Signal-Close Action!

8. Aftermath

JOSHUA MOFFITT, the commodore's personal clerk, tapped his teeth with a pen and waited as Bolitho leaned back at his desk and took another swallow of coffee.

Bolitho let the strong black coffee explore his stomach, and tried to concentrate his mind on the report he was dictating for the admiral. If it would ever be sent. If it would ever be read.

He knew Moffitt was watching him but was almost used to his strange opaque stare by now. In the sleeping cabin he could hear Ozzard, his servant, making up the cot, his feet barely audible on the deck, and wondered at the fates which had made these two men fill their present roles. It would be better for them both if they were reversed, he thought. Ozzard, who attended his daily wants, from shaving water to a clean shirt. had been, it was said, a lawyer's clerk. He certainly had education, more than some of the officers. Moffitt, on the other hand, whose duties involved the careful writing of every order and despatch, of noting down each of Bolitho's personal signals and instructions for the other captains in the squadron, was a product of the slums. He had wispy grey hair and glazed staring eyes which peered out from his parchment face like those of a man near to death. Or, as Allday had remarked unsympathetically, "I’ve seen better looking rogues dangling on a gallows!"

From the little he had been able to discover, Bolitho had learned that Moffitt had been in a debtors" jail, awaiting transportation to the new penal colony at Botany Bay. A hopeful lieutenant with a court's warrant for encouraging recruitment to His Majesty's Navy as a direct substitute for transportation to the other side of the world, had arrived at the jail, and with several others Moffitt had begun a new life. His first ship had been an eighty-gun two-decker, and in a brief skirmish off Ushant her captain's clerk had been killed by a stray musket ball. Moffitt had used the opportunity well, and had made yet one more change in his affairs by assuming the dead man's duties. Transferred to Lysander at Spithead, he had been ready and willing to offer himself as a commodore's clerk, unless or until a better fitted person could be found. The rush to get the ship ready for sea and complete all repairs in time to receive Bolitho's broad pendant had allowed Moffitt to slip into his new role with barely a ripple.

Bolitho looked into his cup. It was only too easy to send Ozzard to make fresh coffee. It was one of his weaknesses. But he would stick to his rule and try to eke out his supply as long as possible.

He heard the insistent thud of hammers and the rasp of saws. The work of repairing the damage was still going on without a break. This was the morning of the fourth day after the battle. Lysander, with the sloop and the prize in company, had continued in a slow north-easterly crawl, the hands turned-to until there was no proper light in which to work, to get her ready to fight again when required.

In his mind's eye he could see the chart when he had examined it before his meagre breakfast. They had been forced to maintain a very slow progress. Tattered sails had had to be sent down from aloft for repair or replacement from their stocks. The jib boom had been almost entirely refashioned after its thrusting collision with the French seventy-four, and he could join with Herrick's report in complimenting Tuke, the carpenter, for his energies and devotion to perfection.

Herrick quite rightly had written well of Lieutenant Veitch. The third lieutenant had controlled the gunnery throughout the battle, but more than that, he had decided, without calling for permission or advice, to double-shot some of his guns to help the carronade" s attack on one of the enemy ships. Doubleshotting was a risky thing under perfect conditions and with experienced seamen. Yet Veitch had man-aged to keep his head enough to select such men from disengaged guns and use the bombardment to maximum effect. Midshipman Luce, Yeo, the boatswain, and Major Leroux, all had been placed on the captain's record for Bolitho's approval.

On the other side of the coin, Lysander had lost thirteen dead, either in the battle or later of their wounds. The surgeon had reported another five who might die at any moment, and ten who would almost certainly be fit for duty with any kind of luck.

The enemy had probably lost far more, as well as the hurt of being driven off by a single ship. But where men were concerned it was of little comfort. They had weeks, perhaps months yet to endure without additional support. Muscle and bone were more important than hemp and oak frames, and men themselves more vital than all besides. He tried not to think of his own report, as yet unfinished at Moffitt's bony elbow.

The clerk asked, "Will we continue, sir?" His voice, like the man, was thin and scratchy. His entry in the muster book described him as being aged thirty-eight. He looked nearer sixty.

Bolitho eyed him gravely. "Where did we get to?"

The pen moved across the papers. "During the action the ship was under control the whole time, and only when entangled with the second French vessel's rigging was she forced to lose way. "The opaque eyes were level again. 'sir?"

Bolitho stood up and walked to the quarter gallery, his hands behind his back. He could not keep Herrick's face out of his thoughts. In the battle, at the moment when a collision had shown itself unavoidable. That was the moment. It stood out even above the thunder of gunfire, the awful cries, the twisting scarlet patterns around the wheel. In those vital minutes Herrick had hesitated. Worse than that, at a time when the French had taken the initiative, and might have used it to attack the ship from either side, he had made a wrong decision. It was like hearing his voice, here in the cabin. The anguish as he had ordered Gilchrist to repel boarders. And it had been the wrong order. Defensive action at that stage could have broken Lysander's morale, quenched her peo- pie's willingness to do battle, as easily as if their flag had been tom down before their eyes.

He forced himself to think of Herrick as the captain of his ship. Not as Thomas Herrick, his friend. In the past he would have despised any senior officer who had used friendship to cover up failure or incompetence. But now he knew the choice was not that easy, nor so free of prejudice. Herrick had almost pleaded with him not to leave the quarterdeck to join the fighting in the bows. Fondness for him, or a-desire to keep his advice and determination close by, or both, the effect could have meant complete disaster. Bolitho had noticed, if only in hindsight, that the French captain had remained aft during the time when Lysander's boarders had been carving a bloody path through his men. How would the fight have gone, he wondered, if the French captain had rallied his men in the forefront of the struggle, even at the expense of his own life, while his British counterparts had stayed clear and in comparative safety?

He leaned his hands on the sill below the salt-stained glass.

Herrick was no coward, and could no more display disloyalty than he could betray his sister. But up there, on the quarterdeck, when he had been most needed, he had failed.

Bolitho said shortly, "I’ll finish it later, Moffitt." He turned and thought he saw a quick gleam of curiosity in his eyes. "You may copy out what we have already done." It would keep Moffitt busy and the report at arm's length for a bit longer.

There was a tap at the screen door and Herrick stepped into the cabin.

"I thought you would like to know at once, sir. Harebell has signalled that she has sighted two sail to the east"rd. "His blue eyes moved briefly to Moffitt at the table. "It will most likely be the rest of the squadron." He added bitterly, "This time."

Bolitho saw his glance fall on the pages of the report and felt something like guilt. As if Herrick had read his mind. His nagging doubt.

, Yes. What is our estimated position?"

Herrick frowned. "At eight bells we fixed it as approximately forty miles north of the island of Majorca. With the poor progress and damage to canvas and helm, even the master will not make a stronger estimate."

Bolitho looked at Moffitt. "You can go." He heard Ozzard letting himself out of the sleeping cabin.

Herrick asked, "What are your orders, sir?"

"When we can rejoin our other ships I intend to call a captains" conference." He walked to the windows again, seeing Herrick * s reflection in the thick glass. "After I have heard Captain Farquhar's explanation for waiting until this second rendezvous, I will say what I think we should do. As flag captain, you must ensure that each ship, from Lysander to Harebell, understands my standing orders exactly. To me, initiative is a worthwhile substitute for blind obedience. But I’ll have no selfish manoeuvres, nor will I tolerate rank disobedience. "

Herrick said, "I understand, sir."

Bolitho turned to face him. "What do you think, Thomas?" He waited, willing him to speak out. "Really think?" Herrick shrugged. "I believe that Farquhar is petty-minded, and eager enough for advancement, that he will act as he thinks fit whenever possible."

"I see."

Bolitho crossed to his wine cabinet and touched it with his fingertips. He could see her smiling at him, hear her infectious laugh as she had watched his pleasure with the gift. So warm, so generous with her love. Reckless, too, with her hostility for anyone who had dared to show criticism of their brief affair.

"Is that all, sir?" Herrick was studying him, his face tired and grim.

"No, Thomas." He turned, hating the strain on Herrick's features. He had probably not slept more than an hour or two at a time since the battle. "It is not ail. "

He gestured to a chair, but Herrick remained standing, as he had known he would. He cursed inwardly. That was the trouble. They knew each other too well for any sort of conflict.

He said, "I must complete my report for the admiral. Sooner or later I will have to send a dispatch to him, my personal understanding of the situation here. Upon it might well depend a whole new strategy. If I am wrong, there is far more than my head at stake. If St. Vincent sends a great fleet to the Mediterranean, and we discover too late that the French have sailed west instead of east, maybe to join their squadrons from the Biscay ports, England, and not merely a battle, will be lost."

"I realise that, sir. A heavy responsibility."

Bolitho stared at him. "Are you deliberately being evasive? You know damned well what I mean! This is an important mission, with no risk too great to complete it. When I send my first despatch to the admiral, I must also tell him the state of my squadron."

Herrick faced him stubbornly. "While the rest of the squadron took itself elsewhere, sir, our people fought and acted better than I’d have believed possible. I’ve said as much in my own report."

Bolitho shook his head sadly. "And what of you, Thomas?

What must I write of your part in it?"

He watched the strain growing on Herrick's face. "I am not speaking of your seamanship, your bearing under fire, nor would I dare to."

Herrick looked past him. "I did my best."

Bolitho hesitated, but knew that this, and only this, was the moment. He said flatly, "It was not good enough. And you know it."

Overhead, a faint cry came from a lookout. "Deck there!

Sail on the lee bow!" So Farquhar's ships, if they were such, were in sight from Lysander.

Herrick replied, "If that is what you believe, sir, I suggest you say as much in your report."

Bolitho stared at him. "Don’t be such a damnedfool!" He could feel the blood churning in his head, the wildness from the battle returning. "You were slow, Thomas! You waited too long before each decision. You know as well as I that in a broadside battle you’ve no time for reflections!"

Herrick watched his rising anger with apparent calm. "Do you think I don’trealise that? "He shrugged, the movement helpless or despairing. "When I lost Impulsive last year I began to feel doubts. About my strength, my nerve, if you like." He looked away. "I sailed Lysander into that bay because I had to, something drew me there, like times in the past when I just knew it must be done. You sent no signal, but deep inside me I felt you were there, waiting, expecting me to come. Perhaps I felt as you did about Adam Pascoe. It went deeper than logic."

Bolitho asked quietly, "And four days ago?"

Herrick faced him again. "I watched those two ships. Hour by hour I watched them drawing nearer. Imagined their people at quarters, peering along their gun muzzles at me. And when you decided to attack them single-handed, and we had the second one right across our bows, I could barely speak or move. I heard my voice passing orders. But beyond it I was like stone. Something dead." He wiped his forehead with one hand. The skin was damp with sweat. "I can"t do it. That battle last year decided it for me."

Bolitho stood up and walked slowly to the windows. He recalled Herrick's excitement at the Admiralty when he had been appointed flag captain. A pleasure rising to match his own. They had not questioned the dangers or pitfalls of their mission. And neither of them had once considered his own ability to manage it.

He said, "You are too tired to think properly."

"Please, sir." Herrick's voice was hoarse. "Don’t show pity, or humiliate me with understanding! You know what this is costing me, in God's name spare me further shame!"

Feet clattered in the passageway and Bolitho said, "Leave me, I’d like to think." He tried to find the words, despising himself for causing him such pain. "Your value is too great for me to abuse it. "

The door opened slightly and Midshipman Saxby poked his head into the cabin.

"Captain, sir?" He smiled nervously as he saw Bolitho and showed the gap in his front teeth. "Mr. Gilchrist's respects, and could you come on deck?"

When Herrick remained silent, Bolitho asked, "Is something wrong?"

Saxby swallowed. "N-no, sir. The first lieutenant wishes to turn up the hands to witness punishment."

Herrick came out of his thoughts and said harshly, "I am coming, Mr. Saxby." He glanced at Bolitho. "I am sorry, sir." Bolitho looked for a long while at the closed door. It had been like watching Herrick's eyes peering from a strange mask. A prisoner. What had he said? Something dead.

He turned as Ozzard padded silently into the cabin from the other door. Overhead and beyond the bulkhead he heard the stamp of booted feet as Leroux's men tramped aft, the more subdued movements of the company assembling to witness punishment.

Ozzard asked mildly, "Can I do anything, sir?"

Bolitho looked up at the skylight, hearing a dull thud as the grating was rigged for the man to be seized up and flogged. "Yes. Close that skylight!" He frowned. "I did not mean to shout at you. "

He strode to the opposite side, Damn Gilchrist and his punishments. What was he trying or prove, and to whom?

Ozzard said warily, "Your clerk's outside, sir." "Fetch him."

Moffitt re-entered the cabin and blinked in the reflected sunlight.

He said, "I’ve finished the first part, sir, and I thought-" "Wait." Bolitho had raised his voice, as if to drown the sound of the lash across a man's naked back. "I wish you to write a letter."

Overhead, the drum rolled and stopped, and the flat crack of the cat on bare skin intruded once again.

"Ready, sir?"

Moffitt, like Ozzard who was humming quietly in the sleeping cabin, was unmoved by the slow, drawn-out ritual of punishment. While he…

Bolitho snapped, "Address it to Captain Charles Farquhar, of His Brittanic Majesty's Ship Osiris."

He rested his forehead against the sun-warmed glass and looked down at the frothing water below the counter. How inviting it was, Cool. Cleansing.

Behind him he heard Moffitt's nib scratching across the paper. It never faltered to the roll of the drum, the crack of the lash.

Farquhar would have a good reason for being off station. Of that he was certain.

'sir?"

He bunched his fists tight against his thighs until the pain.steadied him.

"Upon receipt of this order you will make all arrangements to proceed on board Lysander, flagship, the transfer to be effected immediately. "He hesitated again, fighting his will. "And there take on the duties and appointments of flag captain."

This time the nib did falter.

He continued, "Your present post will be assumed by Captain Thomas Herrick. "

He walked to the table and looked over Moffitt's narrow shoulder. "I will want two copies directly." He reached out and took the pen. He felt Moffitt staring at it, as if defying it to move. Almost savagely he wrote, "Given under my hand, aboard His Majesty's Ship Lysander. Signed, Richard Bolitho, Commodore. "

It was done.

With the hands dismissed from witnessing punishment, and the approaching ships confirmed as Osiris and Nicator, Thomas Herrick returned to the cabin to make his report.

Bolitho sat below the great span of windows, watching Osiris's yards swinging smartly, her sails retaking the wind as she assumed station astern of Lysander.

He said quietly, "I want both captains aboard directly." "Yes, sir." Herrick looked tired. "I have already made the signal. I will heave-to when all ships are on proper station. Osiris wishes to communicate immediately."

Bolitho nodded. Farquhar would have news for him. News important enough to explain his absence from the original rendezvous. Bolitho did not look at the sealed envelope on his desk. The news he in turn would give Farquhar would make even him take notice. He said, "I have made no note in the official log, or my own report about what you told me earlier." He saw Herrick's shoulders sag. "But I accept your word, naturally." He heard the clatter of blocks and the groan of cordage as the ship rolled heavily under reduced canvas, knowing that at any minute he would have to face the others. To begin again. He continued, "I could shift my pendant to another ship, Thomas. But I recall only too clearly what happened when that was done when I held a similar command. The whole company took it as a personal slight, a lack of faith by the admiral in their ability and trust. I thought it unfair then, as I do now."

Herrick's voice was husky. "I understand. I don’trelish the prospect of failure, and what it will mean. Equally, I’ll not protest against something which I have begun." He shrugged helplessly. "Because of my feelings for the Navy, and for you, I’d kill myself rather than risk lives and a cause, to cover my faults."

Bolitho watched him sadly. "I am not removing you from duty."

Herrick exclaimed, "Then why have you agreed that-" Bolitho stood up quickly. "What would you have me do, eh? Give Gilchrist command and send you home? Replace you with Javal perhaps, when we have but one frigate for this whole mission?" He looked away. "I am giving you Osiris. She is a well-found ship, and trained to a high standard." He heard Herrick's intake of breath but went on remorselessly. "You will not have to worry about the affairs of the squadron for the present, but concentrate instead on command. What you make of it is up to you. But I trust you, above all else, to do your duty well." He turned slowly and was shocked to see that Herrick was as before, unnaturally calm. "Farquhar will assume your present duties until… "

Herrick nodded. "If that is your order, sir."

"Order? Bolitho made to move towards him. "Do you think I want you faced day by day with the officers and men you have trained and commanded since you took Lysander! To know that every hour brings a doubt, a fear that you will let them down in some way?" He shook his head. "That I will not do. Nor will I, can I, jeopardise the squadron's strength because of something which is precious to me."

Herrick looked round the cabin. "Very well. I will prepare to leave."

"No slur will fall onyou, Thomas. I will see to that. But I’d rather see you captain of some worn-out brig than breaking your heart on the beach, deprived of the one life you love, and for which you have given so much."

Herrick seemed momentarily confused. He said, "Farquhar. I never liked him. Even as a midshipman, I never really liked him." He turned to the door. "I little thought it would end like this. "

Bolitho crossed the cabin towards him and held out his hands. "Not end, Thomas!"

But Herrick kept his hands at his sides. "We will see, sir." He left without looking back.

Allday entered the cabin, and after a, slight hesitation took the sword from its rack and examined it.

Bolitho sat down on the bench seat again and watched him miserably.

"Cap"n Herrick's off then, sir?" Allday kept his eyes on the sword.

"Don’t you start at me, Allday." But there was no bite to his tone. "I have taken enough for one day. For a thousand days."

Allday looked at him, his eyes very clear in the reflected light. "You did right, sir." He smiled sadly. "I’m just a common seaman, who but for you would be working aloft or being punished for some petty fault or other. But I’m a man, and I’ve notions for those I serve, an"-" he seemed at a loss, "-and feel strong for." He drew the old sword carefully and held the blade in line with the sun, apparently studying its edge. "Cap"n Herrick is a good man. In another ship he will find his feet again." The sword went into its scabbard with a sharp click. "But if-not, then the deck of the flagship is no place for him, sir."

Bolitho stared at him. It had happened often in the past, but never before had he needed Allday's support more. In his ship, indeed the whole of his little squadron, there was no man with whom he could really share his fears, his doubts. When he had crossed from wardroom to cabin, and then been given his own broad pendant, he had left such luxuries behind him for good.

Allday added calmly, "When I was first pressed into your ship, I’d planned to give leg bail at the first opening. I knew the penalty for desertion well enough, but I was that determined. Then at the Saintes, when all God's protection was thrown aside under the cannon's bellow, I looked aft and saw you. And it was then that I knew there were some captains who did care for the likes of us, the poor buggers who were expected to cheer for King and country when we sailed into the enemy line."

Bolitho replied quietly, "I think you’ve said enough."

Allday watched his lowered head with something like despair. "And you never sees it yourself, do you, sir? You fret about Cap" n Herrick, or what chance we have against this foe or that, but you never take a watch to think of yourself." He tensed as Ozzard padded through the other door, Bolitho's coat and hat in his hand. "But it's said and done now." He watched Bolitho stand up, his eyes blind as he held out his arms for the coat. "And I reckon it will be all right."

Bolitho felt the sword-belt around his waist. Allday had understood better than most would do. Had guessed his intention perhaps from the moment of Herrick's admission.

He said, "I will go on deck now and greet the others." And afterwards say goodbye to Herrick. "And thank you for-" He looked at Allday's homely face. "Reminding me." Allday watched him stride from the cabin and then put his arm around Ozzard's shoulders.

"By God, I’d not have his position for a dozen wenches and a whole ocean of rum!"

Ozzard grimaced. "Not likely to get the offer, I’d say."

On deck it was still clear and bright, the afternoon sea choppy with lively cat's-paws and long shallow swells. The three ships of the line, sails in flapping confusion as they hove-to to drop and receive boats, would have gladdened Bolitho's heart at any other time. Now, as he stood on the poop deck and watched the two barges speeding towards Lysander s side, the marines already lined up at the entry port to receive the two other captains, he felt a deep sense of loss.

He saw Herrick at the lee rail, his hat well down over his eyes, and close by his first lieutenant, Gilchrist, arms folded, spindly legs apart to take the staggering motion. Of the action there was little to show. Brighter patches of planking where the carpenter and his mates had done their work well, fresh paint to hide other scars and replacements. Above the busy decks the sails, too, were neatly patched, and it was difficult to picture the smoke, to remember the din of war.

What Herrick was thinking at this moment he could hardly dare imagine. He must be very proud of the way his company had faced up to battle and its backbreaking aftermath. Just months ago most of these hurrying seamen had been working ashore on farms, in towns, with skills or without, life in a King's ship not even a possibility.

They would be sorry to see their captain leave. For the new men especially Herrick would be familiar, in some way a beginner like themselves. If they had displeasure to show it would be turned towards their commodore. If necessary, he would see to it himself, he thought grimly. Herrick's name was too valuable to be damaged because of his actions, right or wrong.

The first boat hooked on to the chains. It was Farquhar.

Naturally. He came through the entry port, as elegant and as smart as if he had just left his London tailor. He doffed his hat to the quarterdeck and ran his eyes calmly along the swaying lines of marines and glittering bayonets. His hair was very fair, gathered at the nape of his neck, and it shone above his collar like pale gold.

Bolitho watched him shake hands with Herrick. How ill-matched they were. Had always been. Farquhar's uncle, Sir Henry Langford, had been Bolitho's first captain. At the age of twelve he had joined the eight-gun Manxman, terrified and filled with awe. Fourteen years later, Langford, then an admiral, had given him command of a frigate. His nephew had been appointed into her as midshipman. Now, Farquhar, in his early thirties and a post-captain, was with him again. If he survived the war he would rise to high rank and position, both at home and in the fleet. Bolitho had never doubted it from the beginning, just as Herrick had never accepted it.

More shrills from the silver calls, and he saw George Probyn of the Nicator heaving his untidy shape through the port.

On the other side of the quarterdeck Pascoe was standing with Luce by the signal party, and Bolitho imagined that he himself must have looked like that when as a lieutenant he had witnessed comings and goings of aloof and unreachable beings.

He sighed and walked to the ladder.

Herrick said, "If you will come to my quarters, Captain Probyn. The Commodore wishes to speak with Captain Farquhar."

Farquhar's eyebrows rose slightly." "Pon my word. Bit formal, aren"t we, Captain Herrick?"

Herrick regarded him coldly. "Yes."

Bolitho watched Farquhar as he strode into his cabin.

Watchful, wondering probably what his commodore's reactions were going to be, sensing something deeper around him, too. But confident above all.

"I have my report, sir."

Bolitho gestured to a chair. "In a moment. Our attack as you will have realised, was successful. We have one good prize, and despatched another Spanish vessel in the bay. Four days ago we met with two French ships of the line and engaged them. We broke off the action after crippling both vessels. Our losses were small. Considering."

Farquhar smiled quietly. He did not look quite so confident now. He said, "I followed your instructions, sir. Buzzard reported sighting a convoy of some five sail, and we gave chase. Under the circumstances.

You acted correctly. "Bolitho watched him gravely. "Did you catch them?"

"Captain Javal managed to damage a couple, sir, but he only succeeded in making one heave-to. Unfortunately, I was unable to reach the scene on time as -I had lost my main topgallant mast in a squall. Nicator took the lead, and due to some, er, misunderstanding of signals, fired a half-broad-side into the French vessel, so that she began to founder."

"And then?"

Farquhar tugged an envelope from inside his elegant coat. "My boarding officer managed to save this letter from the master's safe before the vessel capsized and sank. It is addressed to a Yves Gorse, who apparently resides in Malta. It contains instructions for Gorse to prepare watering arrangements." He thrust the letter across the table. "For merchant vessels on their lawful occasions, or words to that effect. I believe the letter to be in some sort of code, but the vessel's master is such a dolt that I could get nothing from him. But the small convoy was out of Marseilles. A French corvette was escorting them through these waters, not because of any threat from us, but because of Barbary pirates and the like." He was keeping the most important until the last. "My first lieutenant did manage to discover one thing, sir. I have several Frenchmen pressed into my company, and one of them told my senior that he"d heard one of the survivors claim that the letter had been sent aboard their ship by order of Admiral Brueys himself!"

Bolitho looked at him. Brueys was perhaps the finest and. most capable admiral in the French navy. In any navy for that matter.

"You did well." Bolitho rubbed his hands on his thighs. "This man Gorse may be a spy or agent of some kind. Perhaps the French intend to attack Malta. "

"Or Sicily?" Farquhar frowned. "Bonaparte is said to have intentions towards the kingdom. They are at peace, but he probably believes, as I do, that in war there is no such luxury as neutrality. "

"Maybe." Bolitho tried not to think of Herrick. "We will make haste to Toulon and Marseilles. Following your discovery, we can now determine the strength of these preparations. "

Farquhar asked, "Your prize, sir. What does she hold?" "Powder and shot. And fodder."

"Fodder?"

"Yes. It troubles me, too. All the French and Spanish preparations are for a full-scale attack. They blend together into a sort of strategy. But fodder. It does not sound like a local attack. It sounds like cavalry and heavy artillery. And all the men and horses to sustain them."

Farquhar's eyes gleamed. "This vessel, too, was carrying fodder." He looked around the cabin. "I am sorry, sir. But should we not wait for the others? It will save time."

Bolitho looked at the sealed envelope. "This is for you, Captain Farquhar." He walked to the stern and watched the other ships, hearing the rasp of a knife as Farquhar slit open the envelope.

Farquhar said quietly, "You have me all aback, sir." Bolitho turned and studied him thoughtfully. "It was a hard decision. "

"And Captain Herrick, sir?" Farquhar's face was masklike. "Is he ill?"

"Not ill." He added shortly, "Execute the arrangements directly. I want the squadron under way before dusk." Farquhar was still watching him, the letter in one hand. "I cannot begin to thank you, sir."

Bolitho nodded. "You obviously think I made the right choice."

Farquhar had blue eyes. But they were not like Herrick's, and in the light from the sea they were like ice.

"Well, as you have asked, sir, yes I do."

"Then see that the squadron's affairs show some sign of this." He looked at him evenly. "Captain Herrick is a fine officer."

The eyebrows moved again. "But?"

"No but, Captain Farquhar. I want him to feel his strength in a well-trained ship, where he has no personal contact as yet. He will be kept fully occupied. I think it will be good for him and the squadron.

Farquhar smiled. "My first lieutenant will be surprised. It will do him good also." He did not explain what he meant. "The first lieutenant in this ship is Mr. Gilchrist. I suggest you make his acquaintance without delay."

He waited for a sign but Farquhar merely remarked, "Gilchrist? I don’tthink I know him." He shrugged. "But then, why should one bother to know these people?" Bolitho said, "I would appreciate it if you would keep your personal dislikes out of the meeting."

Farquhar stood up. "Of course, sir. You should know that I have never disliked Captain Herrick. Although I am well aware of his hostility towards me." He gave his tight-lipped smile. "I cannot imagine the reason for it."

Bolitho saw Ozzard hovering at the door. 'show the other captains aft, Ozzard. Then you can bring some wine." He tried to speak lightheartedly, as if he was untroubled, unreached.

Ozzard bobbed, his eyes on Farquhar. "Aye, aye, sir." Bolitho crossed to a quarter gallery and stared at the small white-horses cruising down from the horizon. Each piece of news and every thin rumour took them deeper and deeper into the Mediterranean. Each time it would be his decision. One captured letter had taken him into a bay where men and ships had been destroyed. Now Farquhar's chance find would send them still further north-east, to the harbours of the French navy. Pieces of a puzzle, all set against a chart and the remorseless run of sand in an hour-glass.

The door opened and he turned to see Herrick and Probyn entering the cabin. He waited until they were seated and then beckoned Ozzard to the wine cabinet.

At that moment there was a knock on the door and Gilchrist peered in at them. He saw Herrick and said, "I am sorry to intrude, sir, but I wish to speak with the flag captain." Farquhar's voice made him turn.

I am the flag captain, Mr. Gilchrist. I will trouble you not to forget it!" There was an uncomfortable silence and he added, "I" will also trouble you never to enter the commodore's quarters without my permission!"

The door closed and Farquhar leaned sideways in his chair to look at the cabinet.

His voice was perfectly normal again. "A fine piece of joinery, sir. I know his work well."

Bolitho glanced at Herrick, but he was already beyond his reach.