Either way, the seaman’s bloodied back was a grim reminder to Bolitho of the constant need to supervise Sawle in the future. He was one of his officers and therefore his authority had to be upheld. Nevertheless, if Meheux, the cheerful, round-faced second lieutenant, or Weigall, the third, had been in Sawle’s place
the incident would have got no further. Meheux was popular because of his raw, north country humour. His well-founded boast that he could reef or splice as efficiently as any seaman would have prevented anything worse than a contest, man to man. Weigall, who had the build, and unfortunately the intelligence also, of a prizefighter, would have laid the culprit low with one of his massive fists and forgotten the incident completely. Weigall was not unpopular with the men of his division, but for the most part they avoided him. He was in charge of the middle gundeck, and had unfortunately been rendered very deaf during an engagement with a blockade runner. Sometimes he imagined his men were talking about him behind his back, and would have them doing extra drills in the twinkling of an eye.
Bolitho leaned back in his chair and watched the Euryalus’s wake bubbling astern as the wind pushed her over, holding her steady while she thrust onward to the north-east.
He poured some more coffee and grimaced. It would soon be time to wear ship and spread more sail for the uncomplicated run before the wind to find the squadron again. This one afternoon and evening of comparative freedom had given him time to think and reconsider, to examine those closest to him, yet as ever separated by rank and station. Broughton had left him entirely alone, and Calvert had implied that he was for the most part going over his charts and re-reading his sealed orders as if to find something previously missed.
There was a tap at the door and the marine sentry bawled, “Midshipman o’ the watch, sir!”
It was Drury. Doing an extra watch because of his earlier troubles with his lieutenant over the lantern.
“Mr Bickford’s respects, sir, and would you come up, please.”
Bolitho smiled as he saw the boy’s eyes exploring the cabin, noting everything for future description in the more meagre quarters of the gunroom.
“And why, Mr Drury? You seem to have forgotten the best part.”
Drury looked confused. “A sail, sir. To the nor’ west.”
Bolitho jumped up. “Thank you.” He hurried for the door. “I might arrange for Trute to show you over my cabin later, Mr Drury, but for now we have work to do.”
Drury blushed and dashed after him, so that they arrived on the tilting quarterdeck together.
Bickford was the fourth lieutenant, one who took his duties very seriously, but appeared totally lacking in humour.
He said, “Masthead has just reported a sail, sir. To the nor’ west.”
Bolitho walked up the deck to the weather side and peered towards the horizon. It was hard and silver bright, like the edge of a sword. But the wind was steady, and that was something. But it might rise to a squall before another dawn. It would then take time to rejoin the squadron, to contact Draffen in the Restless.
Bickford took his silence for uncertainty.
“It is my belief, sir, that she is the Coquette.” He raised his voice slightly to impress Drury and another midshipman nearby. “It would be the most likely explanation.”
Bolitho lifted his head and stared up at the bulging topsails, the cracking vehemence of the masthead pendant. Like a giant whip. He thought of the dizzy climb, the dreadful shaking in those shrouds.
“I see, Mr Bickford, thank you.”
The lieutenant nodded firmly. “That is why she comes alone and with such confidence, sir.”
Keverne climbed the companion ladder to the quarterdeck and hurried towards him.
Bolitho was still looking up at the straining yards. “Mr Keverne, get aloft with a glass. As fast as you can climb. There is a ship to larboard. Maybe alone.” He glanced at Bickford. “Maybe not.”
He saw Bickford and the others stiffen and draw back and knew that Broughton had arrived on deck.
“Ah, Bolitho, what is all this scampering and excitement?”
“A sail, sir.” He gestured above the nettings towards the horizon.
“Hmm.” Broughton turned to watch as Keverne swarmed easily up the weather shrouds. “What is she, I wonder?”
Bickford said quickly, “I think her to be the Coquette, sir.”
Broughton’s eyes did not blink as he said to Bolitho, “Would you remind that officer that if I am in such dire distress as to require an opinion of no value, he will be the first to be told.”
Bolitho smiled as Bickford melted into the others by the rail. “I believe he understands, sir.”
It was strange how they could stay outwardly calm, he thought. In spite of Broughton’s mild show of interest, he knew his mind was alive with questions and calculations. It would be interesting to see if he would ask for an opinion of his flag captain this time.
Keverne arrived, thudding to the deck by means of a backstay, and hurried across, his dark features working with excitement.
“Merchantman, sir. But well armed, fifty guns, I’d say. Standing right before the wind, but carrying no royal yards.” He realised Broughton was glaring at him and added, “Spaniard, sir. No doubt of it.”
Broughton bit his lip. “Damn his eyes.”
“Even without royals she could still give us a merry chase, sir.” Bolitho was thinking aloud. “But if we can take her we might get information.” He paused, studying the set of Broughton’s tense shoulders. “Information which would be yours to share as you thought fit.”
He had not misjudged the moment. Broughton swung round, his eyes shining.
“By God, I can see Sir Hugo’s face when he arrives back empty handed and we tell him of our news.” He sighed. “But what is
the use? By the time you put this great elephant about that Don’ll be flying for home. I cannot afford a long chase, one to take me away from the squadron.”
Bolitho said, “I think we have all missed the one important detail, sir.” He slapped one fist into his palm. “In a way Mr Bickford made some sense.” He looked at the others, his mouth lifting in a grin. Bickford was hanging back, as if afraid of receiving another rebuff.
Bolitho continued, “That Don thinks the Euryalus is French!” He looked at Broughton, at the doubts and disappointment giving way to cautious hope. “And why not, sir? After all this time they’ll not be expecting one solitary British ship in the Mediterranean. And there’s been no time for news to reach them of our leaving the Rock.”
Broughton walked to the nettings and climbed lightly on to a bollard. He stared fixedly at the horizon as if willing the ship to show herself to him.
The masthead lookout called, “Ship still runnin’ afore the wind, sir!”
Broughton returned to the deck, rubbing his chin. “She must have seen us. Even the Dons are not that blind.”
Bolitho replied, “But the moment we shorten sail or begin to tack he’ll know well enough what we are about.”
“Hell, Bolitho! You raise my hopes and then dash ’em again!”
“I can see her, sir! Two points before the beam!” Drury was clinging to the quivering shrouds, a telescope jammed to one eye.
Bolitho took a glass from the rack and steadied it against the deck’s plunging movements. Then he saw it, a pale wedge on the horizon. Running free with all sails set, her master was making the most of the fresh wind.
“She’s coming up fast, sir.”
Again he considered the idea of climbing to the masthead. Instead he asked, “Fifty guns, you think, Mr Keverne?”
“Aye, sir. I’ve seen her sort before. Well armed to fight off pirates and the like. Mile for mile we could outpace her, but I doubt match her agility.”
Broughton snapped, “I can see this getting us nowhere!”