It was not difficult to see Adam Pascoe’s shape standing there in the shadows instead of the luckless Drury.
Bolitho had tried not to worry about his young nephew, but meeting with Inch had again made the boy’s absence seem suddenly real and beyond his reach. There had been letters, of course, both from him and his captain, Bolitho’s best friend, Herrick. But, like the Euryalus, his ship, the old sixty-four Impulsive, had
little concern for the warmth and hope brought by the mail boats, or hoarded in some harbour office on the offchance the ships might one day drop anchor.
Bolitho began to walk again, trying to picture Adam as he had last seen him. But he would be different now. Perhaps a stranger? He quickened his pace, suddenly aware of his concern.
It was two years since they had parted. The boy to join Herrick’s ship and he to take command and tend to the refitting of his prize, the Euryalus. He would be seventeen, perhaps already awaiting his chance to try for promotion to lieutenant. Would two more years have changed him much? he wondered. Would he still be forming his own mould, or taking after Hugh?
He realised with a start that the midshipman was blocking his path, his eyes gleaming white in the shadows.
“Beg pardon, sir, but the officer of the watch sends his respects, and, and,” he faltered under his captain’s gaze, “and could we take in a reef. The wind appears to be getting up, sir.”
Bolitho studied him impassively. He had not even noticed the change in the wind’s sound through the shrouds. He had been more worried by his own thoughts than he had realised.
He asked sharply, “How old are you, Mr Drury?”
The boy gulped. “Thirteen, sir.”
“I see. Well, Mr Drury, you have a long and very stormy passage ahead of you before you attain your own command.”
“Yessir.” He sounded fearful of what was coming next.
“And a young officer without fingers can find the handicap a real problem. So in future I do not wish to learn of your agility with a candle as a target for swordplay, do you understand?”
“No, sir, I-I mean, yes, sir!” He almost fell as he ran back to the officer of the watch, his mind no doubt buzzing with the captain’s unfaltering source of private information.
Keverne appeared on deck, dabbing his mouth with his handkerchief and already peering aloft at the booming canvas.
“Trouble, sir?”
“ We will reef tops’ls directly, Mr Keverne.” He kept his tone formal. Whatever he felt or feared, it was right that he should display none of it, share none of it with those who depended on his judgement. He watched Keverne hurrying away, buttoning his coat and bellowing for a bosun’s mate.
But sometimes, like tonight, it was harder than he would have imagined.
7. “Broadside!”
Noon the following day found the ships clawing slowly on a larboard tack with the wind almost abeam, their yards braced hard round to take maximum advantage of it. Shortly after first light they had altered course again and were now heading east-northeast, pinned down on their broken reflections by a sun which made any physical effort a torture. It was like a furnace, and even the wind, steady as ever from the north-west, seemed without any kind of freshness or relief, and stung the faces and bodies of the seamen like hot sand.
Bolitho plucked his shirt away from his chest and moved into the shadow of the hammock nettings as Keverne and Partridge lowered their sextants and began to compare notes. This usual procedure was watched and copied by several of the midshipmen, although unlike their superiors they were not involved in the importance of the situation.
Up on the poop, shaded by a small awning, he could see Draffen’s stocky figure pacing back and forth, up and down, his shoes clumping noisily on the sun-dried planking.
Keverne crossed to Bolitho and said wearily, “It matches your own calculation, sir.” Like the other officers he had discarded
coat and hat, and his shirt was clinging to his body like another skin. He sounded too tired for either admiration or surprise at his findings.
It had been an uneventful night, with the squadron sailing well and keeping their allotted stations. At dawn Broughton had come on deck, something so unusual as to give Bolitho a warning of the day’s importance.
As the signals had soared aloft for the new course, and preparations for cleaning ship and preparing breakfast had begun, Broughton had remarked sourly, “We are supposed to be contacted by one of Sir Hugo’s friends this forenoon. By God, I hate to have to rely on some damned amateur!”
He did not say if he was describing Draffen or his agent, and the look on his face decided Bolitho against even tactful questioning.
Draffen’s earlier confidence had visibly faded as the searing morning had dragged on. Any sudden shout from one of the ship’s company made him pause in his walk and stand stockstill until he had found the cry to be meaningless.
Bolitho said, “Well, Mr Keverne, there is nothing we can do at present.”
Two hours earlier the masthead lookout had hailed the deck, and as every eye had been raised to his tiny, swaying perch some two hundred feet above their heads, he had reported sighting land.
In spite of his hatred for any sort of height, Bolitho had made himself climb up the dizzy, vibrating ratlines, past the maintop, on and up until he had joined the pigtailed seaman who had made the report.
With his legs wrapped tightly around the crosstrees he had forced himself to ignore the deck far below him and had concentrated on opening his telescope, aware the whole time that the lookout was whistling between his teeth and not even bothering to hold on.
The sight was almost worth the anguish and embarrassment of the climb. There, far to the south, was a long, uneven ridge of mountains, ice blue in the harsh sunlight, disconnected from the land by sea mist, and strangely beautiful. The African coast. The mountains, he had estimated, were nearly thirty miles distant, but seemed unreachable and without reality.
Now, once again there was no sight of land, and away on either beam the sea danced and glittered in millions of blinding reflections, so that seamen working aloft and along the braced yards fumbled and groped with each precarious movement, their eyes too dulled by glare to be trusted.
The other ships had become more separated, so that the line was well stretched, the Tanais being some two miles ahead of Euryalus.
Broughton had conceded that if they were to be sighted by some small sailing vessel carrying Draffen’s agent it was prudent to extend the formation. And if seen by less friendly eyes it would be well to make the squadron appear as large as possible. Far away to leeward the sloop’s topsails shone like burnished steel as she pushed busily downwind like a terrier sniffing out a rabbit.
There was still no sign of the Coquette, nor might there be for some time yet. She could be investigating some strange sail well astern of the squadron. Equally she might be in serious trouble with an enemy.
Calvert appeared on the quarterdeck, his face screwed up with both worry and strain in the sun’s brightness.
He said, “Sir Lucius sends his compliments, sir. Will you join him in his day cabin.”
Bolitho glanced at Keverne, who turned his mouth down and said, “Perhaps there is a change of plan, sir?”
Bolitho strode after Calvert’s hurrying shape, wondering if Keverne was implying resentment at knowing so little. Like himself. When he entered the cabin it took his eyes several seconds
to get accustomed to the gloom, the comparative coolness after the unprotected quarterdeck.
Draffen was seated beside the desk, although Bolitho had not even seen him leave the poop.
“Sir?” He saw Broughton standing by an open stern window, his light brown hair glossy in the reflected glare. Far astern, the Valorous held rigidly to her tack, so that she appeared like some elaborate model, balanced on the admiral’s epaulette.