to travel and be fit to fight at the end of it." He nodded slowly. "I think I would choose an island already under my country's control." He paused. "Does that sound sensible, sir?"

Bolitho smiled. "Do you know of such an island?" Farquhar looked surprised. "Yes, sir. Corfu."

"Exactly." He walked past the helmsmen and nodded to Grubb.

Farquhar crossed to the master's side and said, "The commodore believes that the French may be gathering at Corfu." Grubb watched him warily. "Aye, sir. But if you’ll pardon the liberty, I thought it was your suggestion!"

Farquhar stared at him and then at the poop. "The devil, you say!" He smiled tightly. "That was Cleverly done!"