Hernck said, 'If the Frogs decide not to venture out, we shall remain in ignorance of their next plan of attack. What then?' He waved Ozzard aside as he made to bring the tray and some claret. 'No, I would relish some more ginger-beer.'
Bolitho turned away. Was it really that, or had Hernck become so rigid in his bias against Catherine that he would take nothing from her cabinet' He tried to dismiss the thought as unworthy, petty, but it still persisted.
He said, 'We'll move in separate formations, Thomas. If the weather remains our ally, we shall stand two miles or more apart. It will give our mastheads a better scan of the horizons. If the enemy is chased our way, we should have good warning of it, eh?' He made to smile. 'It is never wise to stand in the path of a charging bull!'
Hernck said abruptly, 'When we return home, what will you do?' He moved his shoes on the deck. 'Share your life with another5'
Bolitho braced his legs as the ship heeled slightly to an extra thrust in her canvas.
He replied, 'I share nothing. Catherine is my life.'
'Dulcie said -' The blue eyes lifted and watched him stubbornly. 'She believes you will regret it.'
Bolitho glanced at the wine cabinet, the folded fan lying on top of it.
'You can go with the stream, Thomas, or fight against it.'
'Our friendship means a lot to me.' Hernck frowned as Ozzard padded in with a fresh tankard. 'But it gives me the right to speak my mind. I can never accept this -' he licked his lips, 'this lady.'
Bolitho faced him sadly. 'Then you have made your decision, Thomas.' He sat down and waited for Ozzard to refill his glass. 'Or have you had it made by others?' He watched Herrick's angry reaction and added, 'Perhaps the enemy will decide our future.' He raised the glass. 'I give you a sentiment, Thomas. May the best man win!'
Herrick stood up. 'How can you jest about it!'
The door opened and Keen peered in. 'The rear-admiral's barge is standing by, Sir Richard.' He did not glance at Herrick. 'The sea is getting up, and I thought -'
Herrick looked round for his hat. Then he waited for Keen to withdraw and said flatly, 'When we meet again -'
Bolitho held out his hand. 'For friendship?'
Herrick grasped it, his palm as hard as it had ever been.
He said, 'Aye. Nothing can break that.'
Bolitho listened to the calls as Herrick was piped over the side for the lively pull to his flagship.
Allday lingered in the other doorway, his rag moving up and down on the old sword.
Bolitho said wearily, 'They say love is blind, old friend. It seems to me that only those who have never known it are blind.'
Allday smiled and replaced the sword on its rack.
If it took war and the risk of a bloody fight to make Bolitho's eyes shine again, then so be it.
He said, 'I knew a lass once -'
Bolitho smiled, and recalled his thoughts when he had written his orders.
A time for action. It was like an epitaph.
16. Articles Of War
The twenty-six gun frigate La Mouette was completely shrouded in a heavy sea-mist. The lookouts could barely see more than a few yards on either beam, and from the deck the upper shrouds and limp sails were invisible.
There was a slow, moist breeze, but the mist kept pace with the ship to add a sense of being motionless.
Occasionally the disembodied voice of a leadsman floated aft, but the water was deep enough, although if the mist suddenly lifted the ship might be close inshore, or completely alone on an empty sea.
Aft by the quarterdeck rail the first lieutenant, John Wright, stared at the dripping maincourse until his eyes smarted. It was eerie, like thrusting into something solid. He could picture the jib-boom feeling the way like a blind man's stick. There was nothing beyond the pale patch of the figurehead, a fierce-looking seagull with its beak wide in anger.
Around and behind him the other watchkeepers stood about like statues. The helmsman, the sailing master close by. The midshipman of the watch, a boatswain's mate, their faces shining with moisture, as if they had been standing in a rainfall.
Nobody spoke. But that was nothing new, Wright thought. He longed for the chance of a command for himself. Anything. It had meant the next step on the ladder just being first lieutenant. He had not bargained for a captain like Bruce Sinclair. The captain was young, probably twenty-seven or so, Wright decided. A man with fine cheekbones, his chin always high, like a haughty pose, someone who was always quick to seek out slackness and inefficiency in his command.
A visiting admiral had once praised Sinclair for the smartness of his ship. Nobody ever walked on the upper deck, orders were carried out at the double, and any midshipman or petty officer who failed to report a man for not doing so would also face punishment.
They had been in several single-ship actions with privateers and blockade runners, and Sinclair's unyielding discipline had, on the face of it, worked well enough to satisfy any admiral.
The master joined him at the rail and said in a low voice, 'This mist can't last much more, Mr Wright.' He sounded anxious. 'We could be miles off course by now. I'm not happy about it.'
They both looked at the gundeck as a low groan made the men on watch glance uneasily at each other.
Like all the other ships in the squadron La Mouette was short of fresh water. Captain Sinclair had ordered it to be severely rationed for all ranks, and two days ago had cut the ration still further. Wright had suggested they might call at some island provided there was no sign of an enemy, if only to replenish a portion of the water supply. Sinclair had studied him coldly. 'I am ordered to seek information about the French, Mr Wright. I cannot spare any time for spoonfeeding the people merely because their lot is not to their taste!'
Wright stared at the man by the larboard gangway. He was quite naked, his legs braced apart by irons, his arms tied back to a gun so that he looked as if he had been crucified. The man occasionally rolled his head from side to side, but his tongue was too swollen in his blistered mouth to make sense of his pleas.
Aboard any King's ship a thief was despised. The justice meted out by the lower deck against such an offender was often far harsher than that of a proper authority.
The seaman McNamara had stolen a gallon of fresh water one night, when a Royal Marine sentry had been called away by the officer-of-the-watch.
He had been caught by a boatswain's mate, drinking the rancid water in secret while his messmates had slept in their hammocks.
Everyone had expected his punishment to be severe, especially as McNamara was a regular defaulter, but Sinclair's reaction had taken even the most hardened sailor aback. For five days he had been in irons on the upper deck, in blazing sunlight, and in the chill of the night. Naked, and in his own filth, he had been doused with salt water by other hands under punishment, to clean up the deck rather than afford him any relief from his torment.
Sinclair had turned up the hands to read the relevant sections of the Articles of War, and had ended by saying that McNamara would be awarded three dozen lashes when the example of his theft was completed.
Wright shivered. It seemed unlikely that McNamara would live long enough to face the flogging.
The master hissed, 'Cap'n's comin' up, Mr Wright.'
It was like that. Whispers. Fear. Smouldering hatred for the man who ruled their daily lives.
Sinclair, neatly dressed, his hand resting on his sword hilt, strode first to the compass, then to the quarterdeck rail to study the set of any visible sails.
'Nor'-west-by-west, sir!'
Sinclair waited as Wright made his report, then said, 'Direct a boy to fetch your hat, Mr Wright." He smiled faintly. 'This is a King's ship, not a Bombay trader!'