12 DIVIDED LOYALTIES

ALMOST identical in a relentless heat-haze, the three ships of the line lay quietly at anchor within a cable’s length of the land.

Captain Thomas Herrick crossed to the larboard side of Osiris’s quarterdeck and stared at the unfamiliar hills, the lush greens and the hostile crags where some of the headland had fallen into the sea below. Syracuse, remote, even unfriendly, so that their powerful presence anchored amongst the unhurried movements of small coastal craft made the impression doubly vivid in Herrick’s mind.

He bit his lip and toyed with the idea of going below again. But the great stern cabin always seemed to be waiting, lying there like a trap. Part of Farquhar. He shifted his gaze to Lysander and felt the old longing and despair welling up to join his other constant anxiety.

They had been at anchor for over two weeks. The Syracuse garrison commandant had been aboard Lysander several times, accompanied on each occasion by a rotund, worried-looking Englishman, John Manning, who was, as Herrick understood it, one of His Brittanic Majesty’s last official representatives in the island. For even if Sicily showed no sign of helping France, she was equally determined not to display open friendship to King George.

Herrick moved restlessly about the deck, only partly aware of the blazing heat across his shoulders whenever he showed himself beyond one of the awnings.

When he had first heard of Bolitho’s intention to find and contact a French agent in Malta, it had already been too late to protest. Segura had been swallowed up in the darkness, and from that moment on Herrick had fretted and worried continuously. And now it was all of three weeks since Segura had parted company. Not a sign of the prize ship, nor any word from the British representative in Syracuse that she had entered or left Valletta harbour.

John Manning was more concerned about finding reasons for the three seventy-fours to stay at anchor in a port which was officially neutral. Repairs, taking on food and water, all the usual reasons had been sent ashore. And still no word came.

Bolitho must have been seized by the Maltese authorities. They were even more frightened of the French than the Sicilians, if half Herrick had heard was true. Or the enemy agent might have caught and killed him. Herrick looked towards the open sea until his eyes watered. Bolitho’s place was here, in a world he understood. Where he was known by name, if not by personal contact, by most of the men in the fleet.

He thought suddenly of Javal, and found himself hating him. He had not come into Syracuse at all. After his own passage through the Messina Strait he had been ordered to rendezvous with the squadron off Malta. Failing that, and Bolitho had always given them plenty of alternatives, he would anchor here and await developments. Perhaps he, too, had run foul of an enemy force?

But if only he would come. Farquhar would have no choice then but to send Buzzard in search of Segura and her small crew.

Herrick had visited Lysander several times, without being invited, to discover what Farquhar intended to do. As always, he was met by a blank wall, a manner and attitude which rarely failed to rouse and confuse him. Farquhar was imperturbable. If he was troubled at Bolitho’s absence, he was certainly hiding it very well.

His visits to his old ship had been made more painful by the obvious pleasure of those who had hurried to greet him. Leroux, and old Grubb, and Yeo, the boatswain. In Gilchrist he had seen the biggest change of all since Farquhar’s taking command. Like a man on a razor’s edge, someone who rarely found time to rest or be at ease, he was almost a stranger.

Quite unlike Osiris’s first lieutenant, he thought bitterly. Lieutenant Cecil Outhwaite, a bland young man in his middle twenties, was very like a frog in appearance. Low forehead, wide mouth, and eyes which were very dark and limpid. He had a slight lisp, and went about his duties as if bored by the whole business. Outhwaite, like Farquhar, came of a powerful family, and why he ever became a sea officer was beyond Herrick completely.

But then the two ships were totally unlike each other also. Off watch in Lysander the seamen had skylarked and found time to joke about their lot under all but the most harsh circumstances. In this ship there was no such feeling. Like Outhwaite, the sailors went about their work cat-footed, and when below were as silent as monks.

Herrick had tried to ease this unnerving tension aside, but as with Osiris’s last captain, he was met at every level by an unbreachable wall. Farquhar had run the ship to the highest point of efficiency, cleanliness and appearance. For the people who made all that possible he had allowed nothing.

And yet some, especially Outhwaite, showed a ready respect for him. “He don’t tolerate fools, y’know.” The froglike face had watched him curiously. “An’ he’s a damn quick temper for the scoundrels, too!”

The officer of the watch snapped, “Ship rounding the point!” He saw Herrick and added harshly, “Take the lookout’s name for not reporting sooner!”

Herrick snatched a glass and hurried to the nettings. For a while longer the newcomer’s topsails were riding lifelessly above a drifting curtain of haze, and then as her jib boom and beakhead thrust into view Herrick knew she was the sloop of war Harebell.

He pounded one fist into the other, his eyes misting with strain. At last. Her commander, Francis Inch, would do anything for Bolitho. And his little sloop was even better suited for looking for him.

“Ah, sir, I see you have sighted her.” Outhwaite joined him by the rail, his hat tilted rakishly over his eyes.

He was an odd bird, Herrick thought. He wore his dull brown hair in a queue so long that the end of it was level with his sword belt. When most sea officers followed the new army custom of wearing their hair shorter, Outhwaite apparently intended to retain his grip on the past.

“Harebell.”

Herrick watched the sudden activity aboard Lysander the signal flapping listlessly from her yards. Farquhar would want to know what was happening elsewhere, and as quickly as it took Inch’s gig to cross the water.

“Harebell’s dropped her hook, sir.” Outhwaite showed only mild interest. “She’s too soon back from her mission to have visited England. So we’ll not know how things are in London, eh?”

Herrick did not know what things in London were, nor did he care.

“I’m going below, Mr Outhwaite. Call me the moment that Lysander signals for captains to repair aboard.”

“Aye, sir.”

Outhwaite smiled and touched his hat. He felt an unusual admiration for Captain Herrick. Rather like his father did for a rustic gamekeeper or groom. Reliable but quaint. The way he was so obviously worried about the commodore’s disappearance, for instance. Outhwaite could not imagine what sort of experiences and dangers they must have shared in the past to create such a bond. A bond which even Bolitho’s action about a change of commands had not diminished.

He watched the boat pulling away from Harebell towards the flagship, Inch’s gold-laced hat in the sternsheets. Somewhat different from Charles Farquhar, he thought. He looked on one man’s loss as an opening for his own gain. Outhwaite nodded. As it should be.

But for most of the afternoon, while Herrick sat or paced restlessly in Farquhar’s beautifully equipped cabin, no signal came, nor any rumour of what Harebell had carried with her to Syracuse.

With a telescope he had examined the sloop more than once through the quarter gallery, and had seen the great scars of bared woodwork where the sea had done its best to hamper her, the patches in her loosely furled sails as evidence of Inch’s determination to lose no time with his despatches.

He glared at the skylight as someone stamped overhead. Damn Farquhar to hell! Even this moment he was unwilling to share with his fellow captains.

There was a sharp rap at the door and a midshipman stared in at him. “Beg pardon, sir, but Mr Outhwaite sends his respects and—”

Herrick stood up. “The flagship has signaled for me at last?” He did not bother to hide his sarcasm.

“N—no, sir.” The midshipman stared at him warily. “Captain Farquhar is coming to us.”

Herrick snatched his hat. “I will come up.”

He tried to imagine what was happening. Whatever it was had moved Farquhar to act swiftly at last.

Later, as the calls trilled and the marines banged their muskets to the present, Herrick watched Farquhar’s handsome face for some indication. But there was nothing, beyond a slight smile at the corners of his mouth.

He snapped, “Cabin.” And strode past Herrick with barely a glance at the assembled marines.

In the cabin he turned and faced Herrick.

“Harebell has brought despatches from Gibraltar.” He darted a glance around the cabin. “Some wine would not come amiss.”

Herrick asked, “Then there is no news of the commodore?”

Farquhar stared at him. “Did I say there was?” He shrugged. “Really, Thomas, you are the most stubborn of men!”

“I thought perhaps that Harebell might have sighted . . .”

“Commander Inch has brought news of more pressing matters.” He sounded irritated at Herrick’s interruption. “Admiral Lord St. Vincent has been kept fully informed. Those heavy guns which we captured must have convinced him. He has appointed Rear Admiral Sir Horatio Nelson to command a fleet which will be powerful and ready enough to enter the Mediterranean and seek out the French, once and for all.”

Herrick looked away. It was good news of course, or should have been. Bolitho had been given the trust he needed to bring this plan into being. But now that an idea was fast becoming a reality, Bolitho was not here to share in the rewards he deserved.

Farquhar eyed him coldly. “I have written my despatch for the admiral. Harebell will be making sail as soon as she has taken on water.”

Herrick faced him, his eyes filling with astonishment. “But you will not release the sloop without sending her first to Malta?”

“You are wrong.”

“But—but—”

Farquhar snapped, “When you were flag captain you had your opportunity to put your ideals into operation. It is too late now for misgivings. So do not blame me, Captain Herrick. If anyone failed the commodore, it was you!”

Herrick stared at the deck and at the bulkhead, seeing neither. It was true what Farquhar had said. All of it.

Farquhar added quietly, “The squadron will remain here until we receive new orders. I have persuaded Mr Manning that further ‘repairs’ are vital to our survival.”

Herrick heard the words but their meaning did not reach him for several long seconds.

He exclaimed, “But, you mustn’t ignore all that the commodore has discovered. The prizes we’ve taken, the information we’ve gathered. It all points to Corfu.” He heard his voice pleading, but no longer cared. “You can’t just stay here and do nothing!”

Farquhar shrugged. “Rumours. I cannot afford to squander the squadron to the points of the compass. When the first supporting ships arrive I intend—”

Herrick stared at him, disgusted. “You will be ready to meet them. To visit Nelson in person, is that it?”

Farquhar frowned. “Do not press me too far! I only came to you because I intend to give you back Lysander.”

Herrick looked around the beautiful cabin. Far more suited to a flagship than Lysander could ever be.

Farquhar added, “Harebell brought other, less rousing news. My father, Sir Edward, died two days after I left England.”

Herrick could only stare at him, his mind clearing and sharpening the pain. Farquhar had everything now. There was no remorse on his face, no sense of loss.

He had the title at last, and all the land and property which went with it. And when Nelson came to the Mediterranean he would appoint a new commodore for this squadron, Sir Charles Farquhar.

He asked huskily, “Have you told Captain Probyn yet?”

“All in good time.” Farquhar was far away, his eyes reaching beyond Sicily and beyond again. “Probyn behaves as if stupidity was a virtue. You should know that.” He walked to the stern windows. “I have ordered my servant to bring my things across before dusk. You may transfer back to Lysander as soon as you receive my written appointment. That pleases you, surely?”

“I’ve small room for pleasure at present, Sir Charles.”

He watched for some reaction, but Farquhar had already accepted and grown into the title within hours of hearing the news. He looked away in case Farquhar should see his sudden anxiety.

“I have a favour to ask. And I don’t find it an easy task.”

“Well?”

“I believe that the commodore was right.”

“Perhaps. We shall see, one day.”

Herrick persisted, “You could detach a ship. If you are remaining here under Sicilian protection, one ship less would aid the deception.”

“Continue.” Farquhar watched him calmly. “And where would this one ship be heading, might I ask?”

“You know that, too, Sir Charles. Corfu. To discover what the French are doing there.”

Farquhar walked a few paces to the table and looked with distaste at Herrick’s chart and the mass of scribbled calculations.

“Please.” Herrick watched him desperately. “I’ve never asked you for anything before.” He hesitated. “I’m asking now.”

“Very well. Your orders would be such that you would act on your own initiative.”

“Thank you.”

Farquhar’s eyebrows lifted. “You thank me? It is your own ruin you are demanding. Corfu is of no consequence. The big fight will be outside Toulon, or on the shores of Egypt.” He shook his head sadly. “When I was a midshipman in the Phalarope, and you her first lieutenant, eventually, I used to listen to the men talking about you. How you would always speak up for them.” He turned away. “I hope there will be someone to speak up for you when the time comes. But I doubt it.”

He became impatient and banged sharply on the door. “Sentry! Pass the word for the first lieutenant!”

Then he looked at Herrick again. “Return to your precious Lysander now. Before I change my mind. I’ll send you your orders at once.”

Herrick nodded. “And if you get the chance, sir . . .”

“Yes. I’ll try to discover what happened to the commodore, although—” He did not finish it.

Outhwaite appeared in the door. “Sir?”

“Captain Herrick is returning to his own ship.”

The frogface was expressionless. “By whose order, sir?”

Farquhar smiled tightly. “Mine.”

As Herrick made to leave he added, “One thing. I’ll need a good signals officer. I will keep your sixth lieutenant.”

“Yes, sir.”

Herrick sighed. At least Pascoe would be spared. Although he suspected that Farquhar’s was no mere gesture of confidence. More one to advertise his humanity in saving Pascoe from a wasted death.

He strode out beneath the poop and into the sunlight. The news of his leaving was already making itself shown. Glum faces, curious stares followed him as he strode towards the entry port. Perhaps they would miss him after all.

Outhwaite hurried along with him. “I’ll have all your gear and chests sent across, sir. Your cox’n is already in the barge.” He held out his hand. “I doubt we’ll meet again, sir. But I’d not have missed it.”

Herrick studied him, suddenly very calm. “Nor I. It taught me a great deal. Which was intended.”

“It did, sir?” Outhwaite was surprised.

“Yes. About people. Mostly about myself.”

He touched his hat abruptly and walked to the open port.

Outhwaite waited until the boat had thrust away from the side and then snapped, “Turn the hands to, Mr Guthrie. We’ll have no slackness.”

He thought of Herrick’s face in those last few moments He had half-expected to see humility but had found only pity. For him perhaps. When he glanced across the wide quarterdeck he was strangely troubled. It no longer seemed like the same place.

Herrick stood motionless by the open stern windows looking down into the swirling water below the counter. He could see the stars reflected there, and by leaning slightly over the sill he could also see the solitary lantern by his head and the line of bright windows from the wardroom below his feet. The ship was unusually quiet, as if holding her breath. There had only been one break in the stillness, and that had been when he had returned aboard, some two hours ago.

An unknown voice had begun it, and then, as if at a signal, and despite Gilchrist’s anger, the ship had burst alive with cheering. The noise had drowned out the calls and the marine drummers completely, and even old Grubb had removed his hat and had waved it in the air, his ruined face scarlet with his, “ ’Uzza, lads! The cap’n’s come back!”

He walked away from the windows and glanced momentarily at the empty sword-rack on the bulkhead. Bolitho had been unwilling to take the sword with him. Ozzard had told him that. Perhaps he had forseen something. A warning.

He sighed. Farquhar had kept his word, and the wording of Lysander’s orders made it perfectly clear where the blame would lie if Herrick acted wrongly. Herrick told himself that Farquhar was correct. That he would have done the same. But the doubt was there.

There was an uncertain tap on the door. It was Pascoe, his hat under his arm. Even in the light of a solitary lantern Herrick could see the strain on his face, the brightness in his eyes.

“Yes?”

Pascoe said, “Mr Manning is come aboard, sir. He has a lady with him. They came to say goodbye to Captain Farquhar, as they are leaving for Gibraltar in Harebell as soon as a wind returns.”

Herrick nodded. There was no wind at all. And it added to the sense of brooding despair.

He said quietly, “Tell Ozzard to bring more lanterns. Then show the visitors aft. I’ll explain about Captain Farquhar.”

He thought of his orders again. Signed Acting-Commodore.

Pascoe said, “I’d like to stay in Lysander, sir.”

“I know.” He faced him. “But you must transfer to Osiris at first light tomorrow. It is probably for the best. I’d like to think you at least were here if . . .”

Pascoe asked, “Are you going to Corfu just to show that you believe he is right, sir?”

“Yes. It is all I can do now.”

He crossed to his side and added, “Take care, Adam. A lot may depend on you now.”

Pascoe’s eyes were wide. “You speak as if he were already dead?”

“I’m not sure. Not any more.” Herrick looked around the quiet cabin. “But I am certain of one thing. People in England who do not understand as we do will try to smear his name. It is a common custom with our country’s heroes, and hero your uncle is, and never forget it!” His voice was loud but he could not bottle his thoughts any longer. “I met his father once, did you know that? Your grandfather. A fine man, from a proud tradition. You’ll have a lot to live up to, and many will try to splinter your defences with envy and hate. So just you remember this day, Adam, and treasure it.”

He swung away. “Now bring those damned visitors aft.”

He heard Pascoe’s footsteps retreating, and felt the pounding of his own heart matching them.

Light flooded around him as Ozzard hung fresh lanterns, and with a start he realised that Manning was in the cabin door, a lady in a dark boat cloak and hood at his side.

Manning said stiffly, “I regret the intrusion, Captain. It now seems I have wasted time and effort and will have to take a boat to the Osiris.”

Herrick tried to smile. But his face felt numb. “I am sorry, Mr Manning.” It was typical of Farquhar of course. “I expect you would have been told of the new arrangements in the morning.”

Manning searched his face and replied dryly, “Indeed, I would like to think so.”

To the lady, who had remained silent, he said, “We will go over to Osiris right away. I have some matters to discuss with Captain Farquhar before you leave.”

Herrick said, “There’ll be no wind before dawn. You can rest assured of that.”

“I see.” Manning seemed irritated. “This is my sister, by the way, Mrs. Boswell.”

She threw back the hood of her cloak and gave a quick smile.

Manning continued, “Better be off then.”

She said, “I am sailing in the Harebell, Captain Herrick, but my brother is remaining in Sicily for the present.” She looked sadly at Manning. “Though how the poor dear will manage, I cannot imagine.”

He glared at her and then snapped, “Are you coming, Dulcie?”

“No.” She walked further into the cabin, her boat cloak swishing behind her. “I will have enough of cramped quarters and boats before I reach England again. And I have seen enough of Captain Farquhar anyway.” She gave Herrick a smile. “I should like to remain here until you have finished your business, John. If the captain has no objections?”

Herrick shook his head. “No, Ma’am. My pleasure.”

She was a very pleasant looking woman, with the fresh cheeks and bright eyes of someone raised in the country. He wondered what she was doing out here. Perhaps her husband was like Manning, a man who served the King without wearing his coat.

Manning tutted and grunted and then said, “Oh, very well. I’ll be back in an hour.”

The silence closed in again, and Herrick felt as if he was too large to be in the cabin.

She watched him thoughtfully and then loosened her cloak before sitting easily in one of the chairs.

“So you are Captain Herrick. I have been hearing about you. One of your men told me you are sailing soon. I hope you have a safe voyage.”

Herrick looked at her, wanting to be left alone. Needing her to stay.

“Aye, Ma’am. There’s plenty of talk in ships.” He changed the subject. “I gather you are bound for England?”

“Yes. We live in—” She dropped her eyes. “That is, my husband died two years ago. So I am returning to Canterbury. I have been dreading it in many ways. I came out to live with John. He has never married, poor lamb. But he insists that the war is getting closer each day.” She sighed. “So home I must go.”

Herrick sat down opposite her. “But, Ma’am, I come from Kent, too. My home is in Rochester.” He smiled awkwardly. “Though I fear not as fine as yours will be.”

She watched him, her skin very pale under the lamplight. “That young officer who brought us to the cabin.” She lowered her eyes. “I couldn’t help hearing what you said to him.”

Herrick flushed. “Ma’am, I do apologise.” He recalled his anger. Bring these damned visitors aft. “Had I realised.”

“No, Captain. Before that. You were deeply upset, as I believe that good-looking boy was, too.”

Herrick nodded slowly. “He is the commodore’s nephew. A fine young man.”

She said quietly, “I’ve heard about your commodore. I was very distressed. I understand he was greatly liked.”

“Aye, Ma’am. None better. None braver.”

“There’s no hope?”

“Not much. Your brother would have heard something by now.”

“Tell me about yourself, Captain. Do you have a family in England?”

And that was how it all began. Herrick speaking his thoughts and memories aloud, while she sat quietly listening.

When someone cried a challenge and a boat surged alongside, Herrick could hardly believe an hour had passed so fast. He stood up anxiously.

“If I have bored you, Ma’am . . .”

She patted his sleeve and smiled at him. “I should like to call upon your sister, if I may, Captain. It will help to keep us both cheerful until—” She fastened her cloak. “Until you return to Kent again.” She looked up at his face, her gaze level. “I hope you’ll not forget us.”

Herrick grasped her hand. It was small and firm and made him feel all the clumsier.

“I’ll not forget your kindness to me, Ma’am.” He heard Manning’s voice drawing closer. “I’d like to think we might meet again, but—”

“No buts, Captain.” She moved back from him. “I can now understand why your commodore is sadly missed. With friends such as you, he must have been a man indeed.”

Herrick followed her on to the quarterdeck where her brother was speaking with Major Leroux.

Pascoe called, “Boat’s ready, sir!”

Herrick said roughly, “Go with this lady in the boat, Mr Pascoe. My compliments to Commander Inch. Tell him to take care of his passenger.”

She touched his arm. “Inch? Another friend?”

“Aye.” Herrick guided her around the projecting humps of gun trucks and ring-bolts. “You’ll be in good hands.”

She moved her elbow gently in his grip. “No better than now, I think.”

The nightmare was rising to another great climax. Leaping patterns of dark red, like solid flame, interspersed with cruder shapes, sometimes human, other times obscure and all the more frightening.

Bolitho wanted to get to his feet, to cry out, to escape the surging movement and encirclement. Once, against the molten banks of fire he saw a woman, deathly white, her arms beckoning him, her mouth calling silent words. When he had tried to reach her he realised that both his legs had gone, and a ship’s surgeon was laughing at his rising terror.

All at once it was gone. Silence, and a darkness too unreal to accept, so that Bolitho felt himself drawing in his muscles and limbs to resist another terrible nightmare.

It was then that he realised he could feel his legs, his arms and the sweat which ran across his neck and thighs. Slowly, fearfully, like a man climbing back from the dead, he tried to assemble his thoughts, to separate reality from that which he had been enduring since . . . he struggled on to his elbows, staring at the darkness. Since when?

As his senses returned he noticed a sluggish movement beneath him, the shudder and tilt of a vessel under way. Blocks and rigging creaked, and he felt a new sensation, that of dread. He remembered the return of the fever, the signs he had known were there but had refused to recognise. Allday’s face above him, lined and anxious, hands carrying him, the enfolding darkness.

He groped up to his eyes and winced as his fingers touched them. He had gone completely blind.

A great slackness came over his limbs, so that he fell back on the bunk exhausted. Better to have died. To have sunk deeper into the haunting nightmares of fever until it had ended completely. He thought of the naked woman. Catherine Pareja. Trying to sustain him as she had done before when he had all but lost his life.

With a gasp he struggled up in a sitting position as a thin yellow line opened the opposite darkness like thread. Wider still, and then a face, unfamiliar against a lantern in the passageway beyond the door.

The face vanished and he heard someone yell, “He’s awake! He’s going to be all right!”

The next few minutes were the worst in some ways. Allday cradling him against the vessel’s motion, Lieutenant Veitch peering down at him, his face split into a wider grin than he had ever seen. Midshipman Breen’s carrot head bobbing about in a sort of jig, and others crowding into the small cabin and giving vent to what sounded like a dozen different tongues.

Veitch ordered, “Clear the cabin, lads.”

Allday made Bolitho lie back, and said, “Good to have you back with us, sir. God, you’ve had a bad time, and that’s no error.”

Bolitho tried to speak but his tongue felt twice its proper size. He managed to croak, “H—how long?” He saw Veitch and Allday exchange quick glances and added, “Must know!”

Veitch said quietly, “All but three weeks, sir, since you—”

Bolitho tried to push Allday aside but was helpless. No wonder he felt weak and empty. Three weeks.

He whispered, “What happened?”

Veitch said, “After we got you back aboard we thought it better to stay at anchor in Valletta. It seemed safe enough, and I was troubled, fearful, if you like, of taking you to sea as you were.”

Allday stood up slowly, his head bowed between the beams. “I’ve never seen you so bad, sir.” He sounded exhausted. “We was at our wits’ ends as to what to do.”

Bolitho looked from one to the other, some of his anxiety giving way to warmth. For three weeks, while he had been helpless and confined in his own private torment, these others had fended as best they could. Had nursed him, without caring for themselves, or what delay might cost them. As his eyes grew accustomed to the yellow light he saw the deep shadows around Allday’s face, the stubble on his chin. Veitch, too, looked worn out, like a prisoner from the hulks.

He said, “I was thinking only of myself.” He reached out. “Take my hands. Both of you.”

Allday’s teeth were white in his tanned face. “Bless him, Mr Veitch, he must be feeling a mite better.” But he had to look away, at a rare loss for words.

Bolitho said, “Tell me again. I will try to be patient and not interrupt.”

It was a strange tale which Veitch and Allday shared. Strange because it represented part of his life which he had missed. Which now he could never regain.

Within a day of his return aboard an official had come alongside and ordered them to remain at anchor until all risk of fever had gone. Veitch had been worried at Bolitho’s desperate condition, but had not missed the fact that two of his seamen had deserted. A coincidence? He could not be sure. But from that moment he had made plans for leaving harbour before some unbreakable restriction was placed upon them. For several days the Segura had remained apparently unheeded, a warning yellow flag at her masthead, while the morale of her small company had crumbled and stores had run lower and lower.

As he listened to their story, Bolitho wondered if the French agent, Yves Gorse, had received some word that Segura’s crew were imposters. By having them held at anchor he may have done his best to delay them while he sent word elsewhere that the enemies of France were no longer at Gibraltar or off Toulon, but inside Malta. He could, after all, do little else without revealing his own role as a foreign spy.

Allday took up the story. “Two sentries came aboard next. Mr Plowman suggested that it was the best time to leave. Others on shore would drop their guard once responsibility was shifted.”

Bolitho managed to smile. Plowman, if he was an ex-slaver, would certainly know about such matters.

“There was a squall one night. Sharp and fierce, an’ not too much in our favour. But it was then or not at all, Mr Plowman said, so we cuts the cable and makes sail.”

“The sentries?”

Allday grinned. “We met with a Genoese trader two days later and we put ’em aboard her.” He became serious again. “It was a good thing. By speaking with the trader we heard that a French man o’ war was nearby. A corvette, by the description. Looking for us, waiting to contact the agent in Malta, we don’t know.” He patted the crumpled bunk and added quietly, “We had more important things to attend to.”

Bolitho ran his fingers through his hair. “Bring more light. I must get up. But why three weeks?”

“We’ve been lying up in a little bay to the south’rd of Sicily. The squall, which damn near flung us back into Valletta, was a hard one, but it was gone again in no time.” Veitch could not suppress a great yawn. “So we anchored and did what we could. I think you nearly died, sir.”

Breen entered the cabin with another lantern. Unlike the others, he was able to walk upright.

Bolitho swung his legs to the deck and allowed Allday to help him to a broken mirror on the bulkhead. He studied the hollows in his cheeks, the feverish stare, the filthy stains on his shirt.

He said, “I’ll not tell you what you should have done.”

Veitch shrugged. “We didn’t know what had passed between you and the Frenchman, sir.” He added grimly, “But in any case, I’ld have made the same decision. Your life would have come first.”

Bolitho studied Veitch in the mirror. “Thank you for that.”

Allday said, “We sighted the corvette a couple of times, but she didn’t come near our little anchorage.” He watched Bolitho’s worn features and explained, “As it is, sir, we’re now under way and steering north for Syracuse. Mr Veitch said that with all the calms we’ve been having, it was best to sail at night. This old bar-rico is no match for a Frog corvette!”

“I see.”

He rubbed his chin and despised himself for his sudden thought. A shave and a bath seemed more precious than anything.

Allday continued, “Yesterday morning it was. I was forcing some brandy into your mouth and you spoke to me. I think we knew then that we must quit the bay. A proper surgeon is what you need now.”

Bolitho grimaced. “The squadron will have sailed long since. Even without my new information, Farquhar will have weighed.”

Veitch asked, “You were right then, sir?”

“I think we all knew, Mr Veitch.” He recalled the cool wine store, the sweat on his back changing from fire to ice. “Gorse hinted that the French will seize Malta on their way to Egypt.”

“I’m not surprised, sir.” Veitch sounded weary. “From what I saw in Malta, most of the defences have been allowed to fall into ruin.”

“With Malta taken, and a goodly supply of weapons and stores for a full scale invasion building up in Corfu, the French have nothing to stop them.” He gave a tired smile. “So we must send word to the admiral. In this wretched vessel, if necessary.”

Veitch walked to the door. “It will be dawn in an hour, sir. With luck, and provided that this whisper of a wind does not desert us, we will reach Syracuse during the afternoon watch.”

He paused by the door. “I must relieve Mr Plowman, sir.”

Allday waited until the door was closed and then said, “He has the makings of a good officer, sir.”

“You think that?”

“Aye.” Allday helped him to a chair. “He is better tempered than some.”

Bolitho watched him, content to remain where he was, despite all the urgency at the back of his mind. He could tell merely by watching Allday what the days and the weeks had cost him. He could not have slept for more than minutes at a time.

Allday said brightly, “I washed a Don shirt that I found in a locker, and Larssen cleaned up your breeches.” He turned into the lantern light, a razor in his hand. “So now, sir, we’ll make you a bit more presentable, shall we?”

Later, as a pink glow showed itself through the filthy cabin skylight, Bolitho stood up in his Spanish shirt and examined himself in the mirror.

Allday was wiping his razor on part of a flag. “You know, sir, and I know, but the lads will think you’re just as you were.”

The razor froze in mid-air as a voice called, “Deck thar! Sail on th’ weather bow!”

Allday reached out and gripped his arm. “Easy now, sir! Mr Veitch is able to manage!”

Bolitho looked at him gravely. “Mr Veitch has been made to manage for too long. And so have you.” He fought against the ringing in his ears. “Help me on deck.”

For such a small vessel it seemed a vast distance to the poop.

The sea looked very calm, and the hint of sunrise gave the water a strange pink hue, beyond which the vague humps of land seemed ugly. Bolitho seized the rail and sucked in great gulps of air. After the cabin it was like wine. He looked up at the loosely flapping sails. Barely enough wind to hold them on course. He nodded to Veitch and Plowman, not daring to trust his voice or his breath. When the sun showed itself in earnest he would see the Sicilian coastline across the larboard bulwark more clearly, be able to fix their position.

He stiffened as the pink light touched a small square of sail, far away across the larboard bow. The uncertain light made it seem a great distance off, but soon she would cut the range down as if by magic.

He turned and looked at Veitch. “One of ours perhaps?”

Veitch closed his class with a snap. “No, sir. It’s that same damned corvette again!”

Bolitho sensed the bitter despair in his voice. After all he and the others had done, the corvette was still with them. Standing like a pike between a helpless duckling and the nearest reeds.

He thought of Segura’s armament and dismissed it. Two or three swivels and the men’s own muskets. It only made the comparison more cruel.

He snapped, “How far from the land are we?” He was surprised by the strength in his voice.

“Two leagues, sir. No more by my reckonin’.” Plowman regarded him doubtfully. “The water’s very deep hereabouts, and I’d hoped to run closer inshore, but for the bloody wind, beggin’ your pardon, sir!”

He wished he could pace up and down and gather his thoughts, but knew his strength would fail instantly.

Six miles out. It might as well be six hundred.

He heard Breen say shakily, “With all that powder stored below, we’ll blow to dust at the first shot!”

Bolitho turned and looked at him. “Well said, Mr Breen!” He lurched to the wheel and held on to it. “Allday, have the boat lowered.”

“It is, sir.” Allday peered at him anxiously through the pink gloom. “Towing below the counter.”

“Good, good.” He had to keep talking, to stop the dizziness returning. “Rig a mast and sails in her and warp her around to the lee side, so that the Frenchman won’t see her.”

Veitch exclaimed, “We’d never outrun a corvette, sir.”

“Don’t intend to.” He bared his teeth, pretending to grin. “Make up a long fuse and set it to the powder hold.” He saw Veitch’s disbelief but hurried on, “We’ll let the corvette grapple us, and then bear away in the longboat.”

Plowman cleared his throat. “But suppose the Frogs don’t grapple, sir? They might send a boardin’ party instead.” He looked meaningly at Veitch, as if to indicate that he thought the fever was still controlling Bolitho as before.

Bolitho took the glass from him and trained it across the rail. The French corvette was much sharper already. She had the wind-gage and was setting her topgallants to take full advantage of it.

He returned the glass and said slowly, “We shall have to wait and see, Mr Plowman. Now get that fuse, and be sharp about it.”

As Allday made to leave he caught his arm and asked, “When I called out during the fever. Did I ask for anyone?”

“Yes, sir.” Allday looked towards the sunrise. “You called for Cheney, sir. Your wife.”

Bolitho nodded. “Thank you.”

Midshipman Breen hurried after Allday and whispered nervously, “But is not the commodore’s wife dead?”

“Aye.” He paused above the bobbing longboat and looked towards Bolitho by the wheel. “An’ more’s the pity for it.”