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  The squadron’s position was now about forty miles south-south-west of Cartagena, and had there been an enemy of any sort in view, Broughton’s ships would have been ready and well placed to intercept. As he glanced briefly across the papers on his desk which Keverne had been discussing, he heard the crisp tap of shoes overhead where Broughton paced the poop in solitary detachment, fretting over the failure to find an enemy, or to throw any light on his movements. Bolitho could pity him, for he knew there were already other pressures mounting which could not be postponed much longer.

  Buddle, the purser, had been to see him this forenoon, his face gloomy as he had told of falling water supplies and several rancid casks of meat. Throughout the squadron it was the same. You could not expect this many men to be without replenishment for so long, especially as there was still no certainty of obtaining more water and provisions.

  He sighed and looked at the door as it closed behind the surgeon.

  “So we have Sawle promoted to fifth lieutenant to replace Lucey. That still leaves a vacancy in the wardroom.” He was thinking aloud. “Midshipman Tothill might be able to take it, but . . .”

  Keverne said shortly, “He is only seventeen and has had little experience of gunnery. In any case, he is too useful with his signals to be spared as yet.” He grinned. “In my opinion, sir.”

  “I am afraid I agree.” He listened to the shoes pacing back and forth. “We will have to see what we can do.”

  Keverne gathered up the papers and asked, “What are our chances of finding the enemy, sir?”

  He shrugged. “In all truth, I do not know.” He wanted Keverne to leave so that he could try to exercise his arm and shoulder. “ Coquette and Restless should be cruising off Cartagena by now. Maybe they will return soon with new intelligence.”

  There was a rap on the door and Midshipman Ashton stepped into the cabin. He no longer wore a bandage around his head and seemed to have recovered from his tough handling better than anyone had expected.

  “Sir. Mr Weigall’s respects, and a sail has been sighted to the nor’ east.”

  Bolitho looked at Keverne and smiled. “Sooner than I thought. I will go on deck.”

  On the quarterdeck it was blazing hot, and although the sails were drawing well to a steady north-westerly, there was little freshness to ease the demands of watchkeeping.

  Weigall was watching the poop, as if afraid he would not hear Bolitho’s approach.

  “Masthead reports that she looks like a frigate, sir.”

  To confirm his words the voice pealed down again, “Deck there! She’s Coquette! ”

  Broughton came down from the poop with unusual haste. “Well?”

  Ashton was already swarming into the shrouds with a big telescope, and Bolitho said quietly, “What would we do without frigates?”

  Minutes ticked past, and by the compass a ship’s boy upended the half-hour glass under Partridge’s watchful eye.

  Then Ashton yelled, “From Coquette, sir!” The merest pause. “Negative.”

  Broughton swung away, his voice harsh. “Nothing there. The ships have sailed.” He turned to Bolitho, his eyes squinting against the glare. “We must have missed them! God, we’ll not see them again!”

  Bolitho watched the frigate swinging round on her new tack, the big black and white flag still streaming from her yard. One flag, yet to Broughton and perhaps many more it meant so much. The enemy ships had quit the harbour and by now could be almost anywhere. While the squadron had floundered around Djafou, and had exhausted their resources in the fruitless business of capture and demolition, the enemy had vanished.

  Broughton murmured in a tired voice, “Damn them all to hell!”

  Bolitho looked up sharply as the masthead lookout shouted, “ Valorous is signalling, sir!”

  The admiral said bitterly, “Furneaux will be dreaming of his own future already!”

  They all turned as Tothill shouted, “From Valorous, sir! Strange sail bearing west!”

  “Must be almost astern of us, sir.” Bolitho looked at Keverne. “Inform the squadron.”

  Broughton was almost beside himself with impatience. “She’ll put about the moment she sights us!” He peered towards Coquette. “But it’s useless to send Gillmor. He’d never be able to beat into the wind in time to engage her.”

  Bolitho felt his arm throbbing, perhaps from his own excitement. The stranger could be another lone merchantman, or an enemy scout. She might even be the van of some great force of ships. He dismissed the latter idea. If the newcomer was part of the force from Cartagena he was well out of station, and the enemy would have no wish to waste any time if they were after Broughton.

  He took a telescope and climbed swiftly on to the poop. It was getting less painful to manage the glass with one hand, and as he trained it past Valorous he saw a small square of sail, seemingly resting on the horizon line.

  But far above the deck Ashton with his powerful telescope already had a much better view.

  “Two-decker, sir!” His voice was shrill against the sounds of rigging and canvas. “Still closing!”

  Bolitho hurried back to the quarterdeck. “It would be better if we shorten sail, sir. At least we will know for sure then.”

  Broughton nodded. “Very well. Make the signal.”

  Time dragged by, with the hands going for their midday meal, and the air becoming heavy with the odour of rum. There was, after all, no point in disrupting the daily routine when there was plenty of time to decide on a course of action, if any.

  The other ship was coming up very fast, especially for a two-decker. It was easy to see her great spread of canvas as she plunged in pursuit. Her captain had even set her studding sails, so that the hull seemed weighed down by the towering pyramid of hard-bellied canvas.

  Ashton yelled excitedly, “She’s signalling, sir!”

  “For God’s sake!” Broughton was gnawing at his lip as he stared up at the midshipman on the crosstrees.

  Tothill had swarmed aloft to join Ashton, and together they were already peering at their signal book, seemingly indifferent to the deck so far below their dangling legs.

  Bolitho said, “A friend, sir. A reinforcement perhaps. But at least we might glean some news.”

  He stared up at the masthead, unable to believe his ears as Tothill yelled, “She’s Impulsive, sir, sixty-four! Cap’n Herrick!”

  Broughton turned sharply and looked at Bolitho. “Know him?”

  He did not know how to answer. Thomas Herrick. How often he had thought of him and Adam, had wondered at their destinations and experiences. Now he was here. Here.

  He replied, “For years, sir. He was my first lieutenant. He is my friend also.”

  Broughton eyed him warily and then snapped, “Signal the squadron to heave to. Make to Impulsive. Captain, repair on board.” He watched the flags breaking into the wind and added, “I hope he’ll be of some use.”

  Bolitho smiled and said simply, “Without him, sir, this ship would still be under French colours!”

  The admiral grunted. “Well, we shall see. I will be aft when he comes aboard!”

  Keverne waited until Broughton had gone and then asked, “Did he really help take this ship, sir? In a small fourth-rate like that?”

  Bolitho eyed him pensively. “My own ship was almost done for. Captain Herrick in his little sixty-four, which is a good deal older than you are, came to grips without hesitation!” He waved his hand across the busy quarterdeck. “Just there it was, by Mr Partridge. The French admiral surrendered.”

  Keverne smiled. “I never knew.” He stared at the orderly deck as if expecting to see some sign of the bloody battle which had swayed back and forth across it.

  Tothill slid down a backstay shouting, “All acknowledgements hoisted, sir! Close up!”

  Bolitho looked at Keverne. “Execute. And have the side manned to receive our guest.”

  Bolitho guided his friend below the poop, out of the glare and the din of flapping canvas, and then face
d him by the companionway.

  “Oh, Thomas, it is good to see you!”

  Herrick’s face, which had been tight with concern at seeing Bolitho’s wounded arm, split into a wide grin.

  “I don’t have to say how I felt when I heard my orders to join your squadron.”

  Bolitho steadied himself against the sickening motion as Euryalus floundered in a beam sea and studied him eagerly. Rounder in the face, with a few grey hairs showing beneath his gold-laced hat, but still the same. The same eyes, of the brightest blue Bolitho had ever seen.

  “Tell me about Adam. Is he with you?”

  “Aye.” Herrick looked at the marines below the ladder which led to Broughton’s quarters. “Burning himself to ashes in eagerness to see you again.”

  Bolitho smiled. “After you have spoken with Sir Lucius we will talk.”

  Herrick gripped his good arm. “We will that!”

  As he stood aside to allow Herrick on to the ladder he saw the twin gold epaulettes on his shoulders. A post-captain now. In spite of everything, Herrick, like himself, had endured.

  Broughton half rose from his desk as they entered the spacious cabin. “You have despatches for me, Captain?” He was very formal. “I was not expecting another ship.”

  Herrick laid a sealed envelope on the desk. “From Sir John Jervis, sir.” He grimaced. “I beg pardon, I meant Lord St Vincent, as he is now titled.”

  Broughton tossed the envelope to Calvert who was hovering nearby and snapped, “Tell me the news. What of the damned mutiny?”

  Herrick watched him guardedly. “There was some bloodshed, and more than a few tears, but after Their Lordships made certain concessions the people agreed to return to duty.”

  “Agreed?” Broughton glared at him. “Is that all that happened?”

  Herrick looked past him, his eyes suddenly sad. “They hanged the ringleaders, sir, but not before some of the officers were removed from the ships as unsuitable to hold authority!”

  Broughton stood up violently. “How did you hear all this?”

  “My ship was in the mutiny at the Nore, sir.”

  The admiral stared at him as if he had misheard. “ Your ship? Do you mean you just stood by and let them seize her from you?”

  Herrick replied evenly, “There was no choice, sir.” Bolitho saw a gleam of the same old stubbornness in his eyes as he continued, “Anyway, I agreed with most of their demands. I was allowed to remain aboard because they knew I understood, like many other captains!”

  Bolitho interrupted swiftly, “That is interesting, Captain Herrick.” He hoped Herrick would feel the warning in his voice. “Sir Lucius too had much the same experience at Spithead.” He smiled at Broughton. “Is that not so, sir?”

  Broughton opened his mouth and then said, “Ah. Up to a point.”

  Herrick stepped forward. “But, sir, I have not yet told you my own news.” He glanced at Bolitho. “I met with St Vincent at Cadiz and was ordered to find your squadron. He requires the bomb vessels for an attack on Teneriffe, I believe. Rear-Admiral Nelson is to lead it.”

  Broughton commented harshly, “ Rear-Admiral now, is he?”

  Herrick hid a smile. “But two days back we sighted a strange sail off Malaga. I laid my ship between it and the shore and gave chase. It was a frigate, sir, and although my sixty-four is fast, she’s no match for that. But I kept up the pursuit, and only lost her this very morning. I imagined it was her when I sighted your rear-most ship.”

  Broughton said dryly, “ Very exciting. Well, you lost her, so where’s the cause for glee?”

  Herrick watched him calmly. “I heard of what happened, sir. I’d know that ship anywhere. She was Auriga. ”

  Bolitho said, “Are you certain, Thomas?”

  He nodded firmly. “No doubt about it. Served with her for some months. Auriga, quite certain.”

  Calvert laid the opened despatches on the desk but Broughton swept them aside as he groped for his chart.

  “Here! Show me, Herrick. Mark it on the chart!”

  Herrick glanced enquiringly at Bolitho and then stooped over the desk.

  “She was heading almost due east, sir.”

  “And you nearly overhauled her? In a two-decker?” Broughton sounded desperate.

  “Aye, sir. Impulsive may be old, and her hull is so ripe that I fear it would fall apart but for the copper, but she’s the fastest ship in the fleet.” There was real pride in his voice. “ Auriga might have gone into Cartagena, sir. In which case . . .”

  Broughton shook his head. “Never. My patrols would have seen and engaged her.” He rubbed his chin vigorously. “Due east, you say? By heaven, we might still run her to earth!” He looked at Herrick. “And by God I’d not have hung a few miserable mutineers! I would have hanged the lot of them!”

  Herrick said respectfully, “I can well believe it, Sir Lucius.”

  Broughton did not seem to hear, “Signal Gillmor to give chase at once. He can do anything he likes to hold or delay Auriga. Restless can maintain watch to the windward of us.” He glanced at Herrick. “You will close to visual distance with Restless, ” he gave a short smile, “as your ship is so swift, and relay my instructions to her without delay.” He nodded curtly. “Carry on.”

  Outside the cabin Herrick asked, “Is he always like that?”

  “Usually.” Bolitho paused by the quarterdeck ladder. “Is Adam doing well? I mean, could you . . .”

  Herrick grinned. “He is ready to sit his exam for lieutenant, if that is what you mean.” He watched Bolitho and then added, “Shall I send him across to you?”

  “Thank you. I am short of officers.” He smiled, unable to hide his eagerness. “I would appreciate it.”

  Herrick touched his arm. “I have taught him all I know.”

  “Then he will be ready.”

  Herrick’s grin was huge. “I had a good teacher, remember?”

  Almost before Herrick’s boat had cast off from the chains the Euryalus’s yards were alive with flags. Coquette went about with the ease of a thoroughbred, as if a string had been severed to free her from the other ships, and as the seamen poured up from the gangways Bolitho felt as if he was being given a new strength.

  Partridge muttered, “Cap’n seems ’appy ’bout somethin’!”

  Keverne nodded. “So it would appear.” Then he snatched his speaking trumpet and hurried towards the rail.

  18 THE TRAP

  ALLDAY opened the cabin door and announced, “Mr Midshipman Pascoe, Captain!” In spite of the attempted formality his face was breaking into a great grin of pleasure.

  It was late evening, and but for a brief encounter when the boy had clambered hurriedly from the boat, he had not been able to speak with him. It had been a strange meeting. He had seen Pascoe’s face changing from excitement to caution, a sort of reserved shyness, as he had removed his hat and said, “Coming aboard to join, sir.”

  Bolitho had been equally formal, aware of Keverne and the others nearby watching the unexpected reunion.

  He had said awkwardly, “Mr Keverne will give you your duties. You are to take the position of acting sixth lieutenant. I am sure Mr Keverne will be able to equip you with the necessary clothing and anything else you might need . . .” He had broken off as a battered midshipman’s chest had been hauled unceremoniously from the boat alongside. It was then that he had fully realised the importance of that moment in time.

  Pascoe had said quietly, “I thought you might wish me to transfer to your ship, sir.” He’d paused. “I hoped. So I was ready . . .”

  Now, as Allday closed the door to leave them together for the first time, he felt the warmth flooding through him, yet was aware of the change which had grown between them.

  “Here, Adam, sit down by me.” He gestured to the table which Trute had laid with unusual care. “The food is not too exciting, but doubtless no worse than you’ve been accustomed to.”

  He fumbled with a decanter, aware the whole time of the boy’s eyes watching him
. How he had changed. He was taller and looked more confident, more sure of himself. And yet, there was the same dark restlessness, like that of a young colt, which he had remembered since their parting two years ago.

  The boy took the glass and said simply, “I have been waiting for this moment.” Then he smiled, and Bolitho was again reminded of those other faces in the portraits at Falmouth. “When Captain Herrick told me you were wounded . . .”

  Bolitho raised his glass. “Let us forget about that. How have you been?” He ushered him to the table, vaguely conscious as always of the deck’s steady vibration and the regular rolls of the hull as the ship plunged in pursuit of Coquette in accordance with Broughton’s orders.

  He pulled a steaming dish of beef towards him. It was recently from the cask and was probably already going bad. But in the warm lantern light, and served as it was on the best cabin pewter, it looked almost luxurious. He hesitated, suddenly confused by his inability to use the knife. The realisation both angered and embarrassed him. This was to have been a perfect moment, spared of duties on deck, and for once almost free of pain.

  Pascoe reached across the table and took the knife from his hand. For a moment their eyes met and then he said softly, “Let me, Uncle!” He smiled again. “Captain Herrick has trained me to do all manner of things.”

  Bolitho watched him as he bent over the plate, the hair, as black as his own, falling rebelliously over his eyes as he sawed busily through the tough meat.

  “Thank you, Adam.” He smiled to himself. Seventeen. It was so easy to remember what it had been like as a young midshipman. And Adam was actually enjoying himself. There was neither pity nor deception in his voice as he chatted excitedly about the Impulsive’s part in the mutiny, of Herrick and all the dozens of things which had changed him from a young boy to a confident replica of his father, and himself.

  Bolitho had difficulty in eating the meat even after it had been cut into small pieces for him. But Adam had no such qualms and helped himself again and again from the platter.