Colonel Cobban spoke for the first time. He had a thick, resonant voice, and had a habit of tapping his fingers on his impeccable scarlet tunic with each word.
'God, yesl With General Carteau marching on Toulon, our new "allies" in St. Clar had no choice but to support us.' He seemed to be enjoying the idea.
Pomfret nodded. 'Now, Bolitho, I want you to get your ship ready for sea without delay.'
'The repairs are well in hand, sir. In the four days following the battle we have set all the damage to sails and cordage to rights, and most of the internal repairs are almost completed.'
Pomfret was peering at his chart and did not see the sudden change in Bolitho's expression. Four days. In spite of a constant guard it was all coming back to him. He had hoped that the safe return with his transports, the sudden prospect of action, even the efforts to ensure that his ship was ready and able to fight again, all these things would push the memory of those four short days to the back of his mind until time and distance made them too blurred to hurt him. Without effort he could recall the girl's face as she had listened to him talking about his ship, while together at the quarterdeck rail they had watched the seamen and carpenters working to put right the damage and to clean away the scars and stains of battle.
On the second evening just before sunset Bolitho had walked with her along the weather gangway, pointing out something of the complex maze of rigging and halyards, the very sinews of the ship's strength.
Once she had said quietly, `Thank you for explaining it to me. You have made the ship live with your words.'
She had not been bored or amused. She had been really interested, even though he had spoken as he had simply because it was the only thing he knew, the only life he understood.
He had realised at that moment that she had unwittingly touched on the truth. He had replied, 'I am glad you see her like that.' He had gestured to the shadowy guns below the gangway. `People see a ship like this pass far out to sea, but they rarely think of those who serve and live in her.' He had stared at the deserted forecastle and had found himself wondering about all those other men who had gone before him, and those who might follow. 'Here a man died. There another wrote poetry maybe. Men join ships like these as boys, as wide-eyed infants, and grow to be men beneath the same suits of sails.' He had touched the rail at his side. 'You are right, she is not just wood!'
And another evening they had dined together for the first time in the cabin, and again she had drawnhim out, had listened to him speaking of his home in Cornwall, of his voyages and the ships he had seen and served.
But as the miles rolled away under the Hyperion's keel they seemed both to sense that the strange feeling of comfort and understanding was becoming something more. Neither spoke of it, yet during the last two days they appeared to draw apart, even to avoid meeting other than in company.
Within minutes of the anchor splashing down a boat had come alongside, and with it Lieutenant Fanshawe, Pomfret's aide, to collect her. She had come on to the quarterdeck wearing that same green dress as when he bad first seen her, and had stared across at the grim fortress and the barren hills beyond.
Bolitho had seen many of his men standing on the gangways or watching from aloft, and had sensed the feeling of sadness which hung over the ship. Even the petty officers seemed unable or unwilling to drive the hands back to work, and had watched with the rest as the girl had gravely shaken hands with the assembled officers and had kissed her brother on the cheek.
Bolitho had kept his voice as formal as he knew how. 'We shall miss you. We all will.' He bad seen Gossett nodding in agreement. 'I am sorry that you were made to suffer as you did…' Then his words had run out.
She had looked at him with something like bewilderment in her eyes, as if the sight of Cozar had at last made her realise that the voyage was at an end. Then she had said, `Thank you, Captain. You made me very comfortable.' She had looked around the silent faces. 'It is something I will never forget.' Then without another glance she had gone down to the boat.
With a start he realised that Pomfret was saying, '… and I trust you will make good the depletions in your company from Snipe's survivors, and any spare hands you can obtain from the transports.'
`Yes, sir.' He forcibly made himself concentrate on the many details yet to be settled. Dalby was dead, and he had promoted Caswell to acting lieutenant to fill the gap in his officers. That was how it went. A man died. Another moved up the ladder.
Some of the more badly wounded must be taken ashore or to one of the transports where they could be properly looked after. There was fresh shot and powder to take on board, and countless other matters as well.
Cobban stood up, his high polished boots squeaking noisily. He was a tall man and on his feet seemed to dwarf Pomfret. He said, 'Well,. I'll be off. I must instruct my officers to make final preparations. If we are to take St. Clot on the fifth we must make sure of everything.' He readjusted his sword and frowned. 'But then, September will be a mite cooler. for marching, eh? Either way my troops will do as they are told.'
Bolitho, watching the colonel's tight mouth, knew it was unlikely that he would show much concern for his officers, let alone his private soldiers.
Pomfret waited until Cobban had departed and then said irritably, 'Very tiresome having to deal with the military, but I suppose under the circumstances…' He touched the chart vaguely and then asked, 'I trust that Miss Seton was in a place of safety during the, er, battle?'
Perhaps it had been uppermost on Bolitho's mind, or maybe his tiredness was playing tricks, but Pomfret sounded on edge, even suspicious.
He replied, 'She was, sir.' He dropped his eyes as the picture of the naked, screaming figures on the orlop, the swinging lanterns, and the girl in her blood-spattered jacket and breeches moved back into his thoughts.
'Good.' Pomfret nodded. 'Very good, I am glad to hear it. I have had her taken to quarters in the fortress. They will suffice until…'He did not finish the sentence. He did not have to.
Bolitho said flatly, 'My carpenters have made a few pieces of furniture. I thought that they might help to make the fortress a little more comfortable for Miss Seton.'
Pomfret eyed him far several seconds. 'Considerate. Most considerate. Yes, you can send them over if you wish.' He walked to the windows and, added quickly, 'We sail on the first of the month. Just have your ship ready by that time.' He was staring at the black hulled convict ship which was anchored at the head of the transports. 'Scum! The sweepings of Newgate, I imagine. But they will suffice for what remains to be done here.' Then without turning he said, 'Carry on, Bolitho.'
Bolitho walked out to the dazzling sunlight, realising suddenly that Pomfret had not once congratulated him or his men on saving the precious supply ships and even managing to cripple two of the attackers at the same time. It was typical of the man, he thought bitterly. Pomfret obviously took such efforts for granted. Only if they had failed would he have made any real comment, and he could imagine what that would have been.
In silence he climbed into his barge and settled himself in the sternsheets. As the oars rose and dipped like wings he thought of Dalby and the empty desperation of his last words. Gambling. It was the curse and the despair of many other officers. Confined to their ships for months at a time, thrust on one another's company and separated by rigid discipline from the men they controlled, it was common enough for such men as Dalby to lose everything on the flick of a card. What started out as a safe distraction became real and overwhelming as the losers fought to regain their dwindling money by betting with wealth they did not possess.
Bolitho knew the true dangers of such behaviour. His own brother had broken his father's heart by deserting from the Navy after killing a brother officer in a senseless duel over a gambling debt.