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  Bolitho looked at him, but his face was in deep shadow. It was hard to tell if he was testing him again or merely making light of what was a very real possibility.

  “I have lived with that prospect in fear, excitement or mere bewilderment on and off since I was twelve, sir.” Bolitho kept his voice equally grave. Then he grinned. “But so far I have never had any of my reactions taken into consideration, least of all by the enemy!”

  Draffen chuckled. “I will go below and sleep easily now. I have taxed you too much as it is. But please keep me informed if anything unusual occurs.”

  Bolitho stood aside. “I will, sir. You and my admiral.”

  Draffen walked away laughing to himself. “We will talk further.” Then he was gone.

  The midshipman of the watch hurried across the deck and reported to his lieutenant that the stern light had been lit. Through the mass of rigging Bolitho could see the Tanais’s own lantern shining like a firefly and playing across the ruffled water of her wake.

  He heard the lieutenant say sharply, “It took you long enough, Mr Drury!” And then the boy’s mumbled reply.

  It was not difficult to see Adam Pascoe’s shape standing there in the shadows instead of the luckless Drury.

  Bolitho had tried not to worry about his young nephew, but meeting with Inch had again made the boy’s absence seem suddenly real and beyond his reach. There had been letters, of course, both from him and his captain, Bolitho’s best friend, Herrick. But, like the Euryalus, his ship, the old sixty-four Impulsive, had little concern for the warmth and hope brought by the mail boats, or hoarded in some harbour office on the offchance the ships might one day drop anchor.

  Bolitho began to walk again, trying to picture Adam as he had last seen him. But he would be different now. Perhaps a stranger? He quickened his pace, suddenly aware of his concern.

  It was two years since they had parted. The boy to join Herrick’s ship and he to take command and tend to the refitting of his prize, the Euryalus. He would be seventeen, perhaps already awaiting his chance to try for promotion to lieutenant. Would two more years have changed him much? he wondered. Would he still be forming his own mould, or taking after Hugh?

  He realised with a start that the midshipman was blocking his path, his eyes gleaming white in the shadows.

  “Beg pardon, sir, but the officer of the watch sends his respects, and, and,” he faltered under his captain’s gaze, “and could we take in a reef. The wind appears to be getting up, sir.”

  Bolitho studied him impassively. He had not even noticed the change in the wind’s sound through the shrouds. He had been more worried by his own thoughts than he had realised.

  He asked sharply, “How old are you, Mr Drury?”

  The boy gulped. “Thirteen, sir.”

  “I see. Well, Mr Drury, you have a long and very stormy passage ahead of you before you attain your own command.”

  “Yessir.” He sounded fearful of what was coming next.

  “And a young officer without fingers can find the handicap a real problem. So in future I do not wish to learn of your agility with a candle as a target for swordplay, do you understand?”

  “No, sir, I—I mean, yes, sir!” He almost fell as he ran back to the officer of the watch, his mind no doubt buzzing with the captain’s unfaltering source of private information.

  Keverne appeared on deck, dabbing his mouth with his handkerchief and already peering aloft at the booming canvas.

  “Trouble, sir?”

  “We will reef tops’ls directly, Mr Keverne.” He kept his tone formal. Whatever he felt or feared, it was right that he should display none of it, share none of it with those who depended on his judgement. He watched Keverne hurrying away, buttoning his coat and bellowing for a bosun’s mate.

  But sometimes, like tonight, it was harder than he would have imagined.

  7 “BROADSIDE!”

  NOON the following day found the ships clawing slowly on a lar-board tack with the wind almost abeam, their yards braced hard round to take maximum advantage of it. Shortly after first light they had altered course again and were now heading east-northeast, pinned down on their broken reflections by a sun which made any physical effort a torture. It was like a furnace, and even the wind, steady as ever from the north-west, seemed without any kind of freshness or relief, and stung the faces and bodies of the seamen like hot sand.

  Bolitho plucked his shirt away from his chest and moved into the shadow of the hammock nettings as Keverne and Partridge lowered their sextants and began to compare notes. This usual procedure was watched and copied by several of the midshipmen, although unlike their superiors they were not involved in the importance of the situation.

  Up on the poop, shaded by a small awning, he could see Draffen’s stocky figure pacing back and forth, up and down, his shoes clumping noisily on the sun-dried planking.

  Keverne crossed to Bolitho and said wearily, “It matches your own calculation, sir.” Like the other officers he had discarded coat and hat, and his shirt was clinging to his body like another skin. He sounded too tired for either admiration or surprise at his findings.

  It had been an uneventful night, with the squadron sailing well and keeping their allotted stations. At dawn Broughton had come on deck, something so unusual as to give Bolitho a warning of the day’s importance.

  As the signals had soared aloft for the new course, and preparations for cleaning ship and preparing breakfast had begun, Broughton had remarked sourly, “We are supposed to be contacted by one of Sir Hugo’s friends this forenoon. By God, I hate to have to rely on some damned amateur!”

  He did not say if he was describing Draffen or his agent, and the look on his face decided Bolitho against even tactful questioning.

  Draffen’s earlier confidence had visibly faded as the searing morning had dragged on. Any sudden shout from one of the ship’s company made him pause in his walk and stand stockstill until he had found the cry to be meaningless.

  Bolitho said, “Well, Mr Keverne, there is nothing we can do at present.”

  Two hours earlier the masthead lookout had hailed the deck, and as every eye had been raised to his tiny, swaying perch some two hundred feet above their heads, he had reported sighting land.

  In spite of his hatred for any sort of height, Bolitho had made himself climb up the dizzy, vibrating ratlines, past the maintop, on and up until he had joined the pigtailed seaman who had made the report.

  With his legs wrapped tightly around the crosstrees he had forced himself to ignore the deck far below him and had concentrated on opening his telescope, aware the whole time that the lookout was whistling between his teeth and not even bothering to hold on.

  The sight was almost worth the anguish and embarrassment of the climb. There, far to the south, was a long, uneven ridge of mountains, ice blue in the harsh sunlight, disconnected from the land by sea mist, and strangely beautiful. The African coast. The mountains, he had estimated, were nearly thirty miles distant, but seemed unreachable and without reality.

  Now, once again there was no sight of land, and away on either beam the sea danced and glittered in millions of blinding reflections, so that seamen working aloft and along the braced yards fumbled and groped with each precarious movement, their eyes too dulled by glare to be trusted.

  The other ships had become more separated, so that the line was well stretched, the Tanais being some two miles ahead of Euryalus.

  Broughton had conceded that if they were to be sighted by some small sailing vessel carrying Draffen’s agent it was prudent to extend the formation. And if seen by less friendly eyes it would be well to make the squadron appear as large as possible. Far away to leeward the sloop’s topsails shone like burnished steel as she pushed busily downwind like a terrier sniffing out a rabbit.

  There was still no sign of the Coquette, nor might there be for some time yet. She could be investigating some strange sail well astern of the squadron. Equally she might be in serious trouble with an enemy
.

  Calvert appeared on the quarterdeck, his face screwed up with both worry and strain in the sun’s brightness.

  He said, “Sir Lucius sends his compliments, sir. Will you join him in his day cabin.”

  Bolitho glanced at Keverne, who turned his mouth down and said, “Perhaps there is a change of plan, sir?”

  Bolitho strode after Calvert’s hurrying shape, wondering if Keverne was implying resentment at knowing so little. Like himself. When he entered the cabin it took his eyes several seconds to get accustomed to the gloom, the comparative coolness after the unprotected quarterdeck.

  Draffen was seated beside the desk, although Bolitho had not even seen him leave the poop.

  “Sir?” He saw Broughton standing by an open stern window, his light brown hair glossy in the reflected glare. Far astern, the Valorous held rigidly to her tack, so that she appeared like some elaborate model, balanced on the admiral’s epaulette.

  Broughton snapped, “I have asked you down here to explain further to Sir Hugo the necessity of keeping the Restless in company and within signalling distance! He breathed out hard. “Well?”

  Bolitho thrust his hands behind him. In the presence of the admiral and Draffen, both of whom were impeccably dressed as before, he felt suddenly unkempt and dirty. He could feel the tension between the two men, and guessed they had been arguing before his arrival.

  Draffen interrupted evenly, “I must find my agent, Captain. The sloop is fast and small enough for the purpose.” He shrugged. “I can say no fairer than that, now can I?”

  Bolitho tensed. They were both drawing on him, each using his opinion to make him an ally. Never before had Broughton asked for his opinion on matters of strategy. And although Draffen had displayed an easy confidence after their first meeting, he had given away little of his intentions.

  Bolitho said, “May I ask, Sir Hugo, what manner of ship we are expecting to meet?”

  Draffen shifted in his chair. “Oh, something small. Probably an Arab trader or suchlike.” He sounded vague. Or evasive.

  Bolitho persisted. “And if we miss meeting her, what then?”.

  The admiral swung away from the window, his tone sharp. “I am expected to keep this squadron beating back and forth for another week!” He glared at Draffen. “A week of avoiding open battle, of countless alterations of course!

  “I know all that, Sir Lucius.” Draffen remained unmoved. “But this business demands great tact and caution.” His tone hardened. “As well as the efficient running of your ships.”

  Bolitho stepped forward, “I can understand your concern, Sir Hugo.” He was very conscious of being in between these two powerful and unyielding men. Outside of the Navy he had had little contact with such people, and blamed himself for failing to understand them, to appreciate their worlds, each so different from his own.

  “In this small squadron we have some three thousand officers and men to provision every day we are at sea. And that does not include the two bombs. Fresh water will become a real problem in this climate. And unless we can foresee some contact with a new source of supply it will be necessary to withdraw to Gibraltar before we have completed our mission.”

  Draffen nodded. “I am sorry, Captain. You make good sense. A landsman tends to see ships as ships and not as people, mouths to be fed like luckier souls ashore.”

  Broughton stared at him. “But that is exactly what I have just been telling you!”

  “It was not what you told me, Sir Lucius, but the way you told it!”

  He stood up and eyed each of them in turn. “However, I must ask you to signal the Restless to close with the flagship. Your master assures me this wind will hold for a while.” He looked at Bolitho. “That is also your opinion, I believe?”

  Bolitho nodded. “It seems likely, sir. But you cannot be certain.”

  “It will have to suffice. I will transfer to the sloop and go with her to sweep closer inshore. If I cannot make contact with my agent before dusk I will rejoin the squadron.”

  Broughton rubbed the back of his neck with his hand. “In which case we will carry on to Djafou as arranged?”

  Draffen hesitated and then said, “It would seem so.”

  The admiral gave a thin smile. “So be it.” He snapped his fingers at Calvert who had been hovering on the far side of the cabin. “Make a signal to Restless to close the flagship immediately.” He moved briskly up and down across the black and white squared deck covering. “You will then make a further signal to Valorous. ”

  Bolitho darted a glance at the flag-lieutenant as he wrote hurriedly in his book. It was to be hoped he was getting it all down correctly.

  “Er, Valorous will take over command of the squadron and continue on present course. Euryalus will head down and make contact with Restless. ” He shot Draffen a brief smile. “That will save time and allow you some extra hours for your, er, search.”

  He swung round towards Calvert again. “Well, what in hell’s name are you gaping at? Go and attend to those signals at once! ”

  As the door closed behind Calvert’s back he added, “Young fool! He may be a fine jack-a-dandy in St James’s, but he is as much use as a blind seamstress to me!”

  Draffen stood up and walked towards the adjoining cabin which stood opposite the larger one used by the admiral.

  “I will change out of these clothes before I leave.” He eyed Broughton calmly. “I would not wish to be placed in Calvert’s category by the sloop’s commander.”

  Broughton waited until he had gone and then said vehemently, “My God, my patience is wearing thin.”

  “I will go and attend to the new course, sir.”.

  “Yes.” Broughton watched him distantly. “I shall be glad when we are at Djafou. I am heartily sick of interference.”

  Bolitho hurried back to the quarterdeck, feeling the heat striking his shoulders like embers from a fire.

  As he glanced quickly aloft at the masthead pendant and then at the compass he said sharply, “Call all hands, Mr Keverne. We will wear ship directly. Then you may get the t’gallants on her.”

  He heard the squeal of pipes, the immediate rush of feet as the seamen poured up into the sunlight, pausing only to peer aft to see the cause for the sudden excitement.

  Astern, the Valorous was already making more sail, her acknowledgement to Broughton’s signal vanishing from her yard as her forecourse billowed free and then filled to the wind. The signal would please her captain, Bolitho thought. Furneaux had never really appreciated his station astern of the line. This sudden order would show the others exactly where he stood in Broughton’s eyes.

  He forgot them as Midshipman Tothill called, “ Restless has acknowledged, sir.” He glanced despairingly at Calvert’s back, who was peering at the signal book as if it was in Arabic.

  Bolitho smiled. “Very well. Mr Partridge, we will see how she likes the feel of the wind again.”

  He looked at the men below the gangways and mustered at the foot of each mast. “Carry on, Mr Keverne.”

  “Hands aloft! Loose t’gallants!”

  Keverne waited until the rush of barebacked seamen had reached the upper yards, their bodies black against the sky, like monkeys.

  “Man the braces!”

  He glanced round as Partridge dropped his hand and the helmsmen threw themselves on their spokes and began to heave the wheel over.

  “Let go and haul!” Keverne’s voice was metallic and unreal through his trumpet. “Heave, you idle lot of old women!”

  Creaking and groaning the great yards began to swing round, the hull plunging deeply in the swell as it swayed ponderously out of the line. Overhead the sails flapped about in momentary confusion, whilst above the noise Bolitho could hear the captains of the tops urging their men on with threats and curses. The topgallant sails were already whipping out from their yards, hardening into firm, tanned rectangles as the canvas took the strain, tugging at blocks and rigging alike and trying always to pluck an unwary topman from his perch and
hurl him to the deck far below.

  “Steer sou’ east by south.”

  Bolitho braced his legs, feeling the deck vibrate through his shoes as the sails pushed the ship forward and down across the lip of another deep trough. Spray burst jubilantly above the figurehead and pattered across the men working busily at the headsail sheets. He watched the topmen racing each other to the deck, their bare feet thudding on the planking as once more they awaited orders.

  Standing almost before the wind, the ship was already gathering way, the deck swaying easily from side to side instead of fixed at one set angle when close hauled.

  Bolitho looked aloft, thinking of how she would appear to the Restless. The sloop was being made to beat into the teeth of the wind, and Broughton’s change of heart would save her and everyone else a good deal of time. Bolitho knew that Broughton’s reasons were probably different, that he really wished to get rid of Draffen, if only for a short while.

  But, for a few moments he could feel content. The Euryalus was behaving magnificently, and he toyed with the idea of having Keverne set the royals as well. But that one extra layer of canvas might just be visible to some hostile craft as yet unseen below the horizon.

  He turned as Draffen came on deck and said, “You wished to see her sail, sir.” He watched Draffen’s eyes hurrying about the taut, drumming shrouds, the hardbellied sails, appreciating everything he saw, if not understanding all of it.

  He said, “She’s a lady, Bolitho. It makes all this trouble worthwhile.”

  Bolitho noticed he was wearing a plain green coat and loose breeches. Under his coat he also saw the glint of metal. Draffen was obviously used to carrying a pistol, and seemed the sort of man who would be well able to take care of himself.

  He was shading his eyes as he tried to understand what the Restless was trying to do as she reeled once again across the wind, her sails flapping and almost aback before she swung away on her new tack.

  Bolitho crossed to the starboard side and looked for the squadron. Euryalus’s sudden increase of speed had left them bunched together and seemingly entangled, their silhouettes overlapping so that they looked like a single, ill-designed monster.