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  He called, “Mr Keverne, we’ll shorten sail in thirty minutes. Restless can lie under our lee until Sir Hugo is aboard.”

  Later, while the Euryalus lay hove-to, her hull rolling sicken-ingly in a beam swell and her sails banging and useless in noisy torment, Broughton came on deck to watch as Draffen was rowed across in the sloop’s jolly boat.

  He said, “Well, that is that.” He sounded satisfied.

  Bolitho saw Draffen pause in his climb up the sloop’s side and turn to wave his hand.

  He said, “I would like to tack to the nor’ east, sir. It will save time later when we run down and rejoin the squadron.”

  Broughton turned his back on the sloop as her topsails filled to the wind and she started to pay off away from her massive consort. “Very well.” Broughton eyed him searchingly. “I suppose you cannot bear the thought of resuming your place in the line so soon after this brief freedom?” He smiled. “Well, it will do Furneaux no harm to exercise his power a little longer.”

  Bolitho walked over to Keverne who was still watching the sloop. “We will steer nor’ east, Mr Keverne, lay her on the lar-board tack. So call all hands again, and then they can have their meal. I imagine the activity might have given them a new appetite.” He saw the villainous-looking chief cook, a bearded giant with one eye, peering up from the main hatchway. “Although I hate to think what he puts into it sometimes.”

  He crossed to the weather side as once again the seamen swarmed up the ratlines and out along the yards. Broughton understood him better than he realised. Independence and initiative, his father had once told him, were the two most precious things to every captain. Now, commanding a flagship, and tied to the squadron’s apron strings, he knew well enough what he had meant.

  He thought suddenly of the house at Falmouth. The two portraits opposite the window. He was strangely moved to find he could think of them without grief or bitterness. It was almost like having someone there waiting for his return home.

  Keverne was back again, his face expressionless. “This afternoon there will be two hands for punishment, sir.”

  “What?” Bolitho stared at him and then nodded. “Very well.”.

  The moment of peace had passed. But as he walked to the quarterdeck rail he found himself praying that it might return.

  At six o’clock that same day Bolitho sat behind his desk looking through the stern windows, his mind busy with the affairs of his command. Trute, the cabin servant, placed a pot of fresh coffee by his elbow and padded away without a word. He had grown to accept the captain’s strange moods, his apparent need to be alone, even to pour his own coffee. Like his desire to have the desk facing aft, and whenever possible to dine off it instead of his beautiful table in the adjoining cabin. Trute had served three captains, and never met his sort before. The others had all expected to be waited on hand and foot, and at all times of day or night. Equally they had been swift and harsh when showing their displeasure. He had decided that although he liked Bolitho as a considerate and fair master, he had felt more comfortable with his previous captains. At least it had been possible to know exactly what they were thinking for most of the time.

  Bolitho sipped the scalding black coffee and wondered when it, like many other items, would become a luxury. It was never possible to feel confident, to know that a ship was not over-reaching her margin of safety when it came to food and water.

  He heard four bells chime out, the clatter of feet somewhere below as a warrant officer, probably caught dozing, dashed to perform his duties for the last dog watch.

  It had been a busy afternoon for Bolitho, mainly because he had been trying to catch up with matters concerning his own ship rather than attending to those of the whole squadron. There had seemed an endless procession waiting to catch his ear.

  Grubb, the carpenter, grey haired and always pessimistic about the enemy of all ships—rot. Not that he had found any in his daily molelike excursions in the bowels of the hull, places which had never seen, would never see, any light but that of a lantern. It was as if he wanted Bolitho to know of his tireless efforts on his behalf. And it all took time.

  He had given several minutes to Clode, the cooper, concerning the purser’s earlier complaint about the state of some of the water casks. But then Nathan Buddle, the purser, quite often voiced complaints, provided they did not directly concern his own department. He was a thin, furtive-looking man, with skin like parchment, who wore an almost permanent hunted expression which Bolitho suspected hid things which did not concern rotten casks. In fairness, he had found nothing wrong with Buddle’s daily accounts, but like all his trade, the purser had to be constantly watched.

  And as Keverne had reported earlier, two men were brought aft for punishment, watched as usual on such occasions by all unemployed members of the ship’s company.

  Bolitho hated such spectacles, just as he knew them to be inevitable. It always seemed to take such a long time. The gratings to be rigged, the culprits to be stripped and seized up, and his own voice reading the Articles of War above the din of wind and canvas.

  The actual punishment excited little interest amongst the spectators.

  The first man, awarded twelve lashes, had been caught stealing from one of his messmates. The opinion was probably that he was getting off lightly, compared with what his fellow seamen had intended and would certainly have carried out but for the timely intervention of the ship’s corporal. Bolitho had heard of cases when men who stole from their messmates had been thrown overboard at night, while one had actually been found minus the hand used for his crime. In the teeming, defenceless world of shipboard life few had much sympathy for a thief.

  The second seaman had received twenty-four lashes for neglect of duty and insolence. Both latter charges had been laid by Sawle, the ship’s junior lieutenant. Bolitho blamed himself for this particular case. He had promoted Sawle to lieutenant some six months earlier, but had he not been so involved with the squadron’s affairs under the ailing Admiral Thelwall, he knew now he would have thought twice about it. Sawle had shown the makings of a good officer, but it had been mostly on the surface. He was a sulky-looking youth of eighteen, and Bolitho had told Keverne to ensure his tendency to bully subordinates did not get out of hand. Maybe Keverne had done his best, or perhaps he considered Sawle’s attitudes unimportant provided he carried out his other duties to his satisfaction.

  Either way, the seaman’s bloodied back was a grim reminder to Bolitho of the constant need to supervise Sawle in the future. He was one of his officers and therefore his authority had to be upheld. Nevertheless, if Meheux, the cheerful, round-faced second lieutenant, or Weigall, the third, had been in Sawle’s place the incident would have got no further. Meheux was popular because of his raw, north country humour. His well-founded boast that he could reef or splice as efficiently as any seaman would have prevented anything worse than a contest, man to man. Weigall, who had the build, and unfortunately the intelligence also, of a prizefighter, would have laid the culprit low with one of his massive fists and forgotten the incident completely. Weigall was not unpopular with the men of his division, but for the most part they avoided him. He was in charge of the middle gundeck, and had unfortunately been rendered very deaf during an engagement with a blockade runner. Sometimes he imagined his men were talking about him behind his back, and would have them doing extra drills in the twinkling of an eye.

  Bolitho leaned back in his chair and watched the Euryalus’s wake bubbling astern as the wind pushed her over, holding her steady while she thrust onward to the north-east.

  He poured some more coffee and grimaced. It would soon be time to wear ship and spread more sail for the uncomplicated run before the wind to find the squadron again. This one afternoon and evening of comparative freedom had given him time to think and reconsider, to examine those closest to him, yet as ever separated by rank and station. Broughton had left him entirely alone, and Calvert had implied that he was for the most part going over his charts and re-r
eading his sealed orders as if to find something previously missed.

  There was a tap at the door and the marine sentry bawled, “Midshipman o’ the watch, sir!”

  It was Drury. Doing an extra watch because of his earlier troubles with his lieutenant over the lantern.

  “Mr Bickford’s respects, sir, and would you come up, please.”.

  Bolitho smiled as he saw the boy’s eyes exploring the cabin, noting everything for future description in the more meagre quarters of the gunroom.

  “And why, Mr Drury? You seem to have forgotten the best part.”

  Drury looked confused. “A sail, sir. To the nor’ west.”.

  Bolitho jumped up. “Thank you.” He hurried for the door. “I might arrange for Trute to show you over my cabin later, Mr Drury, but for now we have work to do.”

  Drury blushed and dashed after him, so that they arrived on the tilting quarterdeck together.

  Bickford was the fourth lieutenant, one who took his duties very seriously, but appeared totally lacking in humour.

  He said, “Masthead has just reported a sail, sir. To the nor’ west.”

  Bolitho walked up the deck to the weather side and peered towards the horizon. It was hard and silver bright, like the edge of a sword. But the wind was steady, and that was something. But it might rise to a squall before another dawn. It would then take time to rejoin the squadron, to contact Draffen in the Restless.

  Bickford took his silence for uncertainty..

  “It is my belief, sir, that she is the Coquette. ” He raised his voice slightly to impress Drury and another midshipman nearby. “It would be the most likely explanation.”

  Bolitho lifted his head and stared up at the bulging topsails, the cracking vehemence of the masthead pendant. Like a giant whip. He thought of the dizzy climb, the dreadful shaking in those shrouds.

  “I see, Mr Bickford, thank you.”

  The lieutenant nodded firmly. “That is why she comes alone and with such confidence, sir.”

  Keverne climbed the companion ladder to the quarterdeck and hurried towards him.

  Bolitho was still looking up at the straining yards. “Mr Keverne, get aloft with a glass. As fast as you can climb. There is a ship to larboard. Maybe alone.” He glanced at Bickford. “Maybe not.”

  He saw Bickford and the others stiffen and draw back and knew that Broughton had arrived on deck.

  “Ah, Bolitho, what is all this scampering and excitement?”.

  “A sail, sir.” He gestured above the nettings towards the horizon.

  “Hmm.” Broughton turned to watch as Keverne swarmed easily up the weather shrouds. “What is she, I wonder?”

  Bickford said quickly, “I think her to be the Coquette, sir.”.

  Broughton’s eyes did not blink as he said to Bolitho, “Would you remind that officer that if I am in such dire distress as to require an opinion of no value, he will be the first to be told.”

  Bolitho smiled as Bickford melted into the others by the rail. “I believe he understands, sir.”

  It was strange how they could stay outwardly calm, he thought. In spite of Broughton’s mild show of interest, he knew his mind was alive with questions and calculations. It would be interesting to see if he would ask for an opinion of his flag captain this time.

  Keverne arrived, thudding to the deck by means of a backstay, and hurried across, his dark features working with excitement.

  “Merchantman, sir. But well armed, fifty guns, I’d say. Standing right before the wind, but carrying no royal yards.” He realised Broughton was glaring at him and added, “Spaniard, sir. No doubt of it.”

  Broughton bit his lip. “Damn his eyes.”.

  “Even without royals she could still give us a merry chase, sir.” Bolitho was thinking aloud. “But if we can take her we might get information.” He paused, studying the set of Broughton’s tense shoulders. “Information which would be yours to share as you thought fit.”

  He had not misjudged the moment. Broughton swung round, his eyes shining.

  “By God, I can see Sir Hugo’s face when he arrives back empty handed and we tell him of our news.” He sighed. “But what is the use? By the time you put this great elephant about that Don’ll be flying for home. I cannot afford a long chase, one to take me away from the squadron.”

  Bolitho said, “I think we have all missed the one important detail, sir.” He slapped one fist into his palm. “In a way Mr Bickford made some sense.” He looked at the others, his mouth lifting in a grin. Bickford was hanging back, as if afraid of receiving another rebuff.

  Bolitho continued, “That Don thinks the Euryalus is French!” He looked at Broughton, at the doubts and disappointment giving way to cautious hope. “And why not, sir? After all this time they’ll not be expecting one solitary British ship in the Mediterranean. And there’s been no time for news to reach them of our leaving the Rock.”

  Broughton walked to the nettings and climbed lightly on to a bollard. He stared fixedly at the horizon as if willing the ship to show herself to him.

  The masthead lookout called, “Ship still runnin’ afore the wind, sir!”

  Broughton returned to the deck, rubbing his chin. “She must have seen us. Even the Dons are not that blind.”

  Bolitho replied, “But the moment we shorten sail or begin to tack he’ll know well enough what we are about.”

  “Hell, Bolitho! You raise my hopes and then dash ’em again!”.

  “I can see her, sir! Two points before the beam!” Drury was clinging to the quivering shrouds, a telescope jammed to one eye.

  Bolitho took a glass from the rack and steadied it against the deck’s plunging movements. Then he saw it, a pale wedge on the horizon. Running free with all sails set, her master was making the most of the fresh wind.

  “She’s coming up fast, sir.”

  Again he considered the idea of climbing to the masthead. Instead he asked, “Fifty guns, you think, Mr Keverne?”

  “Aye, sir. I’ve seen her sort before. Well armed to fight off pirates and the like. Mile for mile we could outpace her, but I doubt match her agility.”

  Broughton snapped, “I can see this getting us nowhere!”.

  “We must draw her to close quarters, sir.” Bolitho walked quickly to the wheel and back without even being aware of it. “But keep the advantage. Without holding the wind gage we’ll soon be left astern.”

  Partridge suggested, “’Oist a Frog flag, sir?”

  The admiral banged his hips with impatience. “Too bloody obvious!”

  He saw Captain Giffard and his marine lieutenant at the poop rail training telescopes on the newcomer. “Get those officers out of my sight! Red coats in a French man-o’-war, what are you doing, Giffard?”

  The two marines vanished like magic.

  Bolitho said slowly, “Man overboard, sir.”.

  “What was that?” Broughton stared at him as if he had taken leave of his sanity. “Man overboard?”

  “The one thing at sea to make a ship heave to without warning.”

  Broughton opened his mouth and shut it again. He could hardly contain his sudden flood of uncertainty and doubts.

  Bolitho persisted gently, “We’ll need a good swimmer. A crew standing by for the quarter boat. We can pick ’em up later.” He nodded. “It’s worth it, sir.”

  Broughton considered in silence. “It might just work. Give us the time to . . .” He stamped one foot on the deck. “By God, yes! We will try it!”

  Bolitho took a deep breath. “Mr Keverne, take in the fore-course. We will remain under tops’ls and jib. It is common enough on this tack and should excite little attention.” He watched Keverne dashing away and sought out Partridge. “Taking in the forecourse will cut her speed a little. We do not want to cross her bows too much.”

  Partridge smiled and bobbed his head, his chins wobbling against his neckcloth. He had been wounded at Broughton’s scathing attack on his earlier suggestion, but seemed in good spirits again.


  The great forecourse was already flapping and curling inwards as seamen scampered to sheets and halliards, urged on by Keverne’s speaking trumpet.

  When the first lieutenant came to report it had been brailed up and secured against its yard, Bolitho said, “Send an experienced petty officer aloft to watch the Spaniard and report any sign of alarm. Then you may pipe the hands to quarters. We will not be able to clear for action on the upper deck, so this will have to be done quickly, and well. We do not want our people injured by boat splinters and falling spars to no good purpose.”

  As Keverne dashed away again Broughton asked sharply, “How long?”

  “An hour at the most, sir. I’ll bring her up a point to the wind. That should help.”

  “It will be too dark to see in three hours.” Broughton nodded grimly. “So be it then.”

  The admiral was about to walk to the poop and then stopped to add softly, “But you disable my flagship, Bolitho, and I cannot promise any hope for you.”

  Bolitho looked at the master. “Bring her round a point to wind’rd.”

  Then he made himself walk slowly along the weather side, his hands clasped behind him. If the Euryalus was disabled, there would be little hope for any of them, he decided.

  Bolitho trained his glass on the other ship. Since she had first appeared above the horizon and the Euryalus had cleared for action, he had expected some sign of alarm or recognition, but the oncoming vessel maintained her set course and now lay less than two miles distant. If Euryalus continued on her present tack the Spaniard would cross her stern with about a mile between them.

  She was exactly as Keverne had described. Two-decked and carrying every available sail, she was making a fair display of speed, spray bursting above her scarlet and blue figurehead as high as the bellying forecourse. He could just distinguish the old-fashioned, triangular mizzen sail above her ornately carved poop, the flash of sunlight on trained telescopes as her officers examined the Euryalus, no doubt wondering at her purpose and destination.