Signal-Close Action!

10. Committed

FOR a further two frustrating weeks Bolitho's ships tacked back and forth, keeping to the south-west of Toulon's approaches, an area which would give them maximum advantage should the enemy emerge. With Harebell making all possible speed to Gibraltar, the work of inshore patrol fell to Captain Javal's frigate. While the seventy-fours and their prize wallowed unhappily under reduced canvas, Javal's topsails were usually to be seen sneaking around a distant headland, or standing hove-to in direct view of the enemy.

But even Javal's taunting manoeuvres had no effect. The French stayed where they were, and did nothing.

And then, on a hot, sultry evening, as Buzzard fetched off the land for *the fortieth time, Javal took it upon himself to lower a cutter in the charge of his first lieutenant, Mr. Mears. It was more to ease the boredom than anything, for the French had showed no sign of sending out a frigate or corvette to chase. the prowling Buzzard away.

On that particular night a French fisherman reacted in much the same way. Ignoring the instructions of the port admiral and garrison commander, he put to sea in his small boat, with his son and cousin for crew.

The first that -Bolitho learned of these coincidences was when Buzzard's cutter, complete with Captain Javal and three French fishermen, arrived alongside on the following morning.

The fisherman was elderly but defiant. He showed little concern for his life, and probably considered that as the English had rammed and sunk his little boat he had nothing left to live for.

Bolitho listened to Javal's report before having the three Frenchmen brought to his cabin. It was strangely moving. The old, grey-bearded fisherman, his cousin, as red as a lobster with a belly like a puncheon of rum, and the son; straight-backed, angry. Afraid…

Bolitho explained through Farquhar, whose French was excellent, that he wanted information about Toulon. Not unnaturally, the fisherman told him to rot in hell. The son shouted "Death to the English!" before being cuffed into a. flood of tears by Sergeant Gritton.

The cousin, on the other hand, was more than practical. He explained that the boat had been all they-owned. All they had to feed their families and eke out a poor living in a town where the military enjoyed the best of everything. It was very likely true.

Despite his great girth and his red, cunning face, the cousin was obviously the thinking member of the crew.

He suggested, warily at first, that if Bolitho provided. another boat, and perhaps a little money or food, he would be prepared to tell him what he wanted to know.

Javal snapped, "I’ll have the varmint seized up and flogged, sir! I’ll give him boat!"

"That way we will learn nothing useful." Bolitho walked to the windows and watched some low banks of pale cloud. A change in the weather perhaps. "Tell him, Captain Farquhar, that he can have the boat and some food. You can signal for a boat to be sent from the Segura." To Javal he added, "Those fishermen will be unable to confide what they have seen to their authorities. The fact they disobeyed a port-order by putting to sea and return with a strange boat is proof enough of treachery. "

Javal swallowed hard. "Then you intend to release them, sir?"

"We may come I this way again, Captain." Javal's astonishment settled it. "You cannot choose your friends in war."

And so, while the fisherman and his son were taken to examine the Spanish longboat, the fat cousin described what he had seen everyday in Toulon.

The Santa Paula 's master had given Bolitho a fair description, but if anything it was a conservative estimate. A well- found fleet, consisting of ships of the line a"plenty, and one of which, according to the fisherman, was of one hundred and twenty guns or more. She, it appeared, wore the flag of Vice Admiral de Brueys, and another that of Rear Admiral Villeneuve. Bolitho had heard of them both many times, and respected them. Preparations went on daily to provision and service this great assembly of ships, and the local victualling officers were making a special effort to purchase every available kind of food. Which had been the main reason for the fishermen putting to sea. Even their meagre catch would have brought ready money from the navy.

Farquhar asked the man one careful question. Bolitho watched his reaction, his gestures above his head and towards the sea.

Farquhar explained softly, "The fleet is not yet ready to sail. It is said to be waiting for the right time. The leader of the expedition, too." His eyebrows lifted very slightly. "It could be so."

Bolitho nodded, He did not speak much French, but knew enough to recognise the name Bonaparte.

Farquhar said, "He insists that one portion is ready to weigh, sir. Several storeships, and some kind of escort." He glanced meaningly at the man's red features. "He is too much of a coward to lie, I think. He says that the ships will not sail because of our presence. Their cargo is probably very valuable."

And their destination." Bolitho made his decision. 'send them off in their boat. Then signal the squadron to close on Lysander. We will stand further to the south"rd."

"Will they risk it, sir?"

"I would." Bolitho looked at Javal. "I will report your first lieutenant's part in all this. He did well. As did you."

Risk, luck, coincidence, all had shared in this first real piece of vital intelligence. With his three seventy-fours staying well out to sea, and only Buzzards lookouts watching for the enemy's dash from port, Bolitho was in the best position to act as the situation dictated.

And when Harebell reached the admiral, it would be just a matter of time before a fleet, and not a mere squadron, came to complete what they had begun.

On the day that he watched the fishermen put over the side to begin their long haul back to the coast, Bolitho ordered his ships to their new position, some twenty miles south-west of Toulon. He wrote his orders and had them passed to each captain. He discussed the final details with Farquhar and Grubb, and when dusk finally descended he went to his cabin and enjoyed a filling meal of boiled pork from the cask, and the last of his cheese which he had carried from England.

As he sat at his table drinking a cup of coffee and listening to the creak and rattle of ship's gear, he thought of Falmouth and the empty house there. He thought, too, of the American captain, and the wife who was waiting for him in New Bedford. What a homecoming it would be. He could almost see it in his mind. How long would it be, he wondered, before he saw Falmouth again? He had been in Lysander for two months, and already it felt ten times as long. Perhaps now that luck was with them again time would pass more swiftly.

With that thought uppermost in his mind he went to his cot, and within minutes was in a deep, dreamless sleep.

It seemed as if his head had been on the pillow but a short while when he felt a hand on his shoulder. He awoke, staring into Allday's anxious face which shone yellow in a lantern above the cot.

"What is it?"

His senses returned and he struggled over the side of the cot. He had no further need to ask, and he cursed himself for sleeping so deeply. The night was alive with noise and violent motion, so that he almost fell as he groped his way to his chest.

Allday said, "It's come on to blow, sir! Getting worse by the minute!"

Bolitho dragged on his breeches, staggering as the deck plunged and threw him against Allday.

"In. the name of heaven, why wasn"t I told of this?" Allday said nothing, but turned as Ozzard appeared blinking in the door, another lantern above his head." "Get the commodore's things, man!"

But Bolitho snapped, "Just a coat. I must go on deck!" Even before he reached the quarterdeck he knew it was no mere gale. It was a full-scale storm, and as he ducked beneath the poop deck beams he saw that the wheel. was doubly manned, the seamen clinging to the spokes while the deck heaved violently to leeward.

It took several more moments to accustom his eyes to the dark, to pitch his hearing above the moan of wind, the boom and thunder of canvas overhead.

Figures darted past him, crouching and groping for hand- holds as spray lifted above the nettings and doused them violently before gurgling away through the scuppers. Every stay and shroud seemed to be vibrating and humming, and he found time to pity the awakened watch below, who even now must be fighting out along the yards to fist and reef the treacherous canvas.

He saw Farquhar, his slim figure very pale against the sea and sky, his hands cupped as he yelled to one of the lieutenants. He noticed Bolitho and lurched towards him, his fair hair streaming from his head. He was dressed only in shirt and breeches, and his feet were bare.

If anyother evidence was needed to show the height of the emergency, Bolitho could not think of it.

Farquhar shouted, "Wind's veered to the nor"-west, sir!

I’ve ordered the hands to reef tops"ls and take in the forecourse! "

He swung round as a sound like a musket shot came from forward, and then changed to a great rippling tear as the foresail exploded into a mass of flapping fragments.

"They will be spared that!"

Bolitho clawed his way to the rail and peered along the slanting deck. To one side the sea was as black as pitch. To the other it lifted and surged in tremendous banks of foam, building up beneath the quarter until the lee gunports were awash. Of the other ships there was no sign, and he guessed that each captain would be too preoccupied to care much about Lysander's plight.

He heard Grubb's deep voice rising like a bellow. "Ease off, lads! You’ll "ave the sticks out of "er else!"

A man slipped beneath the weather gangway and fell. kicking and yelling in a flood of swirling water. He came up against an eighteen-pounder, and Bolitho could almost im- agine that he heard his ribs stove in.

"In heaven's name, Captain, why so late? The squadron will be driven for miles in this!"

A broken halliard fell from aloft, writhing about the upper deck like a live thing. More would follow unless Farquhar acted, and immediately.

Farquhar spat out spray and replied, "That fool Gilchrist! He left it too long! By God, where is that man, I’ll have him-"

Bolitho gripped his arm. "There is no time now! We must lie-to and make the best of it."

Farquhar stared at him, nodding. "Yes, sir. At once!" He sounded desperate.

Bolitho did not release his arm. "Bring her about as soon as you’ve shortened sail!" He had to shout to make himself heard. "We will lie-to under the main tops"ls!" He ducked, closing his eyes tightly as a wall of spray tumbled over the empty nettings and swept mercilessly across the deck and down to the one below. "But have the main stays"l manned and ready to set in case the other carries away!"

He heard Farquhar's voice receding as he struggled along the rail, hand over hand, saw the blurred shapes of seamen hurrying to obey. Above in the darkness he could see the wildly flapping sails where the topmen were still fighting to obey the last order. Voices, too, caught up in the deafening chorus of wind and sea, of straining rigging and spars.

Grubb shouted harshly, "Pass the word! Stand by to come about!" He blinked at Bolitho. "I’ll bet those damned Frogs are laughin", sir!"

Bolitho did not answer. But it was uppermost in his thoughts. A strong north-westerly was a curse to his squadron. To any French commander trying to gauge the right time to quit Toulon it would be merciful, a chance he could not possibly ignore.

He watched as Gilchrist's beanpole figure emerged above the quarterdeck ladder, shining dully in his long tarpaulin coat. Gilchrist had probably been more frightened of his captain than he had of the first storm signs. Or so eager to prove that he could manage any eventuality he had left it far too late for anything but submission.

He wiped his streaming face with one sleeve, feeling the sting of salt in his eyes and mouth. When he peered aloft again he saw that much of the canvas had vanished, although the fore topsail was only lashed to its yard at one end. At the other a great balloon of canvas filled and puffed as if it contained a living, savage monster. Something passed across the scudding cloud formations, and he ran to the rail as it struck the forecastle with a sickening thud.

A voice called hoarsely, "Get that man below to the sickbay!" Then Lieutenant Veitch. "Belay that order. There's nought the surgeon can do for him!"

Poor wretch, he thought. Fighting the lashing sail, with only his feet to support his body as he craned over the great, swaying yard. His messmates on either side of him, all cursing and yelling into the darkness, punching the wet, hard canvas until their nails were tom out, their knuckles raw. One slip, an extra gust of wind, and he had fallen.

"Man the braces there! Stand by on the quarterdeck!" Grubb snarled, "Ease the spoke when I gives the word!

Treat "em like they was babies!"

"Helm a"lee!"

More figures staggered through the dismal gloom, a midshipman bleeding from the head, a seaman holding his arm to his side, teeth bared with agony.

"Lee braces! Heal"e!"

The Lysander dipped her seventeen-hundred tons of oak and artillery heavily into a maelstrom of bursting spray. Above, in a shortened, iron-hard rectangle, the reefed topsail seemed to swing independent of their muscle and bone, every mast groaning to the strain of wind and sea.

Bolitho saw it all, heard his ship and seamen fighting to bring the bows round and into the wind, to hold her under command… If the rudder failed, or the topsail was ripped to ribbons like the forecourse, it might be too late for them to set the staysail. And that could carry away just as easily.

But with the wheel hard over, the helmsmen's bare feet treading wet planking as if they were walking uphill, the two-decker responded. Bolitho watched the sea boiling in- board from the weather gangway to the beakhead, saw it surging across and down to the opposite bulwark, taking men and loose gear in its path. Much of it would find its way deep into the hull. The pumps must be going now, but in the din he could not hear them. Stores would be spoiled, fresh water, as precious as gunpowder, polluted and rendered useless.

He released the nettings and allowed the wind to thrust him. along the tilting deck until he fought his way aft to the compass.

Grubb shouted, 'ship's "ead is almost due north, sir!" He turned to watch as a whimpering man was carried past. 'she might be able to "old it!"

'she must!" Bolitho saw his words go home. "If werun before this wind we’ll never beat back in time!"

Grubb watched him go and then said to a master's mate, "How say you, Mr. Plowman?"

Plowman gripped the binnacle for support, his coat shining like sodden silk in the feeble lamp. "I told Mr. Gilchrist to call all "ands!" He added angrily, "God rot "im, "e might "ave been the death of us all!"

Grubb grimaced. 'still time for that!"

Bolitho was on his way forward to the rail again when he heard a yell.

"Heads below! Fore t"gallant's coming adrift!"

Before anyone could move or act the uppermost spar on the foremast tilted violently to leeward, hung for a few agonising seconds and then plunged down like a tree. Stays and shrouds all followed it in a great mass of rasping cordage and blocks, until with a jarring crash it came to rest below the starboard bow, the furled topgallant sail showing through the darkness like some nightmare tusk.

Grubb shouted, 'she's payin" off, sir!" He threw his considerable weight on the wheel. "It's like a bloody anchor up forrard!"

Bolitho saw Farquhar staggering along the weather gangway, drenched to the skin, one shoulder bare and bloodied by some fallen object from above. It was all plain to see. As if he were studying a diagram instead of watching a ship fighting for survival.

Had-Herrick been in command at this moment none of it would have happened. No lieutenant would be too frightened to call him, and no matter what Herrick was like as a strategist and the squadron's second-in-command, he was a superb seaman.

Bolitho shouted, "Get a strong party up forrard!" He strode past Farquhar, knowing that Allday was close on his heels. – "We don’thave time to waste!"

Calls shrilled, and voices responded. Bolitho saw marines and seamen; some fully dressed, some naked, fighting through the torrential spray to where the boatswain and a handful of older men from the forecastle party were busy amidst the tangle of rigging.

Bolitho felt the ship lift and then dip heavily into a long trough, and heard several cries of alarm as the trapped top- gallant mast and yard crashed against the hull.

He realised that Pascoe was already there and shouted, "Are you in charge?"

Pascoe shook his head. "Mr. Yeo is cutting some of the rigging adrift, sir!" He ducked like a prize-fighter, his arms bent, as a great wall of water surged amongst the gasping men. "And Mr. Gilchrist is leading the main party outboard by the cathead!"

Bolitho nodded. "Good." To Allday he said, "We’ll add our weight. There's nothing more we can do aft."

He groped his way down and through the huge coils of tarred rope, his shins and hands scarred within seconds.

A voice said "Gawd, it's the commodore, lads!" Another muttered, "Then we must be in a bad way!"

Bolitho peered over the side, seeing the frothy undertow beneath the bows, the broken mast surging and veering into the hull like a battering ram. In the darkness the jagged wood gleamed as if to mock their efforts. To put a seal on their hopes.

He saw Gilchrist waving his arms through the tangle, like a man seized by a terrible sea-creature.

"Axes, Mr. Yeo! Save the yard, but hack the mast away as soon as you can!"

A man tried to claw his way back from his precarious perch on the cathead, but Gilchrist seized him and forced him to look down past the massive anchor-stock, to the surging water below him.

"We save the ship, or go under together! Now catch a turn with that line, or I’ll see your backbones tomorrow!"

Gilchrist's fury, his unintentional hint that there was indeed going to be a tomorrow, seemed to have an effect. Grunting and swearing they threw themselves into battle with the fallen spars, using their anger to hold fear at bay and drown the wail of the wind.

Bolitho worked alongside the anonymous figures, using the back-breaking work to steady his thoughts. The topgallant* mast could be replaced. Herrick had made certain of a good stock of spare spars before leaving England. If the yard could be saved, the ship's sail-power should be normal again in a few days, once they enjoyed calmer weather. But it would take time. Tune when they should have been on their station, the one lie had so carefully selected to snare the enemy supply ships.

Gilchrist yelled, "Mr. Pascoe! Take some men aft along the starboard gangway and grapple the spar!"

Pascoe nodded and touched the nearest men on shoulders or arms. "Aye, sir!"

Gilchrist peered up at him. "If you cannot save it, then at least make sure it causes no further harm to the hull!" He broke off, choking as spray leapt up and over the bowsprit. When the water subsided in a great hissing torrent Bolitho saw that the man Gilchrist had been threatening had vanished. He was probably somewhere in the darkness, watching his ship moving away, his cries lost in the angry wave crests. More likely he had gone straight down. It was a sad fact that few sailors could swim. Bolitho found himself praying that the man had died quickly and had been spared the agony of being left out there alone.

Thud, thud, thud, the axes hacked savagely at the rigging, while other hands worked at hastily rigged tackles to sway the undamaged yard up and around the foremast.

"There she goes!"

The cry was taken up as with a grinding clatter of severed gear and cordage the released topgallant mast plunged freely down the lee side. Bolitho watched Pascoe's men struggling along the gangway trying to control the still-dangerous spar, and then caught his breath as a line parted and, another went bar-taut, scraping along the gangway rail and catching Pascoe around the shoulders. "

"Belay those lines!"

Midshipman Luce dashed down the gangway, heedless of the bursting spray.

"Cut him free!"

Another line.snapped, and Bolitho felt his blood chill as Pascoe appeared to bow over the rail, dragged helplessly towards the sea by the surging mass of rigging.

But Luce was beside him now, his slim frame bent under the black ropes as he hacked upwards with an axe.

Yeo strode along the forecastle, his quick eye and twenty years at sea telling him instantly of the midshipman's danger. "Avast there, Mr. Luce!"

But it was too late. As the keen blade slashed away one of the broken" stays another tightened automatically, so that as Pascoe fell gasping into the arms of two seamen, Luce was pinned against the side, his arm taking the full weight. When the ship lifted sluggishly to the wind he cried out once, "Oh God, help me!" Then as Yeo and the others reached him and cut the rigging free once and for all he fell senseless at their feet.

Bolitho said, "Quick, Allday, take him below!"

Then he hurried along the gangway and helped Pascoe to his feet.

"How does it feel?"

Pascoe felt his spine and grimaced. "That was near-" He stared along the desk. "Where is Bill Luce, sir?" He struggled against the rail. "Is he-"

"He was injured." Bolitho felt the ship responding slowly to her freedom, indifferent perhaps to those who had suffered in the process. "I have had him taken to the surgeon." Pascoe stared at him. "Oh no, not after he saved my life!" Bolitho sensed his distress, could see the grief despite the enclosing darkness.

He added, "I will go below, Adam. You remain here." It hurt him to continue, "Others need you now."

He walked aft, seeing Farquhar by the quarterdeck rail. As if he had never moved.

Farquhar blurted out, "Thank you, sir! Seeing you there helped the men to rally."

Bolitho looked at him. "I doubt that. But one captain aft is enough!"

He peered up at the reefed topsail. Still iron-hard, but holding well, in spite of the enormous pressure.

He said, "lam going to the sickbay." "Are you hurt, sir?"

"Call me instantly if anything changes." He walked to the companion. "No. Not physically, that is."

As he made his way down and down by one ladder to the next he was conscious of the sea noises becoming muted, the new sounds of straining timbers, the smells of bilge and tar rising to greet him. Lanterns swayed and cast leaning shadows as he continued through the lower gun deck and below Lysander's waterline, where natural light was un- known the year round.

Outside this small sickbay he found several seamen resting after treatment, some bandaged, some lying in an escape of sleep and rum. The air was thick with the combined smells of pain and blood.

He entered the sickbay where Henry Shacklock, the surgeon, was talking to some of his assistants as they arranged two more lanterns above his table.

Shacklock glanced up and saw Bolitho. 'sir"!"

He was a tired-looking man with thin hair. In the swaying yellow light he appeared almost bald, although he was not yet thirty. Bolitho had found him to be a good doctor, which was unfortunately rare in King's ships.

"How is Mr. Luce?"

The men stood aside, and Bolitho realised that the midshipman was already lying on the table. He was naked, and his face was set in a frown, the skin very pale. Shacklock lifted a rough dressing from his shoulder.

Bolitho guessed that the rope had cut through the flesh and muscle like wire through cheese. The lower arm lay at an unnatural angle, the fingers unclenched and relaxed.

Shacklock held his own hand above the midshipman's arm, the palm open like a ruler. It was less than six inches below the point of his shoulder.

He said, "It must come off, sir." He pursed his lips. "Even then… " Bolitho looked down at Luce's pale face. Seventeen years of age. No age at all.

"Are you certain?"

What was the point? He had heard it asked so often. "Yes." Shacklock nodded to his assistants. "The sooner the better. He might not come to his senses before it is done."

At that moment Luce" s eyes opened. They stayed fixed on Bolitho's face, unmoving, and yet in those few seconds they seemed to understand everything which had happened, and what was to come.

He made to move, but Bolitho gripped his uninjured shoulder. His skin was like ice, and his hair still wet with the spray from that other howling world three decks above.

He said, "You saved Mr. Pascoe's life." He kept his voice steady. "Adam will come as soon as he can."

Beyond the boy's head he saw Shacklock taking two knives from a case. One short, the other long and thin. An assistant was wiping something below a lantern, and as the deck tilted and the man lurched sideways he realised it was a saw.

Luce whispered quietly, "My arm, sir?" He was starting to weep. "Please, sir!"

Bolitho reached out and took a cup of rum from a loblolly boy. "Drink this." He forced it to his lips. "As much as you can." He saw it slopping out of his mouth, could feel his body trembling as if in a terrible fever. It was all they had. Rum, with opium to follow the operation as a sedative.

He heard footsteps and then Pascoe's voice, taut and barely recognisable.

"The captain sends his respects, sir. We have just sighted Nicator."

Bolitho straightened his back but kept his hand on Luce" s shoulder.

"Thank you." Around him the shadows loomed nearer, like angels of death, as Shacklock's men waited to begin. 'stay with him, Adam."

He made himself look at the midshipman. He was staring up at him, the rum and tears mingling on his throat. Only his mouth moved as he whispered again, "Please."

He waited until Pascoe was by the boy's head and then said to Shacklock, "Do your best."

The surgeon nodded. "I have had the blades warmed to lessen the shock, sir."

As Bolitho made to leave he saw the surgeon give a signal, heard Luce cry out as the assistants gripped his legs and held his head back on the table.

Bolitho had reached the upper deck when Luce screamed. The sound seemed to follow him up and into the wind, where it ended abruptly.

Bolitho rested both hands on his chart and studied it for several more seconds. The storm had blown itself out in two long days and nights, so that the warm sunlight and the gentle breeze in the sails made it feel as if the ship was all but becalmed.

Around his table the other captains sat watching him, each wrapped in hi's own thoughts, all weary from the storm's anger and the battle for survival.

Throughout the scattered squadron seventeen men had been killed. By falls from aloft, or being swept overboard. Some had vanished without trace. As if they had never been.

It was mid-afternoon, and with the ships sailing in a loose formation once again Bolitho had ordered all his captains to gather for a conference.

He looked at Javal's dark features. His news had been expected, and yet perhaps even to the last he had still hoped. But as they had sighted Buzzard's topsails shortly after dawn the signal had been shouted down from the maintop. The French had put to sea. A dozen ships, maybe more, had sailed with the stiff north-west wind under their coat-tails, while Javal and his men had watched helplessly while they fought to keep the enemy in view. The French commander had even allowed for such an eventuality. Two frigates had swept out of the storm and had raked Buzzard's rigging before standing off to follow the convoy into the darkness.

For a fighter like Javal it must have been terrible. With his rigging slashed and the storm mounting every minute, he had been forced to watch the French slipping away. He had tried to make contact with the squadron by firing signal guns and loosing off a flare. But while Gilchrist had waited too late and the ships of the line had steered comfortably along their allotted course the storm had made even that contact im- possible.

Bolitho said slowly, "The admiral should have examined the despatches sent in Harebell. He will assume that we are capable of standing watch over Toulon, or of shadowing any vessels which try to elude us."

Overhead he heard the stamp of feet as Leroux's marines completed another drill. Hammers and adzes added their own sounds to show that the carpenter's crew were also busy completing storm repairs.

He looked at Herrick, wondering what he was thinking.

Probyn said heavily, "Now that the French have avoided your er, ambush, it must leave us all in some doubt. Perhaps we placed too much value in hearsay, in rumour. Who knows where those French ships may be now?" He looked slowly round the table. "Let alone what we can hope to do without information?"

Bolitho watched him impassively. Probyn had been careful to use "we." He had meant "you".

Javal shrugged and yawned. "I could detach from the squadron, sir. I might be able to find some if not all of the Frenchmen. After all, the storm will not have made their passage an easy one. "

Bolitho felt them looking at him. Some would understand, perhaps share his dilemma.

If he sent the Buzzard's in pursuit he would be without "eyes". The two-deckers and the prize ship would have their visibility reduced to the vision of the best masthead lookout. So, with little agility or speed to investigate, he had to hold on to his one and only frigate.

Probyn added, "Of course, we could return to Gibraltar, sir. Better to add our strength to any fleet which may be assembling than to wander blindly to no purpose."

Herrick spoke for the first time. "That would be an admission of failure! It would be the wrong decision, in my opinion." He looked at Bolitho, his eyes level. "We know how you must feel, sir.".

Farquhar snapped abruptly, "It is the devil's own luck!" Javal said, "It's the devil's own choice." He looked at Bolitho curiously. "For you, sir."

"Yes."

Bolitho let his gaze move along and down across the chart of the Mediterranean. All those miles. Even if he were right in his guesswork, and it was no more than that as Probyn had stated, he might still fail to make contact with the enemy. Ships could pass one another in the night or in foul weather and be none the wiser. An empire could fall because of a wrong choice, a hasty decision.

He said, "This is what we will do." It had come as if it had been there in his mind from the beginning. "Our present position, as far as we can estimate, is about sixty miles west of Corsica 's north coast." He tapped the chart with his dividers. "CapeCorse. The storm carried us too far to the east"rd to make another passage profitable." He saw them crane forward above the table. 'so we will continue, and once around the north cape of Corsica we will steer southeast." He watched his dividers moving remorselessly further and further down the Italian coastline. "We will put into Syracuse to take on water and land our badly injured people. The Sicilians may have news for us. They are at peace with the French, but have little love for them."

He looked up sharply. "While we are at anchor, Buzzard will sail independently, around the eastern side of Sicily, by way of the MessinaStrait, and make a rendezvous with the squadron off Malta. I will be able to give you better information, Captain Javal, once we have made some progress" He eyed them separately. He was committed. And he had com- mitted each one of them, and every man-jack in the squadron.

Herrick cleared his throat. "And then, sir?"

"Then, Captain Herrick." He held his gaze, seeing the worry building up on his face. "We will know what to expect." He smiled briefly. "I hope."

Probyn spread his heavy hands on the table. They were like pink crabs. "If we fail there also, sir, I’d not be happy to face the admiral."

Bolitho faced him calmly. "It is support I want, Captain Probyn. Not sympathy."

Spray pattered against the stern windows, and he added, "I think it best if you return to your ships. The wind is freshen- ing, by the feel of it."

The chairs scraped back from the table and they looked at each other like strangers.

Probyn gathered up his hat and sword and said, "I trust that new orders will be passed to us, sir?" He did not look at him as he spoke.

Herrick snapped, "There is no need for that, surely?"

"I think there is." Probyn fiddled with his sword belt. "I would not wish to insist upon it."

Bolitho nodded. "It will be done."

Farquhar rapped on the screen door with his knuckles, and when the sentry appeared he said, 'signal for the boats. Tell the first lieutenant to assemble the side party. " Probyn asked, "How is your first lieutenant, by the way?" "Adequate." Farquhar watched him coldly.

Bolitho turned away. "You know him then?"

Probyn coughed. "Not really, sir. Perhaps a passing acquaintance."

They took their leave, as boat by boat they were pulled back to their various commands.

Herrick was the last. He said simply, "The fore t"gallant mast, sir. When I knew of Lysander's difficulties in the storm, I got to thinking. Maybe she took a ball through the fore-rigging and the rope woolding around the mast hid the damage. It is not unknown."

Bolitho smiled. "Perhaps. But it was none of your doing." Bolitho saw him looking around the decks and tried to read his mind. Loss, anxiety, or merely curiosity?

"And you, Thomas. Is everything satisfactory?"

Herrick turned to watch his barge pulling for the main chains.

"Osirisis a smart ship, sir. I’ve no complaints. But she's no heart, no zest."

Bolitho wanted to reach out for him. To make him know that the sense of loss went both ways. But it was not yet time, and he knew it.

He said, "Take care, Thomas."

The marine guard shuffled to attention and the bosun's mates raised their silver calls in preparation to see Herrick over the side, But he hung back, his face lined with emotions.

Then he said, "If you take the squadron to the Turkish forts and beyond, you’ll not find me far astern." He faltered, his eyes pleading. "I just wanted you to know. To understand." Bolitho held out his hand. "I do, Thomas." He gripped it tightly. "Now."

He watched Farquhar and Herrick exchange salutes, and then walked slowly across the quarterdeck to the weather side.

The sails were booming in confusion while the ship lay hove-to to rid herself of her visitors, and Bolitho did not hear the footsteps beside him.

It was Pascoe, his dark eyes heavy with strain. He had been standing watches and carrying out his duties throughout the storm, but at every available moment he had been below with his friend.

Bolitho asked, "Is something wrong?"

Pascoe lifted his arms and let them fall again. 'sir, I-" He shook his head. "He is gone. He died a minute ago." Bolitho watched him, seeing his distress. Sharing it. "He was a fine boy."

He touched his arm, turning him slightly so that some passing marines should not see his face.

"And it is often harder to accept that sailors give their lives to the sea as much as they do in battle."

Pascoe shivered. "He never complained. Not after that first terrible cut. I held his hand. And just today I thought he was a little better. And then-" He broke off, unable to finish.

Farquhar strode to the rail and touched his hat. "Permission to get the squadron under way, sir?" He glanced at Pascoe, his eyes without compassion. "The wind is certainly freshening. "

"If you please. And signal Buzzard to take station to lee"rd and ahead of the squadron. He knows what to expect." He stepped in front of Pascoe. "I think this officer might be excused from duty for the present. "

Farquhar nodded. "Very well."

But Pascoe said, "I’m all right now, sir." He adjusted his hat and moved towards the ladder. "I’d like to attend to my work, if I may. "

Farquhar's lips twisted in a smile. "Then it is settled." Bolitho followed them to the rail, seeing the seamen manning the braces and halliards, waiting to execute the first part of his new orders.

Pascoe hesitated, his foot in the air above the gun deck. "There is one thing, sir. When will we be burying him?" "At dusk." He watched the pain in Pascoe's eyes.

"I just thought. My sword. I’d like it to go over with him.

I’ve not much else."

Bolitho waited until Pascoe had joined his division and then returned to the poop ladder.

Grubb remarked quietly, "A fine young officer" ell be one day, sir."

Bolitho nodded. "He suits me very well as he stands." "Aye." The master shaded his red-rimmed eyes to watch the flapping pendant high above the deck. "There's some "oo can give orders, but never learn nuthin". Thank God"e's not one o" them."

Bolitho continued up the ladder and walked right aft to the gilded taffrail.

Below the poop he heard the helmsman's cry, "Course due east, sir! Steady "as she goes!"

He watched the lithe frigate forging swiftly ahead of her bulky consorts, but for once felt no envy of her freedom. This was his place, and only the rights of his decisions would decide if he should hold it.

He thought of Pascoe and Herrick, and Allday who was moving about in the cabin below.

And this time he had to be right, if only for men such as these.