Fitzmaurice cleared his throat. "Three days. Not much time."
Bolitho smiled gravely. "Tomorrow the squadron is making a mock attack on Las Mercedes. The French will be expecting us to do something, and unless some sort of action is mounted they will guess what we are about. The sloop Dasher is patrolling the entrance of, the bay this moment, so Lequiller's men will see we mean to try again."
He looked at Captain Dawson. "The rest of the squadron's boats will be used to mount a mock landing below the headland. Every ship will send her marines, and you will take charge overall." Some of Dawson's earlier resentment melted as he added, "Make a good display, but do not risk losing men to no purpose. They will earn their keep later."
He faced the others again. "This diversion will of course be terminated, but by that time the landing party will be well inside the swamp. But in three days from dawn tomorrow the squadron will attack in earnest, gentlemen, so you can see the vital importance of the thirty miles we must travel before we can pave the way to success."
Inch asked, "If you cannot reach there in time, sir, what will happen?"
Bolitho looked at him thoughtfully. "You will have to decide, Mr. Inch. For if that happens, Hyperion will have a new captain, eh?"
Inch stared at him, his jaw hanging open. Now, maybe for the first time, he understood why Bolitho was leaving him behind.
Bolitho added sharply, "Carry on, gentlemen. From our own people I will want a good gunner's mate and a bosun's mate. Also two midshipmen, but not Gascoigne."
Inch asked vaguely, "May I ask why, sir?"
"You may. Mr. Gaseoign is the senior midshipman and well versed in signals. You will have more need of him here when you close the enemy."
He watched them file from the cabin and then said, "Well, Mr. Quince, I hope you have chosen your people carefully?"
Quince showed his teeth in a slow grin. "Aye, sir. All trained men. I picked them myself." The grin widened. "I told them it would take a very brave man to be a coward under your command, sir."
Fitzmaurice coughed politely. He was obviously unused 174
to his subordinate's sudden flash of humour. "Wait on deck, Mr. Quince."
Alone with Bolitho, Captain Fitzmaurice got down to his true reason for coming aboard. "You have heard, I suppose, that Winstanley died of his wounds?" He shrugged. "The surgeon no doubt speeded his end, but his loss is hard to accept nevertheless."
"He was a good captain." Bolitho watched Fitzmaurice's weary features, conscious of the sounds beyond the sealed door, the urgency and need for final appraisal of his sketchy plan. But something in Fitzmaurice's tone told him there was more to come.
"Our commodore has written his orders for the landing, Bolitho. I expect you have read them as carefully as I?"
He nodded. "They are much as I would expect."
"Winstanley is dead. You are now the senior captain. Whatever you do ashore is your responsiblity." He seemed suddenly tired of trying to phrase his words diplomatically. "In his orders Pelham-Martin has stated that he will make an attack in three days' time in support of your action ashore." He spread his hands angrily. "That one word support alters the whole meaning of the written orders! I know it is wrong for me to speak my mind like this, but I cannot stand by and allow you -to take the weight of all responsibility. You are supporting the commodore, and not the other way round."
Bolitho studied him gravely. Fitzmaurice had never struck him as a man of much imagination beyond the limits of duty. He was moved by this sudden concern and understanding, and knew what it must have cost him to make his feelings known. He did not after all know Bolitho, and there were many who might have used Fitzmaurice's display of concern to further their own standing with the commodore. By even hinting at PelhamMartin's deceit he was leaving himself open to grave charges of conspiracy and insubordination.
He replied, "Thank you for speaking so openly. I will not forget it. But I believe we must think only of the task ahead. Of what it means, and the disastrous consequences of failure."
Fitzmaurice eyed him admiringly. "So you realised what was implied without my saying it?" He smiled. "It is a strange service which we follow. If we fail we stand the blame alone. If we succeed there are always those elsewhere who take the credit."
Bolitho thrust out his hand. "I hope we remember that, if ever we reach flag rank."
Fitzmaurice followed him on to the darkened quarterdeck. "I doubt it in my own case. I have often found that the attraction of arriving at some prized destination has overhadowed the effort of reaching it."
Allday spoke from the darkness. "Your sword, Captain."
Bolitho tightened the belt at his waist, letting his eyes become accustomed to the gloom and sensing the watching faces all around him.
I Allday said quietly, "I didn't bring the white flag this time, Captain." His teeth gleamed in his face. "I hope I've done right?"
Bolitho looked away. "If anything should happen to me, what would become of you? No captain in sound mind would tolerate your insolence as I do!"
Inch strode aft, -his head thrust out as he searched for Bolitho amongst the silent figures.
"Boats ready alongside!" He faltered. "Good luck, sir, and God speed."
Bolitho nodded. Suddenly he realised the weight of his mission. He was not merely leaving the ship, but heading for a place which was little more than a vague sketch on his chart. Another world, a different continent, with heaven knows what at the end of it all.
He said, "Take good care, Inch."
Inch looked up at the black tracery of rigging swaying gently against the bright stars. "I'll keep good care of her, sir."
Bolitho walked slowly to the ladder. "I know that. But I meant of yourself."
Then he ran down the ladder to the entry port, brushing past anonymous shapes and watching faces, and very aware of the great silence over the whole ship.
Stepkyne touched his hat, his voice flat and expressionless. "All in the boats, sir. I have detailed Midshipmen Canyon and Pascoe for the duties required. They being the most junior and least needed to work the ship.
Bolitho kept his voice low. "You were most considerate, Mr. Stepkyne."
Without another word he followed Allday's broad shoulders down into the nearest cutter. He should have been more careful and less concerned with his own part in all this. Stepkyne had chosen the only way he knew to show his resentment at being left behind. The one way in which Bolitho was unable to override his choice without showing favouritism.
He settled himself in the sternsheets. "Cast off. Allday, we will lead." He raised his voice as the lines were freed from the other boats. "Mr. Quince, you will follow at the rear and ensure the rest maintain regular distances apart."
The oars dropped into their rowlocks, and at Allday's command dipped and pulled steeply into the choppy wavelets.
In the bows Bolitho could just make out the shape of Shambler, an experienced bosun's mate, crouching with a hand lead and line in readiness to feel the way into the first part of the choked river. The cutter felt heavy and sluggish in the current and between the men's legs he could see the gleam of piled weapons and the sparse rations for the journey.
When he looked astern the next boat was already pulling into line, but when he strained his eyes further he found that the ship had seemingly disappeared into shadow, with not even a single light showing from her hull to betray her activity.
Not that it was likely for anyone to be watching from the shore, he thought grimly. This was a forsaken stretch of coast. A waste-ground which had long defied nature and man alike.