Stand into Danger

12. Place of Safety

SIR Jason Fitzpatrick, the acting-governor of St Christopher’s, looked like a man who lived life to excess. Aged about forty, he was extremely fat, and his face, which had seemingly defied the sun over the years, was brick-red.

As Bolitho followed Dumaresq across a beautifully tiled entrance hall and into a low-ceilinged room, he saw plenty of evidence of Fitzpatrick’s occupation. There were trays of bottles set around, with neat ranks of finely cut glasses close to hand, presumably ready for the acting-governor to slake his thirst with the shortest possible delay.

Fitzpatrick said, “Be seated, gentlemen. We will taste some of my claret. It should be suitable, although in this damnable climate, who can say?”

He had a throaty voice, and incredibly small eyes which were almost hidden in the folds of his face.

Bolitho noticed the tiny eyes more than anything. They moved all the time, as if quite independent of the heavy frame which supported them. Dumaresq had told him on the way from the water-front that Fitzpatrick was a rich plantation owner, with other properties on the neighbouring island of Nevis.

“Here, master.”

Bolitho turned and felt his stomach contract. A big Negro in red jacket and loose white trousers was holding a tray towards him. Bolitho did not see the tray or the glasses upon it. In his mind’s eye he could picture that other black face, hear the terrible scream of triumph as he had hacked him down with a seaman’s cutlass.

He took a glass and nodded his thanks while his breathing returned to normal.

Dumaresq was saying, “By the authority entrusted in me, I am ordered to complete this investigation without further delay, Sir Jason. I have the written statements required, and would like you to furnish me with Garrick’s whereabouts.”

Fitzpatrick played with the stem of his glass, his eyes flitting rapidly round the room.

“Ah, Captain, you are in a great hurry. You see, the governor is absent. He was stricken with fever some months back and returned to England aboard an Indiaman. He may be on his way back by now. Communications are very poor, we are hard put to get our mails on time with all these wretched pirates on the rampage. Honest craft sail in fear of their lives. It is a pity their lordships of Admiralty do not put their minds to that.”

Dumaresq was unmoved. “I had hoped that a flag-officer would be here.”

“As I explained, Captain, the governor is away, otherwise…”

“Otherwise there’d be no damned Spaniard anchored here, I’m certain of that!”

Fitzpatrick forced a smile. “We are not at war with Spain. The San Augustin comes in peace. She is commanded by Capitan de Navio Don Carlos Quintana. A most senior and personable captain, who is also entrusted with his country’s authority.” He leaned back, obviously pleased with his advantage. “After all, what evidence do you really have? The statement of a man who died before he could be brought to justice, the sworn testimony of a renegade who is so eager to save his own skin he will say anything.”

Dumaresq tried to hide the bitterness as he answered, “My clerk was carrying further documents of proof when he was murdered in Madeira.”

“Indeed I am genuinely sorry about that, Captain. But to cast a slur against the name of so influential a gentleman as Sir Piers Garrick without evidence would be a criminal act in itself.” He smiled complacently. “May I suggest we await instructions from London? You may send your despatches on the next home-bound vessel, which will probably be from Barbados. You could anchor there and be ready to act when so instructed. By then, the governor may have returned, and the squadron too, so that you will have senior naval authority to uphold your actions.”

Dumaresq snapped angrily, “That could take months. By then, the bird will have flown.”

“Forgive my lack of enthusiasm. As I told Don Carlos, it all happened thirty years ago, so why this sudden interest?”

“Garrick was a felon first, a traitor second. You complain about the flocks of pirates who roam the Main and the Caribbean, who sack towns and plunder the ships of rich traders, but do you ever wonder where they find their own vessels? Like the Heloise, which was new from a British yard, sent out here with a passage crew, and for what?”

Bolitho listened entranced. He had expected Fitzpatrick to leap to his feet and summon the garrison commander. To plan with Dumaresq how they would seek and detain the elusive Garrick, and then wait for further orders.

Fitzpatrick spread his red hands apologetically. “It is not within my province to take such action, Captain. I am in a temporary capacity, and would receive no thanks for putting a match to the powder-keg. You must of course do as you think fit. You say you had hoped for a flag-officer to be here? No doubt to take the responsibility and decision from your shoulders?” When Dumaresq remained silent he continued calmly, “So do not pour scorn on me for not wishing to act unsupported.”

Bolitho was astounded. The Admiralty in London, some senior officers of the fleet, even the government of King George had been involved in getting the Destiny here. Dumaresq had worked without respite from the moment he had been told of his assignment, and must have spent many long hours in the privacy of his cabin pondering on his own interpretation of his scanty collection of clues.

And now, because there was no naval authority to back his most important decision, he would either have to kick his heels and wait for orders to arrive from elsewhere, or take it upon himself. At the age of twenty-eight, Dumaresq was the senior naval officer in St Christopher’s, and Bolitho found it impossible to see how he could proceed with a course of action which might easily destroy him.

Dumaresq said wearily, “Tell me what you know of Garrick.”

“Virtually nothing. It is true he has shipping interests, and has taken delivery of several small vessels over the months. He is a very rich man, and I understand he intends to continue trading with the French in Martinique, with a view to extending commerce elsewhere.”

Dumaresq stood up. “I must return to my ship.” He did not look at Bolitho. “I would take it kindly if you would accommodate my third lieutenant who has been wounded, and all to no good purpose, it now appears.”

Fitzpatrick lifted his bulk unsteadily. “I’d be happy to do that.” He tried to hide his relief. Dumaresq was obviously going to take the easier course.

Dumaresq silenced Bolitho’s unspoken protest. “I’ll send some servants to care for your wants.” He nodded to the acting-governor. “I shall return when I have spoken with the San Augustin’s captain.”

Outside the building, his features hidden in the gloom, Dumaresq gave vent to his true feelings. “That bloody hound! He’s in it up to the neck! Thinks I’ll stay anchored and be a good little boy, does he? God damn his poxy face, I’ll see him in hell first!”

“Must I stay here, sir?”

“For the present. I’ll detail some stout hands to join you. I don’t trust that Fitzpatrick. He’s a local landowner, and probably as thick as thieves with every smuggler and slaver in the Caribbean. Play the innocent with me, would he? By God, I’ll wager he knows how many new vessels have fetched up here to await Garrick’s orders.”

Bolitho asked, “Is he still a pirate, sir?”

Dumaresq grinned in the darkness. “Worse. I believe he is directly involved with supplying arms and well-found vessels for use against us in the north.”

“ America, sir?”

“Eventually, and further still if those damned renegades have their way. Do you think the French will rest until they have rekindled the fires? We kicked them out of Canada and their Caribbean possessions. Did you imagine they’d put forgiveness at the top of their list?”

Bolitho had often heard talk of the unrest in the American colony which had followed the Seven Years War. There had been several serious incidents, but the prospect of open rebellion had been regarded by even the most influential newspaper as bluster.

“All these years Garrick has been working and scheming, using his stolen booty to best advantage. He sees himself as a leader if a rebellion comes, and those in power who believe otherwise are deluding themselves. I have had plenty of time to mull over Garrick’s affairs, and the cruel unfairness which made him rich and powerful and left my father an impoverished cripple.”

Bolitho watched the gig approaching through the darkness, the oars very white against the water. So Dumaresq had already decided. He should have guessed, after what he had seen and learned of the man.

Dumaresq said suddenly, “Egmont and his wife will also be landed shortly. They are outwardly under Fitzpatrick’s care, but post a guard for your own satisfaction. I want Fitzpatrick to know he is directly implicated should there be any attempt at treachery.”

“You think Egmont is still in danger, sir?”

Dumaresq waved his hand towards the small residency. “Here is a place of safety. I’ll not have Egmont on the run again with some mad scheme of his own. There are too many who might want him dead. After I have dealt with Garrick, he can do as he damn well pleases. The quicker the better.”

“I see, sir.”

Dumaresq signalled to his coxswain and then chuckled. “I doubt that. But keep your ears open, as I believe things will begin to move very shortly.”

Bolitho watched him climb into the gig and then retraced his steps to the residency.

Did Dumaresq care what happened to Egmont and his wife? Or, like the hunter he was, did he merely see them as bait for his trap?

There were two or three small dwellings set well apart from the residency, and which were normally used for visiting officials or militia officers and their families.

Bolitho assumed that these visitors were rare, and when they came were prepared to supply their own comforts. The building allotted to him was little more than the size of a room. The frames around the shutters were pitted with holes, made by a tireless army of insects, he thought. Palms tapped against the roof and walls, and he guessed that in any heavy rainstorm the whole place would leak like a sieve.

He sat gingerly on a large, hand-carved bed and trimmed a lantern. More insects buzzed and threw themselves at the hot glass, and he pitied the less fortunate people on the island if the governor himself could be struck down by fever.

Planks creaked outside the loosely fitting door and Stockdale peered in at him. With six other men, he had come ashore, to keep a weather-eye on things, as he put it.

He wheezed, “All posted, sir. We’ll work watch an’ watch. Josh Little will take the first one.” He leaned against the door and Bolitho heard it groan in protest. “I’ve put two ’ands near the other place. It’s quiet enough.”

Bolitho thought of the way she had looked at him as she and her husband had been hurried into the next dwelling by some of the governor’s servants. She had appeared worried, distressed by the sudden change of events. Egmont was said to have friends in Basseterre, but instead of being released to go to them, he was still a guest. A prisoner, more likely.

Bolitho said, “Get some sleep.” He touched the scar and grimaced. “I feel as if it happened today.”

Stockdale grinned. “Neat bit o’ work, sir. Lucky we’ve a good sawbones!”

He strolled out of the door, and Bolitho heard him whistling softly as he found his own place to stretch out. Sailors could sleep anywhere.

Bolitho lay back, his hands behind his head, as he stared up at the shadows above the lantern’s small glow.

It was all a waste. Garrick had gone from the island, or that was what he had heard. He must be better informed than Dumaresq had believed. He would be laughing now, thinking of the frigate and her unwanted Spanish consort lying baffled at anchor while he…

Bolitho sat up with a jerk, reaching out for his pistol, as the planks outside the door squeaked again.

He watched the handle drop, and could feel his heart pounding against his ribs as he measured the distance across the room and wondered if he could get to his feet in time to defend himself.

The door opened a few inches and he saw her small hand around its edge.

He was off the bed in seconds, and as he opened the door he heard her gasp, “Please! Watch the light!”

For a long, confused moment they clung together, the door tightly shut behind them. There was no sound but their breathing, and Bolitho was almost afraid to speak for fear of smashing this unbelievable dream.

She said quietly, “I had to come. It was bad enough on the ship. But to know you were in here, while…” She looked up at him her eyes shining. “Do not despise me for my weakness.”

Bolitho held her tightly, feeling her soft body through the long pale gown, knowing they were already lost. If the world fell apart around them, nothing could spoil this moment.

How she had got past his sentries he could not understand, nor did he care. Then he thought of Stockdale. He should have guessed.

His hands were shaking badly as he held her shoulders and kissed her hair, her face and her throat.

She whispered, “I will help you.” She stood back from him and allowed the gown to fall to the floor. “Now hold me again.”

In the darkness, somewhere between the two small buildings, Stockdale propped his cutlass against a tree and sat down on the ground. He watched the moonlight as it touched the door he had seen open and close just an hour ago and thought about the two of them together. It was probably the lieutenant’s first time, he thought comfortably. He could have no better teacher, that was certain.

Long before dawn the girl named Aurora slipped quietly from the bed and pulled on her gown. For a while more she looked at the pale figure, now sleeping deeply, while she touched her breast as he had done. Then she stooped and kissed him lightly on the mouth. His lips tasted of salt, perhaps from her own tears. Without another glance she left the room and ran past Stockdale, seeing nothing.

Bolitho walked slowly from the doorway and stepped down on to the sun-hardened ground as if he was walking on thin glass. Although he had donned his uniform he still felt naked, could imagine their embrace, the breathtaking demands of their passion which had left him spent.

He stared at the early sunlight, at one of his guards who was watching him curiously as he leaned on a musket.

If only he had been awake when she had left him. Then they would never have parted.

Stockdale strolled to meet him. “Nothin’ to report, sir.”

He eyed Bolitho’s uncertainty with quiet satisfaction. The lieutenant was different. Lost, but alive. Confused too, but in time he would feel the strength she had given him.

Bolitho nodded. “Muster the hands.”

He went to raise his hat to his head and remembered the scar which throbbed and burned at the slightest touch. She had even made him forget about that.

Stockdale stooped down and picked up a small piece of paper which had dropped from inside the hat. He handed it over, his face expressionless.

“Can’t read meself, sir.”

Bolitho opened the paper, his eyes misty as he read her few brief words.

Dearest, I could not wait. Think of me sometimes and how it was.

Beneath it she had written, The place your captain wants is Fougeaux Island.

She had not signed her name, but he could almost hear her speaking aloud.

“You feelin’ weak, sir?”

“No.”

He re-read the small message once again. She must have carried it with her, knowing she was going to give herself to him. Knowing too that it was ending there.

Feet grated on sand and he saw Palliser striding along the path, Midshipman Merrett trotting in his wake and hard put to keep up with the lanky lieutenant.

He saw Bolitho and snapped, “All done.” He waited, his eyes wary.

Bolitho asked, “Egmont and his wife, sir. What’s happened?”

“Oh, didn’t you know? They’ve just boarded a vessel in the bay. We sent their luggage across during the night. I’d have thought you would be better informed.”

Bolitho hesitated. Then very carefully he folded the paper and removed the lower half, with the island’s name written on it.

Palliser examined it and said, “It’ll be the one.”

He refolded the paper and handed it to Merrett. “Back to the ship, my lad, and present this with my respects to the captain. Lose it, and I promise you a hideous death!” The youth fled down the path and Palliser said, “The captain was right after all.” He smiled at Bolitho’s grave features. “Come, I’ll walk back with you.”

“You say they’ve already boarded a vessel, sir?” He could not accept it. “Where bound?”

“I forget. Is it important?”

Bolitho fell in step beside him. She had provided the information as repayment, perhaps for saving her life, or for sharing his love with her. Dumaresq had used both of them. He felt his face sting with anger. A place of safety, he had called it. More likely one of deceit.

When he reached the ship he found the hands turned-to, the sails loosely brailed and ready to set at short notice.

As instructed, Bolitho presented himself in the cabin where Dumaresq and Gulliver were studying some charts with elaborate care.

Dumaresq told the master to wait outside and then said bluntly, “In order to avoid my having to punish you for insubordination, let me speak first. Our mission in these waters is an important one for so small a vessel. I have always believed it, and now with that final piece of intelligence I know where Garrick has made his headquarters, his storehouse for arms, unlawful supplies and vessels to disperse them. It is important.”

Bolitho met his gaze. “I should have been told, sir.”

“You enjoyed it, did you not?” His voice softened. “I know what it’s like to be in love with a dream, and that is all it could have been. You are a King’s officer, and may amount to being a fair one, given time and a bit of common sense.”

Bolitho looked past him towards the windows, at the moored vessels there, and wondered which, if any of them, was Aurora ’s.

He asked, “Is that all, sir?”

“Yes. Take charge of your division. I intend to weigh as soon as my quill-pusher has made copies of my despatches for the authorities and for London.” He was lost in his thoughts, the hundred and one things he must do.

Bolitho blundered from the cabin and into the wardroom. It was impossible to picture the cabin as it had been. Her clothes hung neatly to dry, the young maidservant always near in case she was needed. Perhaps Dumaresq’s way was the best, but need it be so brutal and without feeling?

Rhodes and Colpoys rose to greet him, and they solemnly shook hands.

Bolitho touched the piece of paper in his pocket and felt stronger. Whatever Dumaresq and the others thought, they could never be certain, or really know how it was.

Bulkley entered the wardroom, saw Bolitho and was about to ask him how his wound was progressing, but Rhodes gave a slight shake of his head and the surgeon called Poad for some coffee instead.

Bolitho would get over it. But it would take time.

“Anchor’s aweigh, sir!”

Dumaresq walked to the rail and stared across at the Spaniard, as with her sails booming in a lively breeze Destiny tacked round towards the open sea.

He said, “That will rile the Don. He’s half of his people ashore gathering supplies and will not be able to follow us for hours!” He threw back his head and laughed. “Damn you, Garrick! Make the most of your freedom!”

Bolitho watched his men setting the main-topgallant sail, calling to each other as if they too were infected by Dumaresq’s excitement. Death, prize-money, a different landfall, it was all meat to them.

Palliser shouted from the quarterdeck, “Chase up those hands, Mr Bolitho, they have lead in their limbs today!”

Bolitho turned aft, his mouth framing an angry retort. Then he shrugged. Palliser was trying to help him in the only way he knew.

Skirting the treacherous shallows off Bluff Point,Destiny spread more sails and headed away towards the west. Later, when Bolitho took over the afternoon-watch, he examined the chart and Gulliver’s carefully written calculations.

Fougeaux Island was very small, one of a scattered group some 150 miles west-north-west of St Christopher’s. It had been claimed by France, Spain and England in turn, even the Dutch had been interested for a time.

Now it owed allegiance to no country, for to all intents it had no real use. It lacked timber for firewood or repairs, and according to the navigational notes it had less than its share of water. A bare, hostile place with a lagoon shaped like a reaping-hook as its one asset. It could provide shelter from storms, if little else. But as Dumaresq had observed, what else did Garrick require?

Bolitho watched the captain as he prowled restlessly about the deck, as if he could not bear the restraint of his quarters now that his goal was so close. Adverse winds were making progress hard and frustrating, with the ship tacking back and forth for several miles to gain a few cables advance.

But the mention of lost bullion, and the prospect of some share in it, seemed to make up for the back-breaking work of trimming the yards and resetting the sails again and again.

Suppose the island proved to be empty or the wrong one? Bolitho guessed it to be unlikely. Aurora must have known that Garrick’s capture was the only way of preventing him from taking his revenge on her husband and herself. Also that Dumaresq had no intention of freeing them without solid information.

The next day found Destiny drifting becalmed, her sails hanging flat and devoid of movement.

Far away to starboard was the vague shape of another islet, but otherwise they had the sea to themselves. It was so hot that feet stuck to the deck seams, and the gun barrels felt as if they had been firing in battle.

Gulliver said, “If we had taken a more northerly passage we’d have been in better luck for a wind, sir.”

“I know that, damn you.” Dumaresq turned on him hotly. “And risk losing my keel as well, is that what you want? This is a frigate, not some damned fishing boat!”

All that day, and for half of the next, the ship rolled uneasily in the swell. A shark moved cautiously beneath her counter, and several of the hands tried their luck with hooks and lines.

Dumaresq never seemed to leave the deck, and as he passed Bolitho during his watch he saw that his shirt was black with sweat, and there was a livid blister on his forehead which he did not seem to notice.

Halfway through the afternoon-watch the wind felt its way slowly across the glittering water, but with it came a surprise.

“Ship, sir! Fine on the larboard quarter!”

Dumaresq and Palliser watched the tan-coloured pyramid grow above the horizon, the great scarlet cross clearly etched on her forecourse to dispel any doubt.

Palliser exclaimed bitterly, “The Don, blast his soul!”

Dumaresq lowered the glass, his eyes like stones. “Fitzpatrick. He must have told them. Now they’re hot for blood.” He looked past his officers. “If Don Carlos Quintana interferes now, it will be his own blood!”

“Man the braces there!”

Destiny shivered and tilted steadily to a freshening breeze, her renewed strength tossing spray up and around her white figurehead.

Dumaresq said, “Put the people to gun-drill, Mr Palliser.” He stared astern at the other vessel. She already seemed to be drawing much closer.

“And run up the colours, if you please. I’ll have no damned Spaniard crossing my bows!”

Rhodes dropped his voice. “He means it too, Richard. This is his moment. He’d die rather than share it!”

Some of the men near the quarterdeck glanced at each other and murmured apprehensively. Their natural contempt for any navy but their own had been somewhat blunted by the brief stay at Basseterre. The San Augustin carried at least forty-four guns against their own twenty-eight.

Dumaresq shouted, “And get those dolts to work, Mr Palliser! This ship is getting like a sty!”

One of Bolitho’s gun-captains muttered, “I thought we was only after a pirate.”

Stockdale showed his teeth. “An enemy’s an enemy, Tom. When did a flag make any difference?”

Bolitho bit his lip. This was the true responsibility of command at close quarters. If Dumaresq did nothing he could be courtmartialled for incompetence or cowardice. If he crossed swords with a Spanish ship he might be blamed for provoking a war.

He said, “Stand to, lads. Cast off the breechings!”

Maybe Stockdale was right. All you had to worry about was winning.

The following day the hands were sent to breakfast and then the decks swabbed down before the sun had crept fully over the horizon.

The breeze, though light, was steady enough, and had shifted during the night watches to south-westerly.

Dumaresq was on deck as early as anyone, and Bolitho saw the impatience in his thick-set figure as he strode about the deck glancing at the compass or consulting the master’s slate by the wheel. He probably saw none of these things, and Bolitho could tell from the way that Palliser and Gulliver gave him a wide berth that they knew the measure of his moods of old.

With Rhodes, Bolitho watched the boatswain detailing his working parties as usual. The fact that a larger man-of-war than their own was trailing astern, and that the little known Fougeaux Island lay somewhere beyond the lee bow made no difference to Mr Timbrell’s routine.

Palliser’s brusque tones made Bolitho start. “Rig top-chains before all else, Mr Timbrell.”

Some of the seamen looked up at the yards. Palliser did not explain further, nor did he need to for the older hands. The chains would be rigged to sling each yard, as the cordage which normally held them might be shot away in any sort of battle. Then the nets would be spread across the upper deck. The slings and the nets were the only protection to the men below from falling spars and rigging.

Perhaps it was the same aboard the Spaniard, Bolitho thought. Although he had seen little evidence so far. In fact, now that she had caught up, the San Augustin seemed content to follow and watch events.

Rhodes turned abruptly and headed for his own part of the ship, hissing quickly, “Lord and master!”

Bolitho swung round and came face to face with the captain. It was unusual to see him away from the quarterdeck or poop, and the seamen working around him seemed to press back as if they too were awed by his presence.

Bolitho touched his hat and waited.

Dumaresq’s eyes examined his face slowly, without expression.

Then he said, “Come with me. Bring a glass.” tossing his hat to his coxswain, he added, “A climb will clear the head.”

Bolitho stared as Dumaresq began to haul himself out and on to the shrouds, his broad figure hanging awkwardly as he peered up at the spiralling masthead.

Bolitho hated heights. Of all the things which had encouraged him to work for advancement to lieutenant, he thought it was probably that. No longer needed to swarm aloft with the hands, no ice-cold terror as the wind tried to cut away your grip on frozen ratlines, or throw you out and into the sea far below.

Perhaps Dumaresq was goading him, provoking him, if only to relieve his own tension.

“Come along, Mr Bolitho! You are in stays today!”

Bolitho followed him up the vibrating shrouds, foot by foot, hand over hand. He told himself not to look down, even though he could picture Destiny’s pale deck tilting away beneath him as the ship drove her shoulder into a steep roller.

Disdaining the lubber’s hole, Dumaresq clawed his way out on the futtock shrouds so that his misshapen body was hanging almost parallel to the sea below. Then up past the main-top, ignoring some startled marines who were exercising with a swivel gun, and towards the topgallant yard.

Dumaresq’s confidence gave Bolitho the will to climb faster than he could recall. What did Dumaresq know about love, or whether he and Aurora could have overcome all the obstacles together?

He barely noticed the height and was already peering up towards the main-royal yard when Dumaresq paused, one foot dangling in space as he observed, “You can get the feel of her from here.”

Bolitho clung on with both hands and stared up at him, his eyes watering in the fierce sunlight. Dumaresq spoke with such conviction, and yet with a warmth which was almost akin to love itself.

“Feel her?” Dumaresq seized a stay and tugged it with his fist. “Taut and firm, equal strain on all parts. As she should be. As any good vessel ought to be, properly cared for!” He looked at Bolitho’s upturned face. “Head all right?”

Bolitho nodded. In his mixture of resentment and anger he had forgotten about his wound.

“Good. Come on then.”

They reached the cross-trees where a lookout slithered down to make room for his betters.

“Ah.” Dumaresq unslung a telescope, and after wiping the lens with his neckcloth trained it across the starboard bow.

Bolitho followed his example, and then felt a touch of ice at his spine, despite the sun and the wind which hissed through the rigging like sand.

It was like nothing he had ever seen. The island seemed to be made entirely of coral or rock, obscenely stripped bare like something which was no longer alive. In the centre was a ridge, rather like a hill with the top sliced off. But misty in distance, it could have been a giant fortress, and the low island there merely to support it.

He tried to compare it with the sparse details on the chart, and guessed from the bearing that the sheltered lagoon was directly beneath the hill.

Dumaresq said hoarsely, “They’re there right enough!”

Bolitho tried again. The place appeared deserted, stamped in time by some terrible natural disaster.

Then he saw something darker than the rest before it was lost in the heat-haze. A mast, or several masts, while the vessels lay hidden by the protective wall of coral.

He looked quickly at Dumaresq and wondered how differently he saw it.

“Little pieces of a puzzle.” Dumaresq did not raise his voice above the murmur of rigging and canvas. “There are Garrick’s ships, his little armada. No line of battle, Mr Bolitho, no flagship with the admiral’s proud flag to inspire you, but just as deadly.”

Bolitho took another look through his glass. No wonder Garrick had felt so safe. He had known of their arrival at Rio, and even before that at Madeira. And now Garrick had the upper hand. He could either send his vessels out at night or he could stay put like a hermit-crab in a shell.

Again Dumaresq seemed to be speaking to himself. “All the Don cares about is the lost bullion. Garrick can go free as far as he is concerned. Quintana believes that he will excise those carefully selected vessels and what booty remains without firing a shot.”

Bolitho asked, “Perhaps Garrick knows less than we think, sir, and may try to bluff it out?”

Dumaresq looked at him strangely. “I am afraid not. No more bluff now. I tried to explain Garrick’s mind to the Spaniard at Basseterre. But he would not listen. Garrick helped the French, and in any future war Spain will need an ally like France. Be certain that Don Carlos Quintana is mindful of that, too.”

“Cap’n, sir!” The lookout beneath sounded anxious. “The Don’s makin’ more sail!”

Dumaresq said, “Time to go.” He looked at each mast in turn and then at the deck below.

Bolitho found he could do the same without flinching. The foreshortened blue and white figures of the officers and midshipmen on the quarterdeck, the changing patterns of men as they moved around the double line of black cannon.

For those few moments Bolitho shared an understanding with this devious, determined man. She was his ship, every moving part of her, every timber and inch of cordage.

Then Dumaresq said, “The Spaniard may attempt to enter the lagoon before me. It is dangerous folly because the entrance is narrow, the channel unknown. Without hope of surprise he will be depending on his peaceful intentions, with a show of force if that fails.”

He climbed with surprising swiftness down to the deck, and when Bolitho reached the quarterdeck Dumaresq was already speaking with Palliser and the master.

Bolitho heard Palliser say, “The Don is standing inshore, sir.”

Dumaresq was busy with his telescope again. “Then he stands into danger. Signal him to sheer off.”

Bolitho saw the other faces nearby, ones he had come to know so well. In a few moments it might all be decided, and it was Dumaresq’s choice.

Palliser shouted, “He ignores us, sir!”

“Very well. Beat to quarters and clear for action.” Dumaresq clasped his hands behind him. “We’ll see how he likes that.”

Rhodes gripped Bolitho’s arm. “He must be mad. He can’t fight Garrick and the Dons.”

The marine drummer boys began their staccato beat, and the moment of doubt was past.