Bolitho took his arm. 'I need the fleet to know what is happening, and my intention to prevent these ships of yours from joining with Villeneuve. It is vital. In any case I can spare nobody else.'
He shook his arms gently. 'Phaedra has done enough. For me, and for us all. Remember that well and tell your people.'
Dunstan nodded, his eyes searching Bolitho's face as if he wanted to remember the moment.
He said, 'Then I shall leave, Sir Richard.' Impetuously he thrust out his hand. 'God be with you.'
For a long while afterwards Bolitho stood alone in the cabin, watching the sloop-of-war as she went about, her gunports awash as she took the wind into her courses and topsails.
He heard distant cheers, from Phaedra or the other ships he could not tell.
He sat down and massaged his eye, hating its deception.
Allday clumped into the cabin and regarded him dubiously.
'She's gone then, Sir Richard?'
'Aye.' Bolitho knew he must go on deck. The squadron was waiting. They must assume their proper formation long before dusk. He thought of his captains. How would they react? Perhaps they doubted his ability, or shared Herrick's opposition to his intentions.
Allday asked, 'So, it's important?'
'It could well be, old friend.' Bolitho looked at him fondly. 'If we head them off, they must fight. If they have already outrun us then we shall give chase.'
Allday nodded, his eyes faraway. 'Nothin' new then.'
Bolitho grinned, the tension slipping away like soft sand in a glass.
'No, nothing new! My God, Allday, they could do with you in Parliament!'
By the next morning the weather had changed yet again. The wind had veered and stood directly from the east. That at least put paid to any hope of beating back to Toulon.
The squadron, lying comfortably on the starboard tack, headed north-west with the Balearic Islands lying somewhere beyond the starboard bow.
Sixth in the line leading his own ships, Rear-Admiral Herrick had been up since dawn, unable to sleep, and unwilling to share his doubts with Captain Gossage.
He stood in one corner of Benbow's broad quarterdeck and watched the ships ahead. They made a fine sight beneath an almost clear sky, broken only by fleecy patches of cloud. His face softened as he remembered his mother, in the little house where he had been born in Kent.
Watch the big sheep, Tommy! She had always said that.
Herrick looked around at the busy seamen, the first lieutenant in a close conversation with several warrant officers about today's work.
"What would that dear, tired old lady think of her Tommy now?
Captain Gossage crossed the deck, his hat tilted at the jaunty angle which he seemed to favour.
Herrick did not wish to pass the time in idle conversation. Each turn of the log was taking his ships further westward. He felt uneasy, as if he had suddenly been stripped of his authority. He shaded his eyes to peer across the starboard nettings. Their one remaining frigate was far away from the squadron. Tybalt would be the first to sight any enemy shipping. He bit his lip until it hurt. If the enemy had not already slipped past them. Slamming a door after the horse had bolted.
Gossage remarked, 'I suppose that Phaedra's captain was not mistaken, sir?'
Herrick glared. 'Well, somebody sunk La Mouette, he did not imagine that!'
Gossage grunted. 'Had we been relieved from the Maltese station we would have been at Gibraltar anyway, sir. Then our ships would have had the honour -'
Herrick snapped, 'Honour be damned! Sir Richard Bolitho is not the kind of man to seize glory for himself!'
Gossage raised his eyebrows, 'Oh, I see, sir.'
Herrick turned away, quietly fuming. No, you don't. Try as he might he could not tear his thoughts from the twenty-odd years that he had known Bolitho.
All the battles, some hard-won, others surprisingly kind to them. Bad wounds, old friends lost or maimed, sea-passages and landfalls when at times they had wondered if they might ever walk ashore again. Now it had gone rotten, thrown away because of – Gossage tried again. 'My wife wrote to me and says that there is talk of Sir Richard being relieved.'
Herrick stared at him. Dulcie had said nothing of the kind.
'When?'
Gossage smiled. He had caught his admiral's attention at last.
'Next year, sir. The fleet will be reformed, the squadrons allocated differently. In this article she read -'
Herrick gave a cold grin. 'Bloody rubbish, man! Sir Richard and I have been hearing the bleats of shorebound experts all our lives. God damn it, the day we -'
The masthead yelled, 'Deck there! Signal from Flag?
A dozen telescopes rose as one and the signals midshipman called, 'General, sir! Have Tybalt in sight to the north!'
Gossage hissed to the officer-of-the-watch, 'Why in hell's name did they sight her first?'
Herrick smiled wryly. 'Acknowledge it.' To the first lieutenant he called, 'Send a good master's mate aloft, Mr O'Shea!'
The lieutenant turned as if to confirm the order with Gossage but Herrick snapped, 'Just do it!'
He moved away, his hands grasped behind his back. He had never got used to flag rank, nor had he expected it, no matter what flattering things Dulcie had said about the matter.
He knew he was being petty but he felt better for it. At heart he would always remain a captain and not leave it to others to carry out his plans.
All down the line of eight ships, the air would be buzzing with speculation. Herrick thought of the missing third-rate Absolute. He had done the right thing. One great gale like the last one, and that poor, rotten ship would surely have foundered.
Bolitho's refusal to accept his action still rankled deeply. He took his own telescope, the latest and most expensive one which Dulcie could find, and trained it on the ships astern. In perfect formation, their masthead pendants licking out like serpents' tongues, the sunlight glistening on the checkered patterns of gunports.
The new voice hailed from the masthead. 'Tybalt in sight, sir!'
Herrick climbed up the starboard poop ladder and levelled his beautiful telescope. He could just make out the frigate's top-gallant sails, like the fleecy clouds, pink-edged and delicate against the hard horizon. The edge of the sea, he thought. Deep, dark blue. Still no sign of rain. Perhaps Bolitho would decide after all to send some of the ships to seek fresh water.
He saw the tiny pin-pricks of colour rise against the frigate's pyramid of sails. Herrick blinked his eyes. His vision was not as good as it had been, although he would never admit it. He thought of Bolitho's expression, the anguish when he had revealed to him about his damaged eyesight.
It troubled Herrick for several reasons, not the least being that he had failed Bolitho when he had most needed him.
Herrick's flag lieutenant, a willowy young man called De Broux, called, 'From Tybalt, sir!'
Herrick waited impatiently. He had never really liked his flag lieutenant. He was soft. Even had a Frenchie-sounding name.
Unaware of Herrick's distaste De Broux said, 'Strange sail bearing north-east!'
Several of the officers nearby chuckled amongst themselves and Herrick felt his face smart with anger, and embarrassment too for Bolitho.
Gossage said cheerfully, 'A strange sail, eh? Damn my eyes if I don't think that our eight liners can't take care of it, what?' He turned to his officers. 'We can leave Tybalt outside to act as umpire!'
Herrick said harshly, 'Hold your damn noise!' He spoke to the lieutenants. It was meant for Gossage.
'From Flag, sir. General. Make more sail.'